#Veiled Tales {Short Story}

[veiledfox]

A Ceremony Missed

There is no guidance provided.

Not by a Kitsune, nor by the seemingly normal Woman of black hair and emerald eyes who appears before your muse. Calm eyes betrayed by a hint of concern in the subtle upturn at the innermost corners of her brows. Stepping aside as a gateway opens, a tear in reality that displays a vast, endless expanse of stars, nebulas, and galaxies beyond.

A brief second later, another tear appears a short distance into the expanse. This one displaying a lake surface, lined with a buoyant walkway connecting to a stone-staircase covered hill in the distance that rises out of view. If your muse were to step through the tear before them, an unseen force would gently tug at their form to pull them through towards and out the tear beyond. Feet landing on the buoyant walkway, met by the gentle step of the Woman from before as they step out behind and pass beside.

The figure gently gesturing along the walk way under the dark, star-filled sky of the night, and over to the left. Past where stone stairs end and grass hill begins, to where the ground begins to level out with the lake's surface, to a stretch of white sand atop which sits a traditional, yet well kept, Japanese home. The Woman beginning a few steps ahead acts as guide, leading your Muse to land, then around toward the cozy looking building.

As this brief journey is taken, the sound of large flapping wings can be heard. A deep caw from above, a glance providing sight of a large pitch avian swooping down and flapping it's wings to ease onto the rooftop ahead. Corvine in it's figure, though much larger, and with a sheen like metal across parts of it's body. It stares down at your Muse keeping a protective vigil, almost as if trying to read and judge whether it should allow entry. Though it seems to relax, after a few seconds. Possibly due to a small wave from the Woman acting as guide.

The front door being slid aside reveals a large entry room, almost akin to a foyer, with lowered section just within the door and at the room's center. A small fire pit in the later. Cupboards, small tables with drawers, wardrobe, and a sink along the walls adding a slightly more modern touch to the interior. Another door across the room, which is revealed to be the next destination

Sliding this one open leads into a hallway that splits to the left and right, doors along the same wall at the farthest ends, and doors on the ends of the hall itself just beside them. However the more notable aspect of this hallway are a podium directly in front of the door, against the wall opposite it, and the many shelves that line the wall from end-to-end.

A book, closed, bound by a leather strap rests atop the podium. The shelves lined with dozens, hundreds, possibly even thousands of small knicknacks. Each one with a small lable in front of the item itself, and a strip of what looks like paper on the items themselves. The small lable and the strip both reading the same word for each item. One mentioning 'Ethyris', while another reads 'Orth', and another reads 'Yoshiwara, Tokyo, Japan, Realm of Demons'. Each one a different name, some the name alone, others mentioning a Realm of some kind or another.

The various trinkets ranging from small rocks of particular color or shape, to small simple accessories, an occasional scrap of some kind of material, gemstones, even small blades. The variety being vast and no two items being the same. A collection, very clearly treasured and taken care of on a regular basis if the absence of dust was anything to go off of.

Your muse is guided off to the left, the Woman walking the hall toward the two doors at it's end. Turning to the one on her left, she slides it's door open and, unlike the two prior, she steps aside to provide entry into the room beyond. A decently sized, cozy, yet dark bedroom beyond. Round window on the wall across from the door, a desk beneath it, small dresser to it's right. A wardrobe to the left of the door, and a bed spanning the wall between it and the far wall before the desk below the window.

Atop the bed itself, under a light blanket, is a Kitsune. Laid on her side, the form of her nine tails noticeable mixed over and between her legs. Fox ears and deep blue oni horns atop her head, with blue gradient skin across the upper half of her forehead before her regular sun-kissed skin coats the rest of her freckled face. Her eyes closed, heavy bags surrounding them, cheeks a little sunken, mouth just slightly agape with shallow, hoarse breaths entering and exiting. Hair brushed back, behind her head, leaving one of her ears at the side of her head visible. Long, pointed, tightly angled along the side of her head with blue gradient skin at it's tip.

With each breath her whole body seems to shudder slightly, each breath quaking. The bridge of her nose, her cheeks, and the pillow below even, damp from tears idly rolling from her eyes. Clearly deep asleep from sheer exhaustion and lack of energy, having passed out from neglecting to take care of herself. The occasional short, weak whimper akin to that of a Fox escaping her as she stirs briefly before settling again.

A glance back at the Woman standing at the door would show that hint of concern now a much more present emotion. Looking to her charge, to the Kitsune in the bed, then up to your Muse. Just meeting their gaze briefly, as if asking them to simply just... be with the Kitsune, and stepping away to return down the hall. Leaving your Muse within the Kitsune's room.

[gallusrostromegalus]

A Miracle In The Night

Sometimes, you get an idea for a lightly fucked up short story. TW: Death, mild gore, Plot Twist :)

---

She travels through the night And listens

Some might call her home dark and cold and akin to the lowest levels of hell, But their heaven burns her eyes and skin and her very breath To her, The Endless Night is Paradise

The whole world was like this once, in the very beginning The Divine Darkness which contains the potential for every tragedy and miracle and everything in between, and she is blessed  to travel through the gardens of creation.

The Night created everything, even God, who lives in the burning world and blesses the sinless beings of the night with the very force of life.

But not even Paradise is free of suffering.

It should be this way, of course- nothing would ever happen otherwise. Everything that happens is a miracle. It’s just a question of who the Miracle is for.

There will be a Miracle tonight. She can feel it- the tension is electric across her skin, gut tightening, every sense on edge.

Starvation leads to such peculiar sensitivity.

She’s on the verge of death-  It should be this way, otherwise nothing could be alive. But she’s closer to the edge than usual.

It’s been so long since she felt the Burning Love of God within her. The delicious taste of good fortune in the night Chasing ecstasy with a racing heart and feeling her body fly The heat in her belly, seeping out through her until it filled her with the Divine Warmth of God’s Love.

It’s been so, so long since she’s eaten.

It’s been uneasy- the breathing of the world has been unsteady of late- too early and too late, out of time like it has become ill and all things suffer for it. There is nothing to partake of in her usual hunting grounds, so she has traveled far, far from home, into a brighter and hotter part of the night.

Here, the protective wall between her and the burning world exists only in scattered fragments, and strange and monstrous things traverse the thin veil between their worlds.

Here, the eternal night has been invaded by noxious, screaming beasts from the burning world above.  They race with their bodies straddling the barrier between their worlds, far faster than anything has the right to fly, howling with a deafening voice that can be heard for hundreds of miles.

It’s a problem because she cannot hear the songs of her prey.

Everything sings, if one will listen. The high, chiming pings of the smallest stars flashing with bioluminescence around her. The long, low songs of the fire-breathers, who hunt here in the abyss for one of her oldest brothers, but return to the barrier and briefly cross it to breathe before they return. Even the earth sings- the moan and crack of her body as she shifts her weight, the almost invisible inhale and exhale of her seasons. She even builds great musical instruments of ash and smoke and an even hotter burning than the world above, singing the tale of the first days of creation in honor of the endless night.

But the behemoths do not sing.

They scream and scream and scream and their piss reeks of vile poison and overexertion. Almost like the way an injured animal can put on a miraculous turn of speed to escape pursuit. What might be pursuing such behemoths is an awful but intriguing consideration. Perhaps the behemoths are the little darting beings of the burning world, and the thing they flee the equivalent of herself. She’s seen it before, when the moon is high and she travels up to the barrier, and the little dancing bodies leap across the barrier to avoid her.

To that end, she can only wish her counterpart good hunting- both in the sympathy between one apex predator and another, and the hope that maybe it will get better at catching the behemoths before they come into her world.

Still, Where there is disturbance, There is also opportunity.

There are rumors from those that live closer to the barrier that the behemoths piss poison but shit out bounties- the wastes of these things are food direct from the burning world, where God lives, and that waste is full of The Divine Warmth of Life. The direct waste is devoured by the smallest and fastest things first, but when they are clustered at their feast, they are easier for the larger beings to partake in, and so too larger things than they until even her most beautiful borderland sister with the belly pale as the moon is now as round as it, fat with the blessing of pups.

So she has ventured as close as she dares to the world of her sisters in hopes of finding the rumored prey so full of the Burning Love of God.

She needs it. She can’t live without it.

A Miracle will happen tonight.

Whether for her or the crawling lives of the deepest night remains to be seen.

She follows the terrible screaming song of the behemoth in silence and prays for a miracle. She does not sing praise when she prays. She preys when she prays.

The highest reverence to The Divine Night is to Listen. To travel in silence, and take in all the songs of The Night.

So she makes herself silent and listens and listens and listens to the screaming song, hoping that somewhere in the noise, she can hear the soft voice of God.

This time God answers with a voice like thunder.

It really is like being too close to a lightning strike, the way the noise viscerally passes through her and lights up every nerve, teeth gritting and body thrashing as she feels the voice of God the same way she feels the body of a lover against her own.

The scream of the behemoth changes. It sputters, then pitches wildly, low visceral injury and high keening pain, like the fire-breathers when they try to hunt the largest of her brothers and become prey themselves.

Oh, what a beautiful song to something like her.

She aches, weak and tired, but hope and joy surge through her and she forces herself to move at speed, even for all the energy it takes, because perhaps the miracle is for her tonight- 

She flies as fast as she can towards the dying behemoth, as does every brother and sister and ancestor and descendant, all as desperate to feast upon God’s Love as she- all of them race forward but then up, and up and up up to where the Behemoth is sinking into their world- It has run upon a fragment of the protective barrier hard enough to tear it's side and break it's back. There is the terrible acrid scent of it’s noxious  piss and if she were not on the verge of starvation it might be enough to put her off the feast.  

But she flies on and up- even weak with hunger she is one of the largest and fastest of her family when she needs to be, so she is the first to smell other strange things from the behemoth- burning flavors that sting her nose and mouth, as well as sweet things that confuse intrigue, and-

Oh. Oh, GOD!

It’s blood but nothing like any blood she’s tasted before- it’s actually HOT in the night, burning with the warmth of the other world even this far from it’s origin, rich and fatty and metallic like the flesh of a fallen fire-breather but even more so.  She spreads her wings and sways her hips and spine to fly as fast as she can, the way a lover pursues her- full of nothing but adoration and a desire to make their bodies as one.

Then in a beam of moonlight, she sees the first of the bodies from the burning world.

The frenzy at the behemoth is a feast for the ages, from the exultant chorus above, and the fact that even with every member of her family for a hundred miles around at the feast, there are so many bodies to feast upon that a body is falling past the festivities to her, uneaten and whole.

What a strange and beautiful body it is.

She pauses, circling it even as her mouth and gut ache for it, studying the being from the burning world.

It’s hot, hotter than any body she’s ever felt before, even though it is very definitely dead, as unsuited to breathe the night as she is to breathe fire. Its wings are long and twist strangely, like the tentacles of her brothers that are hunted by the fire-breathers. It’s awkwardly shaped, like the crawling five-winged creatures of the mud, but not quite.  There is an almost unsettling familiarity to its symmetry.

The fire-breathers say they used to live in the burning world, but returned to the night, and that all the beasts of the burning world had too once come from the night. It had sounded absurd, but looking upon the form of this being now, she wondered.

Well. Only the one thing to do, really.

Gently, she approaches the being, opens her mouth to embrace it, and welcomes it home to the night.

There is no love like the love the predator feels for its prey.  It is reverence made flesh- O holy being, oh virtue to pursue and make one’s own.It is the flesh made reverent- Please, little being of the burning world, let her love you as she loves her own children, the weight of your body deep within her own. 

There is no gratitude like the gratitude a predator feels for its prey. She owes you her life tonight, little being of the burning world. She lives from the mercy of your body alone. It is already a kindness she can never repay to live by your generosity, but oh, you made it so sweet-  Your blood intoxicates her senses, your body thrillingly warm- as agonizing as the fire of the burning world is to breathe in, it’s just as wonderful to swallow.

You are so sweet, so sweet, she will remember this favor forever.

There is no miracle like the divine connection between predator and prey. Oh child of the burning world, you who brings the Warmth of God into The Endless Night, You burning being of God’s Love. She is blessed by you, messenger of God.  Through you she receives the miracle of life.

Welcome, little burning being Welcome home to the night from whence you came Welcome inside her deepest self, and receive her hospitality.

She swallows the little burning being up with adoration, feeling it settle within her. Relief, ecstasy and satisfaction swirl but are interrupted by the appearance of another body. And another And another And another

The Behemoth itself falls, it’s body still curiously dynamic even torn in half- one end dives for the bottom of the night with somewhat alarming speed, where the other glides along to the depths on an angled path, the distant motion still visible with the bioluminescence it stirs up along it’s path. It is massive beyond anything she's seen before, more like a piece of geography than a living organism.

And all along its wake, hundreds of bodies spill forth from inside.

What a strange miracle this is. But she’s not one to refuse God’s Love. And if the beings of the burning world travel in huge schools with their behemoth, the peculiar notion that the little being within her might be lonely occurs to her. …Wow, she’s REALLY drunk.

Still, she eats three more of the burning beings before her guts are almost bursting with fullness, a bizarre sensation she’d only heard about from those who had been fortunate enough to feast on the fallen body of a fire-breather and had to leave the excess to the crawling beings of the bottom. So too, does she watch more bodies descend deep into the night as she returns to her world of darkness and song, the behemoth’s terrible screams now silent with rest, and the choir of the night rejoicing in this miracle.

---

Two miles above the revelry of God’s Favorite Greenland Shark, the survivors of the Titanic prayed into the endless night for a miracle, unaware it had already been granted.

[minimomoe]

Love Never Dies

Tags: MDNI, Zombie! Toji, talks of death, suggestive content

wrd ct: 686

song inspo: After Hours- Mr. Kitty

A/N: gonna drop some halloween drabbles here and there. also, choso will get a short vampire story. let's have fun this kinktober!!!

You thought you had said your goodbyes to Toji just a few weeks ago. You held a funeral for him and everything. You identified his body at the morgue, watched his casket get lowered in the ground, tossed the first handful of dirt to solidify the beginning of the end, yet you still had this lingering feeling of uneasiness.

Toji Fushiguro was dead...........................right?

Toji's presence never really left your side even when you had (try) to sleep on your own the first night without him after the funeral. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but you were sure you could still feel his hands on the small of your waist, or hear his voice from other parts of the house. God, maybe you are finally losing it.

You almost screamed your head off when you visited his grave and saw that it had been dug up. The full moon hung low in the air, lighting up the grave at which you wanted to see your late husband. The only thing that prevented you from calling the police right then and there was that there was something strange about the whole thing. Maybe it was too late to save you from your mind because the grave looked broken from the inside out...

Zombie! Toji who reached out to you carefully because he knows this entire thing is like a nightmare come true. You nearly jump out of your skin when his hand touches your shoulder, your eyes full of fear, then wonder, then unbelievable sorrow. He left you alone for too long, you had to deal with everything by yourself. You didn't pull away when his hand cupped your cheek. It was as cold as ice, proof that he was dead, had been dead, but was also standing right in front of you. The why or how didn't matter to you, all you knew is that you got your husband back.

Zombie! Toji who wasn’t sure on how he got here either. All he knows is that he woke up with the burning need to get back to you, no matter what it took. Despite everything that has happened in his life, he always had an unconventional stroke of luck every once in a while. The old tale of Halloween lifting the veil between the living and the dead was actually fucking true and he used it to his advantage

Zombie! Toji who laughed against your lips. He knew that he was always going to be yours. Your tears spilled into his mouth, salting his lips and tongue, but it only made him kiss you harder. His love for you spat in the face of the grim reaper. Taking you on top of the headstone was not how he thought he would reunite with you, but it was fitting. You welcomed him into your body like he had never left, and in the heat of climax he renewed his vows. For better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, "but never will death do us part."

Zombie! Toji who did not know how much time he had so he spent every second with you like it was his last. There wasn't a single inch of your skin untouched by him. In the end, you laid in his arms inside of the casket, recounting all the moments you fell in love with each other until the sky began to lighten to start a new day. He cursed the sun for rising for stealing away his joy. You assured him that you were okay now, that one more night was all you needed. You were putting on a brave face for him, but it was needed. This time you two could say goodbye on your own terms.

Zombie! Toji who promised to come back for you next Halloween. This was a temporary setback, but in the year between he will find a way to be reunited with you forever. There was nobody else for you, so you held onto his promise like a lifeline. It will keep you going until you meet again. 

thanksss for reading! lemme know who you want to see next!!

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[decagondice]

༓ EXPERIENCE SHAPES PERCEPTION ༓

༓ 'If lies can save a man once, truth can save him twice.' [The Arabian Nights: Tales of 1001 Nights]

༓ Pairing. Trueform!Sukuna x Bride!Reader

༓ Synopsis. Every night, a fresh girl is forcefully taken away from her loved ones per the King's orders, betrothed for a few hours as his wife, and at dawn, an extravagant silk bind is tied around her throat. Unable to tolerate the unjust wrath of the sovereign and promise to do any means necessary to survive in order to put an end to the King's torment, you offer yourself to the King of Curses as his unfortunate bride.

༓ Content. 1001 Nights inspired, sfw, F!Reader, Slightly reluctant reader, KingofCurses/Trueform!Sukuna, Slightly ooc Sukuna, angst (?), fluff (?), Sacrificial reader who eventually finds the good in Sukuna, Slightly depressed Sukuna, Emotional distress, Lonliness, Resentment, Mentions of death, Talks of violence (brief), Hurt, Conflict of feelings, Not proofread.

༓ Word Count. 8.8k

༓ A.N. I randomly had a vision of a 1001 nights au of Sukuna and reader last night and its been my mission since to bring that to life since then :P But, I was torn between making this fic 18+, however I think I just wanted to portray Sukuna's lack of love and life filled with rejection in a different format first. (When reading the fic, you will soon realise how much the last few chapters of the manga had an effect on me...) Hmm~ I might consider making and exploring a short snippet of a smut scene in this au, though not yet. This is my first ever piece of writing that I mustered up the confidence to present the world with, thank you for tuning in and please enjoy! :D

[Drawn to resemble the classic Arabian tales, 1001 Nights, narrating the story of Scheherazade's sacrifice to the resentful Caliph, captivating him with a story every night to preserve her life and end the wrathful reign once and for all. Artwork by Léon Carré, part of his collection of illustrations for 'The Book of One Thousand and One Nights', 1929]

The King’s palace was a labyrinth of shadows and whispered fears, a fortress carved from malice and crowned with disquietude. In the heart of it, past echoing halls filled with ancient curses and dread, lay his private bedchambers- a sanctuary draped in silks and shadows. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and myrrh as the flickering glow of oil lamps casting a dim, golden light that danced lazily on the walls. Heavy curtains draped from the high ceiling, their rich fabric falling like cascading shadows around the room, veiling the room in an otherworldly haze, as though even the air itself hesitated to settle too close to the King of Curses. Sheer veils billowed softly in the breeze that slipped through the open windows, creating a veil of secrecy, a cocoon of intimacy where the outside world seemed to disappear.

You stood before Sukuna, your hands trembling despite your efforts to still them, your gaze fixed on the dark patterns of the floor rather than meeting those eyes that burned with cruel amusement. You had come here not out of ambition or desire but out of duty—an act of desperation to save the other innocent girls from this fate, to shield them from being torn away from their families and cast into a life of terror at the hands of a monster.

You had heard the tales of Sukuna long before you ever set foot in his palace. His name was a curse whispered in the darkest corners of the village, a warning to children who strayed too far into the shadows. He was the King of Curses, a monster draped in human skin, infamous for his cruelty and insatiable thirst for power. But beneath the layers of horror and bloodshed, there were also whispers of another kind—a story buried in the dust of forgotten tongues, one that spoke of a man who had once been cast out, unloved, and rejected by the world that shaped him into the monster he is today. You knew of the loneliness that had festered within him, the pain of being feared and loathed for reasons beyond his control. And though a part of you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of sympathy for that tragedy, you couldn’t afford to indulge it. How could you feel pity for the very beast who was tearing innocent girls from their homes, who was crushing lives beneath his wrath without a trace of remorse? The same hands that once reached out in vain for love were now stained with the blood of those who had never done him harm. He was a monster by his own making, and even the darkest past could not excuse the cruelty that now defined him.

Sukuna sat reclined on the edge of a low, opulent bed, his form barely illuminated by the oil lamps that sputtered and hissed in their brass holders. He doesn't rise to acknowledge you; instead, he tilts his head slightly, a mocking smile playing at the corners of his mouth, as though your presence is nothing more than an amusing diversion in his endless reign of bloodshed. The silken sheets beneath him were the colour of deep wine, their surface catching the light in a way that seemed to make the room pulse with a dark, muted glow. His eyes, twin embers of malice and something unreadable, tracked your every movement as you entered the chamber, the heavy drapes closing behind you with a shiver of finality.

“Tell me,” Sukuna drawled, his voice as sharp and unyielding as the blade he might have pressed to your throat, “What makes you think you’re any different from the others who came before you? What hope do you have of surviving me?”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze despite the terror that gripped your chest. Those crimson eyes stared back at you, full of cruel delight, as if he found your defiance entertaining in its futility. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself, reminding yourself of the faces of the girls you were trying to save, the way their fear had mirrored your own.

“I have volunteered to become your bride,” you said, forcing your voice to steady as you met his eyes. “Not because I believe I am stronger or braver than the others—but because I couldn’t stand to see another innocent torn from their family. I thought that if I could offer myself, it might be enough to end this cycle of suffering.”

Sukuna’s lips curled into a cruel smirk, his eyes glinting with a dangerous mix of amusement and disdain. “You think of yourself as a saviour of some sort?” he asked, the mockery in his voice cutting deep. “Do you believe your pathetic sacrifice will sate my thirst for destruction? The world is built on suffering, and I am its rightful king. Do you think yourself capable of changing the fate that awaits you? That your life is worth so much that I would spare the rest for the sake of your trembling courage?”

He leaned forward from where he sat on the edge of the bed, his posture relaxed yet predatory, the movement causing the heavy silk drapes to sway, turning the chamber into a shifting sea of light and darkness.

“You are nothing but another lamb brought to the slaughter by trembling hands.” He leans forward, chin propped on one hand, his fingers tapping the side of his jaw as he eyes you like a predator watching a mouse dance on its hind legs. “Do you truly not know that you stand in the den of a beast who devours without mercy?”

His words cut deep, but you refused to let them break you. You had to survive this, for their sake, and for your own. As his gaze bore into you, suffocating in its intensity, you did the only thing you could think of—something born of sheer desperation.

“I stand before you, knowing well the beast I face. And yet, I do not come to plead for mercy.” Your voice is steady but soft, like a whispered plea against the storm. “I come to offer you something else— a story each night. I will give you a story unlike any you have ever heard, if you’ll listen. In exchange, you spare me for as long as I can hold your interest."

The words spill from your lips in a rush as you try to barter with him suddenly.

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed, his lips twitching into a smirk that spoke of both curiosity and disdain. “A story?” he repeated, as if the idea were the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “You offer me tales to stave off your death? How utterly quaint. You think words will stay my hand when I tire of you?”

“If they do not, then I will be no worse off than I am now,” you said, meeting his gaze with a defiant glint in your eyes. “But if they do… perhaps I can buy a little more time. Perhaps, in my words, you will find a reason to let me live another day.”

He pauses before speaking again.

“You are a fool to think you could charm a monster with your petty tales, Human.”

His voice drips with scepticism, but you notice the faintest twitch of intrigue in his gaze. It’s a small opening, an aperture in his indomitable armour.

“I don’t believe I can charm a monster,” Your voice unwavering, the words carefully pour out from your mouth. “But, I believe that even a monster seeks a distraction from the loneliness of his throne.”

For the briefest moment, his eyes narrow, something cold and bitter flickering in their depths—a buried wound reopened, a memory of rejection. He hides it quickly, but not before you catch the flicker of vulnerability that you know is your only chance.

His eyes stared at your form, and you could feel his gaze like a physical force, pressing down on you, testing your resolve. Then, slowly, he leaned back, a slow smile spreading across his face, though it never touched the cold, glittering malice in his eyes.

You took a breath, your heartbeat thundering in your chest, and said, “I don’t know if I can change anything. But if it means buying a little more time—if it means sparing just one more life—I’ll do whatever it takes.”

He laughed, a sound low and dark that echoed through the chamber like a promise of doom. But there was something in his eyes—something almost curious, as though he were intrigued by your defiance, by the way you held your ground when so many before you had already fallen. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Then let us see how long your courage lasts,” he said. “Tell me a story, if you dare. Spin your tales and try to keep my interest, little lamb, and know that the moment I tire of you, your life will be forfeit.”

And so, night after night, you returned to that chamber, your voice threading through the darkness like a lifeline, weaving tales of sorrow and hope, of longing and loss. At first, Sukuna listened as if you were merely a distraction, something to toy with until his boredom gave way to cruelty. But as the nights stretched on, something between you began to shift, something so subtle and unspoken that it almost seemed like a trick of the light.

You noticed the way his eyes softened ever so slightly when he watched you, how they no longer held the same cold indifference. There were moments, fleeting but undeniable, when his gaze would linger on your face, following the movements of your lips as you spoke, as if he were more captivated by you than by the story itself. And when he thought you weren’t looking, his expression would change, growing almost thoughtful, almost gentle, as though your words were stirring something in him that he had long since buried.

One night, as you spoke of a warrior who fought not for glory but for the love he could never fully grasp, you saw Sukuna’s jaw tighten, the barest flicker of something raw passing across his face. It was a crack in his mask, a moment of vulnerability that seemed to take even him by surprise. He shifted, turning slightly away as if to hide the turmoil in his eyes, but you could still see the shadow of pain that lingered there, the ghost of something he would never voice.

“The warrior,” you continued, your own voice softening as you ventured into the story’s heart, “he fought because he knew that love, even unreturned, was the only thing that could ever make him feel human. It was the only thing that could make the darkness inside him seem like something less than a curse.”

Sukuna’s fingers twitched slightly where they rested on his knee, his gaze dropping to the floor as though your words had struck deeper than he wished to admit. He let out a slow breath, the sound almost like a growl, as if he were fighting a battle within himself, as if your story had hit too close to the truth of his own guarded soul.

“I told you to amuse me,” he said, his voice rougher now, laced with something almost vulnerable beneath the bravado. “Not to speak to me of things you don’t understand. Love is nothing but a weapon, a lie dressed in silk. Do you think you can wound me with your pretty tales?”

You hesitated, your heart aching at the hardness in his voice, the bitterness that seemed to bleed through his words. “I don’t wish to wound you,” you said softly, meeting his gaze with a steadiness that surprised even you. “I only wish to show you that not everything has to end in darkness. That there is more to this life than the hate and loneliness you’ve known.”

For a moment, he said nothing, his eyes locked on yours, and in that silence, something unspoken passed between you—a fragile thread of understanding, a bond that was as much resistance as it was connection. His hand reached out, almost unconsciously, his fingers brushing against yours with a touch that was hesitant, almost reluctant. It was as if he didn’t quite know how to bridge the gap between cruelty and tenderness, how to reconcile the monster he had become with the man who still longed to believe in something beyond his own darkness.

When he pulled his hand back, his eyes lingered on yours, softer now, searching your face as if he were seeing you for the first time. And in that look, you saw the flicker of a man who was more than just a monster, a man who was trying, against all his instincts, to understand the strange, delicate thing growing between you.

And though neither of you spoke of it, though the words remained locked behind walls of pride and fear, you knew that something had shifted irrevocably in those moments. The King of Curses, who had once seemed untouchable, unmovable, was beginning to unravel beneath your touch. His gaze, so often filled with fire and malice, now held something softer when it turned your way—something almost like admiration, like a reluctant longing that he could neither deny nor accept.

Blossoming feelings, subtle and unspoken, budding like a flower in the cracks of a stone wall. Fragile, tentative, both of you too proud, too fearful to admit its existence. But it was there, in the way his eyes softened when they met yours, in the way his defences fell just a little more with each night that you shared. A flicker of light in the darkness, a promise that even monsters could yearn for more than the abyss.

༓ ༓ ༓ 

The nights continued in that hidden, veiled sanctuary, where the scent of incense lingered and the golden glow of the oil lamps painted soft halos around your figures. You could feel the shifting of something unnamed, a tenuous thread that connected you to Sukuna, something deeper than the stories you spun to save your life. There was a pull, a force between you that neither could fully grasp or resist—a slow, inexorable gravity drawing you closer, even as you both tried to pretend it wasn’t there.

Your tales had become a nightly ritual, the words flowing from your lips like a spell, weaving through the stillness of the room. And Sukuna—this terrible creature of wrath and solitude—listened to them, not as a predator listening to the last words of his prey, but as a man who seemed to find solace in your voice. His gaze, once filled with nothing but cruel amusement and hunger, now seemed to soften in the dim light, tracing the lines of your face as if memorising the shape of every emotion that flickered across it.

There were times when he would reach out, almost unconsciously, his fingers brushing the edge of your sleeve or lingering near your own hand. The touch was light, so brief that it could have been mistaken for nothing more than the movement of air, but you felt it all the same—each contact sparking something within you, a rush of warmth that you couldn’t quite name or deny. He’d pull back just as quickly, as if startled by his own actions, a frown creasing his brow like he was punishing himself for that momentary slip of vulnerability.

Despite his silent reprimands, you began to notice the changes in him. The way his sharp words seemed to lose their edge when he spoke to you, the way his anger—so fierce, so all-consuming—seemed to hesitate when it came to you. There were moments when you’d catch him watching you with a look that bordered on wonder, like you were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve, or perhaps a memory he longed to reclaim. His eyes, once like cold embers burning in their sockets, now held a trace of warmth when they met yours, a softness that seemed to take even him by surprise.

Yet, even with these changes, there was still a wall between you—thick, immovable, built from years of pain and rage that neither of you could dismantle in a single breath. Sukuna would often turn his gaze away just when you thought he might open up, a shuttered look crossing his face, as if terrified by his own emotions. He was a man at war with himself, torn between the beast he had become and the fragile humanity you were slowly unearthing within him.

One evening, after a particularly harrowing tale of two lovers separated by fate, you noticed a shadow flicker across his face—a hint of sorrow that made your chest ache. You paused, your voice faltering slightly, and for a heartbeat, the silence between you was alive with all the things left unsaid.

“What is it about these stories that you think will change me?” he asked, his voice rough, almost bitter, as he met your gaze head-on. There was a vulnerability in his eyes that he tried to mask with his usual disdain, but it was there—a crack in the armour he wore so tightly around his heart. “Do you think words can heal what the world has done to me? Do you think your voice can mend what was broken long before you were born?”

“I don’t know,” you replied, your own voice barely a whisper, the honesty raw between you. “I don’t know if I can heal you, Sukuna. I don’t know if I can change the darkness that you carry. But I do know that I see something in you—a part of you that still remembers what it means to feel, to long for something beyond this anger and vengeance.”

He stared at you, his expression caught somewhere between a sneer and something softer, something almost like pain. “You see what you want to see,” he said, but the words lacked their usual venom, trailing off into the quiet of the room. For a moment, he looked at you not as a king of curses, not as a monster, but as a man—just a man, vulnerable and lost, standing on the precipice of something he could neither name nor understand.

And then, slowly, hesitantly, as if fighting every instinct that told him to turn away, Sukuna reached out. His fingers grazed the side of your face, a touch so light it was almost a question—a silent plea for something he didn’t know how to ask for. You held still, your breath caught in your throat, afraid that even the slightest movement would shatter this fragile moment between you.

“Your stories,” he said at last, his voice so quiet it was barely a murmur, “they make me remember… things I thought I had buried.” His thumb traced a line down your cheek, his touch both tender and hesitant, as though he were afraid of the warmth he might find there. “You’re like a flame in this darkness, something I want to reach for, even though I know I have no right to. Even though I could snuff it out with my own hands.”

You turned your face slightly into his touch, your heart pounding with a mix of fear and hope, the vulnerability between you stretching taut like a thread that could either bind you together or snap in two. “And yet, you don’t,” you whispered. “You could end this now, and you don’t. Why?”

He said nothing, but his eyes told you everything. They spoke of the battle raging within him—the struggle between the curse he had become and the man who was trying, against all odds, to remember what it was like to be something else. To be someone else. Someone who could care. Someone who could love.

Sukuna’s hand dropped back to his side, his expression hardening once more, though the softness in his eyes didn’t entirely fade. “This changes nothing,” he said, though the conviction in his voice wavered. “I am still what I am. Don’t mistake my interest for kindness.”

But you saw it there—the tiny crack in his defences, the fragile tendril of something more that had begun to grow between the two of you. It was subtle, almost invisible, like a seed taking root in the dark soil of a barren landscape, and yet it was there. And in the quiet of his bedchamber, with the flickering light casting long shadows across his face, you knew that you were not the only one who felt its pull.

For in his touch, in the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching, in the way his words softened when they were meant to wound—you saw the beginnings of something tender and reluctant. The monster within him was still very much alive, still sharp-edged and dangerous, but for the first time, there was something else as well. A flicker of a man who was learning, despite himself, to care for the flame he had found in the darkness.

༓ ༓ ༓ 

The days bled into nights, and each night that you survived seemed to blur the line between captor and captive, between monster and storyteller. Sukuna’s bedchamber had become your stage, a place where you wove tales to pacify the beast that loomed over you, but also where something unspoken began to pulse between you—a slow-burning warmth that defied the cold cruelty of his presence. The more you spoke, the more your stories reached into the corners of his soul, unearthing the fragments of the man he tried so hard to bury. And in those moments of listening, the mask he wore seemed to slip, just enough to reveal the man beneath the monster.

You found yourself watching him when you thought he wasn’t looking, your gaze lingering on the curve of his lips, the intensity of his eyes, and the way his sharp features softened in the glow of the oil lamps. There was a beauty to him, hidden beneath the menace—a kind of tragic elegance that you could almost reach out and touch. He was like a starless night sky, dark and endless, but with a hint of light just waiting to break through if given the chance. The way he listened to your tales, how his eyes would narrow with thought or flare with emotion, told you that your words were not only buying you time—they were reaching him, drawing him closer to something he could neither name nor understand.

But there was also reluctance in you, a fear that tangled with your hope. You could not forget the darkness that lived in him, the cruelty that could ignite in his eyes with the flick of a thought. Sukuna was still dangerous, still unpredictable, and every night you wondered if this would be the last, if the flicker of humanity you saw in him would be snuffed out by the monster he claimed to be. You felt the tremor of your own hesitation, the way your heart wavered between pity and fear, between hope and doubt. How could you let yourself care for a man whose hands were stained with the blood of so many, who could end your life in a heartbeat if the whim took him?

Yet, despite that, despite everything you knew and everything you feared, you couldn’t help the way your breath would hitch when his gaze softened ever so slightly. Or the way your skin tingles when, during those rare moments, he let his guard down enough to touch you—not in violence or possession, but in something that felt almost tender. Like that night when your tale came to an end, and instead of letting you leave as he usually did, he reached out and caught your wrist, his fingers circling it with a gentleness that stole your breath.

“Stay,” he said, his voice rough with something that could have been longing or anger—maybe both. His grip was firm but not unkind, as if he feared that with one wrong move, you might slip through his fingers and disappear. His eyes searched yours, darker than the night, a swirl of emotions hidden in their depths that he didn’t know how to voice. “Stay a little longer.”

You looked at him, at the touch of vulnerability in his gaze that was as startling as it was heartbreaking, and you nodded. Slowly, carefully, you sat back down, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence, close enough that your breaths seemed to mingle in the space between you. Sukuna’s hand remained on your wrist, the touch turning almost idle, as if he were memorising the shape of your pulse beneath his fingertips.

“What do you see when you look at me?” he asked suddenly, his voice low, roughened with a vulnerability he couldn’t quite conceal. There was a hint of frustration in his tone, like a man desperate to understand something that defied his grasp. “Tell me the truth.”

You hesitated, your throat tightening with the weight of his question. What could you say? That you saw not just the monster he tried so hard to be, but the man he once was and perhaps still could be? That somewhere in his darkness, there was a light fighting to break free, a yearning that had been denied so long it had turned to rage?

“I see…” you began, your voice soft, barely more than a whisper, “I see someone who’s afraid to believe in anything that isn’t pain or vengeance. Someone who’s convinced himself he doesn’t need love because he thinks it’s beyond his reach. But I also see a man who listens to my stories not because he has to, but because they make him feel something he thought he’d forgotten how to feel.”

His fingers tightened just slightly around your wrist, and you could feel the tremor in his touch, the way his breath hitched in response to your words. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, his jaw clenching as if struggling against some invisible force. When he finally spoke, his voice was rougher, more vulnerable than you had ever heard it. “I don’t need your pity,” he said, but the words lacked their usual bite, falling almost hollow in the space between you. “I don’t want your sympathy.”

“It’s not pity,” you replied, holding his gaze, refusing to look away. “It’s just the truth. You’re not as alone as you think you are, Sukuna.”

For a moment, he looked as though he might argue, as though the monster in him wanted to rise up and crush this fragile hope between you. But instead, he just stared at you, his eyes softening, the fight bleeding out of him as something warmer took its place—a flicker of longing, so fierce and raw that it made your heart ache. He reached up then, his fingers brushing the side of your face, a touch so gentle it felt like a question, like he was asking if he was even capable of something as simple as kindness.

“You speak as if you know me,” he said, his voice barely more than a murmur, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone. “As if you see past the monster I am. Why?”

“Because,” you said softly, feeling the truth of your own words catch in your chest, “sometimes the hardest stories to believe are the ones we tell ourselves.”

His gaze faltered then, his hand dropping to his side as if suddenly aware of what he’d done, of how close he’d let you come. The mask of indifference snapped back into place, but it was thinner now, more fragile, unable to fully hide the man beneath it. He turned away, his jaw clenched, the set of his shoulders rigid with a frustration that wasn’t aimed at you, but at himself.

“Go,” he said, the word a rough whisper, almost torn from him. “Leave before I change my mind.”

And you did, though your steps were slow, your heart heavy with the knowledge of how close you had come to breaking through his defences. As you slipped through the curtains and out of his chamber, you couldn’t help but glance back, catching one last glimpse of Sukuna standing in the dim light, his face half-hidden in shadow, his eyes fixed on you with an expression that was equal parts longing and fear.

It wasn’t love—not yet. But it was something. Something fragile and new, something that both frightened and fascinated him. And though neither of you were ready to name it, you knew that it was growing between you like a fire waiting to be kindled, a warmth that could one day banish the darkness if only he’d let it. And perhaps, one day, the King of Curses might come to realise that even he was not beyond the reach of redemption.

༓ ༓ ༓ 

Shifting like the currents of a hidden river beneath the surface of your nightly tales, that fragile something between you and Sukuna continued to grow. As per your routine, you still came to his bedchamber each evening, weaving your stories into the warm, fragrant air, but now there was a difference in how you both lingered in that space. It was no longer just a battleground where words danced to save your life; it had become a place where silences spoke louder than the tales themselves, where the stolen glances and unspoken words built a tension so palpable it filled the room.

Sukuna watched you differently now. His gaze, once sharp and cold, had softened in a way that seemed to unsettle him more than any of his past violence ever had. There was a war in his eyes every time he looked at you, a struggle between the darkness that defined him and the light he couldn’t quite extinguish when he was near you. He tried to mask it, his expression often hardening the moment he felt his guard slipping, but there were cracks in his armour now—cracks that grew wider with every story, every quiet laugh you coaxed from him, every moment that made him feel something other than the hate he’d clung to for so long.

One night, as you finished the tale of a long-lost prince returning to his love, you noticed the way Sukuna’s hand had drifted toward you, fingers almost brushing the fabric of your sleeve. He pulled back before making contact, a scowl flickering across his face, as though furious with himself for that momentary lapse. But you saw through that façade, the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, the way his breath hitched ever so slightly when he thought you might look away.

“You seem moved by that tale,” you said, the words light yet probing, testing the waters of his resistance. “Is there something in it that you recognize?”

He laughed then, a rough, humourless sound, though it lacked the sharp edges it once had. “Moved?” he echoed, his lips curling into a bitter smile. “Do not mistake my interest for softness. I am no lovesick fool to be swayed by such nonsense.”

And yet, as he spoke, his eyes never left yours, and there was something in them—a flicker of pain, of memory, that betrayed his words. You could see it clearly now, the way his barriers were beginning to crumble, even as he fought to hold onto the fragments of who he used to be. He was no longer the untouchable King of Curses in those moments; he was just a man, trapped between the monster he’d become and the human he never thought he’d be again.

“Perhaps not,” you replied, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “But even the hardest hearts can soften, even if they don’t want to admit it.”

He looked at you then, truly looked at you, his gaze intense and searching, as if trying to unravel the mystery of you, this mortal woman who dared to speak to him as though he were something more than a beast. For the first time, he seemed almost uncertain, like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, unsure whether to step forward or retreat back into the darkness that had always been his comfort.

“Why do you persist?” he asked, his voice low and rough, his brow furrowing as if the question was dragged from some deep, wounded place inside him. “Why do you look at me as though I’m not a monster? Why tell me these tales as if they could change anything?”

You hesitated, feeling the gravity of his question, the weight of the moment pressing down on you. It wasn’t just a question about the stories; it was about you, about why you stayed when any sane person would have fled. Why you dared to look at him not as a villain, but as a man capable of more than just destruction.

“Because,” you began slowly, your voice barely a whisper, “I see more in you than you allow yourself to see. I see a man who was once capable of kindness, who wasn’t always this… cruel. I see someone who’s afraid to hope because he’s been denied love for so long that he’s forgotten what it feels like.”

His jaw clenched, a flicker of something raw and aching crossing his face before he masked it with a sneer. “You’re a fool,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual venom. “You think you can save me with words, with your pity? There’s nothing left of the man you think you see.”

“Maybe,” you said, your eyes never leaving his, “but you keep listening anyway. You keep letting me stay when you could have ended my life the moment I entered your chambers. You reach out for me even when you don’t mean to. If that’s not proof that there’s still something human in you, then I don’t know what is.”

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to still. The air between you was thick with the weight of unsaid words, with the electricity of something both terrifying and beautiful. Sukuna’s expression was a battlefield of conflicting emotions—anger, vulnerability, denial, and something else, something softer that glimmered beneath the surface like a light struggling to break free from the darkness.

And then, almost without realising it, his hand came up to touch your face. The movement was slow, hesitant, as if he was testing the reality of your presence, of his own desire to reach for something he had long believed lost to him. His fingers brushed against your cheek, the touch so gentle it sent a shiver down your spine, and for the first time, he didn’t pull away. He held his hand there, cupping your face like you were something precious, something breakable that he was afraid to hurt.

“You,” he said, his voice cracking with the weight of his own disbelief, “you’re the most infuriating creature I’ve ever met.”

A smile ghosted across your lips, so faint it was almost imperceptible, and you leaned ever so slightly into his touch, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours. “And yet, you let me live,” you whispered, the words barely more than a breath. “You listen to my stories, you reach for me even when you don’t mean to… Why is that, Sukuna?”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t pull away either. The monster in him was silent, subdued, replaced by a man who was lost and yearning, who didn’t know how to handle the tenderness he felt creeping into his heart. He was afraid—afraid of vulnerability, afraid of what it meant to care for someone, even in the smallest, most reluctant way.

But in that moment, with his hand on your cheek and your eyes locked on his, you knew the truth. The King of Curses was beginning to fall, not in defeat, but in a way that neither of you had expected. Slowly, painfully, he was learning to care. For you. And it terrified him more than any curse ever could.

The silence between you was no longer empty; it was filled with a thousand unsaid things, with the unspoken promise of something that might one day grow if either of you were brave enough to let it. And as you stood there, caught in the gravity of each other’s gaze, you knew that this was only the beginning. A delicate, fragile beginning to something that could be more than either of you ever dared to hope for.

༓ ༓ ༓ 

Dusk had finally arrived, and the dense fragranced smoke made the air feel warm and almost oppressive. You sat across from Sukuna, your voice carrying softly over the quiet hum of the night as you began to tell him yet another tale—this one different, more poignant, more deliberate.

“There was once,” you started, your voice laced with the slow rhythm of an ancient storyteller, “a creature who was not born into darkness, but who fell into it, piece by piece, as the world around him turned its back. He was not always a demon, you see. Once, long ago, he was something else—someone else. He was born of light, meant for greatness, a guardian meant to protect and to love.”

You paused, casting a glance at Sukuna, whose gaze was already fixed on you with an intensity that made the air between you feel electric. He didn’t interrupt, but you could see the shift in his expression, the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers clenched just slightly, almost inconspicuously. He was listening, not just with his ears but with every part of him, as though he was bracing himself against something he didn’t want to admit was reaching him.

“But the world,” you continued, choosing your words carefully, “can be cruel to those who don’t fit into its perfect mould. And this guardian, despite his strength and his loyalty, was different. He was feared for his power, for the potential of what he could become. And so, the ones he had sworn to protect turned on him, shunning him, casting him out into the wilderness as if he were nothing but a beast. They called him a monster, a fiend. They said he didn’t belong among them.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy and unspoken, like a truth that neither of you wanted to acknowledge. You could see it in Sukuna’s eyes—a flicker of recognition, the raw wound of a memory he had tried to bury under layers of hatred and pride. For a moment, he was no longer the invincible King of Curses, but something far more vulnerable—a man haunted by the echo of his own past.

“They cursed him to the darkness,” you went on, your voice softer now, almost a whisper. “And in that darkness, alone and forsaken, the creature’s heart hardened. His pain turned to rage, his sorrow to vengeance. He became the monster they had always feared he would be, not because he was born that way, but because they had made him that way. He believed he was unworthy of love, unworthy of redemption, because that’s all the world had ever shown him.”

Sukuna’s face was a mask of stillness, but his eyes were aflame with something that bordered on anguish—a deep-seated hurt that he couldn’t hide, no matter how hard he tried. His hands, which had once been so quick to strike, now lay motionless at his sides, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. You could tell that the story had struck a chord, that it had reached into the deepest part of him, the part he kept locked away even from himself.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked, his voice rough and strained, barely more than a whisper. The question seemed to cost him something, as though he were admitting to a wound he had long denied. His gaze was hard, almost angry, but beneath that anger was a glimmer of something else—pain, vulnerability, the same longing that he had buried beneath centuries of rage.

“Because,” you said gently, meeting his gaze, refusing to look away, “I believe that even in the darkest of creatures, there is a spark of light that refuses to be extinguished. I believe that the demon in my tale, like you, was not born a monster but was made into one by a world that didn’t know how to love him. And perhaps, somewhere deep down, he’s still searching for a reason to believe that he’s more than the monster they say he is.”

The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating in its intensity. Sukuna’s eyes bore into yours, raw and unguarded, as if you had laid his soul bare and he didn’t know whether to thank you or curse you for it. He looked away then, turning his head slightly as if to shield his face from your gaze, but not before you caught the faintest glimmer of moisture in his eyes—a shimmer that could have been from the firelight or could have been something far more human.

“You think you know me,” he said at last, his voice hollow, laced with bitterness and something else—something broken. “You think your pretty words can change what I am. But you have no idea what it’s like to be cast out, to be made into this… thing. To be so hated that you start to hate yourself even more.”

He stood up abruptly, turning his back to you, his broad shoulders tense and rigid as though he were trying to hold himself together by sheer force of will. For a moment, you thought he might lash out, that he might snap back into the beast that he was so comfortable being. But he didn’t. Instead, he stood there, silent and still, his fists clenched at his sides, his whole form trembling with the effort to keep the chaos within him contained.

“You’re wrong,” he said, his voice cracking with the force of his own denial. “There’s no light left in me. There never was. I am the monster they made me, and nothing will ever change that.”

Slowly, you rose to your feet, your heart aching at the sight of him—this man who was so much more than the monster he believed himself to be. You approached him cautiously, your hand reaching out, hesitant, trembling slightly as you placed it gently on his arm. He flinched at the touch but didn’t pull away, didn’t break the fragile connection that bound you both in that moment.

“Then let me be wrong,” you whispered, your voice soft but steady, full of a conviction you hadn’t even known you possessed. “Let me be wrong, Sukuna, but let me try. Let me see the man beneath the curse, the man who still listens to stories even when he says he doesn’t believe in them. Because I think… I think you’re more afraid of being loved than of being hated.”

He turned then, slowly, his eyes locking onto yours with a fierceness that took your breath away. There was a storm in his gaze, a turbulence of emotions that he could no longer hide. Anger, pain, confusion, and beneath it all—a flicker of yearning so raw and desperate that it broke your heart to see it.

“Why?” he demanded, his voice rough, almost pleading now, his hand coming up to catch yours where it rested on his arm. His grip was tight, almost desperate, as if he were afraid that letting go would mean losing the only lifeline he had. “Why do you keep trying to find something good in me when I’ve done nothing but prove I’m a monster?”

You smiled then, a sad, gentle smile that reached the deepest parts of you. “Because even monsters deserve a chance to be saved,” you said softly. “Even monsters deserve to believe they’re worthy of love.”

For a long moment, Sukuna said nothing. He simply stood there, staring at you as if you were something he couldn’t quite understand, something he couldn’t believe was real. And then, slowly, almost reluctantly, he let his forehead fall against yours, his eyes closing as he exhaled a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. His touch was still hesitant, still tinged with that reluctance to fully give in to what he was feeling, but it was there—a silent surrender to the possibility of something more.

And in that moment, with your hand still on his arm and his breath mingling with yours, you knew that the demon in your story had not been defeated but had begun to believe in the light again. Not because of some grand act of heroism, but because he had found someone who dared to see the humanity within him, even when he had given up on seeing it himself.

༓ ༓ ༓ 

The sky outside his chamber was a raging symphony of thunder and rain, the storm’s fury echoing the tempest that had been brewing between you and Sukuna all this time. The wind howled through the narrow openings in the stone walls, the curtains rippling like waves of silk in its wake, casting wild shadows across the room. It was as if the heavens themselves were tearing apart, unleashing their wrath on the earth, and within the shelter of Sukuna’s bedchamber, the storm had found a mirror in the turmoil that raged between your hearts.

You stood before him, drenched in the soft, flickering glow of the oil lamps, your voice trembling as you tried to pierce through the walls he still kept so fiercely around his heart. Sukuna’s eyes were wild, his face a mask of conflicting emotions, a mix of anger, fear, and that same raw vulnerability that you’d seen creeping into his gaze over the past few weeks.

“Why do you fight this so hard?” you asked, your voice cracking under the weight of your own desperation. The words were almost lost to the roar of the storm outside, yet you knew he heard every syllable. “Why do you still pretend you don’t feel anything? That you’re not capable of more than this darkness?”

Sukuna’s jaw clenched, his teeth gritting as he turned away from you, his hands fisting at his sides. The storm’s rage seemed to course through his veins, the lightning outside illuminating his sharp features, casting shadows that made him look every bit the demon he believed himself to be. And yet, there was something in the way he stood there, shoulders trembling, eyes averted—a man on the edge, teetering between surrender and defiance.

“Do you think we are the same? I am not like you.” he growled, his voice like gravel, torn between anguish and frustration. “I don’t know how to be good, how to be anything but this—this thing they made me. I’m not meant for love, for kindness. I’m meant for death and ruin! That’s all I am.”

“No,” you said, your voice firm but soft, unyielding as you closed the distance between you. The storm seemed to quiet in your wake, as though the very air held its breath. You reached out, gently taking his hand in yours, feeling the tension in his fingers, the way he hesitated before finally allowing your touch to anchor him. “You’re more than what they made you, Sukuna. You’re more than the monster you think you are.”

He looked down at your joined hands, his expression twisting into something pained, something that looked like loss and longing all at once. His fingers were trembling now, almost imperceptibly, as if he was afraid to believe in what he was feeling. Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet yours, and for the first time, they weren’t filled with anger or resentment but with something far more fragile. Hope. And fear.

“You do not realise what you’re asking of me,” he whispered, the words barely more than a breath. “To hope, to believe that I could be anything other than this… Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? How cruel?”

“Hope isn’t cruel,” you replied, lifting your other hand to his cheek, gently cupping his face. He flinched at first, the motion instinctive, but then he let you hold him there, the warmth of your touch a balm to his storm-ravaged soul. “Hope is the kindest thing there is. And I think, deep down, you want it. You’re just afraid to let yourself have it.”

He swallowed hard, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away, retreat back into the safety of his darkness. But then, in a movement so slow it seemed to defy time itself, he leaned into your touch, his eyes closing as if savouring the warmth of your palm against his skin. The tension in his shoulders eased, the storm inside him quieting as he let himself lean just a little closer, as if he were finally too tired to keep fighting.

“Why?” he asked, his voice almost broken, rough with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. “Why would you care for something like me? After all I’ve done, after all I am?”

You gave him a sad, gentle smile, the kind that was both a promise and a farewell, the kind that said everything words couldn’t. “Because even the fiercest storms pass, Sukuna,” you whispered. “Even the darkest nights have to end. And even you—especially you—deserve to see the dawn again. You deserve to believe in something more, even if it scares you.”

He opened his eyes then, and in them, you saw the storm break, saw the crumbling of a fortress he’d spent centuries building. The fear was still there, the uncertainty, but there was also something new, something that looked almost like surrender. The kind of surrender that wasn’t about defeat, but about letting go of the chains he had wrapped around his own heart.

And then, without another word, he pulled you to him, his arms wrapping around you in a way that was both fierce and gentle, like a man holding onto the only thing that could save him from himself. His forehead pressed against yours, and his breath was warm and uneven against your lips, his eyes searching yours, still disbelieving but filled with that spark you’d never seen before—hope.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered, the words rough but honest, a confession laid bare. “I don’t know how to be anything but a monster. But for you... for you, I want to try.”

Your heart swelled, a warmth spreading through you like the first light of dawn after the longest night. You reached up, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer, your lips ghosting against his in the barest of touches, a promise of something more—a beginning, not an end. “Then try, Sukuna,” you said softly, your voice trembling with both fear and joy. “Try with me.”

He closed his eyes, his breath hitching as he let the last of his resistance fall away, and for the first time, you felt the true man beneath the curse—the one who had been buried so deep he’d almost forgotten he existed. He held you as if you were his anchor, his lifeline, the only proof that he could still feel something other than rage and pain.

And as the storm outside raged on, battering against the walls of the chamber, the two of you stood together, wrapped in each other’s arms. In that fragile, trembling embrace, Sukuna finally let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t beyond saving after all. That maybe, in the warmth of your touch and the softness of your whispered words, he had found something he thought was lost to him forever—a chance at redemption, a chance at love.

The dawn was still far off, the road uncertain and fraught with the shadows of the past, but for the first time, there was a light on the horizon. And as Sukuna held you close, his lips brushing your temple in a touch so tender it almost broke your heart, he knew that whatever lay ahead, he wouldn’t face it alone. 

Not anymore.

The storm raged on, but within that chamber, there was a stillness, a quiet hope that spoke of new beginnings and the promise of something neither of you dared to name. It was not an ending, not yet. Just the beginning of a story that had no easy answers, no simple resolutions—a story that was still being written, night by night, heart by hesitant heart.

A.N. Thank you for reading! :D Please let me know what you think!

[riboism]

haunted ═╬ act I: the arrival

♱ content tags: centuries old vampire! seonghwa x fem reader, vampire au, gothic romance, gothic horror, story takes place circa early 1900s, reincarnation, smut, angst, forbidden love, slowburn, lots of yearning, no happy ending, blood, satanism, animal cruelty, nosferatu/bram stroker’s dracula/edward scissorhands vibes

♱ wordcount: 5.2k

↳ series masterlist

A wave of relief swept over you as the crisp, refreshing breeze of late October kissed your cheeks. The train ride to Cromer Ridge had been a seemingly endless ordeal—stuffy, suffocating, and filled with doubts that gnawed at your tenacity. Every mile of the journey was shadowed by second-guessing and an almost unbearable longing to turn back. Yet, deep down, you knew there was no returning to the life you had left behind. Starting over was daunting, the weight of the unknown pressing heavily on your spirit. But you also knew it was time to release the past, to embrace the opportunity for renewal. Though your unfamiliar surroundings felt discouraging, you steeled yourself to take the first step forward.

Your first task upon arriving at your new home was clear: find a job. The urgency of the times was palpable, and the job board near the platform was already surrounded by a crowd of weary, determined faces.

A sigh escaped you as your shoulders slumped in quiet defeat. The list of available positions read like a declaration of exclusion. Coal miner. Machinist. Bricklayer. Though the words “No women inquirers” weren’t printed, the message was clear. And who would hire you anyway? You were a woman, expected to secure financial stability through marriage—or, if desperation struck, by selling yourself in ways too degrading to voice. Your only skills were the domestic trifecta of sewing, cooking, and cleaning—skills instilled in you by a mother who saw no greater purpose than preparing you for marriage, a means to lighten the financial burden of an unwanted daughter.

Just as hopelessness began to settle in, something caught your eye. At the far end of the board, a single yellowed flyer flapped in the breeze, its ink faded and edges curling. It seemed forgotten, avoided even, as the crowd conspicuously steered clear of that corner. Curious, you stepped closer, your heart inexplicably quickening. The faded words were difficult to make out, but you pieced them together as best you could:

Live-in housekeeper needed. Inquire at the Park Estate.

⸺

“Excuse me, sir, can you tell me how to get to the Park Estate?”

The lively chatter and rhythmic clinking of shot glasses halted. One by one, the tavern’s patrons turned their attention toward you, their eyes narrowing with suspicion. The bartender froze mid-motion, his dishrag suspended above the bar as he gawked at the wide-eyed newcomer who had dared to ask such a question.

“What business do you have there?” he asked, his voice laced with thinly veiled disgust.

“I’m inquiring about a position there,” you replied, the words tumbling out sheepishly as the weight of the room’s gaze settled on you. “The one posted at the rail.”

A ripple of murmurs coursed through the crowd.

“Someone really oughta take that flyer down.”

“I heard that’s how he gets his victims—lures them up there with promises of work, then poof, they’re never seen again!”

“You know, he harvests human limbs for the black market! That’s how he keeps that eyesore of a castle funded.”

“Did you hear what the butcher’s wife said? She swears she saw Count Park skulking around town weeks ago, creeping like a ghost!”

“No way. He wouldn’t dare come down here. He knows he’s unwelcome. That’s why he stays up there, feasting on stray cats and whatever he can find.”

The whispers swirled, growing darker with every utterance. The stories painted a picture of a man—or perhaps a creature—that was nothing short of monstrous. The rumors about Count Park were wild and fantastical, their macabre details echoing the haunting bedtime tales your grandmother once told of strange creatures lurking in the shadows, snatching disobedient children to devour.

The bartender hesitated, his brow furrowed. You didn’t know it then, but you’d made a mistake by asking about what the townsfolk referred to as the “Dead End of Cromer Ridge.”  Park Estate was no ordinary home; it was a brooding castle perched on the edge of town, shrouded in mystery and whispered fear. No one dared to venture close, and few could even confirm whether Count Park was still alive. Some said he’d gone mad with grief after the death of his wife, his isolation breeding festering darkness. Others insisted he had dabbled in Satanic rituals, turning himself into a vampire—a bloodthirsty creature doomed to stalk the night.

Every tale was more grotesque than the last, but one truth remained constant: the very mention of his estate sent a chill down the spines of the townsfolk.

After a long pause, the bartender finally relented. “Straight down, take a left at the old sign, and head west. It’s a steep climb—I doubt it’ll be easy to make it up there.”

You murmured your thanks and quickly exited, trying not to let the hushed gossip of the patrons unsettle you. But as you stepped into the cold evening, a sense of unease lingered. The townspeople weren’t just unfriendly—they seemed haunted, consumed by fear of the Count. And their fear had a way of clinging to you, no matter how hard you tried to shake it off.

⸺

The bartender hadn’t exaggerated—the hill was brutal. Each step felt heavier than the last, your calves burning as fatigue clawed its way into your limbs. The path grew darker with every stride, the last rays of sunlight vanishing beneath the horizon, leaving only the oppressive gloom of night. In the distance, the castle loomed, stark and unwelcoming against the dusky sky. Its jagged silhouette seemed carved from shadow, a brooding presence that radiated unease.

As you drew closer, doubt began to fester. A small voice in your mind whispered to turn back, to abandon this unsettling journey. Something about the air felt off—thick and heavy, as though it carried the weight of a hundred unspoken warnings. Perhaps the townsfolk’s sinister murmurs had worked their way into your head, or perhaps it was the creeping dread that came with nightfall. Yet, no matter how many reasons you found to retreat, one undeniable truth remained: you’d come too far to turn back.

The promise of a warm bed, of shelter from the biting chill, was enough to propel you forward. Where else could you go? Who else would take you in? Pushing your unease aside, you pressed on, even as every instinct screamed otherwise.

The moment your foot touched the porch, an icy shiver raced down your spine. The boards groaned beneath your weight, the sound sharp and accusatory in the oppressive silence. The castle’s windows were boarded up, their blackened edges like gaping scars. The wind howled through unseen cracks, coaxing eerie creaks and groans from the ancient structure, as though it were alive and watching. The bushes lining the walkway were disturbingly pristine, their neatness at odds with the house’s decayed and foreboding aura. If not for their immaculate care, you might have thought the place was abandoned.

Your breath hitched as you reached for the door. The metal hoop of the knocker was freezing against your palm, and for a moment, you hesitated, your heart thudding painfully in your chest. With a trembling hand, you lifted it and knocked, the sound reverberating through the still night like the toll of a bell. A death bell, perhaps. 

You stood there, waiting. Seconds stretched into an eternity, the silence amplifying every stray sound—the rustling of leaves, the creaking of old wood, the faint whisper of the wind. Your nerves began to fray, and just as you were about to knock again, a sudden noise made you whip around.

A crow landed on the railing with a thud, its black eyes glinting like polished onyx. It tilted its head, staring at you with an unnerving intensity, as though it were delivering a silent warning: Turn back. Leave now.

But you couldn’t. It was too late. The journey here had already cost you too much, and the thought of retreating to nothing—a cold, inhospitable town, a life of uncertainty—kept your feet rooted in place. Even as dread coiled tighter around your heart, you remained, the weight of your decision pressing heavier than ever.

You jolted as the grand doors creaked open, the deep, groaning sound echoing in the stillness. The noise rooted you to the spot, your pulse hammering in your ears. Until this moment, you hadn’t stopped to consider who would be behind the door. What sort of person lived in a place like this? Why was he so hated? What if the rumors were true—what if he was dangerous?

Your imagination conjured a monster—sharp yellow teeth bared in a sinister grin, hollow eyes that seemed to pierce the soul, leathery, pale skin stretched tight over angular bones. His voice would be guttural and broken, a sound that carried only misfortune and dread. You sucked in a breath, bracing yourself for this creature to appear.

But the door stopped after only opening slightly, leaving just a sliver of darkness visible beyond. No figure emerged, no silhouette loomed. Silence followed, heavy and expectant.

“Hello?” you called, your voice trembling.

There was no response. You hesitated, glancing back down the shadowy path you’d climbed. The idea of retracing that perilous journey in the dead of night frightened you. Desperation flared within you, pushing you to speak again.

“I saw your ad on the job board. For a housekeeper? I’m sorry to disturb you so late,” you began, the words spilling out quickly. “I-Is the position still open? I’ve been cooking and cleaning all my life. I can stitch a warm coat in two days, and hats, gloves, and scarves in less than one. I noticed your bushes—they’re well cared for. I know a lot about gardening; my father taught me—”

The door suddenly widened, cutting off your nervous rambling. A rush of frigid air spilled out, carrying with it the faint scent of damp wood and aged stone. You hesitated, then stepped inside, expecting warmth to greet you. But instead, the chill intensified, the air biting at your skin like icy needles.

The man who had opened the door had vanished, his presence already dissolved into the shadows. The heavy doors groaned as you pushed them closed, their weight demanding your full effort.

Turning back around, you finally took in the house. In the dim flicker of candlelight, the interior revealed itself in pieces, like a dream shifting into focus. The grand entryway was vast, yet suffocating, the kind of place that seemed to watch you back. The floor was a checkered sea of black and white marble, cracked in places and dulled by time. A massive staircase dominated the space, its dark oak banister coiled like a serpent rising toward the upper floors. The air smelled faintly of wax and mildew.

Dust clung to every surface, turning once beautiful furniture into ghostly relics. A cracked mirror hung crookedly on the far wall, its gilded frame tarnished and webbed with cobwebs. A dark red, velvety tapestry drooped sadly from its mount, its colors faded and threads unraveling. Scattered across a long wooden table were odd, forgotten items: loose buttons, dried ink bottles, and what appeared to be a single leather glove, stiffened with age. Despite the grandeur, the house felt as though it had been abandoned to the passage of time, its opulence rotting away in quiet decay.

You held your chest tightly, your pulse quickening as you tried to quell the unease clawing at you.

“Eighteen dollars a month.”

The voice came from above, low and rich like the stroke of velvet against bare skin. It was smooth, refined, and utterly at odds with the house and its rumors. You snapped your head up, your eyes darting toward the staircase.

There he was. A figure stood at the top of the stairs, his silhouette cloaked in the shadows. He was too far away to make out clearly, his back turned to you as he rested one hand lightly on the banister.

“You start tomorrow,” the voice continued, steady and composed, though tinged with something you couldn’t name. “Do not wake me. Your quarters are down the hall to your left.”

With that, he was gone, disappearing into the upper darkness as quickly and silently as he’d appeared.

You stood there, rooted in place, the chill of the house seeping into your very bones. The unexpected smoothness of his voice lingered in your mind, disarming in its elegance. And yet, it wasn’t enough to shake the oppressive weight of the home, with its decayed grandeur and shadows that seemed to shift when you weren’t looking.

Your quarters, tucked away at the far end of the hall, were modest compared to the rest of the house—but that was to be expected for the help, you supposed. The space was sparse yet functional, its simplicity offering a quiet reprieve from the unsettling grandeur outside its door.

A soft white bed stood against the wall, its quilt worn but clean, promising a much-needed rest for your aching body. Beside it, a small desk sat neatly, complete with an oil lamp and a sheaf of blank paper, an unspoken invitation to write letters you weren’t sure would ever reach anyone. A large armoire dominated the opposite corner, its dark wood polished to an eerie sheen, its brass handles shaped like twisting vines. Though you had packed light, the armoire’s cavernous emptiness made your belongings seem smaller still.

You settled into the room cautiously, smoothing your hand over the quilt as you perched on the edge of the bed. Despite its simplicity, the room felt...off. Perhaps it was the silence that hung so heavily in the air or the faint chill that lingered, despite the walls being thick and the windows shut tight.

Your mind churned as you tried to make sense of everything—the decayed opulence of the house, the cryptic demeanor of the Count, and the strange, fearful gossip that followed his name. What kind of man was he, truly? You realized with a sinking feeling that you still had no idea what he even looked like. The thought nagged at you, stirring up an unease that clung to the edges of your thoughts like cobwebs.

The strangeness of it all—the place, the person, the situation—was unnerving, and yet, there was a small part of you that whispered it was too late to turn back now. The journey had been long and unforgiving, and there was no guarantee of shelter if you left.

Your body, however, had little patience for your anxious mind. The weight of the day bore down on you, and your fatigue eventually overpowered your worries. You stretched out on the bed, its softness wrapping around you like a cocoon. As your eyes fluttered closed, the strangeness of the house loomed over you, lingering in your thoughts like a shadow.

But soon, the stillness of sleep claimed you and the unsettling mysteries of your new life were left to haunt the night.

⸺

You awoke just as the first rays of dawn slipped through the cracks in the heavy curtains, casting faint golden streaks across the room. To your surprise, you felt well-rested, the ache of yesterday’s journey soothed by the quiet stillness of the night. The house, with all its looming shadows and unsettling whispers, had not disturbed your sleep.

Sitting up slowly, you stretched your arms overhead, feeling the stiffness melt from your shoulders. A yawn escaped your lips as you rubbed the lingering drowsiness from your eyes, the warmth of the quilt still clinging to your skin. For a brief moment, the morning felt almost normal—peaceful, even.

But as your feet touched the cold floor, that fleeting comfort dissolved. The air in the room was still and heavy as if the house itself had been holding its breath while you slept. You couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been watching, waiting.

Shaking off the thought, you steeled yourself for the day ahead. Whatever the peculiarities of this house or its master, you had work to do.

In the cold kitchen, you set the tea kettle over the fire, the soft crackle of the flames breaking the otherwise oppressive silence. As you watched the water begin to simmer, a thought crept into your mind: should you prepare a cup for the Count? It seemed polite, perhaps even expected, but then you remembered his firm instruction not to wake him.

Maybe he simply valued his solitude—or his sleep. You could understand that; mornings were a sanctuary for some. Still, the uncertainty of your role gnawed at you. What kind of man didn’t even outline what he wanted from his housekeeper? You glanced at the kettle again, steam curling lazily toward the ceiling.

You reassured yourself that time would bring clarity. By nightfall, surely, you would understand his routine and expectations. For now, you took comfort in the steady rhythm of small tasks, grounding yourself in the familiar while the unfamiliar loomed just beyond your reach.

As you moved around the kitchen, its grandeur dulled by the thick coat of dust, the scale of your work became painfully clear. The counters, once polished to a gleaming finish, were now layered with grime. A tower of mismatched dishes teetered precariously in the sink, their surfaces streaked with stains that told of long-neglected meals. The pantry was nearly bare—just a few stale loaves of bread, an old jar of jam, and some long-forgotten tins tucked into the corners.

You sighed, shaking your head as you rummaged through the cabinets. At least there were some spare biscuits, and with the tea brewing steadily, you’d make do for now. A trip to town for supplies seemed inevitable, though the thought of braving the peculiar townsfolk again didn’t thrill you.

After nibbling on the dry biscuits and sipping the hot tea, you wandered through the halls, taking in your new surroundings. Even as the sun’s rays peeked over the horizon, the house remained shrouded in shadows. The wooden panels nailed over the windows blocked most of the light, forcing you to rely on the flickering glow of the few lit candles. The air felt thick and heavy, the faint scent of mildew lingering in the corners.

The living room, if you could call it that, was a chaos of clutter. Melted candle wax had pooled and hardened on the floorboards, books lay scattered across the furniture, and a once-elegant rug was curled at the edges, its patterns obscured by dust. A broken clock leaned precariously against a wall, its glass face cracked and the hands forever frozen in time.

You crouched down to scrape some of the hardened wax from the floor, the task already feeling endless. A sigh escaped your lips. Yes, there was much work to be done—more than you had expected.

But as daunting as it seemed, you reminded yourself of the warmth and security that this place, for all its strangeness, provided. Rolling up your sleeves, you resolved to tackle the disarray piece by piece, determined to bring some semblance of order to the house. Whatever secrets this place held, at least you’d have the satisfaction of a clean floor beneath your feet.

⸺

The afternoon had slipped away, and your work felt far from done. The kitchen and dining room had consumed the better part of the day, leaving your back aching and your hands stiff. The thought of tackling the grand living room and foyer loomed over you like a heavy cloud. You’d been busy with the senseless tasks of cleaning and reorganizing, but there were still errands to run. The idea of facing more work in the house was enough to make you pause. 

You slipped into your warm coat, wrapped a scarf tightly around your head, and stood at the door, pausing for a moment. You glanced up the staircase, half-expecting to see a glimpse of your master. But there was only silence. No movement, no sign of him. Perhaps he was still asleep. 

With a loud sigh, you grabbed your purse and stepped out into the chilly air, the weight of the day still heavy on your shoulders. The path down to town felt long, but it was a welcome distraction from the house and the work that awaited you when you returned.

The journey down the hill felt longer today, your never-ending thoughts slowing your steps. You passed the same familiar buildings, the same curious eyes peering at you from behind the small shops and homes, but today, there was a different sort of tension in the air. You knew the townsfolk still whispered behind your back, their words like echoes of a story you couldn’t quite grasp. You tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the task at hand: groceries. Yet, their comments continued to swirl in your mind.

“Don’t meet her eyes, she carries his curse within her,” one of the shopkeepers muttered under her breath to a customer as you walked past. You caught only fragments of their conversation, but the few words you did hear made you shudder in place. 

Their whispers were distinct—filled with warnings, judgments, and fear. It was as if the townspeople saw you as a shadow of the Count, carrying with you a dark energy that left them uneasy in your presence. Their words wrapped around you like a curse, as though you, too, were tainted by something malevolent. They spoke of you as if you were a mirror of the Count’s darkness, forcing them to avert their eyes and steer clear of your path altogether.

You pushed yourself forward, determined to finish your task. The items you needed weren’t difficult to gather, but the weight of their gaze made everything feel heavier. You hurried, and by the time you reached the shop’s counter, you realized you had forgotten a few things, the very basics that had slipped from your mind in the rush of the day.

With a sigh, you made your way back to the estate, the basket of groceries now even more cumbersome. The long hill back up to the house made your legs ache, but it wasn’t just your body that felt worn—your mind too felt numb, with feelings of anxiety and uncertainty making it impossible to think about what to do for dinner. 

When you returned, the sun was already making its way down, and the house was as silent as before. You set the groceries down in the kitchen, eyes wandering over the untouched spaces, the dust that still lingered.

You quickly got to work, preparing a simple dinner for yourself and your master. The faint smell of burning wood and the steady crackle of the fire filled the air, offering you little comfort as you set the table for one. The clink of the dishes was the loudest sound in the room, your own heartbeat keeping time with each dish you placed.

As you adjusted the final details on the table, you heard the soft creak of the door. The flames flickered unexpectedly, casting dancing shadows across the room. A chill swept over you, settling in the pit of your stomach as the temperature seemed to drop with his arrival.

You turned, and there he stood, filling the doorway with a presence so striking it almost stole your breath. His gaze locked onto you, and the cold that had crept in from the draft seemed to melt away, replaced by something much warmer—an almost familiar tension that pulled at your chest, making it harder to breathe.

He wasn’t what you had expected. His appearance was nothing like the monster the townspeople had whispered about. There were no signs of age or decay, only ethereal beauty—as if he was sculpted by some divine hand. His skin was pale, smooth like porcelain, with a soft glow that seemed to catch the dim light from the candles. His dark, glossy eyes were like deep pools, glinting with a mystery that held your gaze far longer than you intended. His perfectly sculpted cheekbones added to the sharpness of his face, giving him a sense of quiet nobility, yet there was something undeniably otherworldly about him.

He lingered at the doorway for a moment, his eyes scanning the room before settling on you. His expression was unreadable, but something flickered in his eyes—shock, maybe, as though he hadn’t expected you to be there. His eyes narrowed slightly, studying you, and the weight of his gaze made your shoulders tense. Your fingers found the hem of your apron, fidgeting as you tried not to squirm under his scrutiny.

Then, almost imperceptibly, he seemed to catch himself. His posture straightened, and his expression softened, the sharpness of his gaze retreating behind a veil of composure, as though he’d realized he might have given too much of himself away.

Your heart pounded as you thought of what to say. Gathering your courage, you managed a small, polite smile. "Good evening, sir," you began, your voice trembling slightly. "I—I prepared some soup and fresh bread. I thought it might be to your liking."

He approached you slowly, each measured step echoing in the room, the sound of his heels against the wooden floor making your chest tighten with anticipation. As he drew nearer, the air seemed to shift, heavier with every step. Just as he reached your side, he stopped abruptly, his gaze dropping to the dinner you had so carefully prepared.

"Thank you," he said, his voice smooth and velvety, resonating like a soft hum that seemed to linger in the stillness. There was a pause before his eyes flicked back to you, and his next words came softly but firmly. "What is your name?"

The weight of his presence pressed against you, and your nerves heightened as you whispered, “Y/N, sir…” You kept your voice low, unsure whether to meet his gaze or keep your eyes lowered. The tension prickled at the back of your neck, your hands clasping tightly before you.

He didn’t sit immediately but instead lingered at the head of the table, his long fingers idly tracing the wood of the chair. When he finally spoke, his voice was commanding yet smooth, every word material.

“I apologize for meeting you so late,” he began, his dark eyes briefly glancing at you before settling on the untouched bowl before him. “I work well into the night and, as such, must sleep during the day.” His tone carried authority, leaving no room for argument.

He picked up the spoon, stirring the soup languidly, the movement unnervingly slow. “You’ve done well so far,” he remarked, the faintest trace of approval in his words. “The dining room is spotless. It has been far too long since I dined in here. My work consumes my time, leaving my poor estate neglected.” He paused, his gaze sharpening as it flicked back to you. “Cleanliness is paramount. My work demands focus, and I will not tolerate distractions. I trust you will uphold these expectations.”

“Yes, sir,” you replied quickly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I hope to please you and exceed your standards.”

His jaw tightened subtly, and for a moment, you worried you had misspoken. But he continued, his tone precise. “As I said, I cannot tolerate distractions. You are not to enter my workspace or my chambers. The entire upstairs is off-limits. There are valuables there that require privacy and care.” He hesitated briefly, his mouth parted slightly as he struggled to find the right words. “There is little up there that requires your attention.”

The restriction struck you as strange, but you nodded. “Understood, sir.”

“Your duties,” he continued, his tone crisp, “include daily cleaning, maintaining the estate grounds, and running errands in town as needed. For groceries and supplies, bring back receipts, and I will reimburse you with your pay.” He paused, his voice growing softer but no less firm. “There are also a few rules you must follow.”

“Yes, sir?” You straightened slightly, bracing yourself.

“Firstly,” he said, leaning forward slightly, “I am not to be disturbed during the day. My rest is crucial, and interruptions will not be tolerated unless it is a matter of life or death.”

“Yes, sir,” you said quickly, nodding.

“Second…” He cleared his throat, “Do not touch the wooden planks. The windows are boarded up due to a previous mishap, and unfortunately, there aren’t many architects nearby to fix it.”

“I won’t, sir.”

“And finally,” his voice dropped lower, carrying an ominous edge, “do not venture outside after sunset. The forest is dangerous—predators prowl in the dark. You would do well to heed my warning.”

A chill coursed through you at the severity of his words, the weight of his warning making it clear he meant every syllable. “I understand,” you murmured.

He gestured toward the table before finally lowering himself into the chair. “You’ve done well today,” he said, adjusting the napkin in his lap with methodical care. “I trust you’ll continue to prove yourself capable.”

“Thank you, sir,” you replied, your voice steady despite the unease curling in your chest.

He picked up the spoon again, swirling the soup without taking a bite. The hesitation made you anxious—had you made the wrong choice of meal? Your mind raced back to the town, chastising yourself for forgetting to stop at the butcher. You watched as the vegetables spun lazily in the broth, but his expression remained impassive.

“That will be all for tonight,” he said abruptly, his tone cool. He set the spoon down, folding his hands over the edge of the table. “You may take your dinner to your quarters.”

“Goodnight, sir.” You nodded, retreating with careful steps, the weight of his presence lingering long after you exited the room.

⸺

You eased your tired body onto the mattress, but sleep eluded you. The encounter with the Count played over and over in your mind, every word, every glance dissected in the stillness of your room. There was something peculiar about him—his aloofness, the subtle weight in his voice, the way he seemed to measure his every movement.

What exactly did he do? He hadn’t mentioned it, though whatever it was must be lucrative, given the grandeur of the estate. Yet, that same home felt hollow, like a gilded cage rather than a place of comfort.

Your thoughts wandered to his appearance—so striking, so unexpected. He was undeniably beautiful. How could someone so captivating hide away in such a bleak and isolated castle, so far removed from the rest of the world? And why was someone who seemed so young living alone in such a vast and lonely estate? Where was his family?

And then there was that look he gave you—just for a fleeting moment, but enough to unsettle you. It was as though he was disappointed upon seeing you, his dark eyes carrying a strange mixture of pain and defeat. You couldn’t name it precisely, but it lingered in your mind, an odd tension you couldn’t shake.

Everything about him was odd—the house, his demeanor, his rules. And yet, there was something magnetic about him that kept your thoughts tethered to him, even as your body begged for rest. It would be no surprise if you dreamed of him too. His image lingered in your mind like a shadow cast by moonlight—too vivid to ignore, too enigmatic to understand. You closed your eyes, trying to banish the thoughts, but his face remained, carved into the fabric of your imagination as you fell deeper into sleep. 

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for taglist request or removal, please send me an ask

act II: the count ➜

[sleepynoons]

blade x afab!f!reader, nsfw, 18+, not beta read

cw: unprotected sex, emotional sex, handjob, half-assed pussy job (idet it counts), riding in reverse cowgirl, descriptions of injuries

notes: angst, slight comfort. wrote this on my period, and i couldn't stand being the only one in intense pain, so i took this as an excuse to do more research on mara and how blade suffers from it. also stellaron hunter!reader lol

YOU SEE the bandages before you see him. after two weeks of being unable to see each other, you’ve finally been given the green light by kafka to visit blade. eyes wide, you can’t hide your surprise as you examine the fresh cracks and wounds scoring blade’s body, obvious even when he’s veiled by the shadows cast by his door. the dressings almost seem useless, really – a bandage over a bullet wound, almost quite literally. the effects of mara on short-lived species are truly terrifying, the destructive aftermath laid out right in front of you as you grimace when you see a wound slowly open before sealing itself with a muted golden light. he steps back to let you into his room, and you usher him to his bed. 

as you tie up some of the loose ends of the bandages, you murmur, “kafka said it was worse than normal.” blade only stares ahead at something you can’t see.

it’s always been this way. when blade doesn’t want to tell you something, he opts for silence. the two of you are so close yet so far, able to relish in the intimacy of each other’s bodies but never willing to exchange words that reveal what’s underneath. he will even go as far as to openly show you his scars and injuries, but he will never share with you the tales and stories of battles that caused them – constellations on his figure that will remain forever unnamed and disowned. 

kafka had given you a brief, watered-down explanation of blade’s condition when you first joined the stellaron hunters. blade’s pain is predominantly in the psyche, and the mara forces him into an uncontrollable state that he has to be watched over and subdued by kafka. you know it’s all for naught as you wipe his arms and torso with a warm, wet towel. you can only provide brief moments of relief as you pat cool compresses over the cuts you just cleaned.

there’s something you’ve noticed about blade’s injuries. because you’ve never seen blade when he’s mara-struck, you can only presume that he receives his injuries directly or as a result of his transformation. regardless, the cuts are irregular. they look more like deep gashes from sharp fingernails and a sword. 

like clockwork, you finish patching blade up, and after putting all of the medical supplies away, find your place on his lap. blade finally looks at you, gaze piercing through you, as you sit down. his hands come to rest on the backs of your thighs, and without a word, leans forward to kiss you on the eyes. his gestures are delicate, as gentle as he can muster, and you know he’s trying to placate your worry. you return your affections by patting his chest, a signal for him to lie down.

he listens, eyes still watching you closely, hawk-like attention on your every move. he’s waiting, curious as to what you plan on doing today.

you begin. you first bend over, littering small kisses across his collarbones and chest. if blade’s in any pain, he makes no indication of it. you make your way up, leaving more kisses around his neck and the shell of his right ear, before hovering over his face. when this arrangement started, you remember being incredibly nervous, afraid he would judge and reject your advances. you’re more practiced now, of course, and without hesitation, lick at his lips. blade seems to ease up a little and responds by tilting his head in an effort to deepen the kiss and presses your body closer to his. it stays like this for a few minutes. the two of you have your eyes closed and are simply enjoying each other’s warmth.

you only pull away because you need to breathe. regardless, you’re growing eager, and you’re sure he is, too. you get up to remove your jacket and sleep shorts, but when blade reaches to undo his pants, you stop him.

“let me,” you whisper. “i’ll handle all of it.” now only in a loose t-shirt and panties, you sit back down on blade, except you’re faced away from him. you make quick work of his pants and peel back his briefs, revealing his half-hard cock that is stirring at the sudden touch of the cool air.

you always like to take your time with blade after going without him for so long. you spit into your hand and coat it generously. blade hisses when he feels your hand make contact with his cock. up and down, your rub your palm from his tip to his balls and back again. his cock gets harder and hotter under your touch, and the veins that climb up his cock become more pronounced. what you would do to take him in your mouth then and there, but you have to resist – this isn’t about you. when blade’s cock stands fully at attention, you wrap your hand around it and quicken your pace. you flick your fist sharply and tease his slit with your thumb between intervals.

behind you, blade pants and groans. you’re experienced in pleasuring the man, and you know when something is too much or too little for him. right now, you know you’re doing just right. as he gets louder, his cock leaks more pre-cum, and the desperate sight sends a throb straight to your core. finally, with a few more tugs of your hand, blade cums, cursing as he ejaculates into your hands with some of his cum splattering onto your forearm. you help him in coming down from his high, and you glance behind you.

with one arm thrown over his eyes and the other gripping onto the blanket, he’s breathing deep, ragged breaths. he already looks spent.

you ask, “should we stop here?”

harsher than he intended, blade commands, “keep going.” his voice is rough with exhaustion, but it’s still deep and husky, and his demand only edges you further along. you smile at the praise and nod in understanding, not that he’d see.

you slide your panties to the side. you’re already so wet, slick sticking and spreading along your inner thighs and pussy. blade’s already hard again, and you can only admire his stamina. as a brief intermission, you pick up his cock and begin to rub his tip along your folds. his cock is so hot, comforting against your own heat, and you sigh whenever his tip catches onto your clit. 

but it’s not enough. with every slip of cock, your yearning accelerates until it becomes overwhelming. when you have no more patience, with shaky legs, you sink down onto him. when the head of his cock pops past the entrance of your hole, you moan in relief and satisfaction. not even halfway in, and blade is already making you see stars.

blade is also having a very difficult time. he’s already delirious from all of the pain he had to endure for the past few weeks, yet he fell prey to his desires and is now suffering at the sensation of your soft, tight walls swallowing and trapping him in. it really is too much. in this position, he can admire the way the fat of your ass ripples whenever you move and your back arches beautifully, accentuating the curves of your hips and waist. at the very least, he’s grateful that he can’t see your face, or else he’d lose it at the sight of your aroused expressions. he can just imagine your lips parting, tongue lolling out, eyes crossing.

you feel so full when he’s fully in you that you have to sit still for a second. then, you slowly begin to bounce, shallow lifts of your hip that only come up an inch or so before you take him in completely again. it’s the perfect amount of pressure inside you. in fact, everything about blade seems to fit you well, and you have to ignore the thought of never fully having him.

if you had to describe blade, a few words come into mind: powerful, spiteful, lost. and you can feel these traits of his bleed into the present moment. he’s so tired and angry, frustrated that he has to live on in the universe, but because he has no choice, he will live on with steadfast and stubborn courage. you can only moan and drool with every heavy kiss of his cock against that gummy spot inside you. at some point, his hands have found their way to your waist, and his hands are gripping onto you so tightly that they’re bound to leave bruises. you can feel – practically taste – his emotions, and all you can do is just take it. it’s because you can’t do anything else that you’re content with just taking it. 

you’re sobbing, crying out from pleasure and distress. with one last push, you get up so that only blade’s tip is inside before dropping back down in a manner so rushed and sharp that you’re both cumming from it. he holds onto you and you onto his hands as you both climax.

you may never be able to help him with the mara or be fully his, but you know that, in this moment, no one in any galaxy or universe can make him experience this pleasure and release the way you can. and for now, you let yourself take pride and satisfaction with that. for now, that’s more than enough.

[rex3o]

The Eternal Enigma

A/N: The Eternal Enigma is deeply inspired by the movie of La Belle et la Bête which I watched recently so I put two and two together and yh here we go. Also this story does NOT follow the jujutsu kaisen plot. But I hope u lot enjoy it as much as I do as I post more out lol.

Summary: In a cursed kingdom ruled by the fearsome Ryomen Sukuna, a former general turned demon king, Y/n—a noblewoman whose family fell victim to Sukuna’s wrath—is delivered to his ominous fortress. Expecting to be treated harshly, Y/n is instead met with Sukuna’s cold indifference and an outrageous demand: she must fall in love with him. When Y/n protests, Sukuna’s fury erupts, and he declares her forbidden from leaving his domain. As Sukuna storms out, Y/n is left to navigate the treacherous path of her new, dark reality.

Ryomen Sukuna X Reader

>> chp 2 / chp3

In the waning light of dusk, the land lay cloaked in a somber silence, broken only by the mournful whispers of the wind through twisted, barren trees. Once a flourishing realm of beauty and grace, the landscape now bore the scars of darkness—a kingdom lost to the curse of an ancient power.

At the heart of this cursed domain stood a fortress of eerie majesty, its blackened spires reaching toward the heavens like the gnarled fingers of a dark deity. This was the domain of the Eternal Enigma—a being whose name was whispered in fear and awe: Ryomen Sukuna. His fortress, a towering edifice of obsidian and bone, loomed over the land, casting long shadows that seemed to swallow the light itself.

The tale of Sukuna’s darkness began long before his rise to power. Born into a world already steeped in suffering, Sukuna resided in the womb of his starving mother alongside his twin. As the days of deprivation wore on, the infant Sukuna, driven by a primal instinct for survival, consumed his sibling. Even then, his existence was marked by a monstrous hunger.

As he grew, Sukuna’s insatiable drive for dominance and power led him to become a general of unmatched bravery. His prowess on the battlefield earned him great acclaim, yet it was his ambition that ultimately led him astray. Driven by a desire for eternal glory, Sukuna made a fateful pact with forces beyond mortal comprehension. In his quest for immortality, he sacrificed not only his humanity but the very soul of his kingdom, sealing his fate in a curse that bound him to a grotesque and eternal imprisonment.

Now, his form was a grotesque mockery of the noble warrior he once was: the size of a grizzly beast, with four monstrous clawed arms and four eyes glowing red with a cold, malevolent light that reflected the torment of his eternal punishment.

The people of the land spoke of him in hushed tones, recounting tales of his cruelty and the legion of cursed spirits and demons he commanded. The once-vibrant courts of the kingdom had become hollow echoes of their former splendor, their power and beauty overshadowed by the darkness that reigned supreme. Those who dared to speak of Sukuna’s name faced his wrath, for the curse that bound him extended to all who crossed his path.

On a fateful night, as the moon hung heavy in the sky, a young woman was delivered to the fortress gates. Y/n, a noblewoman of grace and beauty, arrived with a heart full of trepidation and hope. Her family, once powerful and respected, had been destroyed in a failed attempt to defy Sukuna’s dominion. Now, she was a mere pawn in a game she scarcely understood—a gift offered to the overlord in a desperate bid to placate his anger and prevent further bloodshed.

The carriage rocked as it trundled along the forest path, its wheels grinding against the overgrown roots of ancient trees. Y/n sat in silence, her pale hands folded neatly in her lap, her heart heavy with the weight of her fate. Beyond the veil covering her face, she looked upon the thick mist outside, Sukuna's fortress looming—a twisted silhouette against the blood-red sky. Her thoughts were abruptly cut short.

"They say no one returns from there," whispered the old servant who sat beside her, his voice quivering. "Once you enter the Demon King's domain, you are lost."

Y/n stared ahead, her face expressionless, though her heart pounded with fear. She had heard the rumors—stories of a man turned into a beast, cursed by the gods to rule over cursed spirits and demons. Sukuna's cruelty was legendary, but no one could explain why he had demanded her as a tribute.

The gates of the fortress creaked open, and a cold wind swept through the air as the carriage crossed into Sukuna’s domain. The once-proud noblewoman took a deep breath, knowing that her life would never be the same again.

As the carriage came to a halt, and she stepped out into the foreboding realm. The cold air bit at her skin, and the eerie silence of the fortress seemed to swallow her every step. The gates behind her loomed after her, ancient and imposing, their iron bars etched with dark symbols that whispered of forgotten sorcery.

Y/n’s eyes met those of the gatekeeper, who regarded her with a mixture of pity and apprehension. “Welcome, my lady,” he intoned, his voice trembling with the weight of unspoken fears. “May the gods have mercy on you.”

The doors creaked open, and a footman greeted Y/n as she stepped into the darkness beyond, her old servant closely following behind. Her heart pounded with a blend of fear and curiosity. She had heard the tales of the cursed king—of the monstrous being who ruled with an iron fist and a heart of darkness. But what lay beyond the shadows of his fortress remained a mystery, one she was now bound to unravel.

The footman led her through the foreboding halls of the fortress, her senses overwhelmed by the oppressive gloom that pervaded every corner. The walls seemed to whisper secrets long forgotten, and the flickering torchlight cast eerie shadows that danced like specters in the dark. The halls were deathly quiet, with servants passing in complete silence as they moved through their tasks.

In the dim glow of a grand chamber, Sukuna awaited her. His form, though majestic in its own right, was a stark contrast to the splendor of the once-great fortress. He sat on his dark and imposing throne, his eyes glowing with an otherworldly light that seemed to pierce through the very fabric of reality. His presence was both mesmerizing and terrifying, a paradox of beauty and horror.

As the footman and Y/n approached, her heart raced with a mixture of dread and anticipation. The Eternal Enigma, the cursed king, awaited her presence, and with it, the unfolding of a tale that would intertwine their fates in ways neither could have imagined.

As Y/n entered the grand chamber, her eyes were immediately drawn to the imposing figure seated on the dark throne. Sukuna’s presence was both mesmerizing and terrifying. The throne room was dimly lit by flickering torches that cast eerie shadows on the walls, making the scene even more surreal.

Sukuna looked down upon Y/n with an indifferent gaze, his four red eyes glowing like smoldering embers. Despite his fearsome appearance, he seemed almost disinterested in her arrival. He gestured lazily for her to come closer, his monstrous form shifting slightly as he leaned back against his throne.

Y/n approached cautiously, her heart pounding with a mix of apprehension and curiosity. She had braced herself for harsh treatment or some form of ritualistic cruelty, but Sukuna’s demeanor was unexpectedly nonchalant. He could hear her heart racing and noticed her trembling form, almost chuckling at her fear. Yet, for Y/n, the lack of immediate threats or displays of malevolence only heightened her unease.

"Well, you’re here," Sukuna said, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that filled the chamber. “You remember me, yes? Your family was obedient, but your useless father had to mess things up. Such a pity he’s dead.” Sukuna smirked, his gaze disdainful as he looked down at her. To him, her father was a mere annoyance, a fly in his grand plans. “To shorten this meeting, brat—you’re staying here, in my palace.” His attention wandered, as if Y/n were a trivial matter.

Y/n blinked, trying to process his words. “You insult my dead father and then order me to stay? As a prisoner, you mean?”

Sukuna replied with a sneer, “And what will you do about it? You’re as useless as him. Whatever you do can’t surpass me, so I suggest you listen and comply.” He grinned evilly. “Prisoner? If that’s how you want to see yourself, fine. But for me, you are to be my future wife.”

Y/n stared at him, her mouth slightly agape. “You sick, cruel man… You can’t expect me to fall in love with you. You have loyal consorts who would force their daughters to kneel and beg to marry you. What you ask of me is insane!”

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed, his patience wearing thin. The casual indifference that had marked his demeanor vanished, replaced by a storm of anger. His massive form tensed, and with a violent motion, he flipped his throne, sending it crashing to the ground with a thunderous roar. The force of his rage shook the entire chamber, and the walls trembled under the impact.

“You dare to defy me?” Sukuna bellowed, his voice echoing through the chamber. He stormed over to her, his build overshadowing her as he gripped her face with his hand. His face, marked with deep black ink-like scars, was a terrifying visage of fury. His four demonic eyes burned into her face as he spoke, “You are forbidden from leaving my domain! You will stay here until you fulfill your obligation!” He shoved her away, causing her to fall onto the floor. Her face was scratched by the sharp ends of his nails, blood trickling down her skin.

The entire fortress reverberated with Sukuna’s fury as he stormed out of the grand chamber, his footsteps causing the ground to rumble. The echoes of his anger reverberated through the halls, shaking the very foundations of the once-majestic fortress.

Y/n lays there, stunned by the sheer force of Sukuna’s wrath. The reality of her situation crashed down on her like a wave. She had been thrust into a world of darkness and cruelty, with a cursed king who demanded the impossible.

As the echoes of Sukuna’s fury faded, Y/n was left in the cold silence of the chamber, her mind racing with fear, confusion, and a burgeoning sense of helplessness. The task before her seemed daunting and absurd, but she knew she had no choice but to navigate the treacherous path that lay ahead.

A/N: YOOOO hope u liked it lol I'll make another part soon shorly after this.

[batmanlovesnirvana]

𝟎𝟎 | 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧.

masterlist

pairing : Bruce Wayne x fem!oc

words : 704

A/N : I just realized I never posted the prologue of this fic here, so here it is! It's short, but I hope you enjoy it.

THE WIND whispered through the ancient birch trees, their silver leaves trembling under the moon's cold light.

Somewhere in the distance, the low hum of the river echoed through the quiet night, its waters winding through time, carrying with them the weight of forgotten secrets. 

The past lingered here, as if the very air held the memories of things long buried, waiting for the right moment to surface.

In the heart of the wilderness stood a grand estate, its towering walls once the symbol of an empire that stretched far and wide. Now, it was a ghost of its former self, cloaked in ivy and shadow, its halls echoing with the footsteps of those who were no longer there. 

In one room, untouched by time, stood a portrait—an image of a family whose eyes seemed to follow you, their painted smiles belying the tragedy that had struck them down. It was said that their bloodline was cursed, marked by betrayal and loss, a curse that had seeped into the bones of the world itself.

But far beyond this place, through distant lands and war-torn fields, another story of sorrow lingered in the wind. A whisper of old wounds, of faces long forgotten, whose cries for justice were swallowed by time. The ghosts of the fallen—of families ripped apart, of innocent lives extinguished too soon—clung to the air, their presence felt but never seen. Their grief resonated with that of the cursed bloodline, intertwining across the centuries, as if the weight of such loss could never truly fade, no matter how deep it was buried.

Whispers of these tragedies drifted from one generation to the next, growing darker with each retelling. It was not simply the weight of power that had crushed them, but something far older, something deeper. Some said it began with a promise made in the dead of winter, others claimed it was vengeance for a forgotten sin. What was certain, however, was that those who bore the name were destined to suffer, doomed to live in the shadow of their ancestors' fate.

Maryam had always felt it—an invisible tether pulling her toward the unknown, a weight she couldn't name. She never believed in the stories whispered in her childhood, tales of a doomed family and their cursed legacy. But the dreams told her otherwise.

They came in relentless waves, visions of a life not her own: a young girl with haunted eyes, a family caught in peril, the sharp crack of gunfire splitting the air. Then, the flash of knives—a brutal end, their souls wrenched from the world in violence. Faces blurred, voices turned to echoes, but the feeling of impending doom was always the same, lingering in the silence after she awoke. 

And within those nightmares, there were others—shadowy figures, silent witnesses to another tragedy, a pain that felt strangely familiar, as though their suffering mirrored her own.

In every dream, the shadows reached for her, pulling her into their depths, as if the past itself was clawing its way through the veil of time, demanding to be remembered.

She didn't know why the dreams haunted her, or why the image of that forgotten family seemed so familiar, as if she had known them once—long before her own life had begun. But as the days passed, the weight of it pressed heavier on her, drawing her closer to a truth she could no longer ignore. There was a secret buried in the past, tangled in the history of a once-great lineage, and somehow, she was tied to it.

The answers lay in the ruins of a forgotten dynasty, in the echoes of a curse that refused to be silenced. 

Maryam didn't yet understand her place in the unraveling, but she would soon learn that the past had a way of catching up to those who tried to escape it.

And in the stillness of the night, as the wind carried the murmurs of the forgotten, she felt it—the weight of something timeless stirring, drawing nearer, as if the very air hummed with fate's unyielding thread. 

Some destinies, she would learn, are woven too deep to be unraveled, etched in shadow and blood.

Chapter one | echoes of the past

[ashbeneviento]

I dreamed of you amid the flowers

A short story. Fem reader x Donna Beneviento, warnings: none. Fluff.

You(reader) have been having a reoccurring dream of the mysterious Lady Beneviento. You decide to clear your head in search for answers. Was she all just a dream?

(No beta reader/sorry for any grammatical mistakes. First fic post, thanks for reading!)

Based on the song “Daydream” by: The Wallace Collection. It’s a beautiful song and reminds me of Donna 🖤

Sunlight cascaded over the field in the early hours of the morning as you walked.

You had to clear your head, but last nights dream was still fresh behind your eyes and clouded your vision with each step into damp dirt.

It was the same dream you had for a couple of years now, with each one giving you more bits and pieces to the story it told.

A meadow of bright yellow flowers circled around you smelling so sweet and inviting. Irresistible to stray from. Not like you wanted to, however, because you knew you were waiting on her.

A mysterious woman in all black, her face hidden behind a veil emerges from the shadows of the trees like a ghost. And maybe she was.

She never spoke to you in these dreams. It didn’t matter, you understood her just fine as you sat together in that circle of flowers.

Sometimes she would bring tea and you would drink it, and some mornings you’d wake to still taste it on your lips.

But the dream always ended the same way.

The phantom like woman would trace her slender fingers across her veil and gently pull it to the side revealing a manniquins head.

And then you’d wake.

Last night was different however. You could see her single eye, full dark eyelashes with an iris as black as the clothes she wore.

And she smiled at you.

Your heart beats faster at the image, legs still carrying you away from your field and into the tree line.

You had no idea where you were going, all you knew was that you needed answers.

Why were you having these dreams?

Why was it always the same woman?

Who was this woman?

Was she even real, could you have passed her by one day in the village and just forgot?

You huff and rub your palms into your temples in frustration.

“Maybe I’m just crazy…” you mumble under your breath.

The sun was shining in full now through the tops of the trees above you. You were admiring the simple beauty of nature when your foot hooks under a large vine and causes you to land flat into the dirt with a thud.

Groaning at the pain you inspect yourself and find nothing broken, save for the mud caked into your clothes.

And that’s when you find yourself in a circle of bright yellow flowers.

“No way…” you whisper in awe, standing up to walk around them and smell their sweet scent.

“You’re here” a raspy feminine voice emerges from the trees, startling you as you whip your head around for its person.

It’s her. The phantom from your dreams.

Still as stone you nod, hands trembling at your sides as she walked closer.

“D-do we know each other?” You stutter and she stops walking.

It’s silent for a few moments before she nods.

“Somewhat” a short reply from behind the veil.

You take a deep breath and sit back down in the flowers, unsure of what to make of her answer.

“I’ve been dreaming of you. But I’m sure you are aware of that seeing that you came. I don’t.. I don’t understand” you say nervously, hands wringing together in your lap as she takes a seat on the ground across from you.

Pale slender fingers brush against the flowers with a content hum, plucking one to play with it.

“I’ve been dreaming of you, too”

She says in a whisper, looking down at you. You couldn’t see her face but you could feel her eyes through the dark fabric.

“I’ve been waiting on you to come.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and decide this probably wasn’t the best idea. The village ran rampant with all types of creatures, some of which most would only assume as fairy tales. Who’s to say she wasn’t one of them?

As if she read your mind, a gentle hand lays on top of yours with a sigh.

“I won’t hurt you. I am.. not like my siblings”

Her voice sounds like it hasn’t been used in ages as she speaks, but it comforted you just as much as it scared you. What did she mean by her siblings?

“You’re from the village. I assume you are aware of the Four Lords..” she whispers, cocking her head to the side in question.

You nod as the realization hits you, a short gasp coming from your mouth.

Most were aware of Lady Dimitrescu and Lord Heisenberg. You even knew of Lord Moarou as your uncle went to work for him once.

Once.

And that only left one other Lord.

“Lady Beneviento..” You whisper, hands shaking underneath hers.

She nods slowly and pats your hand, leaning back as she continued to play with the flower.

You contemplate the seriousness of your situation with the mysterious Lady as she sits in silence. Was she lying? If she possessed Mother Miranda’s dark gifts then she couldn’t be trusted.

“You think too loud, Tesoro.” She hums, placing the plucked flower back on the ground.

“Prehaps you should stay in your own head, then”

You snap back, irritated by the fact that she could indeed read your mind.

A small laugh escapes her lips, placing her cold hand on your cheek.

You stare deeply into her veil, hoping for a glimpse of what she might look like. Wondering if her smile was as beautiful as it was in your dreams.

“I’m not dreaming.. am I?” You whisper. She shakes her head no.

“Not anymore, ragazza dolce. You’re wide awake..and you’re finally mine” she says softly, pulling her veil to the side. That pool of black stares deeply into your eyes as she leans to kiss you.

With both of your hearts beating fast, you sit in that field of flowers for hours and think to yourself;

How could this ever feel anything less than a dream come true?

And yes…

Her smile was more beautiful than you imagined.

[snoutbleed]

Telling a story takes guts.

Forensic photographer Sören Heinrich can’t ignore the nausea bubbling in his throat when documenting someone's darkest day. He loses sleep over the fates he captures but is drawn to the purpose vested in his grisly role. When blood-slicked prints become Sören's next subject, he finds a message that blurs the line between his personal and professional life.

"This is where I’ve been. Don’t follow."

Unable to fathom his long-lost brother’s crimson handwriting, Sören descends into the criminal underworld for answers. The young boar's inner demons guide him toward a morbid self-reckoning.

Direktion 2 has their work cut out for them.

Crime is on the rise in post-reunification Berlin. Among the cases, the Polizeidirektorate in the city's westernmost boroughs is baffled by freak murders at the hands of denizens without motive.

In the shadow of the Berlin Wall, the crime wave takes a supernatural twist behind the lock of a post-Soviet puzzle.

Camera flashes at the crime scenes reveal gruesome secrets stirring in the shadows.

Unravel the conspiracy in #LONG STORY SHORT.

#The Filing Cabinet -- scan the profiles of those in the know. #Bloodstained Polaroids -- view the images of lives gone astray. #Evidence Board -- learn the details of secrets best kept. #Mystery Signals -- behold the lore of the mind melt. Face the music in the official Long Story Short playlist!

Everyone gathers toward the Abschnitt.

There are several Polizei Berlin stations like the Abschnitt, but everyone tied to this supernatural symphony ends up near this Spandau station particularly.

Sören Heinrich -- ( boar | tag | bio ) The black sheep of the Abschnitt. Sören’s abrasive nature keeps his co-workers at bay, a division widened by their western ideals clashing with his East German upbringing. He distances himself from the station through tight focus on his job, always the first to arrive at a crime scene. Don Jae Hale -- ( elk | tag | bio ) The silver-tongued Kriminalhauptkommissar of the Abschnitt. Hale is quick to dismiss the killings up until his leadership comes under siege by the paranoid public. Umeya Romanova -- ( fox | tag | bio ) The Bundeskriminalamt detective sent to assist with the Abschnitt’s mounting cases. Rumor says Umeya is there for more than the mystery, but her motives veiled by a callous attitude. Marieke Reiss -- ( rabbit | tag | bio ) The star psychology student barely escaped a killing. Now a key witness, Marieke can’t rest easy knowing she could be the next victim, driving her to take matters into her own hands. Reinhardt Müller -- ( donkey | tag | bio ) The Abschnitt’s disgraced ace detective, worn down and living in the grimy corners of Berlin. When crime spikes, Reinhardt tries to relive his “glory days" of detective work. Ukko Heinrich -- ( boar | tag | bio ) The crime lord defends his territory with brutal but firm methods. He's sworn to his found family, the country's political rift making him protective to a fault. Vorwitz Albrecht -- ( bat | tag | bio ) A gardener with good banners but bad morals. Vorwitz's unsavory career choices put him in the Abschnitt, but he finds a way out with Sören.

Entropy knows no bounds.

Stop, look and listen: stories are everywhere. Behold my settings.

Face more madness in #TALES GONE STALE.

LAID TO WASTE -- an abomination stirs in the bayou, its secrets poisoning a township. THE WASTED LIVES -- a group of galactic fugitives embark on a never-ending getaway on a runaway cruiser. (Links need an update. Stay tuned.)

The mind behind the melancholy.

ACHTUNG! This blog is 18+ for gore and suggestive content!

You can call me Dissy (she/her). I'm a writer with stories and ideas always bouncing inside my head, especially this one. Feel free to ask me about myself, my writing, my characters, or anything else. I promise you I can bark up a tree for hours.

I also do Polaroid photography: check out @hogrot for my shots!

I also encourage comments, critique, etc. about this setting. I want to pace myself while writing this, therefore I have all the time I need to refine this where I can. I don't expect this story to come out for a while anyway, especially as I run it through critiques. Hell, this pet project wouldn't have come into fruition thanks to the feedback of some incredible friends.

Shoutout to PYRY for doing character design and art for this setting, as well as giving his ideas and characters for the Heinrich plotline. Go check out his killer art. This story wouldn't exist without him.

Another shoutout to @tsanapi, an incredible artist who drew the art pictured above. Her sense of style is so keen.

And a final thanks to you, the reader, for tuning into the mind melt. This signals wouldn't have picked up without you.

[veiledfox]

In the Realm of Mythos that is Kyuushi's Earth, home to Humans and creatures of Myth and Legend both, there are illnesses and diseases unique to Mythos beings. Some of them are able to affect many different Species, while others are even more specifically only linked to a single species. Some further still are able to affect many species, but has different variations unique to different individual ones where the symptoms are slightly different.

One such is known as Vulpis Inordinatio Magicae, or VIM. An extremely rare illness that can plague members of the Kitsune Species. The cause is unknown, and it's severity and symptoms can vary wildly. It's most commonly believe to be a loss of balance in one's Aether, causing the victim to lose control of their magicks. Though some believe it is an indiscriminate and persistent curse of some kind that simply roams the world before latching onto a victim.

In it's most mundane state, the illness will cause the Kitsune's Magicks to become unreliable. Some of their Magicks will simply not work, while others will ignore the Kitsune's command or act oddly. It will also cause headaches, nausea, and numbness in the limbs. Usually it will take between 1-3 weeks to naturally pass, or an influx of Aether from another being can shorten it's duration, if not outright end it. This form is commonly known as VIM Levis.

At it's worst, the illness will entirely distrupt the Kitsune's Magicks. Rendering them unable to wield any Magicks, let alone command their Aether in any way. Migranes, nausea, vertigo, numbness in limbs, dry and sore throat, nose bleeds, and fainting are symptoms that arise with this form. With the vulnerable state the Kitsune is put into, they become susceptible to many Human illnesses that they normally wouldn't be, which can cause an already bad situation to become even worse. Constant care is needed, as this frorm of the illness must run it's course, and will last for 3-4 weeks. This form of the illness is known as VIM Gravis.

However, in even rarer cases, this illness can inflict an even more severe symptom upon the victim. One in which it takes the natural healing Magicks of a Kitsune and, not only stops it, but inverts it entirely. Thus beginning to degrade the Kitsune's body over time, quite literally killing them slowly. Both the Levis and Gravis forms of this illness can suffer this symptom, and if it does befall the unfortunate Kitsune who suffers from either, it is akin to a death sentence.

In such an unfortunate situation, neither form of the illness will naturally pass, nor will any healing spell aid in any form of recovery. The Kitsune suffering from this will have anywhere from a month to a year to live in most cases, and their life will be filled with constant suffering of their very body slowly breaking itself down. It is usually much kinder to end their life before their own Magicks overwhelm them. It is commonly known as VIM Letum whenever a Kitsune is unfortunate enough to experience this symptom.

Due to the similarity in symptoms that are experienced from the Levis and Gravis forms, it is believed that VIM is a variant of a more wide-spread Mythos illness. Magicae Imperium Inordinatio, an illness that causes a loss in control over one's Aether, which can be suffered by any and all Mythos species. MII -pronounced 'my'-, however, does not include the other symptoms that are present in VIM directly. The disturbance in Aether may lead to headaches or nausea in those who suffer from MII, but it is not directly caused by the illness itself.

Though where the difference lies is that while MII is an understood illness, VIM still remains a mystery. The cause, it's origin, remedies, cure, all unknown. Between how rare the illness itself is, how varied it's symptoms and severity are, and the isolated nature of modern Kitsune, it is unlikely that answers will be found. It is unknown how many Kitsune fall victim to VIM, and there are only a few hundred recorded cases of VIM in records from pre-Grand Kitsune records.

Kyuushi's Mother was a victim of VIM Letum. She chose to be a brave, strong willed soul, however, and did her best to persist against the illness for Kyuushi, and in hopes of seeing her Husband again.

[raayllum]

More Than Anyone or Anything

or why I think Callum is Like That: The Meta.

AKA because I realized that while I've talked about Snake Boi Callum and why I view him that way before, it was mostly in regards to explaining his canon traits that aren't usually very disputed. These being:

His sometimes obsessively dangerous qualities, specifically surrounding magic (1x04, 1x05, 2x04, 4x01, 4x02, 4x04)

His ambitious side (man heard from the one magical 'expert' he knows that humans just flat out cannot do primal magic naturally, said fuck that, and got it in a week after one week of practice)

His temper (1x01, 1x06, 1x09, 2x07, 3x08, 4x01-4x04, 5x01, 5x05, 5x08)

His ruthlessness (turning on Viren the second Ezran is in danger despite trusting him for years beforehand; his attitude towards Claudia in 2x07 after she's likewise betrayed him; smiling when killing corrupted soldiers in 3x09 even when Ezran expresses grief and Janai expresses horror when she was facing a similar scenario during the timeskip; arguing to take the violent route in 5x05 whereas Ezran and Rayla pick the more preventative one).

Therefore, for this meta, I will be focusing specifically on why I interpret Callum as Selectively Loyal to the point of being willing to help free Aaravos in order to spare, specifically, Ezran and Rayla's lives (and not necessarily anyone else's, such as Zym and Soren).

Strap in boys — this is going to be a long one.

Disclaimers: As always, this is just my opinion, and an interpretation being popular in fanon does not automatically mean it's better or more valid / rooted in canon than any other kind of (less popular? maybe common) interpretation. I will also be making it clear when I'm drawing on sections/snippets from supplementary material (TDP short stories, novelizations, and Tales of Xadia) but give that it's supplementary material, feel free to take it with the ultimate grain of salt.

Related Metas (that's worth reading if you're interested in other Snake Boi aspects that are not going to be heavily touched on here):

Callum's temper (S1-S3) and how it links to him typically feeling helpless to fix/aid his loved ones, causing him to lash out even sometimes at them

How Callum operates differently from Ezran and Rayla (S1-S4), but very well embodied I believe by the scene in 5x05 where Ez and Rayla side with the "violence as a last resort" option and Callum does not

How Callum views Zym and the egg in Arc 1 differently from Ez and Rayla, or how Callum sees things as tools and why he gets fixated on / what he projects onto objects (much like Viren with the mirror)

Differing Priorities for Callum and Rayla in TTM, in which Rayla only engages in their scheming because she thinks Viren is a threat to the whole world, and Callum comes up with their scheme because he just wants to give her closure

What does the Trio's Tales of Xadia's bios actually mean? (this one will be touched on the most down below, so feel free to skip unless you want a more detailed refresher)

Specifications:

If you're someone who doesn't see Callum this way, but you're genuinely interested in reading a differing perspective, please read on. If you're someone who doesn't necessarily see Callum this way, but you're curious and/or on the fence, please read on. If you'd like to add your own thoughts to this post, feel free to add on if it's in support; if it's differentiation, please make your own post (I'll engage respectfully with if it I want to).

If you're someone who is only going to get upset with my viewpoint, please curate your internet experience and do not read this post. If you're only going to make thinly veiled meta rebuttals of this post in a rude way ("even though some people may think...", linking to this post, general assholery), please do not read this post. You would be far happier if you were less obsessed with an opinion I've held for 5+ years and months & months before you likely joined the fandom. i just want to chill in my corner, please do not chuck pillows at me for doing what I've always had a good time doing that doesn't hurt anyone.

With all of that out of the way, let's get into it

What do I mean when I say selective loyalty?

Loyalty has always been an interesting trait to me, simply because in the bulk of storytelling, it is a necessary character trait for a story to function. One of the biggest things that a character can do to be disliked is be a traitor towards someone that trusted them, and if a character is too disloyal, they can be hard to engage with due to a lack of consistency. Characters who start out loyal to no one/nothing inevitably have arcs, provided they stick around in the story long enough, of garnering loyalty for someone (usually found family loved ones > a cause) in order for them to be able to progress as a character. We want characters to bond, and we want them to be there for each other, and if they're not at all, we want to see what happened or what other bonds they might form with other people. If not loyal, we want to see why they're working with someone at the very least.

Therefore, everyone in real life or in fiction has some elements of 'selective loyalty,' since we all have people (the people we know and love) we are more loyal to, fundamentally, than others (strangers / people don't know at all). It's just a natural normal thing to adhere more to valuing and looking after the people in your immediate circles over people you don't know at all, even if that doesn't mean we're void of caring about strangers, either. Our empathy or compassion, as well as the social structure of our living units and lives, are more cohesion for caring for strangers than it is for competing with strangers or being wholly indifferent.

For a quick overview of the way selective loyalty can work, I'm actually going to talk about Claudia quickly, and her internal hierarchy. While she is loyal to the princes ("Their Dad is dead and you lied about it. Plus they're our friends. It's wrong") to the point of that possibly being an opportunity for severance, initially, with her father ("Careful, if you tell the truth you will lose her"), Claudia's loyalty to her father ultimately trumps her loyalty to the princes, and even to her family with Soren.

For the opposite approach of selective loyalty, I'm going to talk about Rayla, who regularly bails out strangers (the boys in 1x03, Phyrrah in 2x07) and enemies (Bait as a frenemy in 1x05, Nyx in 3x05) as well as the people she grows to love (the boys on regular intervals). She and Runaan, as is Soren, are all willing to put their perceived missions/duties not only above but in direct opposition to their familial loyalty / family ties.

Callum, TO ME, is not, and here's why.

When I say that Callum is selectively loyal, I mean that there is ultimately nothing he will put above Ezran and/or Rayla at any interval with very few exceptions (aka if they're still breathing, he's still going to be fighting for them). This is for a few reasons.

I'm going to talk more about why it's Ez and Rayla specifically later, but for now I want to talk briefly about how they factor into his decision making and what see of them from people who have lost his loyalty.

Despite knowing and having trusted Viren for the bulk of his life ("Claudia! Lord Viren! Anyone!"), as soon as Callum learns that Viren has put Ezran substantially at risk ("Two [targets]? What do you mean?" "I'm here for the king, and I'm also here for his son, Prince Ezran") Viren is fucking Dead To Him.

It's not just that Viren lied, it's that Viren's lies and choices put Ezran in danger, and that's just not acceptable. We see this happen again with Claudia in S2, even after Callum defending her and trying to give her chances. She lied, yes, but she scares Ezran and attacks Rayla again, and that's the breaking point.

When you threaten the people he loves, when you scare them, if he trusted you, he will never look at you the same way again. Any loyalty he felt towards you will snap and snap hard, permanently, like a wishbone.

Callum loves and cares for other people. He loved and cared for Viren and Claudia. But unlike Ezran, who is willing to give Claudia a chance in 3x09 to the point of running after her, helping hand extended, and unlike Rayla, who still adamantly loves Runaan even after their fight and with no hint of change from him, Callum does not take other people hurting his family lightly, at all.

He loves and cares for Amaya, and Soren, and Harrow. But even Harrow, his father, is someone he's willing to put on the backburner — despite having an offered chance from Rayla to save him — in order to do what Harrow asked and what Callum's first instinct is: to look after his brother, because it is fundamentally unsafe for Ezran to stay at the castle for any longer, and he knows it.

Callum knows what the egg might mean, but he does not follow Rayla out the dungeon door blindly. He runs only after Ezran does, and only after Claudia might hit Ezran with lightning. Then he acts. Then he makes a choice. Because his loyalty to his brother outweighs after other substantial relationship in his life, at this point, but it doesn't necessarily stay that way.

Inner circle

In Tales of Xadia, all the characters are given values. While the values have more generic explanations (i.e. Callum's highest one, Liberty, is labelled as, "Have you ever resisted the control of others? This value is about freedom and autonomy. You’re motivated by a world without oppression or suppression") the characters individual bios help offer more clarity on their specifics. Callum's, specifically, states, "I am beholden to my inner circle, not some silly kingdom." Ouch, from Katolis' crown prince and Ezran's heir apparent.

It is, of course, important to not take this trait entirely literally. If Callum truly valued his own personal autonomy over everything else, he would've taken Finnegrin's deal in 5x08 in a second if all he wanted as his own freedom. Instead, Callum's highest value being Liberty is far more about his place with Freedom as a Theme more than something he wholly actively desires; again, we see in 5x08 he's willing to risk more of his freedom by doing dark magic in order to save Rayla.

There are things that Callum values more than his own personal freedom and there are things that he values more than magic (2x04: "Callum, you're being an idiot! Why would you do that? You can't risk your life to learn magic") vs throwing himself off the top of the Storm Spire at the slimmest chance of, once again, saving Rayla.

That said, this value and quote is still very useful, as it does then, beg the question, of who exactly is Callum's inner circle? Well...

Ezran and Rayla are the most important people in the entire world to him. Full stop. There is nothing he will fundamentally put above them. He only stays behind in 1x06, thereby not sacrificing the egg by proxy, because Rayla points out "We'll need to be up here to pull [Ezran] out." Even when he was stressing about whether they'd gotten to the Sea of the Cast Out on time, the second Rayla showed a hint of major discomfort/potential self-deprecation, he was offering to get back into the goddamn boat to comfort her ("I'm getting out—" "No. I can't do it, but you have to"). He's hesitant to go into town to find a vet for the egg because "We will definitely find some elf hating humans," pouting further when Rayla brushes him off, and flings himself off his balcony when he thinks there's even a chance that Ezran isn't okay into what he knows would subsequently be a trap. He's the first to say that they need to leave Rex Igneous' chambers after protecting Ezran from falling rocks with his own body, and the last to actually leave, almost being crushed by rocks himself because he's so committed to standing there and watching Rayla leave.

He equates Rayla's love for him with his love for Ezran on Day Nine (2x03: "I couldn't tell him. And I understand why you couldn't tell me. When you care about someone, it's hard to hurt them. Even when what you're saying is the truth.")

Hell, he even forgets that Sol Regem is there in 3x01 because he tunnel visions on Rayla needing his help so intensely she has to point out the massive ton dragon actively trying to kill them to him.

He's a nurturer, a fixer, a solution seeking. He wants to make you feel better ("See it's working right? Don't you feel a little better?"), he is a kind reassuring word ("Don't be so hard on yourself, Ez") always, he thinks of your problems even when you don't (Rayla's binding in 1x07), he will lay his life down for you without question ("I am Prince Ezran"), he will get mad at you for treating yourself poorly (3x04, like almost all of S4), he dotes, he notices, he will compromise his beliefs for you ("Could he really bring himself to go through with his plan? What if he didn’t succeed? What if he compromised his beliefs and it was all for nothing? [...] But Rayla was in trouble"—S2 novelization).

You mean everything to him: "Rayla's strong, thin arms wrapped around him meant everything" (S2 novelization of the hug scene in 2x04) / "You're my brother, and you mean everything to me" (2x06).

You are his whole world.

If you're part of his inner circle, and not everybody is, so let's talk about it.

[ Callum, excluding Claudia and Soren from their support system, even though the siblings haven't yet betrayed them, while including Rayla, even though he and she haven't made up yet. ]

What about Soren and Zym?

As stated before, Callum's selective loyalty does not mean he doesn't care about other people in his life, such as Claudia (in the past) and people like Amaya, Soren, and Zym in the present. Merely that, slightly like Claudia, Callum does have an internal hierarchy of care — the way you might have friends vs best friends — of who takes priority, and we see S1, S4, and S5 in particular demonstrate this quite well.

As already stated, Callum prioritizes Ezran over the egg in 1x06 and is held back emotionally by Ezran fuelled logic and physically by Rayla. In 1x07, he doesn't want to risk going into town — even to potentially find help for the egg — because of his last disastrous experience with humans and Rayla. In 2x04, Callum is perfectly happy to walk around a sea to let Rayla avoid her fear of water, and approximately 5 minutes later is getting on Ez and Rayla's case for goofing off (with Rayla's thinly veiled and fallible disguise) because "Sometimes getting someplace slightly faster is important, like right now." Wasn't quite the tune he was singing earlier, now was it? For Zym, we see this again in 3x04 — Rayla is having a breakdown, so she has more of an excuse, but Callum should conceivably be much more clear headed, and he still tunnel visions into leaving Zym alone with Nyx leading to the theft. Likewise in 4x07 when the group thinks Zym might be gone, Ezran is the one who states, "I'm not leaving without him," and Ez and Rayla are both pretty broken up about it; Callum is sad, for sure, but he mostly focuses on taking care of Ezran and placing a hand on his shoulder.

Then you have Amaya, who Callum loves dearly, but isn't particularly torn up over not trusting or lying to (1x04, 5x03) in spite of being close to her, and isn't as vexed even when he thinks that maybe something bad has happened.

Even when Callum thinks it was bad, and potentially very bad ("The way Gren was talking, I thought maybe the world was ending or something!") he doesn't get angry and he doesn't get demanding. This is very different from how he responds to Ezran and Rayla being potentially in danger or just in trouble.

Which on that note also highlights another key importance between how Callum treats Rayla, in particular, versus how he treats Soren. Now, you could argue that Callum in 5x01 has emotionally matured/healed further than he has in 4x01 prior to Rayla's return, and that would be perfectly fine to do. However, it doesn't change the fact that just the hint of Soren keeping a secret — even before Callum thinks, at all, that it's about Ezran — makes him wait on the battlements to coldly and sternly interrogate Soren about it. With Soren, he demands,

C: I know this — the ties are true as the ocean is deep [...] It means I trust her. Unconditionally. Let her go. Now. R: About your key and the bow. I can explain. C: No, I meant what I said. You don't have to explain or justify anything to me.

Even when Rayla engages in actually shady behaviour — omitting the truth if not outright lying, stealing his key, and retrieving a painfully poignant weapon — Callum doesn't get mad, at all. Soren just implied he was potentially keeping a secret from Callum at the council meeting and lowkey got his ass handed to him, with Callum literally shoving him out of his way and needing Corvus' help to coral the angry step-mage.

Furthermore, even when Soren goes missing in 4x06, although concerned, Rayla is by far the most broken up about it. Ezran is optimistic because he's, well, Ezran; Rayla is torn because even though she doesn't know Soren that well, she feels like it was 100% her fault he's gone missing and has possibly gotten hurt; and Callum, well... mostly focuses about how she feels about it, and less so about his actual friend (because if Ezran or Rayla are emotionally hurting, they will take priority to him). He's focused on making sure she feels better.

Again: Callum loves Amaya, and Zym, and Soren. He loves them dearly. He wants to and does protect them. He can and will take care of them. But push come to shove, they're not in his inner circle — he doesn't trust them the same way, and he doesn't focus on them the same way, because when it comes to his inner circle, he loves them

More Than Anyone or Anything

So after seeing Callum like this from S1 onwards, you can imagine I was pretty thrilled upon opening up his bio in Tales of Xadia — which seems to be the most 'canon' of the supplementary materials thus far (scenes and ages are changed in the novelizations; timelines get a little wonky in the prequel graphic novels; some designs from "Callum's Spellbook" ended up being different; the art book is full of beautiful concepts, of course, that never understandably got off the ground) except perhaps for Though the Moon — said the quiet part out loud. Not only does TOX have plenty of lore drops and hints at future arcs that are coming to fruition (Aaravos' connections to Elarion, mentioning the Great Bookery of Lux Aurea and Leola, etc) but they did something very interesting when it came to what values which character had. There's some leeway as this is very much an Arc 1 reading (probably most clearly seen in Soren's bio) but there is still plenty of bleed over into Arc 2.

Now, as I said before, we don't want to take the Values too literally. As talked about previously, a lot of the characters highest values seem to be things their arcs are set up to thematically test rather than being a 1:1 what they value the most. But I feel like you can glean a good deal from them, so let's look at the trio:

EZRAN:

Justice — 10: I expect the best of people and try not to become an agent of cruelty.

Devotion — 8: All creatures—regardless of origin—deserve love and appreciation.

Liberty — 8: I value the liberty of everyone, sometimes even more than my own.

RAYLA:

Devotion — 10: Love and devotion compel and define me.

Justice — 8: At great personal cost I will strive for what’s right.

Liberty — 8: My only allegiance is to my heart and those who know it.

CALLUM:

Liberty — 10: I’m beholden to my inner circle, not some silly kingdom.

Devotion — 8: I value those close to me more than anyone or anything.

Mastery — 8: I aspire to know the great wonders of every primal magic.

Out of all the more 'heroic' characters listed in the handbook (Amaya, Janai, Aanya) only Callum and Lujanne do not have Justice, "Have you ever been compelled to fix what’s wrong? This value is about balance, virtue, and reward. You’re motivated by adherence to fairness and what you think is right" among their top 3. Each have it at a 6, instead, which the guide labels as, "This matters, but so do many things" and is the second lowest ranking a value can have. None of the main cast have any value at the highest ranking, 12, either, to help indicate scale perhaps.

Devotion, then, is the one we're currently the most interested in for Callum, since as said before, while the general value descriptions are useful, the specific ones help show more indication. Devotion is referred to in Tales of Xadia as, "Have you ever been obligated to others? This value is about duty, faith, and friendship. You’re motivated by the bonds of loyalty and your love for others."

Although devotion is Rayla's highest value, her devotion value makes no indication of who/what she is Devoted to. Whereas Ezran's reflects his deep love and appreciation towards animals (hence saving the baby glow toads in S5) and Callum's we'll get to in a moment, Rayla's we're not privy to. Instead, we can look at her Liberty value, as it states that her allegiance is to her heart ("My heart for Xadia") and to her loved ones (her friends, her family). Much of her arc is therefore feeling torn between what she thinks/feels her duty is versus what her heart is telling her, indicated by her letting Marcos go in 1x01 and the subsequent fallout.

We can also see her state this more clearly in Through the Moon, in which Callum is the one primarily concerned with her parents ("he’s stuck worrying about her parents. About what happened to Runaan. She can’t move on, not without knowing the truth of what happened [...] I hope you find your parents. And Runaan"), versus Rayla going along with the plan, "Callum, listen. Soren was worried about Viren too. Worried that we never found a body. We need to know what happened to Viren. He’s a threat to the whole world! This might be the only way to be sure he’s actually gone! [Upon entering the Portal...] Okay. Viren. My parents. Runaan" and then 5x01 spells it out even more directly.

R: Callum and Ezran need me. A great evil is trying to return to Xadia and we have to stop it, at any cost. I think this is what you would want me to do. I love you, and I haven't forgotten about you. I never will. [...] It hurts me to know they're trapped like this. It's agonizing. But our mission comes first. The world is in danger, and you can trust me to stay focused.

Now this makes sense, as Rayla having this push and pull has not only been a defining feature of her arc most seasons, but is ultimately what's going to be the most challenged when the Callum possession plotline rears its head. Does she kill/incapacitate the man she loves in order to protect the world, or does she fight to get him back no matter what, even if that may lead to ruin and chaos? (I'm hoping for the second one, but I will eat either up, lemme tell you.) Does she finally refuse to sacrifice, or does she barrel on hoping she'll only have to sacrifice herself?

The reason I bring Rayla up at all is because I think it provides a good contrast to how Callum operates, specifically in 5x04, in which case he reaffirms his devotion ("I would do anything for you") and then risks everyone's lives by staying late at the Great Bookery, even when Rayla says three times that well, this isn't the time: "Not yet, Callum... Believe me, I want to do something, but... Callum, we need to leave!"

Rayla cares about everyone, and is willing to risk her life for enemies and for strangers. She will abandon her mission for the world in favour of looking after individuals because they need help, regardless of what it asks of her: "Live or die, this dragon goes home." (And because she believes Ezran and Callum can accomplish the mission without her, but that's a post for another day.) As Bloodmoon Huntress makes explicit, as Ethari says:

Who I love, where I love, what I love, are all specific. But to Runaan and those like your parents... love is rooted in all families, all creatures. Souls like that feel called to protect everyone as fiercely as those they hold close. Each time Runaan leaves, it is with the weight of knowing that he may not come back. That to fulfil his duty, he may need to sacrifice everything, himself, and all that we have here.

Rayla likewise feels called to protect everyone, and that's precisely why by the end of Bloodmoon Huntress she's chosen to literally and figuratively follow in Runaan's career path, in order to be able to help protect and save people like Suroh (a stranger she immediately becomes entangled with). As Rayla says to the vision of Runaan and her parents in 5x01, "I think this is what you would want me to do," because they are ultimately all more alike (even in the occupations Rayla holds, such as assassin or dragonguard) than they are dissimilar.

The reason I highlight Rayla here is because 1) it is her highest value, being the only character to have it as said highest value (Claudia's, likewise, is only an 8 — but everything she does is indeed for her father, and unknowingly herself) and 2) I think it provides a clear contrast to Callum.

Because Callum's devotion does outline who, or what, he's loyal to. He isn't loyal just to causes and he isn't loyal just to concepts. While he cares about the world, when his back is up against the wall and it's a choice between that kind of security vs the life of a loved on (Ez, Rayla), Callum will always choose the latter. He cares about the world — to a Point.

I've talked about it before, but merely a statement of "I value those close to me more than anything" would accordingly be a lot more vague. There could be discussions and debates on what the 'anything' constitutes (morals, responsibilities, hurt feelings) with a lot more grey room as to whether it would include people (strangers).

“Maybe there is something I can do,” Callum said. “Ezran, you stay here. Protect Bait and Zym. Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon—with Rayla.” [...] Could he really bring himself to go through with his plan? What if he didn’t succeed? What if he compromised his beliefs and it all ended up being for nothing? […] But Rayla’s blade bounced off with a clang, sparks flying. She reeled back and tried again. Nothing happened. She was in trouble. Callum inched toward Claudia’s [book].

—Book 2: Sky novelization

But the inclusion of "more than anyone" changes that. It does include people. There is no wiggle room about that.

Now, I'm not going to base my whole thing on one (1) statement from a supplementary material. As previously stated, I've seen Callum with that exact same sentiment for years now, well before Tales of Xadia (March 2022) was released, and well before S4 or S5 premiered. I've gone over a lot of the reasons I thought Callum had selective loyalty even in S1, but I haven't touched too much on one of the biggest reasons why I think that selective loyalty includes a devotional component that borders on dangerous (at least, in a story). And that's, well...

“Rayla told me you used Dark Magic,” [Ethari] said, more stiff and cold. Callum shrank a bit, but his eyes hardened. “I couldn’t just let her die.” “You’d do it again." The prince scowled. “I’m not like Aaravos. He twisted the primal to be like Dark Magic. I would never do that.” “Unless you felt like you had to,” [Ethari] reiterated. “To save Rayla.” “Wouldn’t you do anything to save the person you love?”

—chapter 13 of a fic I co-wrote called in search of silver linings (we discovered gold) from july 2019, respectively

As soon as Callum opened up the door with dark magic in 2x07, I knew it was something he likely would never be able to entirely close. Not for lack of trying or wanting — but that his willingness to engage in dark magic at all spoke to a few different things. The first was the effectiveness — what spell to use, what would be most useful, and what Rayla's biggest problem would be (her swords unable to cut chains) — but most of all was what pushed him there: his devotion.

While magic has always been the thing presenting Callum with paths (to be a mage or not a mage, to be a primal or a dark mage), his bonds with other people, and his love for them — Rayla in particular — has always been what's actually pushed him down certain paths. His love for his mother, and her love for him, is what helps him unlock the sky arcanum. Callum unlocks his wings out of his love for Rayla; he goes down on the path of mage because "you called me a mage, and that felt right."

Although mastery of magic is one of Callum's highest values (an 8, just like his devotion), it was always clear to me that magic is not something Callum values above the people he loves. He can be obsessive, and his love for magic can sometimes put himself and other people unintentionally at risk, but thus far we've always seen him course correct the minute he realizes what's happening. The second things begin to go south at the Banther Lodge, Callum reflects, "We never should've come here," and completely forgoes the quest for the cube. He tries to risk his life just for magic in 2x04, but as we've gone over, he's unable to go through with it, but he will risk his life for his loved ones.

His rejection of dark magic was, to me, of being a dark mage, of not also pursuing primal magic, of relying on dark magic. Not that he would never, under any circumstance, ever do dark magic again if the show put him in the right circumstances. And then he did, in spite of knowing it would make him more vulnerable to Aaravos, in spite of not having any confirmation it wouldn't bring on a second possession, in spite of the fact he was fine being tortured if that meant not doing it or participating.

Then we have Callum giving up the spell, and the fact that the Ocean arcanum is linked more directly to love within his arc — "To love is to simply know this: the tides are true as the ocean is deep" (5x01, 5x08) — in addition to being aware that there are unknown depths in what he's willing to do for said loved ones/Rayla.

This is not to say that none of the main cast would do dark magic — although I don't think Soren or Ezran ever would, and I think Rayla would but only perhaps using herself as spell parts — but that, as the primary mage character, it's going to and is playing a much bigger part in Callum's arc than the others, who are given other thematic considerations.

He hates dark magic. He doesn't want to let Aaravos control him. He refuses to help Finnegrin. He folds on all of those things motivated by love. It's a weakness and a strength; something that, in my eyes, will likely lead to his fall to Aaravos ("Seems to me love's got a tighter grip on you than those chains around your wrists, so I'll do you a favour [by killing Rayla] and set you free") as well as what might save him. But to focus on the fall, with everything already said behind us:

Why Love Instead of Curiosity?

Now, obviously the theory of "Callum will free Aaravos because of [insert non possession reason here]" could be wrong. There's merits in having arcs about the tragedy inherent in losing your agency, it would still open up an interesting arc after the fact, and all that good stuff.

Callum has also very much always been an Icarus figure. He can be obsessive with magic, he can take it too far, and he does have a deep curiosity and thirst for knowledge that has already gotten him in trouble by not excluding dark magic from the bunch.

And deep curiosity is already hinted to be what partially causes him to fall further into Aaravos' clutches in a few different places. The mirror ("What secrets are you hiding?") and the cube ("Perhaps it will be you, Callum, who discover's the cube's secrets") seem accordingly linked and fittingly so, for the Mystery of Aaravos, as is magic: "it's the secret of the primal".

Zubeia also warns regarding curiosity, citing that, "Aaravos was able to give them something they wanted very badly. Aaravos chose as his instruments people who had strong minds and strong hearts… but who had an insatiable thirst and fascination with magic. Aaravos could offer them access to the great mysteries of the universe. Mages were his prey," which implies that this thirst for magic is what got them (primarily) into trouble. This is reflected (pun intended) in both Aaravos' reading of Viren as "You are too curious, hungry for knowledge and power," and while Callum is hungry for knowledge (and not necessarily power), his short story in which he finds the mirror highlights one of these things as well:

Callum’s eyes prickled with dust and tears. He rushed back to the spiral staircase—but as he reached for the figurine that would activate them, he noticed one last door he hadn’t checked. The small chamber beyond it lay dark and silent. A gleam caught his eye. Callum blinked at his own reflection. Curious, he stepped through the door—and there it was. A mirror.

With all that in mind, and I'm sure there's ones I've missed, too, why on Earth am I arguing that while curiosity may play a factor, I think it's going to be love that ultimately causes his initial downfall / playing into Aaravos' hands?

Well...

For starters, I personally find "doing terrible things for love" to be not only a primary theme of arc 2, but much more fundamentally sympathetic than just getting in over your head because you were a dumbass who couldn't read the signs. I know for myself that if Callum fucks around and accidentally gets himself into a place where (under possession at that point or not) he helps free, or just flat out helps, Aaravos knowing everything that he knows, if he does it for love I will defend his choice every step of the way. If it happens just because he wants more power or magical knowledge (hello Viren 2.0 beat for beat) I'm gonna be a lot more critical of him. After all, Claudia has done a lot of awful things but I still have sympathy for her because they were for her family, in their own fractured way, and operating out of a place of deep emotional pain. If she was doing that just because she wanted to be Powerful and Knowledgable, then no, I'm not going to be that sympathetic.

The other half of it, which you might have already guessed, is that curiosity is not a Motivation. It's a manifestation of a character's pyschological makeup. Even for a character like Viren, who very much chased power, ultimately, for the sake of power, we take time to dive into WHY he wanted those things ("To know that I mean something to you, it means everything to me" / "I dream of a bright future for humanity") and his internal justifications, no matter if some of those turned out to be lies.

Characters who are curious are curious because they want to solve puzzles and have a hard time letting things go; or else they are curious because they want to prove themselves by solving things first; or else they are curious because they deeply love and want to understand and protect the world; or else they are curious because they want to know and have access to tools so that they can fix problems; or else... Well, you get the idea.

Even if it is primarily Callum's curiosity and love/thirst for magic that gets him into trouble (and thus far it largely hasn't been, as we see in S2 with his motivation for doing dark magic — yes, there was a part of him that was undeniably curious about what it would be like, but I don't think he would've pushed himself into doing it without the dire straits of "I had to, to save my friends")... That doesn't answer why he's curious.

Either he will pull a full Greek tragedy and be so scared of freeing Aaravos he accidentally walks into it by trying to prevent it directly (and one of the main reasons he's scared of Aaravos is because he's scared he might hurt people he loves through possession) or he needs another motivation, but it can't just be "Callum really wants this [insert magical knowledge here] and it ends badly," because that offers a plot summary, not an emotional character beat. There's no motivation. They'll have to explain why he wants the magical knowledge, why he's chasing it, why this level of curiosity is something he cannot or will not put down even with all the risk factors at play. It has to be grounded in some kind of sympathetic emotion, and love or fear or a desire to be helpful/useful, or all three makes the most sense to me and with all the prior setup.

Conclusion

As a closing note, as well as thank you for reading this far if you have because this got wildly long and out of hand, I want to reiterate that in many ways, to me, Callum's devotion to his loved ones — that he says "I would do anything for you" and mean it — is indeed his saving grace and biggest difference from Viren, who would rather offer up himself or others or have Harrow die than relinquish the egg, because he would never put a weapon into Xadia's hands. Being devotional — valuing the individual — is not always a good or bad thing, nor is prioritizing the 'greater good' always a good or a bad thing. TDP is deeply interested in exploring all the different circumstances of motivation, sacrifice, and choices.

Nor is selective loyalty a bad thing. I'm not wired that way, but some of my closest loved ones are (and of those in the fandom have, overall, greatly aligned with this perceived aspect of Callum). Merely, this meta is meant to examine the claim in Tales of Xadia that "I value those close to me more than anyone or anything," why I was surprised but delighted to see my view of Callum be so directly spelled out, why I had that view and continue to have it, in addition to aspects/pieces of the text that I think support it.

I believe that Callum is loyal to Ezran and Rayla on a fundamental level he does not really extend to anyone else (including many other people who are also his family) and while this is in many ways something that creates the best sides of him — his nurturing, compassionate, thoughtful and protective traits — it is also something that can be exploitable and dangerous, particularly in a narrative where he is set up to be controlled/coerced by the big bad.

And this meta hopefully explained why.

You can take it or leave it.

—Dragons out

[dreadfutures]

Tevinter Nights: dramatic summaries

Back in March I decided to read a story from Tevinter Nights out loud to the DA FanFic server every Monday night. I figured with the number of stories, we'd hit August right as we finished - hopefully it'll be a big month for us fans!

I just love this anthology so much - there are many gems and entertaining bits among them, and they're criminally underrated. A lot of the DA side content is hit or miss for a lot of people, but seriously, some of these short stories could be published on their own without any knowledge of Thedas and still entertain!!

Here are the summaries I wrote ahead of each reading. :) All of the TN short stories are independent of each other, so take a look and perhaps you will find one you enjoy. I tried to keep them largely spoiler free :)

Also, check out @larkoneironaut 's Tevinter Nights art project! They're enjoyable in their own way :)

Three Trees to Midnight, by Patrick Weekes

After the Qunari take Ventus, prisoners are put to work chopping wood on the outskirts of Arlathan Forest. Myrion, a human mage, and Strife, a city elf who joined the Dalish, are shackled together at the ankle as a work pair. While their relationship starts antagonistic, they are quickly forced to work together to escape. This thrilling adventure is one of our first looks into the mysteries of Arlathan Forest, and the Antaam’s advance south—despite the rifts forming in the Qun’s ranks. Notably, Strife and his companion Irelin appear in another short story, Ruins of Reality, and Dragon Age: The Missing.

Down Among the Dead Men by Sylvia Feketekuty

We finally see Nevarra in this tale, and what better place to start than in the Grand Necropolis itself? Audric Felhausen, our POV character, is a city guard who is tasked with protecting a Mortalitasi mage during an investigation about some restless undead in the bowels of the Necropolis. We see how spirits and demons wander, and get stuck, in the bodies kept there -- and how possessing a body, even a long-dead one, can have significant effects on the spirit. On both a cultural and metaphysical level, this story gives us a TON of lore. And Audric, our hero, is equally curious and unsettled by what he learns. By the end you'll see why so many people are desperate for him to be a companion in DA4!

The Horror of Hormak by John Epler

Do you love Wardens? Do you miss the dark fantasy elements of Origins? Do you like the aesthetic of Dark Souls, with giant stone doors you push open with all your might to reveal a giant boss? That's the vibe that John Epler (DA4 Creative Director!) brings to this story. Wardens Ramesh and Lesha are tracking down a group of missing Wardens in Nevarra--a group, it turns out, that does not want to be found. For better or worse, Ramesh and Lesha plunge into the darkness and discover a horrifying truth with massive implications for the ancient history of Thedas... and the Evil Gods about to wake in DA4!

Callback by Lukas Kristjanson

Follow Sutherland and his crew of honorable adventurers back to where they began: Skyhold. Now defended and empty but for a handful of Chantry chosen caretakers, the fortress that once housed the Inquisition has gone dark, and Sutherland is tapped to investigate. We see Skyhold and by proxy the Inquisition itself from the perspective of one of the little guys, drawn to it because of ideals and encouraged to become their best selves. In doing so, we also see how the events of this world can shape Spirits in unexpected ways, with consequences for a world where the Veil is thin. Callback is full of callbacks and cameos from a surprising group from DAI, and an entertaining and perilous mini adventure in its own right. This is a love letter to Skyhold, to the Inquisition, and a meaningful counterpart to the memories of Skyhold kept in its frescos.

Luck in the Gardens by Sylvia Feketekuty

Hear a tale of glory and daring straight from a Lord of Fortune themself! A genderfluid, disguise-wearing, acrobat-turned-swashbuckler regales us with an adventure from the streets of Minrathous. Spy on secret meetings between Magisters, learn what the Venatori have been doing since Corypheus' defeat, and tremble in the face of things "past the Veil of our world," neither demon nor spirit. Who are the Lords of Fortune from Rivain? What lurks beneath Tevinter's streets? This may be the story that inspired many people's wishlist for the next Archon and the next Black Divine -- some beloved, familiar faces join our hero to face the terror in the gardens!

Content Warning: Body horror, Eldritch horror, mentions of Tevinter slavery

Hunger by Brianne Battye

Tevinter Nights returns to Warden business in Hunger -- or does it? Evka Ivo, a heroic warden, and her junior recruit Antoine, have to decide what counts as Warden business when there's not a Blight ongoing. As they make their way to Weisshaupt to answer their summons, they decide to make a small detour to help a village in need. Evka and Antoine are our beloved dwarf/elf romantics who feature in a DA Day short story - as well as in the DA4 lead-in comic, The Missing! Whether they may be companions or contacts to our protagonist remains to be seen, but surely they'll make an appearance after such tales of heroism and compassion!

Murder by Death Mages by Caitlin Sullivan Kelly

We return again to Nevarra from a different angle this time! An agent of the Inquisition, the multiplayer necromancer Sidony, is sent back to the home country she resents in pursuit of a killer. We learn not only about Sidony's past, but about the political landscape of Nevarra: do the Mortalitasi run the country as shadowy puppet masters? What do the common people, and the nobility, think of the death mages from the Necropolis? How are Mortalitasi trained? And what does necromancy look and feel like to the characters in Thedas? In this tale of alleyway chases and gossip-filled balls, we get another glimpse into a country we may very well visit in DA4!

The Streets of Minrathous by Brianne Battye

We return to Minrathous to learn what's become of the Venatori since Corypheus's defeat. Join Neve Gallus, special investigator (and important cameo in The Missing comic), as she navigates the alleyways of Tevinter's great city in search of a murderer. Through her eyes, we see how less-privileged mages are viewed, and how the law bends to the whims of the rich and magical in Tevinter. Neve is joined by Tevinter Templars in her investigation, and their final battle is certainly eye-opening for anyone interested in fighting mages... What lies beneath the Streets of Minrathous, if not the Cekorax? Well, you're about to find out.

The Wigmaker Job by Courtney Woods

Lucanis Dellamorte, Master Assassin (and rumored heir to the First Talon) of the Antivan Crows, prowls the secret passages and unsuspecting rooftops of Tevinter with his cousin Illario on a contract. The target? A member of the Venatori with a... peculiar hobby. From shady hotel rooms to a grand gala and fashion show, get a look at the best of the Crows doing what Crows do best. This is one of the best stories in Tevinter Nights by far.

Content Warnings: abuse of slaves, body horror, torture, gore, hair eating, lots of pretty gruesome (if cathartic) assasination, and possession

Genitivi Dies In The End by Lucas Kristjanson

The remnants of the Inquisition approach a new group of adventurers and task them with finding the secrets of Fen'Harel. The Antaam - or at least, part of it - give chase. And Genitivi Dies in the End.

Herold Had the Plan by Ryan Cormier

Our Lords of Fortune are on the run as a mission to steal an ancient amulet goes awry. They have the amulet, they have their daring escape (a Lord of Fortune knows no other kind, of course) -- but Herold had the plan for what to do with the damn thing, and Herold is gone. As Starkhaven guards give chase, only one Lord of Fortune will survive the night. But will he make it to the mysterious Squire who hired them in the first place? Join us for an adventure that will break your heart and keep you on the edge of your seat.

An Old Crow's Old Tricks by Arone Le Bray

Tevinter has sent their finest centuri to defend the shores of the Nocen Sea from potential Qunari invaders. They stake their claim on the area and set up camp, enjoying the esteem of being the proud defenders of Tevinter. But it's not the Qunari this group of soldiers should fear.

CW: blatant racism against dalish, off screen massacre of a Dalish clan, many gruesome cathartic assassinations described in some detail, hand trauma

Eight Little Talons by Courtney Woods

Antiva's crown is weak. Antiva has no army. And the Qun is at its doorstep. Antiva's Crows may be the country's only defense, but they must act fast. Caterina Dellamorte, the fearsome leader of the Crows, calls all Eight Talons to meet in secret and solitude to discuss and prepare for the threat at Antiva's borders. But perhaps they should begin by looking for threats at home. All Crows are assassins. But only one is a murderer.

Half Up Front by John Epler

A former altus who chose to be disowned into poverty to be with her elven lover takes the job of a lifetime: steal a precious, powerful, magical artifact from the Archon's Palace itself. It was never going to be easy, but the former Altus Vadis couldn't have predicted that a Minrathous heist would bring her all the way to a port in Rivain, loyal to the Qun. What at first glance seems like a classic cat burgling caper actually might tell us a lot about the forces at play in Thedas—how perhaps the people on the ground may or may not be following orders.

Dread Wolf Take You by Trick Weekes

[roserunodays]

Kotoko's Connection with the Fairy Tale of Red Riding Hood

So THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A JOKE POST, but I kept looking into it, and now here's a full blown analysis instead lol. I realized that Kotoko has many allusions to the story of Red Riding Hood besides the wolves and her signature red jacket. The themes of familial love, protection, and deception all seem to be reflected in Kotoko's actions and what we know of her past and personal life so far. So this post will detail more of the connections between her and this tale, as well as theorize on certain parts on what her story might reveal in the future!

MAJOR THANKS to my English major himejoshi librarian bunny mutual @lillyviarabbit for proof reading this so that my writing doesn't sound clunky af 🙏

A Quick Aside: The Other Side of this Tale (TW for sexual assault and rape mention)

So...there's another side to the original tale of Red Riding Hood, one that deals with much heavier themes on what the story as a whole is supposed to symbolize. I didn't want to analyze these themes of rape, sexual assault, and analogies of being 'turned' into a woman (such as hoods/veils representing both marriage and bereavement). They are there though, and easy analogies can be made, but that's not the content I want to cover. This is mainly because I just don't think we have enough evidence or hints as of now from Kotoko's past that suggests these parts from the Red Riding Hood story are also in her story. I did not want to speculate on these parts either because I wanted to treat them with respect and sensitivity, rather than simply speculate that they have to do with a fictional character's past when we don't even have any evidence to theorize that they do. So this post will only touch upon the more well known parts of the story instead!

Also I won't be talking about Jacques Roulet and his weird ass story because none of it makes sense to me with how it's related to Kotoko, so I will leave that to someone with a bigger brain to analyze that 💀 and I'll be sticking to analyzing similarities with Perrault's version of the story, though the analysis referenced at the end also includes the Grimm version!

Allusions to Red Riding Hood Herself:

One of the major similarities between Kotoko and Red Riding Hood is — well — the red hooded jacket!

This jacket is the most recognizable part of the fairy tale, and it clearly sticks out in Kotoko's wardrobe as the outfit she wears while she's in her forest world, notably with the wolves she's running with in HARROW.

Appearance wise, Kotoko also seems to fit the bill for how Red has been portrayed throughout various iterations of the story over time.

Red's appearance generally describes a girl with short black hair and a bob that reaches down to be exact.

"Another difference lies in the fact that, in addition to [her hair] being black, Little Red Riding Hood’s hair is generally short, reaching to her chin at most, with a charming bob that frames her face."

The signature hood is also noted, with Kotoko's prisoner uniform being the only one to notably have a hood on it.

"It becomes a powerful indicator of sense. History shows that an object that goes on a woman’s or girl’s head has always been ambivalent, not to say ambiguous. It covers, it conceals, it protects, but it also alludes, adorns and attracts."

Not only does Kotoko's hood uniform reflect her similarity with Red Riding Hood, it also highlights Kotoko's tendency to protect/conceal all the aspects of herself she does not want to reveal to anyone else.

It's clear that Kotoko doesn't trust anyone else in the prison, wanting to conceal as much stuff about her as possible so she can analyze their behavior and how much they change following the time between trial 1 and trial 2. This secretive nature, interpreted by her actions and the hood she wears as a way for Kotoko to protect herself and her fragile self-worth, is also highlighted in Streaming Heart's lyrics.

"Though I seem to say many things, please try and seek out the real me. In the space between truth and lies, hidden away so well."

The Grandmother:

Another major fact that gets overlooked is how Kotoko offhandedly mentions in her family structure that she has a grandmother. As a lot of us already know, the main plot of Little Red Riding Hood is that the girl delivers food to her grandmother, who is sick and lives in a house in the woods. This detail from her interrogation is rather...specific, given that she doesn't even mention having a grandfather, just a grandmother along with her parents and older brother.

One additional piece of evidence that connects to this is the symbolism of her birthday flower, Monstera Deliciosa!

In many Asian cultures, this plant can also symbolize a respect and honoring of the elderly. Interesting, considering that this is the plant Yamanaka picked out for Kotoko.

While we don't exactly know the details between Kotoko and the relationship she has with her grandmother, her birthday flower seems to hint that she has some kind of respect for her, or at least they are most likely on good terms with each other.

"Once upon a time there lived in a certain village a little country girl, the prettiest creature who was ever seen. Her mother was excessively fond of her; and her grandmother doted on her still more. This good woman had a little red riding hood made for her. It suited the girl so extremely well that everybody called her Little Red Riding Hood."

And that is why I wonder: did something happen to Kotoko's grandmother that made her realize how flawed and unfair justice can really be? Well, we know that in the story, the wolf disguises himself as Red's grandmother to try and trick her. But why litter Kotoko with all this wolf symbolism (besides the dog/tool dehumanization she's associated with) if she's supposed to allude to the character of Red Riding Hood?

The Wolf:

There is a major difference when it comes to the Tale of Red Riding Hood and Kotoko’s MV symbolism, which is the wolf’s role in each of their stories.

For Red, the wolf is the enemy. The wolf is one who tricks her from the very beginning, and the one who tries to eat her and her grandmother.

"Grandmother, what big arms you have!" "All the better to hug you with, my dear." "Grandmother, what big legs you have!" "All the better to run with, my child." "Grandmother, what big ears you have!" "All the better to hear with, my child." "Grandmother, what big eyes you have!" "All the better to see with, my child." "Grandmother, what big teeth you have got!" "All the better to eat you up with."

But Kotoko…she’s with the wolf. The wolf is instead her companion it seems, the one who runs and sits beside her when she’s doing her vigilante stuff.

And more importantly, the wolf seems like the one to be enabling her, helping her continue with rescuing the little girl and beating up the child kidnapper. It is the one thing by her side that encourages her to bare her fangs and protect the weak.

People have speculated that this wolf represents a person in Kotoko's life, a vigilante partner she used to have? Her older brother perhaps? Who knows really, but I think we can all agree that this wolf is a person who has influenced Kotoko a lot. It is the one thing that pushes her continue with this, to continue with the cycle of cruelty and violence in her act of handing out her own form of justice. And that brings me to Kotoko's jacket again.

The Red/Pink Jacket:

I want to address the difference between Kotoko's jacket in her forest world, as opposed to it in the real world. In the forest world, we see that the jacket is more of a hot pinkish color.

I'm not sure if this is fully because of the lighting, but the color difference for the jacket is very notable if you compare them side by side. In the real world, the jacket is clearly more red than pink:

So why make this jacket be two different colors in two different places? Well, I'd like to theorize that the answer has to do with this girl that appears for a brief few seconds in HARROW, in the flashback sequence while Kotoko is beating up the child kidnapper dude.

Or as I like to call her: PINK SHIRT GIRL ✨

One final thing I wanted to talk about is how this girl relates to Kotoko, the different colors for her same jacket in the MV, and the sole reason why I think she wears a pink shirt. A lot of people have speculated that this girl is a younger version of Kotoko, possibly back when she was a child. Pink for Kotoko seems to emphasize her ideals at their most pure level.

When Kotoko is wearing her jacket when it's pink, she's in her forest world that emphasizes Kotoko's purpose in protecting the weak. She's emotional there, she falters, worn out by the running and desperate to continue going. There is nothing shown in those scenes that shows her childlike ideals being tainted, yet.

But when Kotoko alludes to her self-hatred and the wolf urges her to go on with the attack, HARROW switches back to the real world where the jacket is red. We Kotoko smile after she presumably kills the child kidnapper guy as she declares that she wants to be "drowning in the knowledge that [she] is right", and thus, this seems like we the audience realize this is the moment when Kotoko's ideals begin to become more distorted than how they were presented in the forest world.

We see that she finally gains a satisfaction that everything that she did wasn't for completely nothing, and that she now has the purpose that makes her existence useful. While she does want to protect the weak and give out justice, it is not entirely motivated by altruism, as HARROW points out. When Kotoko's pink jacket becomes red, it seems to signify how her pure, child-like ideals become tainted and much more flawed compared to them initially.

This, along with Kotoko having the wolf as her companion, all seem to point at just how much Kotoko herself has become the very monsters she wanted to destroy. The child-like pink has now become a red stained with blood, or rather a shade of magenta. A mix of red and pink that highlights Kotoko's immature and child-like view of a black and white world, while also noting that Kotoko is not the innocent Little Red Riding Hood she once was anymore—

She is the wolf. She is a Red Riding Hood who has been led on by the wolf's ideals, the prey that has been ensnared and eaten by the wolf at the end of the original Charles Perrault story.

She is the wolf, the monster now.

She is now the sinner she hates so much.

Sources:

https://journals.openedition.org/strenae/6423 This one is the Red Riding Hood clothing analysis!

https://core.ecu.edu/parillek/littleredcinder.pdf "Little Red Riding Hood" Charles Perrault version

https://medium.com/@monsterahelpful/the-symbolism-and-history-behind-the-monstera-leaf-unveiling-its-meaning-11ba828837c2 Monstera Deliciosa symbolism!

https://twitter.com/pug_maniac/status/1735912110423732687 Yamanaka's tweet for Kotoko's birthday flower!

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Little_Red_Riding_Hood The Wikipedia page for Little Red Riding Hood! This also contains the heavier themes I was talking about in the beginning, so if you want to find out more, they have a whole section about it here. Trigger Warnings for sexual assault and rape for this Wikipedia page.

https://youtu.be/VrAW8zyoEiY?si=a3p4nb8B1TTza-x_ Translation video for Kotoko's first voice drama, Task.

https://youtu.be/_gTTtS0Fvxk?si=Y1Zwu3XOI_nRHgex HARROW MV

Also I'd love to read more analyses if anyone writes them, especially on topics I avoided, so tag me if you write any!!!

[inside-black-moon]

First veil

- Uncle Baro!

The children surrounded him with joyful squeals.

“You promised us a fairy tale last time,” one child’s voice in the crowd indignantly reminded.

Really? - Baro grinned.

Yes! - the children began to make noise.

About the first veil! - one of the voices sharply clarified.

- Well... since I promised... and I just have free time...

The children began to rejoice and quickly sat down around Baro.

- My bloodthirsty monsters, are you ready? - he specified.

- Yes! - everyone answered in unison.

If only they knew... if they saw how Baro rolls eyes every time they ask to tell this terrible tale, which was clearly not for children's ears. And then...is this a fairy tale? Or is it a historical fact forever scratched into the history of the universe?

Baro took off his hat and glanced at the children - they sat waiting with their mouths open. He immediately changed his face and made a pained grimace:

“No! This is some kind of mistake! I’m too young! Lords, why are you silent?”

The children froze and listened to the story with interest.

“I saw it myself... I swear that I saw it myself - an executioner without a face, without eyes and mouth, humbly listened and carried out the order. He pulled the veil over this poor fellow. And he immediately fell silent...”

Baro slowly covered his face with both hands, leaving only a gap for his mouth, and continued:

- He gasped and cried. The veil filled with his tears and he swallowed them. He heard the executioner leave. He shouted! He wheezed and cried, asking for help.

Baro removed hands from face and threateningly pointed finger at the nearest small spectator: You! Must! Obey!

Everyone turned in the direction Baro was pointing and repeated - obey!

Baro put hands to face again:

- he had no choice... he could desperately scream further, but the air was running out... running out... running out...

- obedience or death! - The crowd screamed.

“I don’t...” Baro answered breathlessly.

- obedience or death! - the children repeated.

- I can't...

- obedience or death!

- He let out a final groan of powerlessness and fell silent... inhale... exhale... inhale... exhale...

Baro breathed slowly and evenly, as if he himself had actually put on the first veil.

- Thick air rolled down my face, only droplets of air were in the veil. Just droplets of air for a short “yes.”

He changed face again and looked around the crowd menacingly.

- Obedience.

- yes - he heard.

- Obedience!

“Yes,” the children repeated.

- From now on, you are an eternal and humble slave of the veil, you are the patron of pain, for the glory of the high lords!

- Yes! - the children exclaimed.

- His body went numb, his fingers simply fell onto the marble floor of the hall. The legs became stones as black as night, and the bones treacherously pierced the body again and again, twisting and tearing the flesh. Humility... no one will hear your cry... humility... no one will heal your wounds. And if at night...you suddenly hear clicks, then hide or run. Because the first veil is looking for a victim to share its endless pain with.

You *click* can't *click* hide

you *click* can't *click* hide

[stars-obsession-pit]

Danny Phantom - SCP crossover thought:

Amity Park could totally be a Nexus

Oh uh… context for those unaware of what SCP is:

The SCP Wiki is a website hosting a vast collaborative fiction setting

It tells the stories of the SCP Foundation, an organization dedicated to protecting the veil of normalcy by hiding away things that break the natural order

These anomalies are classified as “SCPs”, and are described in scientifically-styled articles, each identified with a number (e.g. SCP-173)

For some random examples of SCPs: a statue that snaps your neck if you look away (which was the original inspiration of the wiki after a version was posted to 4chan), a creepy stairwell, a coffee machine that can give any liquid, a museum that causes annoying citations, Mr. Fish, the end of a rainbow, and so on

The Foundation is not the only thing in the setting though - plenty of other groups (called “Groups of Interest” (or “GoIs” for short))

There Is No Canon

(By which i mean there are tons of different continuities. There are over 8000 SCP articles alone (never mind other stuff like tales), not all of are going to be able to coexist neatly)

Also there are genuinely different canons with majorly different setting elements like the Foundation being revealed publicly or death having become impossible or etc

Warning that if you are like me you can (and will) fall into long TVTropes/Wikipedia –style rabbit holes on this site

Also btw don’t start on SCP-001 and read up the list - there are so many and you’ll likely give up before getting to some really good ones. Check a curated list, ask the community for recs, or just kinda wander to whatever sounds interesting (though warning some (especially in the higher numbers) can require lots of background lore knowledge)

Anyway back to my original point - Nexuses are a thing from the SCP world that are essentially whole communities that are in some way anomalous. Due to their size, they’re not locked away by the Foundation like other anomalies are, but they are overseen (by the Foundation or some other GoI) to make sure they don’t break wider normalcy

And I think Amity Park would definitely qualify considering it’s a town/city with very common decently major ghost attacks. It’d also explain why they’re seemingly not causing news for the world at large as much despite those attacks.

I think it’d probably be classified as a Camelot or Shangri-La class nexus, but I’m not entirely sure.

The Ghost Investigation Ward could be made to be the overseeing organization if they didn’t suck at their jobs so much (possibly involving making them a subsection of the UIU to further justify it), or they could just be considered another GoI in the area separate from the “main” overseeing one(s)