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drgnmnts · 4 months ago

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knuckles bruised (like violets) │ jacaerys velaryon x targaryen!OC

Title: knuckles bruised (like violets)

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x Targaryen!OC (Daenys Targaryen, daughter of Viserys I Targaryen and Alicent Hightower)

Summary: There is no war so hateful to the gods as a war between kin, especially for those caught in between, longing only for peace as they're met with fire and blood.

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Chapter 6 - Second of His Name

Conten warning: mentions of su1cide (not explicit)

Word count: 3k

Ser Criston Cole gave Daenys a fright when he woke her up, as the hour of the wolf slipped away and gave way to the nightingale. His rich brown eyes, who had always looked at her with fatherly fondness, were now dark as a raven, and the look on his face was one of concern.

“What’s the matter?” Daenys asked, sitting up on what once had been her childhood bed.

“You must come with me at once, Princess,” he said, “Her Grace the Queen has summoned you in the Hand’s Tower.”

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Daenys could barely remember the last time she had visited her grandsire’s chamber, but she was sure she had never seen the place so crowded: Ser Otto was standing by the fire, his clothes pristine and poised as he stared at the flames; Queen Alicent, also dressed in her day garments, was sitting on one of the chairs by his desk, the other one taken by Helaena who, just like Daenys, was still wearing her nightgown. By the window, Aemond stood tall as he watched the moon set outside.

“Did something happen to Aegon?” she asked as soon as she noticed her eldest brother’s absence. Alicent stood then and walked to meet her daughter at the door.

“No, sweetling, Aegon is—”

“The King is dead,” informed Ser Otto before Daenys’ mother could deliver the news. Alicent let out a heavy sigh, and Daenys heard Helaena whimper.

As she felt all the blood in her head rush to her feet, ridding her face from any color, Daenys let out a soft “oh”. Alicent grabbed her hands and rubbed at them, her attempt at comforting her youngest daughter.

“How?” Daenys asked. Her eyes were brimmed with unshed tears, but somehow she felt unable to cry.

“In his sleep,” explained the queen, voice thick from all the crying. “A servant boy was changing the incense in his chamber when he saw him.”

Daenys sighed heavily, trying to process such grim news.

“I must write to Rhaenyra, I think she’d prefer to hear it from me,” she said. As she turned back towards the door, however, Ser Criston blocked her path, his eyes looking straight ahead.

“What are you doing?” she asked, and once again it was Ser Otto who answered.

“No one is to leave this room until we decide what our next step will be,” the man declared.

A knot set in the pit of Daenys’ stomach.

“Our next step?” she repeated with a humorless scoff. “Rhaenyra is to be our queen now, we must send word to Dragonstone and start with the preparations for her coronation. That is our next step, what is there to decide?”

The silence that followed her question was deafening, and realization fell upon Daenys’ shoulders like a stone.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she muttered in disbelief. “That is treason.”

“It was your father’s wish,” intervened Alicent, her white handkerchief clutched in her hand. “Last night, when I visited him, he told me he wished for Aegon to succeed him.”

“Beware the beast beneath the boards…” muttered Helaena, although no one seemed to pay her any mind.

Daenys shook her head in confusion. “You lie,” she uttered, and this made Aemond turn to face her immediately.

“Mind your tongue, sister,” he said, and his words felt like a slap on the face.

Alicent put her hands up in a conciliating manner. “It is the truth, Daenys,” she said, “I would never lie about something of this importance.”

Daenys crossed her arms over her chest, defensive. After a moment of silence that felt like a decade, she spoke again. “They won’t accept this. Daemon won’t accept this.”

“They will be offered generous terms,” said the Hand.

“If you think that will suffice, then I’m afraid your delusions of grandeur might have gotten the best of your intelligence, Grandsire.”

Otto Hightower’s anger used to scare Daenys as a child, but not anymore, and she held his cold gaze with defiance.

“Aemond,” he said, “escort Helaena back to her chamber. And do me the favor of finding your brother.”

With a curt nod, Aemond took Helaena’s arm with a gentleness he seemed incapable of, and the two left the room without uttering another word. The idea of staying there with her mother and grandsire sounded worse than torture, but as Daenys made her way to follow her siblings out, Ser Otto called her name again.

“I am afraid your lack of cooperation has led me to make a radical decision,” he began, as he closed the distance between them with slow steps, like a predator circling its prey. “You’ll remain in your bedchamber until Aegon’s coronation—”

“You’ll imprison me?” she inquired, utterly taken aback. “Mother!”

“You can’t be a prisoner in your own home, Daenys,” the queen said, but both of them knew that wasn’t true.

“The Queen and I cannot trust you,” he continued. “You��ve proven yourself more loyal to Rhaenyra than to your own family. I cannot have that kind of insurgence taking place in my own household, so from now on you will obey. You’ll remain in your bedchamber until Aegon’s coronation,” he repeated, “and after that you will stay here, at King’s Landing, where you should’ve been the last six years. There is no need for that marriage pact anymore.”

Daenys’ face paled, and she blinked rapidly as if trying to clear her vision and make sense of what her grandsire had said. There is no need for that marriage pact anymore. Jace’s beautiful face flashed before her eyes, and an involuntary sob escaped her lips.

“You cannot do that,” she choked out while she took a step back, as if she was being pushed by an invisible force that made her behave like a scared animal.

Alicent sighed. “Royal marriages are politics, Daenys—”

“I do not give a fuck about your bloody politics,” she snapped, and Alicent clutched her chest at her daughter’s improprieties.

“Careful,” warned Ser Otto.

“I am a woman grown,” she continued. “You might still be my grandsire, but you’ve long lost any right to tell me what I can or cannot do. I will go back to Dragonstone.”

“You shall not,” he insisted.

Daenys’ lower lip trembled as she felt like a little girl again, restrained and powerless in a house that was ever unable to show her love. “I would sooner throw myself out my window than stay here.”

Ser Otto took a step closer. “Do not threaten me, child,” he warned again.

She knew in her bones that this battle was lost. It didn’t matter what she said, or how much she pleaded with them to let her go. This decision was clearly long in the making and not an ounce of it was improvised or prompted by her father’s sudden death: Ser Otto Hightower never did anything unpremeditated.

Alicent tried to approach her daughter again, but Daenys was quick to remove her arm from her grasp as she took a step back. “I would like to return to my chamber, please,” she said, her voice quavering from holding back her need to cry.

Ser Otto gestured for Ser Criston to walk Daenys back to her impromptu prison cell. It was only when the heavy wooden doors were closed behind her that she allowed herself to collapse on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably as she was overcome by a sorrow she had never felt before.

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The day had dawned and turned to dusk again, and Daenys had not been allowed to leave her bedchamber. She had been served food twice, but of course she had rejected it, fearing the Hand might try to poison her to get her out of his way. She was now sitting by the bay window (which had been closed shut with locks to prevent her from escaping— or jumping to her death), leaning on the stone frame as she watched the specks of dust dance around the room with the setting sun.

Her face was puffy and red from crying, and her hair was now a disheveled mess after freeing it from her braids. She did not move when she heard someone opening the door.

“I heard you had quite the meltdown last night,” her visitor said. It was Aegon.

This made Daenys stand up immediately, defensive. However, what she saw in her brother’s face caught her completely off guard: Aegon’s face was as blotchy as hers, with dark circles under his eyes, and his sky-blue orbs now bloodshot red.

Since his sister did not respond, he spoke again as he sat down in one of the chairs by the fireplace. “They have me walking around to sober up so I can get some rest for tomorrow.”

Daenys wondered if he even remembered the awful things he had said to her during dinner. Her expression tensed. “They’re crowning you tomorrow?”

Aegon nodded, eyes glued to the dancing flames. “At dawn. In the Sept.”

“Gods…” Daenys whispered, covering her face with her hands. That meant the ceremony would take place before the smallfolk. There was no going back after that. Rhaenyra would be devastated.

As she sat next to her brother, he spoke once more.

“I know you probably won’t believe me… but I’m as much a prisoner as you are, dear.”

Daenys turned to look at him. He certainly didn’t look happy about becoming king; in fact, she couldn’t recall ever seeing him so miserable.

“Then refuse the crown, Aegon” she said. “Say you don’t want it. Bend the knee to Rhaenyra and this whole misfortune will end before it even starts.”

Aegon laughed bitterly.

“I begged Aemond and Cole to let me go. I would gladly get some gold, buy a myself a passage on whatever ship takes me as far away from here as possible and never set foot in this fucking shithole of a city again— sorry.”

Daenys shook her head; the least of her concerns was her brother’s profanities.

“This doesn’t feel real,” Daenys murmured. Aegon patted her knee in an attempt to give her some consolation. “What happens now, then?”

Aegon let out a heavy sigh. He looked tired, and much older than he actually was.

“I wish I knew.”

“Did they say anything about me?”

Aegon furrowed his brow in thought, as if trying to come up with the best way to word the information he was about to share with his little sister.

“They want you to bend the knee to me, of course. I suppose they intend to use you as some sort of messenger to speak to Rhaenyra, perhaps expecting her reaction to be softer if it’s you. And… well, you already know about the betrothal.”

The mere mention of her betrothal to Jace made her jaw clench, eyes cast down. Aegon noticed.

“You really love him?”

Daenys met his eyes again, and this time hers were brimmed with unshed tears. She nodded, lower lip trembling.

Aegon’s expression was a mixture of curiosity and genuine wonder. He nodded his head as he turned his gaze back to the fire. “Lucky,” he murmured.

Daenys wanted to agree, but she felt anything but.

Both siblings remained seated by the fire until the hour grew late and someone came to fetch Aegon. They were mostly quiet, but Daenys would occasionally put her head on his shoulder, and Aegon held her hand twice. Despite Aegon’s many flaws, the eldest son and youngest daughter had more in common than they had ever realized: both ignored by their father and constantly sermonized by their mother, knowing painfully well that they were not what she had expected them to be. Aemond was loyal and upright. Helaena, kind and soft. Even Daeron, who had spent most of his life away, was said to be stalwart and chivalrous.

Daenys and Aegon existed solely in the margins of their family, only brought to the spotlight when necessary, always to the benefit of others. Just like Daenys had been sent away in her youth to unite their family, Aegon was now being brought forward to secure the crown.

Before he left, Aegon hugged Daenys for the first time in many years. Then, she was alone again.

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She hadn’t been able to sleep the whole night and, when the handmaids came into her chamber at dawn to help her prepare, Daenys was sure her ghost-like state gave them a fright. The women bathed her and clothed her in a simple pearl-white dress, very similar to the ones she used to wear as a little girl, and she was certain it had been her mother’s idea. The handmaids braided her hair in such an intricate and beautiful way that Daenys would’ve thanked them, had it not been for the lump in her throat every time she caught sight of herself in the mirror.

She was escorted to the Sept of Baelor by four members of the Kingsguard, and she knew Daemon would’ve found it amusing, for they were treating her as if she was some sort of criminal instead of just a girl without her dragon.

Upon their arrival, Daenys took her place next to Aemond, but didn’t utter a word to him. She watched the small-folk enter the Sept until it was full to the brim.

“People of King’s Landing,” began Ser Otto, his voice powerful as he addressed the crowd, “today is the saddest of days. Our beloved king, Viserys the Peaceful, is dead.”

The people audibly gasped and spoke amongst themselves, and Daenys wondered if they really felt the loss of their king, or didn’t care at all.

“But it is also the most joyous of days,” he continued, “for as his spirit left us, he whispered his final wish that his first-born son, Aegon, should succeed him.”

After a moment of confusion, the crowd applauded, as knights and musicians alike entered the premises, ready to receive their soon-to-be king. Daenys felt sick to her stomach as she watched Aegon march through the crowd, visibly upset and insecure, but anger was also starting to bubble up inside her: you shouldn’t be here. None of us should be here.

“It is your great good fortune and privilege to be here to witness this. A new day for our city. A new day for our realm. A new king to lead us.”

After Aegon had knelt before the Septon to receive his blessings in the name of the Seven, Ser Criston took the Conqueror’s crown and put it on Aegon’s head.

“The crown of the Conqueror, passed down through generations. Let the Seven bear witness: Aegon Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne.”

Ser Criston was the first one to bow his head to his new king; he was followed by Alicent, Helaena, and Aemond. When Aegon’s eyes fell on Daenys, they were pleading. She could feel her mother’s gaze, and the Hand’s, and the hundreds of people waiting for her to acknowledge her brother as her King. Whatever I do, I am a traitor, she thought.

Flexing her knees ever so slightly, Daenys curtsied to King Aegon II.

“All hail His Grace, Aegon, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

Each toll of the bell felt like a dagger through the heart; an ominous warning of the wars to come, a reminder that the situation wasn’t a dream, but real life, and so would be the consequences.

As the crowd erupted in cheers for their new king, however, Daenys felt the floor beneath her vibrate as if they were standing on a volcanic crater. Before she could even turn towards her siblings, a giant dragon, scarlet as the blood that ran through her veins, emerged through the wooden floors: Meleys.

The Red Queen screeched as she came completely into view, and amidst smoke and cries of help, Daenys felt Aemond grab her wrist as he stood in front of her and Helaena.

Princess Rhaenys looked majestic on her dragon, and Daenys’ heart leapt in anticipation when she saw her eyes scanning the family until they fell on her. Rhaenys gave her a barely-there smile.

“I am not here to shed blood,” the woman said, her voice resonating in the now quiet sept. “This war isn’t mine to begin, and I am no kinslayer. However, I cannot return to Dragonstone without Princess Daenys.”

Daenys’ eyebrows shot up as she drew a breath, her heart beating with such intensity that she could hear its thumping echoing in her ears. Aemond’s grip tightened around her wrist.

“Aemond,” she said, eyes wide in agitation, “let me go.”

Aemond’s brows furrowed in something akin to affliction, and Daenys had to peel his fingers off her so he would finally release her. Daenys looked at her family one last time: Helaena seemed miles away, while Ser Criston kept his eyes glued to the dragon. Alicent and Aegon stood together: her, with eyes wide and glassy; him, with a faint smile. From the other end of the altar, Ser Otto watched her intently.

When Daenys made her way down the stone stairs, the dragon’s enormous head turned towards her, her threatening jaws opening to let out a warning sound.

“Vēttan se, Meleys,” said Rhaenys, and the she-dragon lowered her head. Allow it.

Daenys lifted her skirts and grabbed onto the rope ladder that connected directly with Rhaenys’ saddle. She climbed as fast as she could, aware that the more time they spent there, the more likely it would be for someone to try and attack Meleys.

As she settled herself behind Princess Rhaenys, Meleys taking flight shortly after and thus getting them out of the Sept, there was only one thought in Daenys’ mind, which repeated itself over and over again:

I’m going home.

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If you liked this, let me know in any way! <3

Don't worry, we'll see Jace again next chapter, and I think you'll like it hehe.

Also, just a reminder that I'm open to requests if you have any! :)

And once again, thank you for your patience and all the kind comments!

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Series Taglist: @void21, @burningwitchobject, @hellish-idiot, @inf4ntdeath, @klutzylaena, @swimmjacket, @helo1281917, @cat-winter, @deltamoon666, @strawberrymangoes, @lenadoerrer, @lenasdmns, @parkyurri, @groovycass, @yagbookstand02, @jacaeryslover, @moonshine147, @neocity-mel, @pleasebell, @blupblupfish , @izzzzzzzzylove , @alexandra-001 , @treblebeth, @esposadomd , @pixiemoony , @alessiaparigim

#game of thrones #house of the dragon #jacaerys velaryon x oc #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys x reader #hotd jacaerys #jacaerys velaryon x reader #hotd #knuckles bruised (like violets)

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asa-do-your-thing · 7 months ago

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Mine is the Vengeance

18+ MINORS DNI (Dark)Aemond Targaryen x F!Reader (/OC, hair colour is mentioned), mentioned Aegon x F!Reader 3.8k Warnings: DEAD DOVE I REPEAT DEAD DOVE, dubcon, noncon, blowjob, cunnilingus, P in V sex, smut duh, derogatory language, sexism, parent-child incest mentioned, as always no proofreading no nothing

Time had seemed to slow around you. Biting back tears, you flinched every time Queen Alicent took another section of your dark locks to braid them sweetly up onto your head, creating a beautiful updo. Two moons had passed since you’d been married, and it was common knowledge that Prince Aemond Targaryen had only ever touched you on your wedding night, refusing to interact with you more than he had to, only the two of you and Queen Alicent knowing why.

It was not your fault, you thought to yourself and sighed. You were not to be blamed. Though still, you had to be grateful that he stepped up the way he did. A true Prince, you thought with a tiny sneer.

“‘Tis alright, my dear, he can be peculiar about your… previous duties to King Aegon. It is now in your responsibility to give him a son, seeing as… the realm does not have a clear successor. To keep the peace, you’ll gift Prince Aemond a little son, so that Jaehaera can marry someone befitting her position,” Alicent whispered soothingly, yet the frigid coldness of her voice did not soothe you at all.

Ah yes, having to give your husband your body, because your rapist is burnt and broken beyond repair, so no heirs may follow. Wonderful. Wonderfully splendid news indeed. Though, with a resigned nod, you accepted the Queen Mother’s dubious advice and flinched as she pinned your veil into your braids.

“Now you look beautiful enough for him. Go now, child, and do what must me done. And oh, before I forget it - do give him one of the smiles that enraptured King Aegon so. You know, he told me that that was the reason why he… paid you such attention. He always used to ramble on about your smile. Now go, child, go, and show Aemond how pretty you can be.”

With a lingering trace of hesitation, you rose from the stool, your royal dress rustling softly against the stone floor. The reflection on the grand mirror struck you; you were a vision of pure elegance and regality, every inch the consort of a prince. As you walked towards the door, Alicent's words rang in your ears, "...show Aemond how pretty you can be."

The long hallway leading to your marital chambers seemed like an endless path. It was as though each step echoeed back into the silence, reminding you of your duty and what had to happen for you to walk this shameful path. Aegon, drunk. Aegon, sobbing. Aegon calling you ‘Mother’ while he held you down onto the mattress.

Aegon, who had screamed at you. Aegon, who after having received an earful by the Hand, Lord Otto Hightower, rashly betrothed you to Prince Aemond. Aegon, who caused all of your and Aemond’s misery. Though… it was your misery, first and foremost. Aemond never had to cry because Aegon had ripped him up because he was too drunk and eager. You clutched the delicate fabric of your gown, feeling knots in your stomach. Swallowing hard, you lifted your hand to knock on the door.

Prince Aemond sat his desk, engrossed in scrolls bearing news of the current situation across Westeros. Alliances, Troop movements and such things. He looked up as you enter, his violet eyes betraying surprise before he quickly masked it with hateful indifference. His gaze travelled over your form, taking in your carefully arranged hair and the gown that fell around you like a dark green waterfall.

"Are we receiving guests?", he asked with a hint of sarcasm in his cold voice. Your heart fluttered uneasily but summoning all the courage you had left, you flashed him a radiant smile - one that was reportedly fondly spoken about by King Aegon himself. Maybe… maybe he’d play along, just this once…

"No," you replied softly, moving closer to where he sat. "I just thought... perhaps..."

You trailed off, aware that your cheeks were red with embarrassment. He regarded you for a moment longer before sighing and setting aside his papers. He stood to his full height and stepped closer to you, glowering down from his not insignificant height.

“Did the Queen Mother send you?”

Clenching and unclenching your fists, you nodded gently. “Yes, my Prince. I was to, well I still am to… fulfill my duty.”

The Prince looked down at you with a blank face, before disgust took over his fine, Targaryen features. Stepping ever closer to you, he held you by your wrists and looked you over, like cattle in the markets.

“Hm. Wouldn’t it be the greatest way to show my dear brother, the King, that I despise what he had done by just not touching you? Hm? So that I’ll be the next in line? Hm. I doubt that the Queen Mother really wished for me to bed you. Maybe you are just such a harlot that you’ve decided that you neded to get your fill again, now that my darling brother is burnt and crippled?”

His words stung, every syllable colored with venom. Your eyes welled up, threatening to spill over with unshed tears. Your heart clenched as he let go of your wrist. You turned away from him, unable to bear the scorn etched on his face.

“No,” you whispered lost in the silence of the room. “I am not a harlot,” you affirmed more firmly, turning back to him, your chin held high even as your eyes betrayed an ocean of hurt. “You know I am not. You know exactly what the King has done. Does that truly make me a whore? And I came here because it is my duty. Whether you choose to fulfill yours or not is up to you.”

Aemond crossed his arms over his chest, appearing unmoved by your heartfelt plea. But you saw something flicker in his eyes, a spark of understanding perhaps? It was quickly extinguished by a cold hardness that made you shiver despite the warmth of the room.

“Your duty?” he echoed, his tone laced with mockery and bitterness. “What a pleasant duty it must be for you – first my brother and now me?”

He began pacing around the room, looking more like a caged beast than a prince. You watched him quietly, feeling small and insignificant beneath his irate gaze.

After a long silence that felt like ages, Aemond stopped before the hearth, its flames casting ominous shadows on his face making him appear more dragon than man. He finally said in an eerily calm voice, “I will take you, then. Take you in every way known to man. You’ve been a whore once, so why not be a whore now? Give me my damned son and then you can go and fuck my corpse-like brother again for all I care.”

The words hit you like an ice-cold gust of wind in winter's heart. The world seemed to crumble around you as you grappled with the gravity of his words.

“My Prince, Prince Aemond,” you implored softly. But a single glare from him stopped your protest. “As you wish, my Prince.”

Silence between the two of you spread as the two of you stared at each other, not quite knowing what to do now.

“Take off your clothes, but be slow. With every piece of clothing that you lose you shall tell me what my brother had done to you. Tell me all about yourself and your wonderfully wretched body, my dearest Lady Wife,” he murmured and sank into a chair with a small smirk, pouring himself a cup of wine.

You felt like a deer caught in the glare of a predator, frozen and terrified. But this was your duty, as painful and degrading as it was. Each slow inhale and exhale felt like a shard of ice piercing your lungs as you reluctantly began to unlace your dress from the back. As the fabric loosened, you began to speak, each word echoing sharply in the silent room.

"His hands...he was rough with them," you started, trying to keep your voice steady. "He tore at my clothes with an eagerness that scared me."

The room was silent except for your voice and the soft rustling of fabric. The first layer of your dress fell to the ground, pooling around your feet. You could feel Aemond's gaze on you, cold and unyielding.

"He pinned me down in the council chambers...," you continued, paling slightly at the memory. "His breath stank of wine... he didn't even look at me... not really. I was two and ten, I’ve not even flowered then."

As you spoke, another layer fell away. You stood before him shivering slightly, feeling naked despite being partially clothed, your veil tickling you softly.

Your eyes met Aemond's gaze and for a moment, there was silence - a tense void filled with resentment, hatred – but also a seed of understanding that seemed to have sprouted from his icy demeanor.

“He didn't care about me... I was just an object to him,” you whispered, stepping out of your last dress, standing there like a doll, which some girl used to dress up, as you stood there in your shift, your hose and your luxurious headdress. “He always wanted me to tell him that I loved him. All while he was fucking me, scraping my face against stones, letting me bleed.”

Aemond’s eyes widened slightly at your statement while his jaw clenched tight. He downed the rest of his cup in one go and sat onto the bed, motioning you to come forth.

“That sounds like you were not a whore at all… but your gasps and moans were heard all through the Red Keep. Why did I always have to listen to your moans, never your sobs? Why did I even have to see you bouncing on his cock, tits out as if you were on the street of silk?” He asked slowly and bent you over his knees, methodically rolling up your shift to bare your arse to him.

All the heat rose to your face in embarrassment and anger as you tried to lie down in a more comfortable position, or, preferrably, to wriggle out of his grip completely. All you got, in return, was a hard slap against your supple arsecheeks. “Aemond! My P-prince! What are you-?”, you yelped, but were cut off by another rough spank.

"That's 'Prince Aemond' to you," he said, his tone firm. "And you will speak to me respectfully or you won't speak at all."

You bit your lip, forcing back the tears that were threatening to spill from your eyes as your face burned with shame. But under his gaze, you found the strength to continue.

"My... my moans," you choked out, swallowing dryly. "They were not of pleasure but of pain. The King... He... He enjoyed making me cry out..."

Another slap made you gasp with surprise, your body jerking under the sudden pain, your headdress jangling at the sudden motion. You glared at him, your eyes aflame with anger and hurt. But he remained stoic, his face impassive as he stared back at you.

"You were there in the shadows, watching... listening," you said bitterly. "Did it bring you pleasure too? Hearing my cries? Seeing my discomfort? Pumped your fist while I bled?"

Aemond didn't respond but his grip tightened on your wrist and for a moment his face hardened.

"Am I expected to believe that?" he asked softly. "You expect me to believe that it wasn't consensual? That you weren't enjoying yourself? You looked so serene. Like the statue of the maiden in the sept…"

His words were like a knife in your heart and you jerked away from him only to be pulled back into place by a strong hand on your shoulder.

"Look at me, woman," he commanded, forcing your head up so your eyes met his. There was a strange look in his eyes now – not quite apologetic but no longer filled with rage either. “Tell me that you’ll look at me the same way and that you will not be complaining, chattering or crying. I want you to be as serene as you were back then.”

Bile rose in the back of your throat but you nodded slowly, getting up, but yelped as Aemond ripped your shift off your body, leaving you there in your bejewelled veil and your stockings. Not for long though - he pushed you down onto his bed with a force that knocked the wind out of your lungs.

“Tell me you want me too. Tell me that you’ll be as wanton for me as you were for him,” he whispered into your ear, his long silver hair brushing over your shivering, naked form. “Don’t deny it, I know you liked it, just as you’ll like this… But I’ll be gentle, I’ll treat you like a Lady…”, he mumbled on as he fumbled with his doublet.

Was he… was your sick, twisted husband truly trying to get himself to forget that you were here against your will? That you would never truly give yourself to him or his brother?

You did not immediately reply and received another slap, this time against your mound, making you yelp. “I… uh… yes?”

"Good. That's a good girl," Aemond purred, his eye flashing dangerously in the candlelight as he worked the buttons of his doublet. "Remember, you're here to please me. You're here to make me feel like the king my brother is."

His words stung, but you chose not to respond. Instead, you lay stiffly on the bed, your eyes fixed on an intricate pattern on the ceiling, trying desperately not to think about what was about to happen.

"What happened with my brother... It doesn't matter now," Aemond said softly, interrupting your thoughts. He dropped his doublet onto the floor and moved to unbuckle his pantaloons. His eyes ran down your exposed form greedily. "I will make sure that it is different. I will make sure you enjoy this."

His hands roamed over your body — fingertips barely skimming your skin, followed by gentle caresses and soft strokes that made you shiver despite yourself. He was true to his word: he was gentle — at least so far.

"Stop it," you whispered, your voice breaking as you pulled away from him and covered yourself with your arms. "Please."

Aemond's brows furrowed in confusion — or perhaps frustration — as he looked at you questioningly.

"I said I want... I want you too," you lied through gritted teeth, forcing a smile onto your face. You had to keep him appeased — keep him from hurting you any further. "But I want you... naked too. Show me how I should touch you."

Your plea seemed to surprise him as he quickly rid himself of the last articled of clothing. “Tsk, tsk, tsk, such a wanton little wife I have. Laying there with Jewels and a modest veil covering her hair… wanting to touch me. Alright then, Lady Wife, touch me,” he tutted and pushed you back up onto your knees, his finger pressing against your chin. “And do keep your wonderful smile while you try and take me with your mouth.”

You looked down at Aemond, the glow of the draping curtains casting shadows along his chiseled body. Forcing a shaky breath through your lips, you nodded and gently wrapped your hand around his hard cock. The contact made him hiss and you glanced up through your lashes to see him watching you intently, a peculiar look in his eyes.

"Well? Don't just sit there," he growled, his fingers tangling in your hair, playing with your veil. You swallowed hard against the knot in your throat before you lowered your head down onto him, his swollen, leaking tip staring at you teasingly as you wrapped your lips around him, quickly bobbing up and down along.

But Aemond had different ideas. He guided you at a leisurely pace, drawing out the experience as he muttered deeply under his breath. His thumb brushed against your cheek, wiping away a tear that hadn't fallen yet.

"Slow down," he murmured. "I want to enjoy this." The way he spoke to you was as if he truly believed that this was what you wanted too. It was like he was coaxing you along, encouraging you like one might a timid horse.

You could feel the heat radiating off him as he pulsed subtly under your touch, his fingers relaxing their grip on your hair as if he was trying to fight against the pleasure coursing through him. His other hand fumbled for something on the side table - a small vial of sweet smelling oil - and tilted it into his palm.

"Open," he commanded softly. As much as you didn't want to obey him, fear of punishment had you complying immediately. He slowly poured the warm liquid into your mouth before pulling back slightly to watch it run down your chin and onto your heaving tits. It tasted nice, at least, you thought. At least he hadn’t hurt you too much. At least, you thought with an embarrassed blush creeping up your cheeks, it felt… okay. Not good, not great, but there had been a certain head between your thighs. Maybe it had just been the lewdness of the situation.

"That's a good girl," Aemond purred in your ear, his voice thick with lust as his cock twitched against your cheek. "Now, back to it."

You swallowed him deeper this time, taking him all the way down, your nose brushing against his pubes. He moaned approvingly, his grip on your hair tightening again as he started bucking his hips into your eager mouth in short, shallow thrusts. Your mind drifted away as you thought of anything but what was happening: the feel of sea breeze on your face, the smell of wildflowers blooming on the hills of your home, and the sound of your mother singing one of her lullabies.

Aemond's breathing became ragged and uneven above you. "I'm close," he panted, warning you just before hot, sticky seed shot into your mouth. You didn't stop until he told you to pull away, gasping for air as you wiped your face and chest with the edge of the bedspread. There was a tense silence between you both before he finally spoke up again.

"Get on all fours and spread yourself for me," he said simply. “I wish to taste you.”

As you were unpinning your veil, you felt Aemond’s big, sleek hands on your shoulders as he shook his head. “No, keep that on. I want to fuck my little doll - the doll Mother has dressed, the doll my brother has played with. But now you are mine. My pretty doll. Taking me so innocently…”, he rambled once more as he lowered himself between your trembling thighs.

Were men not supposed to be spent after their release? What was he doing to you?

You braced yourself as best as you could against the intrusion, trying not to whimper as he spread your lips apart. His tongue lapped at your clit, teasingly at first, then firmly, compelling you to arch your back and cry out in both pleasure and pain. His fingers plunged inside of you simultaneously, stretching you impossibly wide while his tongue continued its ministrations on your overly sensitive button.

"You like that, don't you?" he asked smugly, his voice full of satisfaction. "Tell me you like it."

"I... I-I," you couldn't help but moan as he pressed his face against your core harder, his tongue leaving a trail of fire along your sensitive folds.

"Say it," he growled against your thighs, his cock hardening once more against your thigh.

"I... I like it," you panted. "Oh.. oh Gods Aemond - I like it. Just like - mmph!”

His finger pushed into you to the hilt, curling and stroking inside until you were trembling on the edge of climax. "Say my name again, whore," he demanded low.

"Aemond," you gasped out, panting for breath. "I - I like it Aemond!"

He chuckled darkly against your core, his tongue flicking over your clit furiously as his fingers moved in and out of your wet channel. The waves of pleasure crashed over you like a tsunami, rendering you helpless underneath him until your back arched from the mattress and you cried out his name once more, clenching around his invading digits.

He pulled back just as quickly as he'd started, leaving you panting and drenched with sweat. "Good girl," he praised, wiping his mouth with the back of his forearm before capturing your lips in a searing kiss, forcing his tongue roughly into your mouth. As much as you hated to admit it, your body responded to him regardless of what your mind thought of him; juices slicked between your thighs as he ground against your core, hardeness poking your soft flesh.

You hated it. You loved it. You hated him. You loved him. You -

"Now let's see how tight that cunt really is," he growled against your ear before roughly rolling you onto your stomach, spreading your legs apart and plunging his length inside with one smooth motion, placing your veil over your hair in a way his mother used to do in the sept.

You could do naught but squeal and moan, trying your hardest to push him out with your cunny while tears formed in your eyes. Did he not promise to be gentle? But if you were to complain, what would he do then? What was he doing now? Your mind raced incessantly.

Would he also want to call you Mother? Suckle on your teats after he was spent? Or was he different to Aegon? Aegon would’ve finished minutes ago, you thought nervously. Why was Aemond toying with you like that?

He pulled back, almost fully before slamming in again, mercilessly repeating the motion until you were begging for mercy. "Aegon was right," he grunted as he pounded into you, grunting with each thrust. "You are tighter than a maiden!"

The mention of his brother's name sent daggers through your heart and spurred you onwards. Your walls clenched and unclenched around him, desperately trying to force him out.

"Yes," he moaned, interpreting your actions as pleasure instead of pain. “That's it my pretty doll, squeeze me tighter... tighter! Show your husband how good you can treat him!”

With a final grunt, he released his seed inside you, collapsing on top of your trembling frame. "You're mine now, doll," he panted, spent but still hard inside of you. "Mine and only mine. Put on a cloak and go show yourself to Aegon in his sickbed. Show him my dripping seed. Tell him that you’re mine." A few seconds passed before he pulled himself out of you and turned away. “I’ll see you in a month, if your blood has come again. If not, well… Fare well, until you can hand me my heir. Good night.”

#asas fics #fanfiction #house of the dragon #hotd #prince aemond #prince aemond targaryen #aemond #aemond smut #dark aemond smut #aegon #king aegon #prince aegon targaryen #dark aemond x reader #aemond x reader

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demigod-jack-hearth · 6 months ago

Text

THIS IS A SELF INSERT PJO OC RP BLOG

Please don't send donation asks because 1, I'm a minor and can't donate, 2, I feel guilty that I can't donate and 3, I can't tell whether they're scams or not

Moodboard by @reyna4ever

TWs

(mental health issues, SH, suicidal mentions, SA, occasionally gore, swearing)

Family is the most important thing

Name: Jack Hearth she/her

Age: 17. Birthday= 16th December

Sexuality : pansexual

Height : 6"2 (WOOOO, growth spurt)

Gender : female (jack's gone fully fem)

Pronouns : she/her

Godly parent: none/adopted by Hestia @unproblematic-hestia

Legacy of @bast-the-best26 (Egyptian goddess of cats)

Relationship status : single

Patrons

warm orange eyes, swimmers build, celestial bronze hand

Fatal flaw: low self-esteem + personal loyalty

Backstory :

parents died in a car crash, and she was chased by hellhounds, this is where Hestia found and saved her life, she then named her, her champion even if she is mortal, she then helped her get to CHB where she stayed for 6 years, before moving to CJ after the second giant war. She now moves between camps quite often

Powers : fire manipulation, can heal with fire, fire immunity, can summon food, charmspeak, manipulate love, enhanced agility, enhanced senses, partially immortal, plant manipulation, emotion manipulation, can communicate with cats, hydrokinetic, can speak with snakes, can sense monsters, can shapeshift, can control the winds, heals from moonlight, more energy from the moon, can cause someone to go insane, can communicate with dragons, can slightly control dragons, can create hallucinations

Parents : dead

Adopted by

@unproblematic-hestia = mom

@damiedantediane = dad

@mache-of-greece = mama

Siblings :

@thegroovydaughterofhestia

@unfortunate-daughter-of-hestia

@iceweavercatlover

Kids

Face claim :

Cat form

His weapons

There's 2 of these ⬇️

Important starters

Few occ notes

I also run the blog @in-this-together-forever @jacks-best-kid @snowflake-spawn @the-olympus-assassin

OCC is gender fluid - please use they/them unless I've specified

Occ is pan - I will make a lot of jokes about it

A lot of British jokes will be made - I am British

Fanart ⬇️

#intro #oc #pjo oc #pjo rp #rp blog #Spotify #tw #tw self harm #tw suicide #TW #TW sh #self harm #suicide #self insert #SA

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cozy-cinnamon-roll · 9 months ago

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We Interrupt This Broadcast...

(Another two-part-er! Stay tuned for part 2 very shortly!)

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Pairing: Ler!Rosie, Ler!OC, Lee!Alastor (strictly platonic)

Content/Trigger Warnings: tickling, very brief blood mention, medical themes (non-graphic & painless). One comically graphic description of cannibalism (first paragraph). Also, this is set right after Alastor gets his ass handed to him by Adam, so you can expect a lil angst sprinkled in there (don't worry, he gets better).

If there are any trigger warnings you'd like me to add in the future (and/or to this fic), PLEASE let me know! I am always happy to oblige. 💕

This is a ticklefic! If that's not your cup of tea, kindly move along.

Ok... I'm gonna be honest folks, I have no idea if this fic is even coherent. This ain't my Best Work™ - this is literally the coping mechanism I've been relying on to put myself to sleep every night this week because HOLY SHIT my life is stressful at the moment. 😅

But anyway, I've decided I'm just gonna go ahead and post it, because 1) the world needs more lee!alastor, and 2) I'm not here to do my Best Work™, I'm here to write cute self-indulgent little stories about Alastor getting tickled to bits by his platonic wife. I'm here to decompress my hypervigilant ass at the end of long days by imagining my favorite endearingly creepy characters get wrecked by my other favorite endearingly creepy characters.

In summary, I'm here to have a good time, and I certainly did with this fic. So I hope you do too!

Featuring my new oc! (Rosie and Al still take center stage though, don't worry lol)

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It's a little-known fact that cannibals make terrific doctors. When you spend every meal tearing the human body apart with your face, you end up with a pretty comprehensive intuition for demonic anatomy.

So Alastor supposed he should consider himself lucky to have Rosie and her loyal posse so close at hand after his battle with Adam.

He was certainly relieved when Rosie had stumbled upon him, barely conscious from blood loss on the floor of his wrecked radio tower - and especially a few hours later when, having been rushed back to Cannibal Town, he was whisked into a warm, familiar parlor and deposited on a comfy couch.

Within minutes Rosie had summoned a woman in a white coat who swooped in, produced a bottle of a strange, foul-smelling gel from her medicine bag, soaked a rag with it, and pressed it firmly against Alastor's wound. The searing pain evaporated almost on contact.

"What is that?" Alastor breathes, visibly relaxing against the arm of the couch he's propped against.

"Anesthetic." She begins preparing a needle and thread.

"Didn't know such a thing existed down here."

"Of course! We're demons, not barbarians," Rosie scoffs, watching from the sidelines.

Cannibals, as a rule, rarely last long enough to need a doctor, but Rosie is no ordinary cannibal. And Dr. Trudy Sawblade - a young surgical resident in life, and Rosie's personal physician in death - is the best of the best. While she hadn't quite completed her medical training before her untimely death, in Rosie's service she's gained more than enough experience to make up for her education cut short.

"That salve is derived from a distant cousin of the poison dart frog. Evidently most of the frogs are assholes, because hell has an downright enormous population of them." Trudy's voice is measured and matter-of-fact, with a soft lilt that is both soothing and vaguely unsettling. "Haven't been discovered on earth yet. Which is good, because one whiff of this would end a mortal life in a matter of seconds."

"Lucky you, you're already dead," Rosie chimes in cheerfully.

"Lucky me," Alastor murmurs, without conviction.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Truthfully, with the pain from his chest wound numbed, the weight of his recent defeat presses even more heavily on Alastor's heart. Someone - probably one of the cannibals who helped transport him from the rubble pile to Rosie's parlor - must have grabbed the broken microphone as they carried him out, because the fractured pieces are sitting on the side table at the other end of the couch. Under normal circumstances the awareness that someone had touched his staff without permission would spark a flash of rage from the Radio Demon, but now he can only stare dismally at what remains of his cane - aware that it's no longer capable of accomplishing much anyway.

It takes only a few minutes for Trudy to stitch Alastor back up and wrap his chest in a stretchy gauze. Meanwhile, Rosie quickly mends the worst of the tears in his clothes - if only to avoid having to watch her friend stare down the couch at his broken staff, with an uncharacteristic half-smile that damn near breaks her heart.

"Alright, sir, that should do it for now. It's a nasty gash, for sure, but the salve should keep it from getting infected."

"Thank you, my dear." He gives an appreciative nod to the surgeon, and Rosie too, as his fellow overlord hands him back his clothes.

"Can't have you going around with a big hole in your chest, can we?" Rosie steps back and scrutinizes her own patch job as he slowly dresses himself again. "It ain't perfect... especially for a classy fellow like you. But I'm sorry to report that I saw my tailor at a Sunday brunch just last week. Inconvenient, but I gotta admit, he made a wonderful casserole."

For the briefest of moments, this aside manages to tweak Alastor's smile into something vaguely genuine. "I'm sure he did."

"One more thing, Mr. Alastor, sir," Trudy jumps in as the radio demon pulls on his coat. "So sorry, I almost forgot. The angel also threw you against a wall, correct?"

At the recollection, Alastor's smile stiffens into something more closely resembling a grimace. His antlers rise between his ears. "Does it matter?"

"You may be at risk for internal injuries." If Trudy is at all fazed by inviting the most powerful overlord in hell's annoyance, it doesn't show. "I really ought to check, just to be safe."

Alastor looks away. As loathe as he is to even acknowledge his own fragility, he truly isn't sure of the extent of his own injuries - given that he's not used to receiving them in the first place. And he'd be damned (well, damned twice) if Adam had ruptured something vital, spelling the radio demon's second death a few hours after the fact.

He grits his teeth. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt."

"Lovely. If you could just lie back, sir..." As he obliges, she kneels beside the couch. "I'm just going to feel for any swelling..." Her hands hover over him-

"Er, wait." Alastor abruptly sits up.

"It's alright, I won't touch your wound!" Trudy soothes. "I'll just be feeling down here..." She gestures to his midsection (which elicits a sharp flinch).

"No, I-" He hesitates. "I'm... not sure this is necessary."

"Oh, Alastor, stop worryin'!" Rosie reassures him with a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Trudy is quite picky about her meals. She'd never go for venison."

"That's... not what..."

Alastor pauses, and evidently decides against trying to explain what he meant. He reluctantly lies back against the cushions again.

"I'm going to place my hands under your shirt, sir. If you feel any pain, please alert me."

"Very well."

As Trudy lifts his shirt, he looks like he is going to say something more - but whatever it is dies on his tongue the moment her hands make contact with his stomach. He brings one knee up sharply.

"Tender there, sir?"

"No! No, your hands are cold." His words have gone uncharacteristically stiff.

Trudy methodically probes one side of his belly, then the other (which in turn causes his other knee to pop up). This time when Trudy asks if he's in pain, he merely shakes his head.

The surgeon furrows her brow, concentrating. Human-animal hybrids like Alastor already take a bit of poking around just to get a sense for each unique configuration of organs. It doesn't help that the man is bracing for every touch...

"Are you sure this doesn't hurt, sir?" she murmurs tentatively. "You're very tense."

"Yes." The word comes out like a hiss. She glances at the radio demon's face. He's wearing his typical showman's smile, but his eyes are fixed on the ceiling with a weird, wide, unwavering stare.

Finally the surgeon sits back. "Well, I don't feel anything concerning. But to be honest, sir, I can't feel much of anything." She turns apologetically to her employer. "His stomach is all clenched up..."

But Rosie is simply standing there pressing a huge grin into her glove. She's known Alastor for decades. She can read his expressions like a magazine.

"Alastor, darling," Rosie drawls casually. "Are you ticklish?"

From the radio demon's reaction, you'd think she'd asked if he was an Exorcist. He scrambles to sit up. "No! Why would-"

"You're ticklish. That's..." She catches herself just before the word precious.

"...What?!" There's an edge of defensiveness to his voice that Rosie very rarely hears from him.

"Why are you embarrassed?"

"I'm not emb- That's not- what-" Oh, she's giving him that look. "I'm just- I wasn't-"

As he speaks, Alastor's voice suddenly goes thin. His gaze turns inward. "I'm stuttering. I don't stutter! I've never stuttered!" He clutches his coat closer around himself. "I am the RADIO DEMON, for heaven's sake, I don't sta-AHH! Haha-!"

Evidently a scribble to the ribs is a very effective way to interrupt a panicking demon. Rosie runs her fingers from his hip up his side to his arm and back a couple times for good measure.

The amount of startled laughter she is able to draw from just this surprise touch delights her - the poor man is so ridiculously sensitive that a five-second one-handed tickle leaves him fully breathless.

"Okay! Okay, okahay! Keheh- Rosie!"

"Sorry dear, couldn't resist." She holds her hands up, still beaming like a stadium light. "I'll stop torturing you."

Alastor clears his throat. "You're not torturing me, dearest." He straightens his bowtie, clearly attempting to salvage his dignity. "You know what I always say, laughter is a powerful sign of-"

He cuts off with a sharp inhale and defensive flinch as Rosie perches on the edge of the sofa beside Trudy. She grins.

"You're right. That's certainly your specialty, isn't it?"

Alastor forces a nervous chuckle. "Never fully dressed without a smile, you know."

"Well don't worry, darling. I understand." She pats his knee. "Just because you've got the scariest evil cackle in hell doesn't mean you appreciate having it tickled out of you."

Rosie had expected this assurance to put him at ease, but if anything, he seems more troubled.

"Why would I mind a little, ah..." Tickling. Tick-ling. He can't bring himself to articulate two syllables. Is this all he's left with without his staff? "...Er, a little bit of levity? Can't let things get too serious, can we?" With another quick cough, the radio demon finally manages to get his voice to fall back into his familiar breezy cadence. He turns to Trudy. "Now, are we... quite finished with that examination?"

"Nothing seems amiss, from what I can feel." Trudy takes a step back. "Which is not much, but I think I've already made you uncomfortable enough..."

"Nonsense! I'm perfectly at ease!" He lies back again and smooths his coat. "Please, finish your little checkup. I insist."

Trudy regards him curiously for a moment. "Right." Her hands hover over his belly again. "But if you want me to stop, sir, just say the word-"

"I assure you that w-won't be necessahary..."

Trudy watches him seize up before her fingers even make contact. This time she presses a little deeper into his belly, trying to feel around his defensiveness.

"You are punching holes in my couch," Rosie remarks dryly, watching the poor demon's claws bury themselves in the cushions.

"I kn... ohow, I'm just-" He squeezes his eyes shut as Trudy hits a particularly bad spot. And then another. And another... hell, his torso one big bad spot.

"What do you think, Trudy?"

The young doctor just shakes her head.

"Alastor. Darling. You have GOT to relax."

"I am!" Alastor's composure is dangling by the thinnest of threads.

"Maybe it would help," Trudy says, with infinite caution, "to just go ahead and laugh, sir."

A beat. And then Rosie bursts into laughter.

"Giving new meaning to the 'deer in the headlights' expression, my friend." She scoots closer. "I thought you just said you don't mind a little 'levity'..."

"I don't!"

"In that case. Carry on, Trudy - Auntie Rosie is gonna help our patient out a bit while you work."

Too late, Alastor realizes what his fellow overlord has in mind. "Wait, wait! Ros-"

A delicate set of nails find the region just under his ribs - and it's all downhill from there.

"Ah! Fuhuck!" Alastor chokes on a curse before he can catch himself. He twists sideways, collapses into muffled giggles, and briefly manages to pull himself together - just barely - with a few hyperventilated breaths. "Rosie, really! This isn't- please- ack! I can't-" There's that damn stutter again. He hadn't even stuttered when Adam slashed him.

And now, Great Alastor the Radio Demon, undone by some scribbles? And a medical exam?!

Meanwhile, Trudy can feel even less now than she could before, her patient's belly now quaking with silent, suppressed mirth. But she takes one look at Rosie's delighted expression... and continues probing anyway, curling a subtle little smirk of her own.

It seems Rosie has picked up on a slightly less tangible injury than anything Trudy can address. But fortunately, they've just stumbled upon a promising potential treatment.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Part 2 is already pretty much finished - my brain is just too mushy at this point to contend with Tumblr's shitty text interface any longer, and this feels like a good stopping point.

Lemme get a good night sleep and another dose of Prozac and I'll have the rest out shortly 😅

💜 - Cozy

#lee!alastor #ler!rosie #ticklish!alastor #oh deer he's ticklish #ticklefic #tickle content #hazbin hotel tickles #hazbin hotel tickling

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yerimsdreams · 3 months ago

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The Hour of the Wolf

author's note: so this is a series i started instead of studying for my exams lol. and also a coping mechanism to deal with the hotd drought.

cregan stark x oc (she/her pronouns)

warnings: mentions of death. spoilers for fire&blood. swearing.

''The King is dead.''

The declaration reverberated through the cold corridors of the Red Keep, carrying with it a chill that seemed to seep into the bones of those who heard it. A murmur of unease rippled through the assembled lords and men, their breaths hanging in the cold air like ghosts. At the front of the gathering stood Cregan Stark, every inch the embodiment of the North in his fur-lined cloak and somber demeanor, flanked by his men, who loomed like shadows behind him.

''By whose hand and by whose sword, I wonder?'' He inquired, looking down on the Lord of Driftmark, not swayed by his formidable reputation.

Corlys' gaze briefly faltered at the question, his hand tightening around the pommel of his cane, glancing down at the polished floor of the Red Keep.

''Poison, my lord.'' A voice spoke from inside the council chamber, one that belonged to a young lord from the Riverlands.

Cregan glanced behind Corlys, finding Lord Benjicot Blackwood along with Ser Oscar Tully and his older brother Lord Kermit Tully. ''Do the babes speak true?'' His voice held a sneer, the insult landing heavily on the youthful lords, who bristled at the disrespect but found themselves unable to summon a retort in the face of the imposing northerner.

The Lads, as they were known, shuffled uneasily, their courage waning under the Northman's scrutiny. Even their proud lineage did little to steel their nerves against the palpable menace in Cregan's gaze.

Corlys curtly nodded, though in comparison to the little lords in the room, he was unmoved by Cregan Stark's appearance and berating. ''Aye.''

The Lord's grey eyes shifted to his own men, nodding his head to the Sea Snake, a silent order to seize him. Without a word, two of Cregan's guards stepped forward, their heavy boots thudding against the stone floor. The King's Landing guards hesitated, their hands inching toward their swords, but they were swiftly disarmed by the northerners, who moved with the swift precision of wolves on the hunt.

The Sea Snake was dragged into the hallways and escorted to the dungeons, without as much as a word from the old man.

Cregan's focus lay with the Lads now, fully stepping into the council chamber, his presence casting a long shadow across the room. ''Who told you the war was done? The Clubfoot? The Snake? Because you won your little battle in the mud? Wars end when the defeated bend the knee and not-''

''What is the meaning of this?''

Every man turned at the sound of the undaunted voice echoing from the hallway, curious who would dare question the Wolf in the North.

It was a surprising sight, and quite the contrast to Lord Stark: a smaller woman with violet eyes and long silver hair cascading loosely over her shoulders.

For most men in the room, it was their first encounter with a Targaryen Princess. The North spoke of the Targaryens as otherworldly beings - riders of dragons, with a fiery temper to match their beasts. They were described as possessing an ethereal beauty, almost unearthly.

Yet, the woman standing before them exceeded these tales. They depicted the ruling family as if they were part of a distant legend, but here stood a living, breathing embodiment of those legends, surpassing them in every way.

Princess Visenya Targaryen

Kermit, Oscar and Benji let out a relieved sigh as she made her way into the large room, finally a familiar face that would save them from the Stark's wrath.

''Princess,'' Cregan bowed his head, following her figure, ''these boys-''

''These young men,'' she corrected, her tone brooking no argument, ''have been our courageous allies and should be treated as such.'' She vouched for them, facing the Lord of Winterfell.

Cregan tightened his jaw, but merely nodded at the woman in front of him.

She could sense the conflict in his eyes, she momentarily glanced at the sigil on his chest before continuing. ''Lord Stark, I have worked closely with them. They are not the ones who should be berated for their deeds.''

''The King is dead, Princess. The men accountable are the same men ruling in your nephew's place.'' Cregan said, straightening his posture.

''My nephew pardoned them.'' She stepped closer, her voice steady but firm.

His expression hardened at her words. ''They were not pardoned by me.'' His tone dropping to a growl as he loomed over her.

Visenya was visibly bewildered by his response, wondering how he had seemingly grasped all authority to himself within a few hour span. ''And who are you to the King? What is a wolf to a dragon?'' She retorted, a challenge thrown down at his feet.

''A meal.'' Benjicot quipped from the sidelines, earning stifled chuckles from his companions.

Cregan's head turned towards the Blackwood lord, his eyes flashing with annoyance. ''Watch your tongue, boy.'' He warned.

The three young men immediately fell silent, their gazes back to the ground.

The Princess took a deep breath, her voice colder than the Northern winds. ''You overstep, Lord Stark. You cannot simply cast aside royal decrees because they do not suit you. My nephew's will is the law.''

''His will, perhaps,'' Cregan allowed, ''but not his wisdom. He is a boy, one-and-ten. Do you want him to be surrounded by turncloaks and kingslayers?'' He leaned in, his face mere inches from hers, the heat of his breath mingling with the frost of her resolve.

''Lord Stark,'' she said, her voice trembling with restrained anger, ''do not think you can intimidate me with your Northern bluster. I have faced dragons and men far fiercer than you.''

A tense silence followed her words, only the distant sound of the smallfolk audible. The Lads watched as the King's aunt squandered off with the Warden of the North.

Then, unexpectedly, Cregan’s stern expression softened into something resembling admiration. ''Very well, my Princess,'' his voice softened, ''your counsel is appreciated.''

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she nodded, her resolve firm. She glanced behind the broad-shouldered lord to look at his men. ''Larys Strong, Septon Eustace, Perkin the Flea and Grand Maester Orwyle. Bring them to the dungeons, and do not shy away from violence.''

The northmen moved swiftly to obey, much to Lord Stark's astonishment. He watched, somewhat bemused, as his own men followed the orders of someone else.

Cregan's lips twitched into a semblance of a smile as he turned back to the woman in front of him, his respect growing for the Targaryen Princess. ''You have a commanding presence, Princess. I'll give you that.''

Visenya met his gaze, giving him a grateful nod. ''I shall take my leave now.''

As she made an advance to leave the room, Cregan's voice stopped her. ''Uh, Princess, may I have a word with you? In private.''

She paused, the request catching her by surprise. For a moment, she considered his words, the flicker of curiosity sparking in her violet eyes. Then, with a composed nod, she acquiesced. ''You may.'' She turned to Benjicot, Kermit and Oscar. ''You're excused, we will speak later.''

The Lads curtsied at her words, happy to oblige. Before they left the chamber, Ben and Oscar pretended to kiss one another, teasing the Princess as Cregan had his back turned to them.

She shook her head at their banter, but chuckled nonetheless. ''What can I do for you, my lord?''

''I would like for your nephew, the King, to strictly remain in his royal apartment for the time being.'' He suggested, a more serious expression on his face.

The woman frowned, her arms crossing instinctively over her chest as she processed his words. ''Why?''

''His safety. As long as the men who poisoned the usurper are still alive and in this castle, he is not safe with anyone but you. We cannot afford to take any risks with his life.'' His tone was firm, but gentle.

Visenya studied him, weighing his words, realising they were true. ''You should tell him yourself. I think Aegon should meet the man who is still fighting in his mother's name.''

Cregan nodded, offering the best of a smile a man from the North could. ''It would be an honour, Princess.'' He bowed.

She bit back a smirk as he slightly bent over, amused by how Lord Stark's demeanour had changed from when she first walked into the council chamber.

''Follow me, my lord.'' She motioned her head towards the large doors.

The Princess led him to Aegon's apartment in Maegor's Holdfast, not much words being spoken between the two allies.

She stopped the northman a few steps away from entering the King's room. ''Lord Stark, I must remind you that my nephew has endured a lot these last years. Besides me and his sisters, he has no one left. He… appears like a child, but he no longer is one. Do you understand?'' She spoke softly, a certain vulnerability present when talking about the young boy.

Cregan was touched by it, empathising with the losses the Targaryen family had suffered. He knew how it felt for he had suffered great losses of his own in his father and younger brother.

''I understand, my Princess.'' He nodded.

She smiled, grateful for his understanding. ''Good.'' They continued walking until they stood in front of Aegon's door, greeting the Kingsguard who were present there.

The eleven-year old sat by the window, looking out on the city.

''Aegon, this is Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell. He would like to speak with you.'' His aunt carefully introduced him to the boy, who slowly turned towards them.

Unlike his aunt, Aegon did seem to feel overwhelmed by the man that was towering over him as if he was the Wall himself. Cregan offered a respectful bow to the young king. ''Your grace.''

Aegon, who had been silent since their entrance, nodded slowly, his gaze shifting between the imposing figure of the northman and his aunt, who stood nearby with an encouraging but anxious expression.

Visenya moved to gently put her hands on his shoulders. ''Lord Stark has been a great ally of ours. He was a friend of Jace.''

The mention of his late eldest brother briefly brought a spark to his eyes, but it was gone as soon as it came.

''Me and your brother hunted together,'' Cregan's gaze was earnest as he addressed the boy, his tone steady and devoid of the harshness that had marked his earlier confrontations, ''he had a real knack for it.''

Aegon simply nodded, leaning more into his aunt's touch the longer the conversation went on.

''Aegon, you'll have to stay in here a bit longer.'' The Princess cautiously told him, squeezing his shoulder.

He looked up at her, pouting his lips. ''Why am I not free yet?''

''It is for your safety, your Grace,'' Cregan answered, ''this city is full of vipers. There are liars, turncloaks, and poisoners in this court who would murder you as quick as they did your uncle to secure their own power.''

''Who did?'' His small voice asked, having his aunt hold him closer.

''Lord Strong, Lord Velaryon, the Flea, and more.'' Stark responded, briefly glancing at the Princess.

Aegon frowned at the answer. ''But, they are my friends.''

The Princess wanted to sob at the pureness with which her nephew spoke, somehow still blind to the acts his ''trusted'' companions had committed.

Cregan knelt beside him. ''False friends are far more dangerous to a king than any foe, your Grace. The Snake, the Clubfoot, and the Flea only saved you to make use of you, to rule Westeros in your name.'' He replied, his words wise.

The King's frown did not disappear, but he let the Lord's answer sink in. He looked up at his aunt, seeking reassurance.

She knelt beside Cregan, cupping Aegon's face. ''You must be careful of whom you trust. I know this is difficult, my sweet boy. But I believe in your abilities. You are as brave as your brothers, as wise as your mother, and as daring as your father.''

The Warden of the North stood back up on his feet, feeling as if he was intruding on a private, family matter. He simply watched as the Princess spoke encouragement into her nephew, looking nothing like the woman who had waltzed into the council chamber and put him in his place.

He'd heard the whispers of King Viserys' second daughter, the spare to the Iron Throne. His closest friend, Lord Cerwyn, had once told Cregan a story of how the younger sister of Rhaenyra had been merely two-and-ten when she tried to burn a group of young lords in dragonfire when they'd all tried to ask for her hand in marriage. Another tale claimed the Princess had locked the Dowager Queen Alicent, her stepmother, into a tower and had tried to feed the key to one of the dragons in the Dragonpit.

Cregan was sure that parts of the hearsay must have been fabricated to put the Princess under a certain light, but doubts danced around his mind. The way she'd stormed into the counselling room had been bold, the way she'd spoken to him and had commanded his men was fierce. But seeing her now, comforting the young king with such tenderness, Cregan realised there was much more to her than the stories conveyed. She was a guardian, a protector of her family and those loyal to her.

Aegon seemed to draw strength from her words, his small frame relaxing slightly. ''I will try to be brave and wise, Aunt.''

She smiled warmly, brushing a strand of hair from his face. ''I know you will,'' she leaned forward and kissed his temple, ''I think you can use a good night of rest, my boy. I will see you in the morning, okay?''

Her nephew nodded timidly, still a bit unnerved by the presence of Lord Stark. ''Okay.''

''Goodnight, sweet boy.'' She ruffled his hair as he quietly whispered the word back to her. His eyes darted over to the northman next to her. ''Thank you, Lord Stark.''

Cregan inclined his head. ''You are welcome, your Grace. I wish you a night of rest.''

As they left Aegon's chambers, Visenya closed the door gently behind her, the heavy oak creaking slightly before settling into silence. Cregan scratched his voice, the sound coming out like a grunt.

''Let me escort you to your chambers, Princess. It is no time for a Princess of the Realm to walk these halls alone.'' He offered, gesturing towards the shadowy corridor that led to the royal apartments.

Visenya let out a chuckle, a look of pity in her eyes. ''Lord Stark, it is not I who should be afraid of wandering these corridors alone, if I may put it so forwardly.''

Cregan raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at his lips. ''Why may that be, Princess?''

She started walking towards her personal chambers, leaving a curious Stark to trail behind her. ''I am grateful for your presence here at court, my Lord. You have continued to fight for her, even after her tragic death,'' she swallowed hard at the thought of her sister's passing, ''and for that you have my eternal gratitude.''

The Warden nodded, tilting his head. ''But…''

''But not everyone shares my sentiment.'' She glanced at him, her expression serious.

Cregan's smile faded, sensing where she was going with this. ''Forgive my bluntness, Princess, but I have the upper hand here. Anyone who dares raise a hand against me or my men will have it removed.''

Visenya stopped in her tracks, Cregan frowning as he waited beside her. ''Lord Stark, I do not doubt that. However, this is King's Landing, this is not the North. Kin slays kin here to sit on a wretched and cursed chair,''

''This court is a game. You either make the rules or you obey them.'' She finished, her body now fully turned towards him.

The Wolf held her gaze, her violet eyes reflecting the flickering torchlight. ''And what role do you suggest I play in this game, Princess? Am I to be the enforcer or the pawn?''

Visenya resumed her steps towards her room, the northern lord following her. ''Neither.''

His brows furrowed. ''Neither?'' He echoed, puzzled by her cryptic response.

''You, Lord Stark, will punish the enforcers and pawns. Make an end to this continuous cycle of treachery and selfishness so my nephew can rule in peace without men clawing at his neck for even an ounce of power.''

Her words were strong, yet with a hint of vulnerability as she begged the Lord of Winterfell to make sure her nephew could be a King, but more importantly, a boy who was surrounded by people that wanted the best for the Realm and him, and not themselves or their Houses.

''In the North, we do not break our oaths, Princess. My father pledged his support to yours and his chosen heir, your sister. I will see to it myself that Aegon will sit on the Iron Throne, with good counsel to uplift him during his reign. I promise this to you.'' He said firmly, his eyes fixed on hers as he made a vow to protect her nephew.

Visenya now realised why Rhaenyra had been so keen on having the North on their side. The House of the Wolfs never forgot an oath, it was not to be broken, even in death. Lord Cregan Stark was a young lord, her age, but he carried himself as if he had lived a full life as the King in the North.

She took a deep breath, her expression softening as she regarded the Warden of the North. ''You're an honourable man, Lord Stark. It's a rare thing to find.''

Cregan inclined his head slightly, a hint of a smile touching his lips. Her sincerity touched him. ''Honour is all we have in the North, my Princess. Without it, we are nothing.''

As they reached the entrance to Visenya’s chambers, she stopped and turned to face him. ''Then may your honour guide us through the trials ahead.''

He nodded, a resolve settling in his eyes. ''Goodnight, Princess. Rest well.''

''Goodnight, my Lord.'' She replied, her tired eyes looking up at him.

Despite their bids of goodbyes, neither moved. The dim light of the torches cast flickering shadows on their faces, highlighting the quiet intensity in their eyes.

''Princess,'' Cregan said delicately, his voice almost a whisper, ''if you wish I can command one of my men to guard your door for the coming nights.''

Visenya gently shook her head, appreciating the gesture. ''That won't be necessary, my Lord. But thank you.''

Cregan nodded, respecting her decision. ''As you wish, Princess. I'll leave you now.''

As she turned to enter her chambers, Visenya glanced back at him one last time, her eyes meeting his. ''Goodnight.'' She murmured again.

''Goodnight.'' The Warden replied, his voice equally soft.

He stepped back, allowing Visenya to enter her chambers. As the door closed behind her, Cregan stood there for a moment longer, finding himself unable to move away from her quarters.

He took a deep breath, settling his hand back on his sword, Ice, as he tried to steady his thoughts. Cregan had never been intrigued by another person as much as he was with Princess Visenya Targaryen. Her strength and tenderness had stirred something within him, a feeling he couldn't easily shake.

She was an enigma to him.

With a final nod to himself, he turned and walked away, his steps echoing in the quietness of Maegor's Holdfast. The image of the Valyrian princess haunting his mind.

The night was silent, save for the distant howl of the wind outside the castle walls, a reminder of the harsh world that still remained.

The following day dawned clear and brisk. Visenya had been summoned from her quarters to greet the arrived Maiden of the Vale, Lady Jeyne Arryn. The Lady of the Eyrie stood awaiting in the courtyard of the Red Keep, her presence regal.

Both women's eyes lit up as Visenya appeared through the castle doors. ''Good morrow, cousin.'' Jeyne called out warmly, moving to embrace her.

''My Lady, it's good to see you.'' The Princess returned the embrace with a tight, affectionate squeeze.

''Visenya, my dear,'' they pulled away, but held each other's hands, ''my condolences. Your sister was a brave woman, one of a kind.''

The younger woman gratefully nodded. ''Thank you, cousin.''

''How are you holding up?'' Jeyne asked, squeezing Visenya's hands.

Visenya momentarily glanced to the ground beneath them, gathering her thoughts. ''It has been challenging, my Lady. But your presence here brings me strength.''

Jeyne's eyes filled with understanding, feeling for the losses Visenya had endured. ''We must be strong for each other, Princess. Your nephew needs you in these dire times.''

She nodded, drawing comfort from her words. ''Indeed,'' she smiled, ''where is Rhaena? Did she not join you?'' Visenya glanced around, but seeing no sign of the young Targaryen woman.

''She wished to see her brother immediately,'' Jeyne explained her absence, ''her twin sister Baela joined our journey from Dragonstone. They're with Aegon together.''

Visenya's smile widened at the news of the Dragon Twins. ''He'll be relieved to see them.''

As they spoke, a group of riders on horseback entered through the gates, with Lord Stark leading them. The Targaryen princess noticed him first, unconsciously smiling as he dismounted from his mare. Jeyne followed her line of sight and raised an eyebrow at her family member.

Cregan, catching sight of the two women standing in the middle of the courtyard, decided to approach. He said something to his men before walking over to the Princess and Lady.

Visenya subtly straightened her posture, a faint smile tugging at her lips. ''Lady Jeyne Arryn, allow me to introduce Lord Cregan Stark. Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North.''

The man bowed his head in a formal greeting, his gaze respectful. ''Lady Arryn, it is an honour to meet you.''

Jeyne returned the greeting with a gracious nod. ''Lord Stark, the honour is mine. I've heard much about your steadfast loyalty to Queen Rhaenyra.''

Cregan smiled politely, his eyes briefly flickering to Visenya before returning to Jeyne. ''I only do what is necessary for the North and the realm.''

The Maiden's keen gaze didn't miss the subtle exchange between the two. She turned back to Visenya with a knowing smile. ''Well, it seems the North is in good hands.''

Before Visenya could respond, a commotion broke out at the doors of the Red Keep. Baela stormed in, with Rhaena following closely behind.

''Why are we not allowed to see Aegon?'' Baela demanded, her voice echoing through the courtyard. ''He is our brother!''

Visenya raised an eyebrow, seeing that her younger cousin had not lost her fiery temper in the time they had spent apart. ''It is nice to see you too, Baela. I missed you dearly.'' Her voice tinged with sarcasm.

Baela shot her cousin a frustrated look but didn’t respond to the sarcasm. Cregan stepped forward, his expression calm but firm. ''It is for the King's safety. Until we can ensure his protection, we must limit who can see him.''

''We are his family! We would never harm him. This is absurd!'' Baela interrupted, her tone heated as she took a step closer to the Warden, sizing him up.

Rhaena, quieter but just as determined, added. ''Lord Stark, we only want to see our beloved brother.''

Cregan looked on amusingly as Baela continued staring at him, her gaze unwavering.

''My Lord, you cannot possibly keep the boy locked up with only his aunt as a companion. Let the girls see him. It will do more good than harm.'' Jeyne said, supporting Baela and Rhaena.

The Wolf glanced to Visenya, whose expression had softened slightly. ''He needs his family, Lord Stark.''

Cregan hesitated, his stern demeanour faltering under the combined pressure of the women. Finally, he sighed. ''Very well. But I must insist on maintaining strict security measures.'' He yielded, begrudgingly.

Baela's fierce gaze softened, and she nodded in appreciation. ''Thank you, Lord Stark.''

''We appreciate it.'' Rhaena added quietly.

Cregan nodded curtly, still not entirely comfortable but willing to concede for the sake of the young king and his family. As the sisters hurried off to see their brother, Visenya lingered a moment longer, her eyes meeting Cregan's.

''Thank you.'' She said, her gratitude clear.

The Warden simply nodded, still seeming a bit aggravated by having essentially been overruled. ''If you'll excuse me, I have some matters to attend to.''

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Visenya and Jeyne standing together. Jeyne watched him go, then turned to her cousin with a knowing smile.

Jeyne’s eyes twinkled with mischief as she leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. ''It seems the Wolf in the North is quite taken with you, my Princess.'' She teased.

Visenya frowned, though a warmth climbed up her neck. ''What do you mean?''

''Cregan Stark is a man of few words, but he seemed quite intent on every one he spoke to you.'' The Maiden responded, a hint of playful knowing in her gaze.

Visenya’s cheeks flushed slightly, and she glanced in the direction Cregan had gone, feeling a flutter of unease. ''I am his only way to get everyone to listen to him, Cousin. It's just political.''

Jeyne sighed. ''Even the most stoic men cannot always hide what is beneath the surface. Every man has the same weakness, Visenya. You of all people know that.''

Visenya's expression grew contemplative, her eyes lowering to her clasped hands. ''I will have one of my ladies guide you to your chambers. I am needed at the library.'' She deflected, scratching her voice.

The older woman nodded understandingly, though her gaze remained thoughtful. ''Of course, Visenya. I appreciate your hospitality.'' She decided to drop the topic of Lord Stark, sensing her cousin's daughter had not yet fully come to terms with her own desires.

As Jeyne followed the lady-in-waiting to her chambers, Visenya turned and made her way toward the library, intending on grabbing some books for Aegon to read or for her to read for him.

Once in the library, she was relieved to have found some peace and alone time. As she meandered through the shelves, her fingers brushing lightly against the spines of countless volumes, her mind drifted back to the conversation with Jeyne.

Lord Cregan Stark could not possibly open his heart to her, could he? His presence is as imposing as the North represents, but he'd been gentle when they visited Aegon the night before. He is honourable, as he has shown time and again, but he carried himself with a sense of authority that was both commanding and, at times, overwhelming.

Visenya’s gaze fell on a particularly old tome, its leather cover worn with age. She reached out and gently pulled it from the shelf, her thoughts still circling around Cregan. The image of him, standing in the courtyard with a hint of something softer in his eyes, contrasted sharply with the stern figure he often projected.

She opened the book, the musty scent of old paper filling her senses. Her eyes traced the faded ink that had been placed there by her ancestor of whom she bore the name.

Queen Visenya Targaryen, sister-wife of Aegon the Conqueror.

It had been Rhaenyra who came to their parents with the name. Her older sister had always had an affinity for Vhagar's first rider. Some people would suggest that she was not a role model, but herself and her sister had always disagreed with that sentiment. The Queen had once wielded immense power and influence, even after Aegon passed away.

Perhaps she should find strength in the legacy of her ancestor.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps and the door to the library swinging open. A familiar voice, filled with barely contained fury, cut through her reverie.

''Visenya!'' Baela's voice echoed, sharp with anger.

Visenya’s heart sank, her moment of peace abruptly shattered. ''Baela, my girl, please refrain-''

''Our grandsire! Why is he rotting away in the dungeons?'' She demanded to know, frustrated beyond belief.

She closed the book and placed it back on the shelf with deliberate calm. ''Baela,'' she began, her tone measured, ''Lord Corlys was involved in the poisoning of the Usurper.''

Baela frowned, her arms flying everywhere. ''And? Is that not a good thing? The cunt is dead.'' Removing Aegon from the throne had been the entire purpose of the war, why was her grandfather being punished for it?

Visenya sighed, preparing herself for the difficult task of justifying why Corlys sat in the dungeons along with the others. ''I know, but he committed treason, along with Larys Strong. Whether we found him a Pretender or not, a King was killed. I know he wouldn't, but I cannot allow to have traitors guiding your brother in his minority.''

Baela's eyes blazed with rage. ''He was fighting for our family! How could you let this happen? He is rotting down there!''

''What would you have me do, Baela?'' Visenya raised her voice. ''It was Lord Stark and his men that arrested them. I know he did it to help us and to help Aegon, but Lord Stark has a point.''

The younger girl clenched her fists, her voice trembling with emotion. ''And why does he have the right to do all of this? He comes in two years late, and thinks he can just take over? He made a promise to Jace! Do you think he would have wanted his grandsire executed?''

The mention of Jacaerys had her heart ache. Baela was right, Jace would not have wanted this, but Jace also would have wanted his younger brother to be safe.

''Jacaerys would want us to protect Aegon. Lord Stark is trying to help us do that, even if his methods seem harsh.'' Visenya took a deep breath, struggling to keep her emotions in check.

Baela's eyes filled with tears, her anger mingling with despair. ''You cannot let this happen, Visenya! He acted in the good of the realm. He did this for us! For you!''

It pained her to see her cousin in this state, but she did not have the power here. ''Baela, there is only so much that I can do.''

The girl's desperation was palpable. ''But you must do something! You have influence,'' Baela took a few steps towards her, tightly grabbing her hands, ''I am begging you, Cousin. We have already lost so much, we cannot lose him as well.''

Visenya felt the weight of Baela's plea pressing on her. The Wolf had been adamant in his arrest of the men involved in Aegon's murder, but she could at least try.

''I will speak to him,'' she relented, quickly continuing before Baela could interject, ''but I do not promise you anything. My influence knows its limits.''

Baela embraced her family member, holding her close ''Thank you. Thank you. I know you will do your best.''

The older woman returned the embrace, resting her chin on Baela's shoulder. ''I am happy to see you again, my girl. You've been vigilant.''

The pair had not seen each other since Visenya left Dragonstone for Harrenhal, to assist the Riverlands in Daemon's absence as he flew with Caraxes for King's Landing with Rhaenyra.

''You too,'' Baela sniffed, more tears streaming down her cheeks, ''without you none of us would be here.''

Visenya gently pulled back, wiping a tear from Baela's cheek. ''It's over now, and we still have each other. That is the only thing that matters.''

Baela nodded, her eyes still shimmering with tears but now holding a spark of hope. ''I trust you, Cousin. I will wait for your word. And thank you, truly. For everything.'' She hugged her once more before stepping back.

''I will see you soon, before supper.'' Visenya nodded, to herself and to Baela.

With a nod, the younger woman left the library, almost running to tell her sister of the promise Visenya had made to them.

The Princess let out a deep breath that she had been holding in from the moment Baela stormed in. She knew it would be difficult to change Lord Stark's mind, especially on the matter of treason and broken oaths. She needed to appeal to his sense of honour and justice, to make him see that pardoning Corlys was in the best interest of the realm.

It was one of his men that guided her to the council chamber, where his commander had been spending his time since leaving the courtyard.

Visenya carefully opened the large doors, sending the northman back to his original station. She hesitated for a moment, her thoughts racing as she took in the sight of Cregan Stark standing at the head of the council table. The position, one that had belonged to her father, now seemed to belong to him, and it suited him more than she cared to admit. His hands rested on the surface as he studied the maps and parchments spread before him.

As she slowly approached, he looked up, his expression softening slightly when he saw her. ''Princess,'' he abandoned his previous occupation, his full attention on her, ''what brings you here?''

''I need to speak with you about a matter of great importance.''

Cregan straightened, sensing the gravity in her tone. ''Of course, Princess. What is it?''

She took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts. ''It concerns Lord Corlys Velaryon. His imprisonment… it cannot stand.''

His expression hardened, the brief moment of softness replaced by the stern demeanour he wore so easily. ''The Sea Snake was complicit in the murder of a King, and he swore loyalty to the Usurper after the death of your sister. That is treason.''

Visenya kept her voice calm, despite the frustration already bubbling to the surface. ''He acted out of necessity, to keep Aegon alive. Larys Strong and my half-brother wanted to send him to the Wall or execute him. Corlys made sure of it that my sister's line would live on, and her blood would sit the Iron Throne. He saved my nephew, protected him when others would have seen him dead.''

''And in doing so he betrayed his oaths. I understand the man's reasoning, but the law is clear. A king was poisoned, a line crossed that cannot be ignored. If I were to let this treason go unpunished, what message would that send? That anyone who claims to act for the good of the realm can kill a king and walk free?'' His eyes narrowed as he met her gaze.

Her temper flared at his unwillingness to see reason. ''Do you think I do not understand the weight of his crimes? Do you think I am asking this lightly?'' She raised her voice, betraying the emotions she was struggling to contain.

His face remained stony, his voice steady as he responded. ''I believe you understand it all too well, Princess. But you are letting your personal history cloud your judgement. He is the grandfather of your cousins and was one to three of your nephews.''

''Yes, he was their grandfather. Do you think they would wish to see him have his head taken for protecting their little brother? What would Jacaerys say of this to you?'' Visenya's hands clenched into fists at her sides.

The mention of his late friend only seemed to stoke a fire in Cregan's anger. ''Jace was a noble, young man, a true Targaryen. But even he would have understood the necessity of upholding justice, no matter how painful it might be.''

Her breath hitched, before letting out a scoff. ''You think he would have condoned this? That he would have stood by and watched his grandfather be executed like a common criminal? He would have fought for him - just as I am doing now.''

Cregan took a step closer, his presence as imposing as the northern winds. ''And I would have fought beside him, just as I fight for the realm now. But this is not about sentiment, Princess. It is about the law, and the law must be upheld.''

Visenya's eyes burned with aggravation as she stared up at Cregan, her chest tight with the weight of their confrontation. She had faced many challenges, many men who tried to bend her will, but this- this was different. Here she was, pouring out her heart, trying to make him understand the gravity of what he was doing, but all she saw in his eyes was that same, unyielding determination.

It was infuriating, the way he seemed so immovable, as if her words had no effect on him. She felt a surge of helplessness, a sensation so foreign to her that it made her insides twist with anger. She had never felt so powerless, so unheard.

''You are so consumed with the idea of upholding the law that you cannot see the damage you are doing. Lord Corlys has been loyal to our house for decades. He has earned more than a traitor’s death.'' Her composure was slipping, her tone turning sharper.

''I cannot allow personal feelings to dictate justice.'' He remained impassive, not swayed by her pleading or arguments.

A tense silence followed, the kind that seemed to stretch time itself. Neither of them budged, like the night before where they stood in front of her chambers, but it was different this time around. There was no hint of affection or intimacy, only gazes filled with icy resolution. Gone were the quiet moments of understanding they had shared, the brief glimpses of something more that had flickered between them in the darkened halls of the Red Keep.

Cregan looked like how she imagined a Lord of Winterfell to look - as if the snow was running through his veins, unbending to the fire of a dragon. The delicacy she had seen in him before was buried deep beneath the ironclad exterior he wore. He was as immovable as the northern mountains.

He was everything she despised and respected in equal measure - uncompromising, resolute, and bound by a code that left no room for the heart.

It was Visenya who spoke first, her words cutting through the air like a blade. ''You will regret this, Lord Stark.''

Her voice was low, almost a whisper, but there was no mistaking the threat that laced her words. It wasn’t a threat of violence or retribution - those were tools for lesser minds. It was a promise of consequences.

Cregan's eyes remained locked on hers, though they were not filled with a freezing winter anymore. He could almost sense the toll this was taking on her, what his unwillingness to compromise meant.

''Perhaps,'' he said quietly, the chill in his voice thawing just slightly, ''but this is the path I must walk, just as you walk yours, Princess.''

The Warden understood that Visenya was fighting to protect what she held dear. She did not hold any sort of love for the Sea Snake, but she did for his granddaughters and for the support he and Rhaenys had given her older sister when she needed it the most.

He understood her, even sympathised with her, but he could not bend. Not for her, not for anyone.

Visenya's visage hardened once more, her walls going up as quickly as they had come down. She turned dejectedly, her dress swirling around her as she made for the door. The Princess disappeared into the haunted corridors of the Targaryen castle, her footsteps ringing out in the silent chamber.

Cregan watched her go, acutely aware this would not be the last time he would squander over the life of Corlys Velaryon.

The room felt frostier, emptier, as if her presence had left a void in its wake. He let out a slow, measured breath, trying to shake off the lingering unease. He stood firmly in his decision, and believed it to be the righteous one, so why did Visenya's pained face and words remain seared into his mind?

#cregan stark x oc #cregan stark #house of the dragon fics #hotd fanfic #hotd fics #cregan stark fanfic #cregan stark fics #hotd x oc

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samcrosfaith · 2 months ago

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WITCHCRAFT 🔮

Jax Teller x random fem!oc because I suck at writing character x reader.

warning ⚠️; 18+, a little bit of smut towards the end, paranormal stuff like witchcraft and blood.

a/n; please feel free to leave requests in my ask box for Halloween and Christmas One Shots. Happy and Jax only please because I'm not good at writing the other characters lol. If you have a specific wish/look/backstory for your OC, please let me know— otherwise I'll come up with something. 🦇🎃🕸️

If you want to get tagged in future Halloween and Christmas One Shots just let me know in the comments and I'll add you to the tag list! 🤎🍂

this was requested by one of my lovely Wattpad followers!

tag list; @ravennaortiz

word count; about 2.5k

Nola lifted her head as the front door slammed shut and Jax stormed into the kitchen, knowing from the smell of herbs that he would find his Old Lady there. No one but him knew what she was, how special she really wasᅳ and that was a good thing, for her own protection.

He knew that his club would be able to deal with it after they declared him crazy first, and maybe Jax would tell his brothers about Nola's abilities at some pointᅳ but only when his Old Lady was ready. Until then, she continued to secretly help lead the club on the right path, mainly by helping Jax talk to his dead fatherᅳ rarely, after all, it was no longer white magic once you summoned the dead.

But sometimes Jax needed the guidance that only John could give him, as much as he hated using his Old Lady for thatᅳ but Nola was happy to help, in any situation. When someone in the club was injured, she worked in the background to make sure that the healing happened much faster or that something worse could be prevented.

But that wasn't all. Thanks to Nola, Jax had learned to love again, to let warmth back into his cold heart after Tara had run off again two years ago and tried to take his sons away from him. In the end, Tara had agreed to leave the boys with him as long as she could see them both regularly, and finally moved to Oregon to take on her new job.

And when Nola came into his life about six months later, it hit him like a truck. Something about this woman had drawn him in immediately, the shimmer in her greenish eyes so strong that it felt like she could see into his soul, as if she knew exactly what he neededᅳ and shortly afterwards he had found out why.

The fact that she was a witch was a shock at first, but it made no difference. It was her person he loved, for whom he would go over dead bodies. And she would do the same for him, as he'd soon find out.

"What's wrong?" Her voice was sharp, different than usual, as if she knew something bad had happened. "What happened, Jax?"

She took a step closer, tentatively reaching for his wrists as he ran his hands down his face in despair, anger flashing in his glassy eyes. "Tara took the boys. She's gone, Nola, just gone."

He watched as Nola stumbled back, her face twisted in shock as she let the news sink in. One hand flew to her chest, the other used to brace herself against the doorframe, just as broken as he was.

Nola loved the boys as if they were her own and Jax had mentioned often enough that she was more of a mother than Tara ever had. But the doctor still had a right to see the kids because Thomas was her biological son and Jax was stupid enough to sign half of the rights to Abel over to her years ago.

"She took my babies?", she asked through a sob before blind rage overcame her. Her gaze turned cold, her eyes shining dangerously. "Do you have anything from her? It doesn't matter what, even a photo is enough."

"Can such a spell harm the baby?" Jax asked, gently grabbing her hand before casting a worried glance at her not-yet-visible baby bump. "If so, we'll find another way, babe."

"No, it can't. She'll pay for this. She can't just keep coming into our lives and ruining it by taking our babies", Nola seethed, tears of anger at Tara and fear for her children welling up in her eyes. "She'll feel the consequences."

"As much as I want that", Jax began seriously, pulling her flush against him before placing a hand against her cheek. "I don't want you to put yourself and our daughter in danger."

"You don't even know if it's a girl", she murmured quietly, seeking refuge in his arms, her head resting on his chest. "I've been a witch my whole life, Jax. I know what I'm doing, let me help."

"I just have a feeling", he mumbled against her long, raven-black hair before he placed a kiss on the top of her head, gently pushing her away by her arms. "Are you sure about this, darlin'?"

"Yes, absolutely sure", she assured him eagerly. The young woman could never do anything that could harm her own flesh and blood. "And now bring me something from Tara so I can find the bitch."

ᅳ

An hour later, Nola was sitting at the large dining table in the small but perfect house in which Jax and the kids now lived with her, the room dark due to the drawn curtains. Only the light of a few candles illuminated the dining room with soft light.

The words Nola spoke were barely understandable, but Jax still tried to figure out what exactly his Old Lady was saying; to no avail. However, concern rose in him when some blood dripped from her nose and her voice vibrated more strongly. But before he could say anything, his hand already resting on her shoulder, her eyes shot open.

"Done", she purred softly and pointed to the candles in front of her, which was placed right above an old picture of Tara, the only one Jax had found in a box in the garage. Next to it was another candle with a picture of Thomas and Abel. "The candles have to burn until they burn outᅳ don't blow them out. Give me a piece of paper, I'll write down the address of the motel."

"Why, if you've already found her?" Jax asked, standing up and coming back with a piece of paper, a pen and a tissue. "Why is your nose bleeding, Nola? I told youᅳ"

"I'm fine, baby", Nola hummed, placing a hand against his arm before taking the things with a soft 'thank you'. Only when the address was written on paper did she wipe the blood from her nose. "I want to come with you, and before you say noᅳ"

This time Jax interrupted her with a gentle kiss, caressing her cheek as he slid the note into his pocket. "We'll do this together, babe, you and me."

Nola smiled gratefully. "Then let's go, I wanna look her in the eyes again before it's too late."

"Wait, what do you mean by that?" Jax' chair slid across the floor with a squeak as he stood up after Nola, who was covering the candles with special glasses so nothing could happen. "What did you do?"

"I told you she would feel it", she shrugged nonchalantly, grabbed his hand and dragged him outside. "Come on, I want my babies back."

"Maybe I should stop asking questions", Jax muttered under his breath before they hurried to her SUV so as not to waste any more time.

ᅳ

While Jax and Nola were on their way to the motel just a few miles outside of Charming, Tara was thinking of a plan to hide with the kids until she suddenly felt a scratchy pain in her throat that was getting stronger by the second.

On her way to the bathroom to get a glass of water, she was overcome by a coughing fit. Everything in her chest tightened, taking away her ability to breathe. Panic rose in her as she was unable to stop the coughing. She brought a hand to her mouth as she gasped for air, her eyes growing as she noticed the blood in her palm.

"What theᅳ", she couldn't say more, the words just a broken croak.

A sharp pain shot through her chest, sending her to the floor in panic. Trying to sit on her knees, her upper body arched in pain. The doctor began to gag until blood gushed out of her mouth like a waterfall.

The liquid seeped into the floor, staining the beige carpet a crimson red. Her panicked gaze fell on the boys, who had both fallen asleep at the same time about twenty minutes ago, and nothing seemed to wake them upᅳ and Tara wasn't exactly quiet.

It was weird, but the boys' chests were rising and falling at regular intervals, so they had to be okay.

Tara crawled across the floor to get to her bag, and again she threw up blood, this time it even gushed out of her nose, causing her to roll onto her back and clutch her throat hastily, out of pure reflex.

With each long cough, blood spurted upwards, covering her face. This was her end, she could feel it. If she didn't get to the hospital within a few minutes, she would dieᅳ that much was certain.

Tara jerked her head to the side as the door swung open, her eyes nearly popping out of their sockets as Nola and Jax stormed into the room, the latter closing the door behind him.

"You bitch!" It was Nola who approached Tara first, kicking the doctor in the ribs, not surprised at the sightᅳ after all, she was responsible for it. "Did you really think you could take my kids?", the woman let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head as she slowly crouched down and brushed a few strands of Tara's short hair out of her face, smiling as the woman twitched and whimpered under her touch. "How are you feeling? You made quite a mess here."

"Babe, what is this?" Jax looked at the two women, not quite sure what he was staring at exactly.

He didn't care about Tara, but he didn't want Nola to have to take such steps just because his life was pure chaos. "I don't want you to kill anyone for me."

"Baby, I really love you", Nola began with a deep sigh, looking up at her fiancé. "But it's not always all about you. The bitch took our kids and kept trying to ruin our livesᅳ I've had enough."

Lifting an eyebrow, Jax was at a loss for words, not sure what to say, but his chest still filled with pure pride. His Old Lady could be a bitch, a protective one, and that was hot as hell.

"Alright, do what makes you happy, darlin'", he said, lifting his hands before he stopped behind her and crossed his arms over his chest. "But what about the boys? I don't want them to see this."

"Don't worry, they'll sleep until we blow out the candles", she reassured him, frowning. "Do you really think I would've risked our kids seeing that? You should know me better, handsome."

Jax rubbed his neck sheepishly, giving her an apologetic smile. "Sorry babe, that's not what I meant."

When Tara reached for help and grabbed Nola's wrist, Nola pulled her arm back in disgust, her eyes darkening. "I could make this stop", she said with a sweet smile, making Tara nod frantically. "On one condition.."

Nola closed her eyes, hummed a few words to herself and tapped Tara's forehead with the tip of her index finger for a few seconds, making Tara's coughing fit stop immediately.

Tara rolled onto her stomach as panicked sobs left her throat, tears streaming down her pale face. Only when she realized what had just happened did she sit down on her butt and slid as far away from Nola as possible, her features twisted in shock.

"Oh, so now you're scared?" Jax sneered angrily, his steps heavy as he slowly walked towards Tara and crouched down in front of her, Nola right next to him. "What do we learn from this?"

"Iᅳ I'm sorry", Tara choked out, bursting into tears as she pulled her legs against her trembling body. "Please..please don't hurt me!"

"Aww, she's even begging!" Nola snorted a laugh, her face only inches away from Tara's. "Here's what's going to happen. You go back to Oregon, never set foot in Charming again, and never think or talk of us again. If you try anyway, well..",

Nola sighed theatrically, almost as if she was enjoying the idea of hurting the doctor again. "Then next time I'll let you choke miserably on your own bloodᅳ and I'll watch with a smile on my face."

Tara's bitter sobs bounced off the walls, both of her hands covering her mouth to muffle the volume. "Wᅳ what are you?"

"None of your damn business", Jax snarled, his gaze murderously intense as his blue lenses dug into Tara's skull. "Did you hear what Nola said? Are you goin' to listen to her?"

"Yes, yes for God's sake! But please, please let me go", she pleaded, the sight almost heartbreaking if only someone would care about her.

Nola smiled contentedly, pushing herself to her feet. "Okay, then we're done here! Have a nice life, bitch."

While Nola turned around and threw her black hair over her shoulders so she could pick one of their sleeping sons up, Jax glared at Tara again, his gaze nothing but a threat.

"Don't say a word to anyone or you'll wish you never messed with us, Tara", Jax said, more serious than ever before, his voice was dangerously calm, before he spat at Tara's feet and then picked up Abel before he left the motel room with his family.

ᅳ

Moaning Jax's name, Nola threw her head back, her hands placed on his chest as she moved her hips in circles, his cock buried all the way inside her slick folds.

They had both needed a break after that day, and after spending the evening with their children, they had retreated to the bedroom and wasted no time in ripping off their clothes.

"That's it, darlin', keep goin'", Jax urged with a groan slipping from his lips, slapping her ass as he pushed his hips up, helping her out a little.

He felt his climax building, so he brought a hand to Nola's full breasts, kneading one in his palm as he rolled her nipple between his fingers, knowing that Nola never lasted long when her breasts got touchedᅳ this was one way to make her come, always.

"Fuck Jax", the woman on top of him gasped, locking eyes with him, returning Jax' grin, savouring every second as she rode him. "I'm close, baby", she drawled sultry, another moan falling from her plump, dark-red lips.

"Good, let go for me", he demanded encouragingly, licking his lips as his own breathing quickened and his cock twitched inside her. "Wanna feel you cum on my cock, sweetheart."

And that was it. Something in Nola's lower abdomen snapped and a moment later she climaxed, moaning his name loudly as she squirted all over him after Jax rolled and pinched her nipple between his fingers again, a gush of fluids now covering his pubes, her long nails leaving bloody welts on his chest.

"Fuck babe", he panted, his voice deep and hoarse as he slid his hand to the back of Nola's neck to pull her head down, his lips brushing hers.

"I love it when you do that", Jax croaked against her lips, an excited whimper falling from them before he pulled her into a sloppy kiss, chasing his own climax.

Nola moaned into the kiss as thick ropes of cum filled her, the warm, thick liquid warming her walls even more. She was already pregnant, so what else could happen?

As she collapsed onto his chest, her breath coming in quick, ragged gasps, she closed her eyes and sighed softly as Jax ran his long fingers through her raven-black strands.

"I love you, Nola, I hope you know that", he murmured, the weariness slowly becoming audible in his tone as the day took its toll. "Thank you for todayᅳ for getting out boys back."

"I know, don't worryᅳ and I love you, too, more than you know", she hummed, not doubting his words. The advantage of being a witch was that she could tell when someone was being honest or not.

Nola slowly lifted her head, leaving a kiss on his lips. "I think there's nothing I wouldn't do for you and our childrenᅳ and I mean that."

Jax smiled weakly, rubbing his thumb against her cheekbone after she rolled off him, laying down next to him. "Good, because I'd do anything for you too, darlin'."

"I know, handsome", Nola smiled again as she laid her head back on his chest, the sound of his heartbeat soothing.

When Jax placed his hand on her bump, like he did every night since they had found out that she was pregnant, their eyelids fluttered shut, both falling into a deep sleep after a few minutes after the eventful day.

#samcrosfaith writes #jax teller x oc #jax teller x reader #sons of anarchy #violence #romance #writer #original character #smut #writers on tumblr #soa fanfiction #soa #jax teller #halloween #one shot

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mischievouslittlecreature · 28 days ago

Text

Part 21: The Shadow of the Abattoir

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x OC

Summary: Lucy begins the long recovery from what Luca did to her, while the Shelbys prepare for Bonnie's boxing match.

Word Count: 5,254

Notes: Warnings for depictions of PTSD, injuries, chronic pain, and references to torture.

Previous Chapter • Series • Fic • Next Chapter

Chapter 26: Lost Forever

Audrey entered Luca’s room to find it in complete disarray. The papers that he kept spread across his desk were all over the floor, chairs and tables overturned in the sitting room, a lamp smashed on the thin rug, along with the shattered remains of crystal glasses and a decanter filled with amber liquid.

Her eyes swept over the scene of destruction, lips pursing.

When Matteo came to her lodgings, eyes wide and begging her to please come at once, she had almost sent him away. She probably would have, had it been anyone else asking for her help. She was the matriarch of the Changretta family, and she answered the summons of no one.

“Luca,” she said, stepping deeper into the room, towards where he was seated on the couch, staring straight ahead, gnawing so hard on the toothpick wedged between his teeth that she thought he might splinter it in half. Glass crunched under her heels.

She lowered herself into the seat beside him, keeping her back straight, watching her son scrutinizingly.

“What happened?”

He didn’t answer her, and Audrey bristled.

“When your mother asks a question, you answer it, Luca.”

“She got away,” he growled, eyes still staring straight ahead. “She fucking got away.”

“Who?”

“The Red Demon. Lucy Winters.”

Audrey felt her stomach fall into her toes, though she did not let it show on her face. “How?”

Luca shook his head. “Shelby found her, we think. The fucking gardener was found this morning, laid out on the doorstep of one of our old businesses, with his throat cut and his eyes torn out.”

“The gardener talked? But I thought you had men protecting him…”

“Yeah. Two men who we can’t locate. They were last seen at a pub with Smith. They were probably drunk when the Peakys arrived. Didn’t stand a fucking chance. Not that anyone who was at the pub that night will tell us anything.”

Audrey cursed in Italian under her breath. “But you left guards with Winters.”

“They’re all dead.”

“All of them?”

“Yes. Shelby must have killed them all.”

“Or she did.”

Luca finally looked at her. “She was barely able to stay conscious when I left her. She’s cut up and beaten within an inch of her life. There’s no way that she–”

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop underestimating her before you listen to me!?” With a sharp, controlled movement, she cuffed him around the back of the head like she used to when he was small. “If any of your men gave her so much as a sliver of an opportunity, I promise you that she took it.”

“And killed all of them?”

She looked around the room, a casualty of Luca’s wrath undoubtedly after he learned the news of Winters’s escape. Her mind wound back to when Lucy Winters first arrived in Small Heath. The stories that had soon began to follow her. “She’s done it before.” She turned her gaze back onto her son. “You should have just killed her when you had the chance.”

“We’ll get her back.”

“No, you won’t. Thomas isn’t going to let her out of his sight now.” Frustration mounted in her veins, making itself known through a venomous look thrown Luca’s way, shaking her head. “You had the opportunity of a lifetime. You had her in your clutches. Do you understand how profound of an effect her death would have had on Thomas? They say he went half mad with grief over his wife’s death. What do you think killing Winters would have done to him? It would have crippled him. Or we could have used her as a bargaining tool. Or bait. Something.” She stood, towering over him, her disappointment mounting with every passing moment. How could he have been so stupid!? “And you just wanted to play out some silly little revenge fantasy. Instead of actually using your victory to your advantage. Your father and I taught you better than that.”

“Isn’t that what this all is? Revenge, mother? I was paying her back for all the pain she’s caused. She was there when they tortured my father. She’s already killed more than a handful of our men. She deserved to know what it felt like. Besides, she’s not going to be much use to Shelby at all with how badly injured she is.”

Audrey shook her head. No use. He really thought that the woman who likely kept Thomas Shelby standing upright with her mere presence was of no use to him. “You have not listened to a single word that I’ve said, have you?”

Luca looked up at her, hurt cracking across his eyes. “I’ve done everything that you’ve told me to do.”

Head shaking back and forth, she went to the door.

“There’s the boxing match next week. We’ll strike a blow, then,” Luca called after her.

“Better pray it’s a big one, then. Because you’re running out of time.”

∗ ∗ ∗

Lizzie pushed the door to the bedroom open with her fingertips, peering in to find Lucy asleep, curled on her side in bed, a quilt pulled up over her chest, bandages wrapped around what looked to be most of her body. Tommy was hunched over in a chair at her bedside, Lucy’s hand in his. Ada was standing next to him, her hand on his shoulder while she looked down at Lucy’s sleeping figure.

“How is she?” she asked. Tommy cleared his throat, wetting his lips.

“Her back is…shredded. He whipped her,” Lizzie saw his hand tighten where it rested against his knee. “He reopened all her scars from…” he paused as if unable to bring himself to actually say it out loud, “from what happened to her in London before she came to us.”

“Jesus,” Ada breathed, a hand going to her lips.

“She took a bullet to her shoulder. I removed it. Cleaned and stitched her up. Gave her something for the pain and to help her sleep.” He rubbed a hand down his face. “She said that he bound her from the ceiling so that she was dangling with her arms above her head for days. I don’t…” he had to pause to get his voice under control. Ada rested a hand on his upper arm while he bowed his head. “I don’t know what kind of permanent damage that might’ve done.”

“But she’s alive.”

“Yes,” he agreed, though there was something in his voice that seemed to indicate that he wasn’t wholly confident in that statement.

“I’ll take Charlie for a few nights. He shouldn’t see her like this.”

“Thank you.”

“And Polly and Arthur will deal with everything else for the time being. You don’t need to worry about it. There’s still Bonnie’s boxing match with Alfie’s boy, but…”

“Someone needs to call Alfie and tell him we found her.”

“Already done. He said to tell you that he’ll deal with the last few arrangements that need to be made for the fight.”

“Right.”

“Doctor Evans will be here within an hour.”

“Good.” Lizzie wondered if the doctor was going to be in for a good scolding for not coming right as soon as he was called.

There was the clack of nails against the hardwood floor in the hallway, and then Asher was squeezing around Lizzie’s legs, nosing open the slightly ajar door to wander into the bedroom. Bypassing both Tommy and Ada, he raised his head to sniff at Lucy’s face. His tail drooped, ears falling downwards as a small whine left his throat. Tommy reached out to stroke the dog’s back.

“I know, boy. I know. She’s okay.”

Asher looked back at him, then to Lucy, whining again. Tommy drew him away gently.

“Let her sleep, Ash.”

The black shepherd let out another soft whine, laying down next to the bed with his head on his paws, his dark brown eyes fixed dutifully on Lucy, watching over her protectively.

“Do you need anything else?” Ada asked, hand smoothing up and down Tommy’s back.

“No.”

“Call me if you do. I’ll gather up Charlie and head home. I think Polly was planning on sleeping over in one of the spare rooms.” She stood.

“Ada,” he called, mindful to still keep his voice quiet enough that he would not wake Lucy. She turned back to him. “Thank you.”

She gave him a tiny small and a quick nod, before going to the door. Her grave gaze met Lizzie’s, reaching out only to give her a squeeze to the arm before heading to the stairs, leaving her standing in the doorway alone.

Hands ringing together, Lizzie turned back to the bedroom, taking a cautious step forward into the room.

“Tommy?”

He started at the sound of her voice, head raising. His eyes looked red rimmed and tired. “What?”

She ignored the bite of hurt at his sharp tone, reminding herself that he’d had more than a trying couple of days. “I’m going to go home.”

His gaze sharpened. “Luca knows where you live.”

“I know, but I don’t think he’ll come after me right now. And…” she looked at his hand still clasped tightly in Lucy’s. Her heart twisted and fractured in her chest. “I can’t stay here.” I can’t watch you love someone else.

Tommy’s eyes searched hers, and she swore that she saw a spark of guilt as he read what was likely obvious in her gaze. “Does your house have a spare room?”

Her annoyance flared. “You’d know if you actually came to visit.”

Tommy looked away, jaw tightening. She took a deep breath.

“Yes, it does.” Her voice was softer.

“Skudboat will be sleeping there until the vendetta is over. And I’ll have multiple armed guards watching the house at all times. Isiah will be re-vetting all of your staff too, before they come back to work.”

“Fine.”

“All right, then.”

That was clearly her cue to leave, but she hesitated, gaze shifting to the tiny figure curled up on the bed. “Is she going to be okay?” she asked, voice hardly a whisper. Tommy’s shoulders heaved, and for a second she thought that he wouldn’t answer.

“No. No, she won’t.” His voice was low and mournful, as if she had died and was gone forever rather than asleep right in front of him. A shiver went down Lizzie’s spine, looking in slight alarm at the woman who’d caused her so much emotional turmoil.

Three days of brutal torture. That was enough to leave anyone scarred in and out for life. She wondered in what ways Lucy would be changed after this.

Chilled by the thought, Lizzie quickly made for the door.

∗ ∗ ∗

“Lucy.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting on the mattress on either side of her, eyes staring blankly at a spot on the floor. Tommy pushed the bedroom door closed with a click behind Doctor Evans, leaving Polly to escort him out while he came to sit down beside her.

“Sweetheart?”

A choked off sob left her lips, hand flying to her mouth a second too late to try to contain it.

“Hey,” he wrapped his arm around her carefully, pulling her into his side. “It’s okay.”

She shook her head furiously from side to side, turning her face to bury in his shoulder.

“It’s gonna be okay, baby. Doctor Evans said that all those cuts will heal…”

Yes, to leave disgusting, raised scars in their wake.

But that wasn’t even what was really bothering her.

“My-my shoulders…” she managed to whimper out, and she felt Tommy tense a little against her.

“He said with time and the right exercises, you might be able to minimize the long-term damage done to them…”

She shook her head. She’d seen the look in Doctor Evans’s eyes, same as he had. That much time spent with her arms positioned over her head, with her entire body weight dangling from them, had likely done catastrophic damage to the nerves. And yes, he may have given her a set of exercises and stretches to do once the inflammation went down and her cuts healed enough that she wouldn’t risk reopening them, but she had seen it in his face. It would never be the same again. Her range of motion in them would be permanently impacted, and she’d likely have pains in them for the remainder of her life.

“I can’t…I might not be able to…” Why couldn’t she just get the bloody words out? Was she really so useless now that she couldn’t even speak? “What use am I to you now?” she forced herself to ask in a hoarse whisper. Tommy’s eyes widened, scooting closer to her.

“What do you mean?”

Her mind tumbled over itself with all the potential implications that her injuries could have. “What if I can’t fight anymore? Or the pain gets so bad I can barely function? What if I can’t do my job? Or…or…or…” her chest started to spasm, cinching hard and closing off her ability to speak, sobs and harsh gasps rattling in her lungs.

“Lucy, Lucy, Lucy…” Tommy gathered her up in her arms, pulling her in close to his chest. “Shh,” he started to rock her from side to side, hand cradling the back of her skull protectively. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay.” There was so much confidence in his voice that she was in danger of actually believing him. “I’ll take care of you. If you need physical accommodations for anything, we’ll sort them out, all right?”

“But–”

“Love, you’re useful for far more than just swinging fists.” Tommy tried to reassure, leaning back to smooth away her tears with his thumbs, cradling her face in his big palms. “Don’t worry about any of that right now. There’s nothing that could ever make me toss you aside, okay?” His lips brushed against her forehead. “All you need to focus on is healing and resting, eh?”

She swallowed, nodding shakily, taking a deep breath to try to steady herself. Gaze fixing with Tommy’s, she let the deep blue of his eyes ground her, reminding her that she was safe and looked after. Tommy gave her a small, reassuring smile.

“Good girl. C’mere.” He guided her gently into laying back down on the bed on her side, and she felt a pulse of fondness at the way he immediately began fussing over her. Fluffing her pillow and pulling the blankets up to her chin. “What do you need? Are you hungry? I think Ada or Polly made soup, if you want some.” He stood at her bedside, ready to jump at any request she might give him.

“Could you just come lay with me for a bit?”

His eyes softened, nodding and climbing in under the blankets next to her. He rested his arm lightly around her waist, taking care not to touch her back or jostle her bandages.

“I’m sorry,” she rasped, cheeks warming at her little meltdown and how frantic and irrational she probably had seemed.

“Oh, sweetheart, no. You don’t have to apologize for anything.”

Resting her hand on his forearm, Lucy rubbed her thumb back and forth against the soft material of his undershirt. He had changed into just a white Henley identical to the one he gave her to pull over her bandages, and a pair of trousers.

“I’m so sorry that I didn’t find you sooner,” he said, thumb stroking her cheekbone.

She shook her head. “I know that you did the best you could.” Adjusting herself, she stifled a wince at accidentally placing too much pressure on her bruised ribs. There wasn’t really any part of her that she could lay on without any discomfort, but being on her side was significantly better than being on her back. “How did you find me?”

“Our boys found Lizzie’s gardener who sold you out. His name was Paul Smith. Xavier Smith’s father. You remember Xavier Smith, right?”

Ah, that explained why the old man gave her up, then. “Yes.”

“I got him to talk.”

“How?”

He looked down. She inched her face closer to his in encouragement, until their noses almost brushed.

“I pulled out both his eyes.” The way that he looked at her suggested that he expected her to recoil in horror, but she did no such thing, hardly even blinking at the revelation.

“Is he still alive?”

A tiny, half sheepish smile crossed Tommy’s lips. “No. Not unless he can live with his head nearly sawed off.”

“You did that for me?” she asked, eyes wide.

“Of course,” Tommy said, as if there had never been any question in his mind that he would. “I had to find you.”

She put her head on his chest, weak arms looping around his middle. He rested his palms on her gingerly, careful not to pull at her bandages when he held her.

“Try to get some more rest.”

“When’s the fight between Bonnie and Goliath?”

“In a week.”

“I want to come.”

He drew back to look at her worriedly. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to overdo it.”

“I’m sure. I…” biting her lip, she glanced towards the window, then back at him. “I don’t want to be alone right now.”

He looked her up and down. “Okay.”

“Thank you,” she put her head on his chest, blinking slowly as exhaustion took hold of her once more. Tommy’s hand continued to pet at her hair.

“Get some sleep, love. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

And he was, when she woke but only a few short hours later, screaming.

Her brain was fogged over with panic, hands scratching and scrabbling, legs kicking to try to fight off the monsters that moments ago she had been certain were surrounding her.

“Lucy! Lucy!”

Her eyes darted around the room madly, searching for any signs of Luca looming in the dark corners, wicked grin pulling at the corners of his lips as he prepared to elicit more pain onto her.

“It’s okay. You’re safe.”

A hand rested lightly on her shoulder, and she thrashed violently, crying out, swatting with flailing hands.

“Get off of me!” she screamed, trying to scramble away. He was here. He was here and he was going to hurt her again unless she managed to get away…

“Lucy.” Two strong arms wrapped around her waist, pinning her arms to her sides, keeping her from rolling away. She tried to kick out, one foot colliding hard with the wall to her left with a bang. “It’s me. It’s me. Come here. Come here.”

Her breaths were coming out in fast, frantic little bursts, eyes bulging in their sockets.

“Deep breaths,” the voice behind her commanded, and she felt a stockily built chest rise as its owner’s lungs filled with oxygen, then slowly lower as he let the breath out. “Match my breathing, come on.”

Her mind finally managed to catch up with what was going on around her, or at least enough that she was able to recognize that the voice rumbling her ear very much was not the hissing murmur that belonged to Luca Changretta.

Her lungs stuttered, then almost unconsciously started to match the deep rise and falls of Tommy’s chest against her.

“That’s my girl,” he said, at her growing still. “Do you see the pictures on the wall?”

She had to squint to make them out in the darkness, but across from the bed she found the painting of a horse standing in a forest, the leaves changing colors with the seasons and fluttering to the grass that the mare was grazing upon in a layer of reds, oranges, and yellows.

Tommy’s cheek was resting against hers, his breath warm against her ear. She could feel the rumble of his voice in his chest when he spoke again.

“The items on the nightstand?”

Her gaze cast over. To the little lamp. A half filled glass of whiskey. An ashtray dusted with black ash, with too many cigarette butts to count smashed in its center.

“Uh huh.”

“He doesn’t have you anymore.” She felt Tommy relax as he felt the tension in her start to slip away. “You’re safe,” his lips just barely ghosted across her temple. “You’re safe, Lucy. There you go.”

Certain that she was actually lucid and calmed, he loosened his grip on her, pulling away slightly to flick on the lamp, washing the entire room in its dull, golden glow. Lucy cringed and squinted at the sudden change in brightness.

Sinking down into the mattress, she drew her arms up to her chest, tremors starting to wrack through her body, eyes welling with tears. Her back connected with the bed, and she sharply jerked away from it with a yelp.

Whether it was that action that caused the following hurricane of pain, or just what drew her mind’s attention to it, she wasn’t sure. It didn’t entirely matter, the result was the same. She was suddenly deeply aware of just how much everything hurt.

It was howling within her, her wounds screaming and muscles aching. Her back once more felt as though it had been set ablaze. Her split skin throbbed. Her shoulders hurt so badly it sent sparks of white flaring across her eyes.

A sob left her lips, twitching as though she might be able to wriggle away from the pain. But moving only made everything worse.

“Luce?” And then Tommy was there, leaning over her with wide, worried eyes. “Sweetheart, what is it?”

“H-hurts…” she barely could get the word out, but it was enough. Tommy shot up, reaching for the nightstand, pulling from the drawer the bottle of morphine that the doctor had left for her, along with a prescription for more if she needed it. He snatched up the glass of whiskey, downing the remaining of the amber liquid, then pouring a small amount of her medicine into the glass.

“Drink this,” he held it to her lips. The morphine was cold as it touched her tongue and slid down her throat. “Come here,” setting the glass aside, he reached out for her, smoothing his hand along the side of her face. “Look at me. Focus on my voice. Just give it a few minutes love, hm? You’ll be okay.”

Just as he said, it took only a few minutes, and the pain was dulled, her eyes starting to feel heavy again.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, sniffing. Tommy shook his head.

“It’s okay.”

With a sigh, she let her head rest on his chest. “‘M a fucking mess,” she lamented sorrowfully.

“No, honey. No, you’re not. You’re just recovering. It’s alright. I gotcha.” He put his arms around her. “Light on or off?��

“Off.” It was too bright with it on. She felt his muscles flex against her as he reached over to flick it off. “You’re a good nurse.”

His chest buzzed pleasantly against her ear with a quiet chuckle. “You’re high as a kite, love.” He kissed the top of her head. “Go back to sleep.”

“You don’t have to stay.” She desperately wanted him to, but she didn’t want him to feel like he had to continue to stick around and gather up the pieces every time she fell apart. There was no doubt in her mind that she’d be waking up screaming and thrashing from nightmares probably for the foreseeable future. He was probably exhausted. He needed to rest too. “I’ll probably keep waking you up…”

“Good.” His thumb stroked her cheek. “I want you to wake me up every time that you need something.”

Her lips pouted with the desire to cry again at how nice he was being towards her. She stroked her fingers lazily across his chest, feeling how warm and strong he was; reassuring herself that she was probably as safe as was realistically possible when in the circle of his arms.

His fingers curled under her chin, tilting her face up to look into his. “I love you, Lucy,” he kissed her softly, lips soft as a pillow against hers. Tears filled her eyes.

“I love you too.”

He smiled at her gently, placing another kiss between her brows. “Sleep,” he said, and encouraged her to snuggle back down into his chest.

∗ ∗ ∗

Lucy stared at her reflection in the mirror in the washroom, hands gripping either side of the sink’s basin, knuckles white, lip caught between her teeth. Glassy, dead green eyes looked back at her, their judgment harsh and sharp.

God, she looked fucking awful.

The bruises on her face had faded into unflattering shades of purple, green, and yellow. Her skin was sickly, eyes bloodshot and surrounded by dark circles.

And that wasn’t even taking into account the rest of her. She looked like she had been patchworked back together, like a blanket with dozens of holes in it that had been mended with other various scraps of fabric. Or maybe like a crude attempt at dressing up like Frankenstein’s monster.

She knew that the other women–Polly, Ada, Linda, and Lizzie–had all planned to get dolled up in elegant, beaded dresses and expensive jewels and furs for the occasion of Bonnie’s boxing match. There was no way that she could go out like that. The best she would be able to do was dress in layers that would prevent her bandages from getting disturbed too much, and hope that she could hide most of the bruises on her face with makeup.

Tugging at the white button down and trousers she had already pulled on earlier with Tommy’s help, she frowned, pulling her belt a few notches tighter to cinch more securely around her waist. After three days of being fed only tiny scraps of bread, she had lost weight. Also probably not helped by the fact that she’d barely had the appetite to eat anything save for small servings of chicken noodle soup for most of the past week.

Leaning closer to the mirror, she dabbed a little more makeup over a bruise on her cheekbone, trying hard not to wince at the way that the movement pulled tightly at her shoulders.

She did not realize just how much she raised her arms up over her head until she was practically unable to. She couldn’t even grab her favorite mug from the cupboard because it was on a high shelf.

A soft knock sounded at the door. “You okay in there, love?” Tommy’s voice called. Lucy sighed, rubbing at her face.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Be out in a second.”

He had hardly left her side for the last week. Even getting him to let her use to loo on her own had taken a significant amount of convincing. But she appreciated the worry. Frankly the idea of not being close to him was enough to have her teetering on the edge of a panic attack.

Wiping her hands on a towel, she looked herself up and down one last time in the mirror, sighing and determining that this was probably about as good as she was going to be able to manage at the moment.

When she stepped out into the hall, it was to find Tommy leaning against the opposite wall, turning a cigarette over and over between his fingers anxiously. He straightened when he saw her, wedging the cigarette between his lips and holding out a hand to help usher her back into the bedroom.

Her fingers fiddled together as she stepped towards the bed, picking up her waistcoat and shoving her arms through the holes, thankful that it buttoned in the front so she wouldn’t have to raise her arms to get it on. Tommy approached her, reaching out to do up the buttons for her, then helping her into her matching suit jacket and coat.

It felt strange to be in her normal clothes after over a week spent in bed in little more than one of Tommy’s shirts. Not exactly a bad strange, though. It would probably do her good to return to a routine.

Tommy smiled down at her, brushing a fallen curl back behind her ear. “Ready?”

“I look like shit.”

His brows pulled together, thrusting out a hand for her to take so he could draw her closer to him, head angling down to kiss her. “You look beautiful. C’mon.”

His fingers squeezed around hers as he led the way down the stairs and to the door. The fresh air, no matter how smoky, felt good on her cheeks after so many days spent cooped up inside.

“You know, you don’t have to come if you aren’t feeling up to it. I’m sure Ada would be happy to stay with you,” Tommy said as they walked. His gait was noticeably slower than usual, to make sure that she wouldn’t struggle to keep up.

Lucy shook her head. The idea of not being with him left her feeling panicky.

“I want to stay with you.”

“Okay,” he didn’t question her. “But you let me know if you’re in pain. Or if you need to go home.”

“Okay.”

Once they got to the boxing ring, she stood at his side, keeping her cap on despite them being indoors, her head angled down to let the shadows it cast partially hide the bruises on her face. Her arms looped through his, hoping that it looked more like she was just lingering close to him as she so often did, and not because she needed to lean on him for stability. The shouts of men and the crush of bodies crowded together seemed louder and more overwhelming than usual. But that may have been because she was pretty sure that if someone jostled into her too hard, she would tip over.

Just before the first round started, Tommy drew her away, his grip firm to help support her as they weaved through the tight maze of hallways that made up the backrooms.

“I thought it would be good for us to sit somewhere quiet for a minute,” he explained, guiding her to a bench in one of the locker rooms. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” she took the cigarette that he offered her, leaning into his side when he sat down beside her. He gingerly wrapped his arm around her, resting the side of his head against her hair.

Her physical ailments aside, what unnerved her the most was her mind. That feeling of numbness and desolation that had overtaken her the day that Tommy brought her home had not abated. Had not even eased at all, really.

Was this what her mind was to be like, now? Aching and constantly overstimulated? Both simultaneously feeling everything and nothing?

She did not want to live like that.

“Lucy?” Tommy asked, thumb stroking her shoulder through the material of her coat.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” she blurted out. It really meant a lot; she knew that she wasn’t particularly fun to be around right now, and with the thousands of other things he had to worry about, that he’d chosen to prioritize her was no small thing.

“Love, you don’t have to thank me for that. It’s what we do.”

She allowed herself a small smile at that, despite the unending anxiety that plagued her; that feeling that there was yet another piece of her that had died in that church. A part of her that was lost forever.

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Thank you for reading! Please consider leaving a comment, reblog, or like. I always appreciate feedback and love getting the opportunity to interact with you and hear your thoughts!

#tommy shelby #peaky blinders #tommy shelby x oc #my ocs #lucy winters #lucy winters x tommy shelby #love me where i'm most ruined #my fanfiction #lily writes

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yoku-yukihime · 2 months ago

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would love to know more about yuki if you're willing to share. I like how scrungly her staff is.

Im honored! shes a pretty deep and complex oc all things considered tbh. so apologies if i ramble a bit! im going to try and include everything about her story wise lol. She comes from a hidden society of fox people, the society is pretty in tune with magic and stuff. very scholarly. most of the people that fall out of it become the kind of kitsunes u see that seduce people and steal spirit energy. but Yuki was a studying sorcerer. she was pretty invisible to move people, nothing fancy or stand outish. she happened to fall into a trap along her evening walk through one of the many archives and stumbled onto hidden books tucked far out of reach. forgotten memories and stories forbidden for the ages. Yuki became fascinated with dark arts and taboo mysteries. and important thing with the foxes of this society is that age is shown with tail number, often translates to wiseness. most get to nine and dont reach any more before passing from age. yuki still only had one around this time. she was maybe in her 20s. but looking upon the scripture she found, she stumbled upon legends of an ancient god that could grant a very special artifact. Yuki wanted it to show off, it promised great power. so she got Obsessed with this rabbit hole. she would spent hours, days, weeks, months wandering up the cliffsides by the ocean waiting and watching as she repeatedly tried to summon this old god. she camped out there, starved herself, almost died multiple times she hadnt been seen in the society for months and all searches were called off. she was considered dead. until it happened. one night it appeared over the ocean. It was completely inconceivable. the mere sight of it changed her world view entirely. her mind could not even begin to comprehend the higher existence this ... this thing came from the old god... was a text box. like one you'd see in an rpg game. upon laying eyes on it, yuki became aware of higher existence. it spoke to her in its beeps and text. it offers her its treasure. a red orb of endless magic. a bottomless well of mana to pull from to do whatever she liked with. this was it, what she wanted, she no longer cared after so long. she placed her hand upon the orb, and with that, the old god took over her body... but she made no resistance. she wanted this. she accepted the god inside her. they could work together. she was 100% Interested in what it wanted. and from then on, she started to call herself "The Great Witch" with the old god inside of her, she gained a special ability, being naturally aware of this Higher existence she can use an rpg menu, like dragon quest! check peoples stats, statuses, use her spells from a list instead of reciting incantations or waiting for cast times. every battle with her is Forcibly made turn based, for some reason people Cant attack if shes got her menu open. the gods rule forbids it. so she recognizes her new power, and she gets to go on a romp and do as she pleases! the forgotten young sorcerer is no more, but the soon to be greatest villain in all the land is born, Yuki never looks back and embraces the new her!

#jun talks #rambling #long post.#sorry!!!#great witch yuki

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levi-ackermvn · 4 months ago

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happy friday !! i hope y’all are crying with me ( and sloane ) ‧º·(˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ )‧º·˚ anyways, i will NEVER, EVER get over this beautiful, yet heart wrenching commission by the incredible koldangreyart on twitter (*^Д^*)ゞ thank you so much for constantly exceeding my expectations with every comm. it’s always a pleasure working with you <3

[ DO NOT REPOST, EDIT, OR TRACE!!! this artwork was commissioned for my fic so please do not steal it ]

[ this is an oc x canon post. if you do not like it, please kindly leave. any negative, hateful, or weird comments that has nothing to do with my post or fic will be deleted ]

unpublished excerpt below <3

Her gaze drifted aimlessly over the wreckage, each fragment a shapeless blur as she struggled to grasp the remnants of reality. A relentless throb pulsed in her head. A dense fog muddled her thoughts, pierced only by the persistent ringing in her right ear. Rain battered her face, mingling with the soaked grass beneath her. The cold droplets seeped into her skin.

The acrid scent of smoke invaded her lungs. Every inhale was a jagged knife, searing through her chest. Then, a more familiar odor pierced through the haze—something unmistakable and metallic, something she couldn’t escape all those years as a scout.

Blood.

Too much blood.

Dread curled around her heart, its terrible grip tightening with each passing moment. Was this sickening stench coming from her? Was she the source of all the blood that tainted the air? Am I... dying? No.

She had felt Death’s shadow before, beneath the Reiss family’s church. These current wounds she had, whatever they were, couldn’t produce such an overpowering smell.

If it wasn’t from her… where did it come from?

Her eyes searched the wreckage anew. A sense of urgency driving her as the throbbing in her head grew louder, desperate to uncover the source of the ghastly smell. Gradually, the shapes around her grew clearer, revealing a figure sprawled face down beside the riverbank, disturbingly still. Sloane blinked hard, willing her vision to sharpen. A green cloak, emblazoned with the Wings of Freedom insignia, crystallized into agonizing clarity.

No.

A raw, anguished sound tore from her throat, shattering the very air—a wail she hadn't known she was capable of. Tears began to cascade down her cheeks, lost in the unrelenting rain as if the heavens themselves wept with her. Instinctively, she dragged herself toward him, each movement a searing torment as she sought to bridge the vast distance between them. The ache in her body faded into insignificance, now overwhelmed by an unspeakable fear.

Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead.

The thought surged within her like a fervent incantation, imploring to whichever unseen force might grant her this one mercy.

Please.

Please don’t take him from me too.

Sloane had weathered the storm of loss time and time again, each one carving a deep, invisible scar. With each passage of sorrow, she was able to piece herself back together, little by little, until the raw pain softened into a distant memory. But… if he were to die, if he were to slip away from this cruel world they vowed to save together, leaving her to endure this unbearable fate alone, it would shatter her beyond repair.

She clawed her way through the mud. Her fingers dug into the sodden ground, feeling the soil beneath her nails. Once, this same earth had been a source of innocent delight, evoking the carefree days of her youth, where every inch of her had been joyfully smeared in the spirit of adventure.

Now, the sensation only made her skin crawl.

Her cries grew frantic as she summoned all the strength she could possibly muster to bridge the distance between them. Each excruciating inch she covered felt like a thousand lifetimes, her limbs trembling with the effort.

Some part of her clung to the fragile hope that this was but a horrific nightmare. A cruel illusion from which she would awaken in the sanctuary of his arms, discovering him whole and well, just as he had always been.

Please let this be a dream. Please let me wake up.

But that hope dwindled away when she at last reached his side. With trembling hands, she carefully turned him over. The sight that met her eyes unraveled her completely.

Levi’s face, his beautiful face—a canvas she adored with every fiber of her being—was now barely recognizable. She could not see the arch of his brow, the creases of his forehead, or the slant of his mouth beneath the sea of red. The blood, a relentless tide, coated his pale skin, defying even the rain’s mournful efforts to cleanse him free of the stain.

She peered into his eyes, yearning to glimpse even a whisper of life within the familiar steel blue. One eye was ravaged and awash in crimson, yet both stared back with a haunting emptiness.

The knife inside her heart twisted further.

Her sobs clamored in her ears, loud enough to deafen the rain’s ceaseless patter and the faintest of breaths that may still rattle in his chest.

#anime oc #aot oc #levi ackerman oc #levi ackerman fanfiction #snk oc #levi x oc #levi ackerman #sloane beckett #levi x sloane #otp: see you on the other side #the ties that bind #my ocs #blood tw #:)

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osunism · 21 days ago

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Daughter of Disgrace

"Is there any place where Heaven's bastard daughters are welcome?"

🔞 Rating: Explicit [MDNI] ❤️‍🔥 Pairing[s]: Satoru + Sundari || Nadja + Sukuna ⚠️ Warning[s]: Explicit sexual situations, graphic depictions of violence, major character death[s], as well as some toxic relationship elements. Spoilers for the manga. Sukuna is his own warning but there is cannibalism, abuse, body horror, and mild torture in this fic. So canon-typical violence. 🪧 Summary: In the aftermath of Satoru Gojo's sealing, Sundari must choose rebellion in order to free him. Lucky for them both, rebellion has always been her preferred modus operandi. 🎧 [ godslayer principle ] -- Sundari's Playlist

⚠️ Be Advised: This is the sequel to Beast of No Nation. It's recommended that you read that fic first to get the context of this one.

⛩️ AO3 𑁍 FFN 𑁍 Fic Masterlist 𑁍 Parallax OCs 𑁍 Sonder OCs 𑁍 HCs & Meta ⛩️

𓃰 Chapter 12: In Every Lifetime

"An ending, a beginning, an ending, and a beginning. And so it goes; round and round; the great Wheel ever-spinning. The harmony of death and rebirth; sin and salvation; sacred and profane; poison and cure; disgrace and redemption; curse and blessing.The universe is a series of cycles; the most perfect math there is.

Who says our story must end here, my love?"

We all carry within us our places of exile, our crimes, and our ravages. But our task is not to unleash them on the world; it is to fight them in ourselves and in others. —Albert Camus

Yuji cups Sukuna’s remnants in his palm. A miasma of crimson smoke swirls above them. Two crimson eyes glare back at him, and half the remains of a mouth sneer in hatred. Yuji seems unbothered by even this last vestige of vitriol his uncle bears for him. In Sundari’s inverted domain, what they have come to understand is not divine mandate, but a Heavenly Summons, their souls are briefly connected, their memories bleeding into one another’s. For a brief instant, they are alive and dead all at once, and Sukuna sees the simplicity of Yuji’s life unfold before his mind’s eye, painful and warm and filled with all the things his own life lacked.

He sees his daughter’s ancient origins, from her birth amidst a clan of strong warrior women, to her ascension as a deified sorceress, protector of women and children, to her sealing after the terrible curse—his curse—finally found its fangs at the throats of the innocent; the painful fracturing of everything she was, the loss of all she knew. He sees too, the life she created for herself, a new version of her, still capable of strong, and ignorant of the cursed markings that give everyone pause. He sees memories of her dying her pink hair to jet black, a cloud of curls just like her damnable, beautiful, self-sacrificing mother. But, Sukuna notes with pride, Sundari’s face is all his: pride, insolence, and confidence in unfathomable spades.

Sundari and Yuji see Sukuna’s soul, fractured and made whole repeatedly over centuries, and the whole cursed story of him unravels itself in their minds, including Kenjaku’s scheme that led to Yuji’s conception. They see all his deeds laid bare, and they see his story with Nadja unravel: love and loss, over and over again, and his determination to find her across the centuries. They feel the terrible emptiness of his unanswered question: why did you leave me? Worst of all, they see Sukuna before he became the force of reckoning he is now. They see the coiled, frightened child with too many arms, eyes, and mouths, and too much power to be controlled. For all of his life, others have sought to control him, and Sukuna has never accepted anyone’s yoke.

At the core, they understand the hunger in him. Ravenous and all-consuming. Insatiable.

This is what happens when two domains do not clash…but overlap, two souls vying not for dominance, but harmony.

Yuji and Sundari’s souls hum on a similar frequency, a sustained note across time and space, heard and felt throughout Heaven and Earth.

“Sukuna,” Yuji’s voice sounds the way a gentle summer breeze feels, and two crimson eyes glare up at him, glittering with malice…and fear. Mortality has never pressed so closely to the King of Curses in all his days.

“Let’s try this again,” Yuji says, and there is a compassion in his tone that cuts deeper than any slash Sukuna has thrown.

“Let’s try living with each other, not to curse one another…”

Sukuna feels the curse in his guts, squirming and wriggling and burning.

“Even if no one accepts you…”

Stop it, brat. Stop it.

“I can live with you.”

Sundari is poised for the kill, but Yuji’s words give her pause and she regards him curiously. Even after all her father has done, all he has sought to do, Yuji still seeks to offer him the benediction of mercy? Sundari knows she should be angry—at the very least, offended—but she cannot find it in her heart to care. She feels scraped and raw and exhausted. She wants to end this cycle, to strip away her father’s curse and free the world of the burden that is him.

But she’s seen his memories, she’s seen what he was, and what he was forced to become.

“Don’t you dare try and play the compassionate card now, brat,” Sukuna sneers. “I am a curse, and you’d do well not to underestimate me.”

“You aren’t a curse, dad,” Sundari says, weariness coloring her voice, blood dripping from her nose. She doesn’t know how much longer she and Yuji can sustain this connection. “Just…you can literally try again. Maybe Yuji’s right: maybe there’s another way. Another path. Anything but more of…this.”

Sukuna’s gaze roils towards his daughter, taking in her appearance. The markings that once limned black into her brown skin are faded, almost more like birthmarks than tattoos. No matter what boon she has won from Heaven, she will bear his markings for all her days. That is how powerful his curse is.

You aren’t a curse.

I’m not a curse. I am cursed.

The realization reverberates through their shared connection, and all at once he gasps.

Sundari and Yuji are suddenly gone, as is the divine presence that had united them. He stands alone in the darkness, but the presence in the void is familiar. He’s been here before.

“Well, well, well,” a voice drawls, drawing his gaze downward. “Didn’t expect to ever see you here, of all people.”

Gojo Estate, Kyoto, December 30, 2018

In the aftermath, Sundari dreams. For once, she is uncertain if what she sees is memory or fabrication, but she pays attention. The visions are disjointed, always in media res as dreams are prone to being, but the recurring symbols and themes are there, and she does recognize some bits of her own memories in the patchwork film reel.

Sundari dreams, and Megumi stands in the darkness Sukuna has left behind, overcome by the sudden silence. He is once again alone with his own thoughts.

But everything is so fuzzy around the edges. His thoughts move with the ponderous, amorphous pace of a lava lamp’s contents, and somehow always just out of his reach. It takes him hours to figure out how to formulate his thoughts into the obvious conclusion: Unlimited Void. This is the ill effect of surviving five waves of Unlimited Void. His thoughts are disjointed and fractured, out of sync and hard to catch.

Ironically, he understands Gojo now more than ever.

His eyes open, and he hears himself gasp, fills his lungs with air, breathes of his own volition for the first time in weeks.

Sukuna is really gone, but Megumi can feel something knotted in his soul; furrows, like a claw marks. The separation should have killed him, but Sundari had a barrier active to protect him from sharing Sukuna’s fate.

Megumi hears himself panting as his thoughts come in a sudden rush, then stretch out again at that damnable pace.

“Fushiguro!” Yuji’s voice shatters the silence, and he sits up suddenly, startled all the way back into his body. His eyes take in the sight of Yuji, clad in his uniform, posing with a box.

Out of the box springs Nobara Kugisaki. Megumi’s eyes go wide. His mouth works but no words come. Kugisaki, sporting a black eyepatch embroidered with a hammer, nails, and rose crest, grins in triumph.

“Sorry I missed the party!” She boasts. “I was getting some much-needed beauty sleep! I heard it was a woman who saved the day!”

Yuji rolls his eyes. “Well, she’s my cousin…technically. Kind of.”

“Okay…are you ever…gonna explain that?” Megumi asks, frustrated with how slow his thought-to-speech reflexes have become. He imagines Gojo is having a good laugh at his expense about this. Megumi gets annoyed at the very thought.

“Look who finally decided to join the land of the living!” Gojo’s voice shatters the quiet, and Megumi becomes annoyed for real. But he’s also relieved to see his sensei alive and well. Gojo is grinning, sporting new scars to match Yuji’s own. Megumi touches his face, is relieved to not feel Sukuna’s features swimming under his skin like a parasite. He can feel the rugged scar tissue where Sukuna’s face had overlain his own. It will be some time before he can look in a mirror comfortably again. He catches Yuji’s gaze, and the boy’s brown eyes are soft with sympathy. If no one else understands, Yuji understands what it is like to be ridden by the curse that is—was—Sukuna.

Over the next few hours, Gojo and Yuji piece together the entire tale of mounting his rescue, from the moment he was taken, to when Sundari freed Gojo, to the final battle. Megumi remembers Nadja’s unexpected sacrifice in more ways than the others, and he looks away at the mention of her name. He had been present for Sukuna’s reunion with her, had born witness to their…relationship. He isn’t sure if Sukuna knew he was aware or if he simply did not care. He isn’t sure how he feels about it, only that he cannot find it in himself to hate Nadja for it. Whatever else there was, love had existed between those two, twisted as it was. And in the end, she’d chosen to save the person who could stop him.

Megumi wonders if Gojo was right about love being the most twisted curse. In the end, it had claimed Nadja and Sukuna both. He looks at Yuji again, wonders if…

“Where is Hikmat-san?” He asks. At the mention of Sundari, Yuji and Gojo exchange glances.

“She’s not awake yet,” Yuji says sadly. “After she dismissed her domain, she collapsed. Gojo-sensei brought her back here with you.”

Megumi looks down at his hands. He remembers being present when Sundari came back for Nadja’s remains. He remembers feeling Sukuna’s uncertainty. His fear. He was afraid of losing everything, including his life. But seeing his own daughter vowing to kill him had broken something in him. Megumi owes her a debt he can never hope to repay, but Sukuna has taken someone he loves as well.

“She’s going to be in recovery a while,” Gojo says in that easy way of his, as if he doesn’t doubt Sundari will be up and about in no time. “But she’ll bounce back. I know my girl.”

“Your girl, sensei?” Nobara asks, waggling her eyebrows. Gojo spreads his hands and sticks out his tongue.

“Yeah, and if I can convince her, she’ll be your sensei too when you bunch officially become third years.”

Yuji and Nobara look excited, their eyes sparkling. Megumi looks somewhat suspicious. He has a feeling there’s more to it than Gojo lets on, but he withholds his suspicions if only because his mind is still fuzzy, like moss has grown over the parts of his brain that are normally so quick to connect the dots. How long will this go on for, he wonders. He supposes he should count himself lucky this is the worst of the side effects.

He should be dead, after all.

Megumi is strong enough to walk on his own, and he dresses while Yuji and Nobara fill the emptiness with mindless chatter and Gojo looks on with a secretive smile, his eyes blindfolded once more. For a moment, it feels like old times. Megumi looks around for a calendar or clock. His phone’s been lost since Sukuna stole his body.

“How long has it been? Since everything happened?” Megumi asks. Gojo grins in a way that makes Megumi regret asking the question just as Nobara answers: “You missed Christmas!”

Yuji frowns and glares at Nobara. “So did you!”

Immediately, she and Yuji break into an argument about whether or not missing Christmas was more important than saving the world. Gojo’s grin softens into a fond smile, and whatever mischief he had planned for his own response is withheld for now.

Megumi does not get an answer to his question either way, and sighs.

By now, he has deduced that they are on the ancestral Gojo Estate, a place he hasn’t been to since he was a small boy still learning to harness his technique. Being trained by Gojo Satoru’s own tutors before matriculating to Jujutsu Tech had made him intimately familiar with the grounds.

He knows where to go, following Sundari’s cursed energy to another room. His classmates trail after him, still bickering, and Gojo walks behind them at a leisurely, long-legged pace.

It’s just like old times, it’s nothing like old times.

Megumi resists the urge to roll his eyes because of course Gojo put Sundari up in his old bedroom. She looked so exhausted, even in her comatose state. Megumi can’t help the stab of guilt that twists in his guts. Yuji places a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s not your fault,” he says, understanding as always. Megumi’s jaw tenses but he can’t ignore how comforting it is to have Yuji touch him again after having Sukuna put them at odds. “She’s gonna wake up soon.”

“Yeah,” Nobara says. “She can’t miss New Year’s!”

“What is it with you and holidays?” Yuji asks irritably. Nobara places her hands on her hips, fixing him with a stare.

“These are important milestones, and it makes sense that the woman who saved your sorry asses would be there to celebrate with us.”

Yuji wants to retort that none of that makes any sense and that it was a team effort that took down Sukuna, but Gojo is brushing past them because Sundari is waking up. They hear her groan tiredly—irritably—before she’s moving.

“Fuck me,” are the first words of the woman who saved the day. Nobara suppresses a snort of laughter, Megumi’s brows go up, and Yuji’s eyes go wide. Only Gojo seems unphased by Sundari’s choice of words.

“Morning, beautiful,” he says to her, and she squints up at him with all four of her eyes. Her pink curls are disheveled, sticking up in all directions, her skin is dry and a little sallow, and there are shadows under her eyes Megumi’s shikigami could hide in.

Satoru has never found her more beautiful because she’s still here. Alive.

“What fuckin’ year is it?” Sundari asks, rubbing her face with both hands and yawning. It’s only when she uncovers her face that she notices the trio of students crowding the doorway.

“Oh,” she says. “Sorry. Uh…come on in, kids!” She glares at Satoru, who is grinning. “What the fuck, man?” She mouths and he blows a kiss in response. Sundari does her best to fix her face as Yuji and Megumi join her. She takes a look at Megumi’s face, notes the scars in the places where her father’s face once was. He’ll bear those scars for all his days. She looks down at her hands, notes the scars of innumerable slash marks, like macabre tiger stripes. Also a mark from her father.

The tattoos are still there, black again, no longer faded. Whatever else she got from the boon she demanded, Heaven still sees fit to remind her of her origins. No matter, she will carry the scars and the ink with pride. Let the world see how Sukuna’s daughter treats with sorcerers.

You can prove them wrong.

Sundari looks at Yuji, who smiles at her, but there’s a blush in his cheeks that wasn’t there before.

Cousins. She wants to laugh. What the fuck was Kenjaku’s problem? Ah well, at least she can say she’s got some semblance of family left to her. Yuji isn’t so bad, after all.

“So,” she says. “I’d like to formally apologize for my dad being such a dick. Uh…Yuji, you’re still gross for just eating his Finger like that, but sorry for everything that came after. On the plus side, I got my memories and powers back. On the other plus side, my dad’s dead! Satoru, I’m starving…is there pizza?”

Satoru laughs despite himself. “Whatever you want, babe. I think Shoko’s going to be by later for a physical.”

Sundari swings her legs out of the bed and stands. She feels a slight rush that makes her momentarily lightheaded, and feels Satoru’s strong grip on her arm, steadying her. She meets his gaze, and they share a smile.

Nobara gags.

“I cannot believe Gojo-sensei got a girlfriend before I got a boyfriend,” she grouses. Yuji glares at her.

“How is that hard to believe? I had to watch you get your literal brains blown out!”

Nobara grins, her remaining eye glimmering. “I know. Wasn’t it fucking cool?”

Yuji makes a face. “It was horrifying! I thought you were dead!”

“As if some punk ass cursed spirit could drop me! I’m the Girl of Steel!”

The bickering begins anew, and Megumi lets out a long-suffering sigh. Sundari decides she likes Nobara immediately. Maybe she’ll consider Satoru’s not-so-subtle requests that she look into teaching.

“Gojo-sensei,” Megumi says. “Can I talk to you alone for a minute?”

Satoru presses a kiss to Sundari’s temple, giving her a gentle squeeze before excusing himself to the hall with Megumi. Satoru knows there’s a few things he owes to Megumi, but he’s surprised when the door shuts and Megumi immediately throws his arms around Satoru.

It startles both of them.

Satoru’s arms come up and he places them around Megumi with a gentle smile. Neither one of them question the moisture soaking his jacket as Megumi simply clings to him.

“I’m sorry, Megumi,” Satoru says, and means it. “When I took you in all those years ago, this wasn’t what I envisioned for you. I should have prepared you better, but none of us could have—”

“It’s fine,” Megumi mumbles, taking a deep, shuddering breath. It’s not fine. Not right now. It probably won’t be for some time. “I just…I thought I was going to lose everything I ever cared about. When he…”

There’s a lot.

Satoru pulls Megumi back to look at him.

“Do you want to talk about it right now? Are you ready to?” He asks, none of the usual playfulness in his voice. Megumi swallows, wipes his face hastily.

“No,” he says softly. “Not right now. It’s too…fresh. My thoughts are still jumbled. I just needed to see that you’re real is all. I thought…when Sukuna figured out how to bypass infinity…”

Satoru’s brows go up in surprise, a piece of the puzzle clicking into place. So that was why Nadja had intervened. She knew what Sukuna was using the Ten Shadows for. Satoru frowns. Why hadn’t she warned him ahead of time? Likely she counted on Sukuna wanting to counter her in the event of her betrayal. She had been playing against him, and Satoru had just been another piece on the board. No one had counted on her sacrificing her life to save Satoru. He remembers Sukuna’s shocked expression as Nadja countered his World Cutting Slash with her Executioner Blade. He remembers it shattering in her hands and seeing Sukuna’s technique broken in two. He’ll never forget that as long as he lives.

He wishes he could commend her. He decided he will tell Sundari where Sukuna’s half of Nadja’s ashes are kept, since her own urn was destroyed in the final battle.

“I’m the Strongest, remember?” He assures Megumi with a grin. Megumi doesn’t look convinced, and Satoru is worried about the state of his ward’s mind. He makes a note to hold Megumi back from missions until he’s been fully evaluated. And to ask if he still wants to be a sorcerer at all given all that has happened to him.

“Why did you take me in…all those years ago?” Megumi asks. “Was it because of my technique?”

Satoru hesitates. He’s been bracing himself for this conversation for a long time, but he hadn’t expected to survive his encounter with Sukuna. He’d had a letter prepared in case anything happened to him! Now he has to actually tell the whole gory story.

Damnit, Nadja.

“Well,” Satoru says. “It was your father’s dying wish, actually.”

Megumi’s eyes go wide. “What?”

Satoru chuckles, rubbing the back of his head. “It’s a funny story, in retrospect. A little ironic, really. Like I didn’t even know he had a kid, and then when I saw you it was like—well of course his kid would have fucking Ten Shadows, right?”

“Gojo! You’re rambling. What do you mean it was my father’s dying wish? You knew him?”

Satoru sighs. “Briefly, and it wasn’t a happy acquaintance. He tried to kill me, actually. Almost succeeded too. Look, one of these days I’m gonna sit you down and tell you the whole ugly story, and then you can summon Mahoraga or something and we can have it out, if you want.”

“You killed him, didn’t you?”

The words are like a guillotine blade, cutting all the life out of the small space between them. Satoru blinks, takes a deep breath, and slowly reanimates on his next exhale.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I did. His final words were for me to keep you from being sold to the Zenins. From my understanding your dad was a gambling man, and his final bet was on you, Megumi.”

Megumi stares at Satoru, his expression caught in a crossroads of too many things to name. For much of his life, he assumed his father had simply sold him off and had been living a charmed life off the money these last few years. For much of his life, Gojo Satoru allowed him to believe this.

“I tried to tell you when we met,” Satoru says, as if reading his thoughts. “But you said you didn’t care to know what your dad was up to; I can respect that, and you’ve always known your own mind. I figured if you ever changed your mind, you’d ask. I admit my delivery of the news wasn’t the best. This isn’t much better. But the bottom line is he believed in you, Megumi. It’s the one thing he and I have in common.”

Megumi’s throat bobs in a heavy swallow, and he looks away.

“And then I got my entire body hijacked by Sukuna, killed my sister—”

“You didn’t kill her,” Satoru says sternly, eyes flashing like blue fire. “Sukuna killed her, and he did it deliberately to hurt you. That death is not on you.”

“You don’t know that!” Megumi says. “How could anyone know that?”

Satoru snorts. “Actually, there’s one guy I can say who does know that. His whole technique revolves around shit like this, actually.”

Megumi’s brow furrows and he makes the connection in his mind.

“Higuruma-sama? Yeah…he trapped Yuji in his domain once. Put him on trial.”

Satoru grins. “That’s him! He agreed to work as a sorcerer without question. He’s absolutely batshit, perfect for the job. Anyway, if you ever wanna know what you’re actually guilty of, just ask him to pull you into his domain. But be careful, if you’re guilty of something really bad, he’ll be obligated to kill you.”

“What? Why would you tell me that?”

Satoru rolls his eyes. “Because you’re blaming yourself for shit that wasn’t your fault, Megumi. And since you won’t believe me—your gorgeous, twice-blessed sensei—when I tell you you’re good, then I guess we can see if Higuruma has to, you know…” Satoru makes a quick slicing motion across his neck. Megumi stares at him impassively.

“Never mind,” Satoru says. “You aren’t…you’re taking this remarkably well.”

Megumi’s gaze is distant, as if he’s looking into the past and a soft smile crosses his face.

Hey kid…what’s your name?

Fushiguro.

Not Zenin? I’m so glad.

“What?” Satoru asks. “Don’t keep me in suspense, kid.”

Megumi blinks like a waking dreamer and meets Satoru’s gaze.

“Nothing, just remembering something from Shibuya, is all.” he says with a secretive smile. Satoru smiles back. He knows all about nothing. Satoru’s smile fades in the next instant, however.

“Wait, why Shibuya? Megumi, I can’t even mention Shibuya without three sorcerers cowering in a corner in tears over it. Why are you smiling about that?”

Over the next several weeks, they piece together the massive puzzle of chaos left in the wake of Sukuna’s devastation, and Kenjaku’s schemes. Sundari learns from the memories she and Yuji shared with Sukuna that Sukuna devoured Tengen whole and absorbed her into himself. As a result, his remains must be preserved in order to maintain the barriers Tengen has been strengthening and maintaining for countless centuries.

Sundari also knows that Tengen is partially responsible for what Sukuna became. She and Yuji discuss it in private, agreeing to only share the knowledge they’ve gleaned from Sukuna’s memories with Satoru. It means a major power imbalance in favor of the Gojo Clan, but better them than Kamo. There’s also the dilemma of Choso, who bears the Kamo clan’s hereditary technique, but being what he is, will never ever be formally recognized by the clan. Yuji and Sundari take Choso in without question. The Kamo Clan raises no fuss about it, so long as the abomination of their clan’s shame makes no claims for power. Choso himself has no interest in clan politics, preferring to remain with his younger brother, Yuji, who continues his training in the art of Blood Manipulation in earnest.

Sundari decides she will unpack the strangeness of their family tree at a later date. That Yuji hasn’t freaked out about a single reveal is a testament to his steely nerves, but Sundari thinks it’s because Yuji prefers a more simplistic view on his life and doesn’t overthink the minutiae. Sundari, however, has a millennium of experience under her belt and still nothing has floored her quite like the revelation of her father’s side of the family. Yeah, Sundari tucks that away for later…maybe they’ll recruit a jujutsu therapist they can all talk to one day.

Aside, there is still the matter of the higher ups being decimated. No one knows who is responsible, and yet there can be no other answer. But who will dare come forward to accuse the Honored One, who is responsible for Sukuna’s defeat and helping return balance back to jujutsu society?

Sundari has to commend Satoru for his political cunning. He’s consolidated enough power to execute his dream bloodlessly, but that still leaves the problem of jujutsu sorcerers being short staffed year-round.

There are still curse users out there, and a missing armory from the Zenin Estate that no doubt is finding its way to the black market for exorbitant prices. The work of a sorcerer is unending, and Sundari joins Satoru on his investigations and missions, acclimating to life as a modern-day powerhouse, feared, scorned, and respected all at once.

So it goes, round and round.

Time seemed to slip through their fingers like water. The work of fixing Tokyo, of chasing curses new and old, of rebuilding the parts of Tokyo ruined by Sukuna alone…it is exhausting, and it is bitter. But it must get done. Even Nanami, injured as he is, finds a way to contribute in other ways, lending his expertise to the less experienced sorcerers, ensuring they have what it takes to survive in a field as chaotic as this one.

Little by little, jujutsu society finds a way to limp back to life.

And Satoru finally does the one thing he has been wanting to do since before this whole mess began: he buries Suguru.

Once, he might have seen to this task alone, but he calls Shoko, tells her his intentions, and she meets him at the chosen location without any questions asked.

Watching Suguru’s pyre burn feels like he is burning an old version of himself. Satoru cannot quantify what this moment will mean when he looks back on it later on in his life, when the grievous wounds have finally been balmed to oily scar tissue. He just knows that the version of him that loved a version of Suguru that died long before his body, no longer exists. As Suguru’s remains burn, and he and Shoko pick the bones from the ashes and place the ashes in an urn, Satoru lets himself weep for the first time.

Shoko watches the strongest sorcerer alive curl up and weep, and she takes him in her arms and lets him. Satoru weeps for all that he has lost, all that was denied him, and all that Suguru could never become because his Six Eyes couldn’t tell him what was wrong before it was too late. He weeps and mourns at last—at long last—and purges his heart of everything. Suguru should have been here. This dream was because of him, and he should have been here. But Satoru knows he must let that regret go too, if he wants to succeed at all, he has to let it go. And after a while, the tears run dry, and his body feels soft and pliant in Shoko’s embrace. He sees the silent trail of tears down her cheeks and knows that they both needed to be here for this.

It feels like a chapter being closed for both of them, and an unspoken apology for their own culpability in the wounds both of them bear from it.

But there is no more room for guilt and self-flagellation.

Satoru gives himself three days of quiet reflection in the aftermath, running the gamut of grief in all its ugliness and beauty and catharsis, and then he returns to the searing present. He returns to the realization of his dream.

He finds his phone, sends a text to Sundari.

Satoru resists the urge to point out the joke about too many appendages and organs, considering Sundari’s appearance. If he intends to get any affection tonight, he must behave. He still laughs, though.

Satoru smiles to himself at her reply. It’s sweet of her, really, to give him space to grieve. Still, funnel cake sounds good, and he misses her. With everything returning to some semblance of normalcy, Sundari returned to her apartment, which didn’t surprise him in the least that it’s in Ginza. He makes a note to tease her about it later. Apparently, Nadja left everything to Sundari in her living will should anything happen to her. Satoru finds that ironic, as well. Still, it’s left Sundari nearly as wealthy—if not wealthier—than he is.

Satoru considers it. He likes her apartment. It’s a quaint, earthy place with a vibe that reminds him of a rainforest in the middle of the city. Sundari keeps so much green, growing stuff in her home that the very air feels different.

Satoru can already hear Sundari’s laughter in his head.

Satoru is glad no one is around to hear his veritable squeal of glee. He needs to tell Nanami to get a girlfriend or boyfriend or whatever he’s into. Having one is actually amazing. He wastes no time, packing a bag and taking a cab to Sundari’s mid-rise apartment building. It’s an older building in a more solid style, and far more spacious than newer buildings tend to be. Satoru can make out her balcony, crawling with pothos and wisteria. Smirking and glancing around, he teleports into the air, floating over her balcony railing. Sundari just happens to be walking by when she spots him. Satoru grins when he sees her four eyes go wide, and she lets out a startled shriek before calming down to let him in.

“What is your fucking problem?” She demands, but there’s no heat in her tone. Satoru closes the distance between them, wrapping her in his embrace and kissing her soundly.

Sundari forgets his unorthodox entrance in favor of the kissing. By the time Satoru pulls away, his cheeks and hers are flushed, both of them heavy-lidded and half-drunk from the contact.

“Oh,” Sundari sighs, a drunken smile slipping onto her face before she lets out an involuntary giggle. Satoru grins. It pleases him that he can fluster her and make her soft when the rest of the world must experience her so harshly.

“You hungry?” Sundari asks. “I can order something or cook.”

“I came here to eat you,” Satoru says easily as he removes his shoes before entering the apartment proper. Sundari glances at him with a smirk over her shoulder. She doesn’t fluster from his declaration, not after everything they’ve been through, and she doesn’t take his desire for granted.

“Is that why you’re here, pretty boy?” She asks in that tone that makes Satoru shiver and smile. Yes, he’s her pretty boy. He wants to be her pretty boy. Hers and hers alone.

“Yeah,” he says and without warning, he activates his technique. Sundari yelps as she’s suddenly drawn to him by an unseen force. Satoru catches her in his arms, and then he’s kissing her again, this time leaving his marks on her jawline and neck, breathing in deeply to imprint her scent on his very soul. Sundari makes small noises of pleasure, letting out a whimper when she feels the soft, wet muscle of his tongue trace patterns on her neck, tasting the salt of her skin.

“I missed you,” Satoru murmurs into her skin. “I’m so happy I found you.”

Sundari doesn’t know why her eyes suddenly sting with the threat of tears, and she has to catch her breath and blink several times.

“I missed you too, Toru,” she whispers, and then lifts his head to look at him, staring into the pieces of Heaven he calls his eyes. “And I’m happy you found me too. More than.”

It’s simple physics after that.

Satoru and Sundari make their way to the bedroom, stripping as they go. She loves getting him out of his teacher’s uniform at the end of the day, and Satoru loves undressing her in general. Sometimes what she wears leaves little to the imagination [which he appreciates], but tonight she’s clad in clothes for lounging: a pair of pajama shorts and a tank top that has clearly seen too many wash cycles. Satoru helps her out of all of it, until she’s bare and laying back against the pillows on her bed, looking like some goddess out of a myth.

As far as Satoru’s concerned, she might as well be. His goddess, at any rate. And he will pray to her in a way that only he can.

For a moment, they take one another in, blissfully naked. There’s no skylight above Sundari’s bed, but there is a lantern that throws mandala patterns against the walls, dancing through the leaves of her massive monstera that crawls across her ceiling, making everything look wild and erotic and dreamlike. Satoru reaches out, traces the cursed markings on her body: the concentric rings on her strong shoulders; the black bands on her arms, wrists, thighs, and ankles; the ones on her face; the ones on her chest, following the swell of her high and proud breasts. He grins when she gasps as his thumb and forefinger capture and roll a nipple between them. He watches her legs part a little, eager. His eyes drift down, catch the sight of the mandala pattern illuminating the slick on her inner thighs, dripping from her cunt.

His eyes travel back up to her face, framed by blush-pink curls. Four ruby eyes gaze back, guileless and expectant.

“You are so fucking beautiful, Sundari,” Satoru whispers reverently. “I could look at you forever.”

Sundari’s cheeks bloom with heat and she bites her lip, suddenly feeling bashful. She knows she is beautiful, but it makes her stomach go into freefall whenever Satoru tells her. Her heart flutters in her chest.

“You’re beautiful too,” she whispers, holding out a hand and beckoning him closer. Satoru goes to her, crawling between her spread legs, his cock hard and heavy between his thighs. Sundari’s hand lowers, her fingers wrapping around it and making Satoru hiss in surprise and then pleasure as she swipes her thumb over the head, smearing the droplets of his seed forming at the tip.

“My pretty boy,” she whispers, her voice husky with desire. Satoru leans in, makes a whining sound as she squeezes his cock and nips his glossy, pink lips. “Mine.”

“Yours,” Satoru says in a rush of breath as she strokes his cock with the tender firmness of one who knows he’s hers. It’s true, and his fingers curl into the sheets as he fights the pressure building in the base of his spine.

“Sundari…” Her name comes out as a strained and hoarse gasp. Sundari smiles at him knowingly, and he sees the tender cruelty in it.

“Yes, baby?” She asks, slowing her stroking. Satoru’s hips thrust involuntarily, seeking more of it. He wants to be inside of her—needs it, actually. He wants to envelop himself in the tight, wet confines of her cunt and never leave. He wants to fuck her until she dissolves like spun sugar in his mouth.

“Oh?” Sundari’s smile becomes a grin. “Is that what you want, pretty boy?”

Fuck. Had he said all that shit out loud?

Satoru is silent for a moment, his cock hard as stone in her hand. He’s not the strongest sorcerer for nothing.

“Yeah,” he says, his tone suddenly harder than before. “I do.”

The equation between them shifts as Sundari’s eyes light up in excitement and Satoru pounces on her before she can react to the shift in the air between them. They struggle for dominance, of course, mindful of their strength for the sake of the bed itself rather than one another. Satoru still thinks fondly of the crater left by their coupling in his yard.

This is different, though. There is no adrenaline from battle to fuel them: only the need and want for one another.

And love too.

Satoru is so sure this is love because he has tried being without her and he can’t.

Don’t leave me baby, I just found you.

Eventually, Satoru pins Sundari, grasping her legs to place over his shoulders. He pushes her legs back, exposing her cunt, which opens like a beautiful flower, petals glistening and dripping with dew for his mouth.

Satoru grins, his eyes glowing in the dim light, and spits directly into her pussy.

Sundari moans and writhes in response at the obscenity of it all, and then Satoru leans down and meets her dripping cunt in an open-mouthed kiss. He does as he said he would: he eats her. Satoru’s jaw will ache, his tongue will ache, but Sundari will be thoroughly and unerringly sated. He makes sure of it.

His lips wrap around her clit, sucking hard, moaning as if she is the best meal he’s had in ages. Sundari reaches for him, legs spread, and his hands find hers, linking their fingers while he gets lost in the slippery, wet heat of her, eyes closed in private bliss.

“Ngh…Satoru…” She moans and he makes an inquisitive sound, looking up at her through heavy-lidded cerulean eyes, glowing brighter than a galaxy’s heart. Sundari keeps moaning his name, dragging out the vowels and hissing out the consonants as he works her clit until tears spring to her eyes and she’s panting and flushed and quivering with the desperate need for release.

He pulls away just before she can come, and she lets out a frustrated sound.

“No,” he says, his voice hoarse; chin, cheeks, and lips glistening with her juices. “No, baby. I want you to come on my cock. I want to feel this pretty pussy squeezing me when you lose your mind.”

Sundari, so desperate to climax, nods and agrees. Satoru leans up, sitting back on his heels and dragging her by the hips into his lap, keeping her comfortably laying on the bed. His cock seems eager too, straining and hot against her went cunt. Satoru bites his lip before reaching down to grasp his cock in one fist, stroking himself before pushing the head inside of her. Just the tip.

“Satoru!” Sundari hisses, and her eyes flash dangerously even as he rewards her with a smug smirk, teasing her by sliding the head of his cock up and down her slit.

“Yeah?” He breathes. “Just testing the waters, baby, don’t worry.”

And then he slips inside of her, relishing the guttural moan that spirals up from her as he sinks down to the hilt inside of her. For a moment he holds her hips, and it very still. He looks down at where they’re joined, the soft white hairs of his pubes rubbing against her clit and making her shiver. He bites his lip again when he feels her walls constrict around him. He’d almost forgotten about her conscious muscle control. But he’s ready, this time.

“Mmm,” Satoru groans, tightening his grip on her thighs. “Ask nicely, Sundari.”

Four crimson eyes narrow at him, and he rewards her with a blade-ready smirk, eyes flashing like stars in the dusky twilight of her bedroom.

“You come into my home to make me beg?” She demands, moaning in frustration and indignation and pleasure alike as Satoru moves his hips just so, giving her just enough friction to make her pulse leap in her veins, but stopping just short of satisfaction. He can do this all damn night. He can do this until the world crumbles to dust.

“No,” Satoru says. “I came into your home to make you come, but I want you to ask me, Sundari. I want you to ask me to make you come.”

Sundari glares up at him and Satoru can’t help it: he laughs. She looks so much like Sukuna, down to the way her nose wrinkles to show her displeasure. Sundari bares her fangs.

“Something funny, Six Eyes?” She growls, and Satoru feels her strength returning, legs pushing against his grip as her ankles lock behind his back. He’s still buried nine inches inside of her, but the way she’s focused you wouldn’t know it. Satoru reaches down, makes her watch as he swipes a thumb against her swollen clit.

Sundari lets out a choked sound, her control momentarily slipping. Satoru teases her clit with light, tight circles, and her eyelids flutter. The lower ones even close.

“That’s it,” Satoru purrs, watching her as he feels her pussy grow wetter around him with each stroke against her clit. He contemplates making her come without having to move his hips, but he craves movement as much as she does. It’s a contest of wills at this point, and unlike battles involving jujutsu, the flesh is far less durable during sex. He can only stem the tide of his own climax for so long.

“S-Satoru…” Sundari’s voice comes out as a stammering whimper, and she pulls with her crossed legs, trying to force him to start moving. He sits there, stroking her clit idly, and there’s an almost cold wintery expression on his face, as if he’s the god and she’s the supplicant.

The Honored One grins as his goddess opens her mouth and begins to beg him.

The words come first as a stammering trickle, then a sultry, moaning torrent. She begs him and as she does, he increases the pace of his stroking thumb, spreading her slick over her clit, noting with pleasure when he sees his cock glistening with her fluids in the soft, golden light.

“Come for me,” he murmurs and Sundari does. Satoru hisses as her walls flutter around him, and he holds her steady, stroking her clit through the orgasm that has her writhing and calling his name. It’s only when she’s about to settle down that Satoru gives in and begins to move his hips. He has been nice enough, and his goddess is strong. He fucks her.

Sundari’s hands claw for purchase, one fisted in the sheets, the other going to her headboard to grip it tightly or risk getting her head knocked through the wall. Satoru doesn’t give her time to adjust because he’s indulged her pleasure. It’s his turn to chase that glittering edge, and he wants her to take it. God, she has done so much in the short time since her unsealing, he just needs her to take his cock right now.

For a long stretch of time there is only the sound of Sundari’s short staccato gasps, Satoru’s labored groans, and the heavy, wet sound of skin meeting skin as Satoru attempts to nail her to the mattress. Sundari can’t think straight, and she knows that’s exactly how he likes it, gripping her hips and lifting her halfway off the bed to pull her along his cock. She throws her head back, screaming his name, begging him not to stop, begging him to come inside of her.

Satoru plans to grant all of these requests in due time, but right now he wants her in every way he can have her. He stops his rhythm to pull her up. Without needing to be told, Sundari tangles her limbs around him: four arms pull him close and together they situate themselves into the Lotus position, face to face, heart to heart, body to body.

“Hey you,” Satoru murmurs, nipping her lower lip with a smile. Sundari meets his gaze with heavy-lidded eyes, the concentric circles within them swirling. The curse she carries is gone, but the brand of her lineage remains. She is terrifying and beautiful and wild and he lovesherlovesherlovesher.

“Hey you,” she replies, her voice sultry and husky.

This time, they move as one, surging with one another’s breaths, cresting and falling into the troughs of one another’s respective rhythm, and finding harmony. Somehow the pleasure is insurmountable this way, and both of them become exceedingly aware that this is different.

“Satoru…” Sundari breathes, and she can’t seem to fill her lungs fast enough as she clings tightly to him, nails scraping his back as she moves. “Satoru…I…”

“I know, baby, I know,” Satoru murmurs, kissing her tenderly, open-mouthed and saturated, wanting to share her very breath in this moment. “I feel it too.”

That bright and terrible presence from her domain inversion is watching them. The universe itself is sanctioning this union, and by doing so, redressing an imbalance for which their stars were written.

The pleasure is beyond flesh, now. Sundari moves her body without thought and Satoru maps the contours of her back with his hands, sliding them up and up against her. He chants her name, kissing her temple, her cheeks, her neck, and taking her earlobe between his teeth just to feel her shiver in delight.

In this space there are no demands made of the other, no commands, and no roles. There’s only the frequency of pleasure they have found, reverberating through both their souls like some primordial note sung long ago, and sustained through every cosmic union so heavily soaked in fate and destiny.

When Satoru comes, he realizes that this is exactly how he felt when he was on the edge of death twelve years prior. And Sundari tumbles after him, clinging to him tightly as their thoughts and their very souls seem to touch like two exposed wires, sending sparks to spangling in their blood.

The bright presence recedes like an ancient wave, and as they return to the skin and bone of their bodies, sweat-slick and panting, they realize that the only presence in the room now is their own.

“Holy shit…” Satoru breathes, burying his face in Sundari’s neck. “That was…I think that’s the best sex I’ve ever had in my fucking life.”

Sundari smirks, turning her head to nuzzle him with an almost feral purr.

“Yeah,” Sundari agrees, her voice quiet and mystified. “Same. Do you think…what did it mean?”

Satoru raises his head, his eyes swirling with a steady rotation of what Sundari swears are clouds this close. She blinks before the side-effects can start setting in: dizziness, vertigo, and dissociation. Satoru explained it like microdosing Unlimited Void.

“I have a theory, but let’s talk about it in the morning. Tonight is for fucking.”

Sundari’s laughter rings in the air like temple bells.

Winter gives way to the tentative thaw of early spring. Most of the curses have been cleaned up, and Tokyo is almost back to her old self: hustling, bustling, busy, busy, busy. The rhythm of the city returns, and sorcerers resume their work of managing the cursed energy of an entire people. There are changes, however.

The pay is better, for one. Satoru consulted with Mei Mei for that particular bit, and called a meeting of the clan heads, large and small, as well as elders in the community, and representatives of independent factions in order to oversee the drawing up of a new charter. It took several months, and there was dissent, but the basis of the new charter was laid, and Satoru sees part of his dream brought into reality. Just like infinity.

Satoru’s snide remarks to Gakuganji the previous summer turned out to not be in jest or even in spite: his birth did herald a shift in the jujutsu world, and the biggest change is the number of sorcerers being born and those recently awakened to their abilities. Satoru helps delegate the task of assessing these new sorcerers and offering them a chance to study at Jujutsu Tech. He has been consulting with his colleagues and they came to the agreement that they can no longer feasibly pull only from high school aged students, especially since Kenjaku’s awakened sorcerers need guidance.

Thus, Jujutsu Tech becomes open to all sorcerers for study, regardless of background or nationality. Satoru knows the biggest blind spot they had with regards to Kenjaku’s scheme was their obsession with secrecy, even from one another. He vows not to make such a mistake again.

The changes are met with varying degrees of excitement and disdain. The students currently enrolled are thrilled to welcome more classmates, and sorcerers working for Jujutsu Headquarters begrudgingly welcome the extra hands.

Despite all this, it is Sundari’s presence that polarizes jujutsu society. Sundari herself has known that it would be this way, but when she receives the first, crisp press of her new Jujutsu Tech instructor uniform, she knows that Satoru has fought a hard battle to approve her for training.

The uniform itself is splendid: all black, of course, a tailor-cut jacket, with the gold swirl buttons representing Jujutsu Tech, a black mock-neck sleeveless top, and a black form-fitting mid-length skirt, slit up both sides for ease of movement. Her choice of footwear is a pair of black, platform boots. Sundari notes that the jacket itself has the trishula symbol embroidered in red on the back, to match the marking that adorn her and Sukuna’s brow. She smirks, knowing that it was Satoru who likely had a hand in that particular design choice.

These don’t have to be a curse.

Sundari observes herself in the mirror with a hint of pride. Her pink curls are styled into two puffs atop her head, and she blinks all four of her eyes and for a moment she thinks she sees her father’s reflection instead of her own. She traces her face markings, and then smiles.

“Well dad,” she murmurs to herself. “Here’s to a better way.”

Sugisawa Municipal High School, Sendai City, April 4, 2019

The sun is shining when the car winds through the hills toward Yuji’s former high school. Ijichi is silent but occasionally glances at Yuji and Sundari, who sit in the back seat, each peering out their respective windows. The radio is turned to a news station, and they listen with half an ear as reports of Tokyo’s continued recovery from the Culling Games. Of all the barriers that had trapped players inside, Sendai’s region had been the most violent, and the scars of that war—invisible to non-sorcerers—are clear as day as they pull up to the high school.

“Are you sure about this?” Ijichi asks as they step out of the car. Yuji and Sundari share a look, and Yuji nods.

“It’ll be fine, Ijichi-san,” Yuji says brightly with his characteristic grin. The scars of Sukuna’s domain are faded, leaving only the slash he received from Mahito, and the scar at the corner of his mouth. Sundari’s own scars from Malevolent Shrine are faint, looking more like tiger stripes than anything else, and nothing can compete with the stark black lines of cursed ink.

“Alright, I’ll defer to your judgement, Itadori-kun, Hikmat-san,” Ijichi executes a perfunctory and crisp bow. “I’ll be here when you’re ready to go.”

Yuji and Sundari head toward the school. Since the Culling Games Sendai has been quieter, mostly because the residents are still frightened of the curses that sprung up over the winter like mold. Sundari’s cursed presence alone is enough to send any lesser curses scattering. They are like shy animals, crowding up against the borders of humanity, eager to taste the very people who feed their existence.

They cross onto the football field and Sundari’s brows furrow.

“Is there a dead body buried out here or something?” She asks. Yuji glances at her, eyes wide.

“Wait, so the rumors were true?!” He asks back. Sundari blinks several times, staring at him. She decides not to press the matter further as Yuji leads her to the Stevenson screen further outside of the football field’s endzone. Yuji fishes an ornate, silk-wrapped box from his pocket. The inside is lined with red silk, and sitting there is a mummified finger belonging to Sundari’s father…and Yuji’s uncle.

“And we’re sure this is the last one?” Sundari asks. Yuji gives her a knowing look.

“Yeah!” He says. “Since he can’t come back through the Fingers anymore, the energy can ward off evil. A good talisman, don’t you think?”

Sundari looks down at the box, and it’s not lost on her that both her parents have been reduced to such small talismans. Her mother’s ashes sit on her dresser, and her father’s remaining Finger will now ward off evil. She makes a mental note to come back and see about purifying the energy of this place because she is pretty sure there’s a dead body buried around here.

Yuji places the box within the screen and shuts the door. Both he and Sundari press their palms together in prayer. For a moment the air is charged with the scent of burnt ozone or burnt sugar. Their cursed energy blooms like a lotus in tandem, the power of their jujutsu sealing the deal, as it were.

When it is done, the air seems to return to normal, and the sun shines a little brighter. Sundari feels as if her heart is lighter, and there’s a warm feeling in her chest. She bites her lip as tears prick her vision. She never thought she’d feel a modicum of anything for her father. He’d been nothing short of horrible to her in the brief time she knew him.

And yet…

He’d loved her mother once. Loved her enough to beg for Sundari’s existence. Loved her enough to stay his hand from killing her. Loved her enough to call Sundari’s existence a miracle.

Maybe he’d loved Sundari a little bit too.

“Hey,” Yuji says, glancing at her. “You okay?”

Sundari blinks away the tears and nods.

“Yeah…just…taking in the moment. Thanks for doing this, Yuji. It was a brilliant suggestion.” She smiles at him, and he beams with pride, and for a moment he doesn’t look like a war-scarred sorcerer. Just a boy of sixteen with a strange family tree and a new lease on life. Sundari turns away from the Stevenson screen, away from the last vestige of her father.

“Let’s go,” she says. “I promised Satoru I’d grab some kikufuku for him on our way back. And I’ve apparently got more teacher training.”

Yuji and Sundari walk back across the football field, back toward Ijichi and the car, chatting about what kind of kikufuku to get, and Yuji offers to show Sundari around Sendai, claiming he’d already given Sukuna a tour, but he wasn’t as excited about it. Their voices fade across the field as the sun crawls across the sky, its light shifting the shadows in the trees.

Unnamed Shore, Unnamed Time

“Well, well. What’s this, our second conversation?”

Sukuna stares down at the cursed spirit, who leers up at him with that oil-slick grin and mismatched eyes.

“Something like that,” Mahito says, recalling that none of the so-called “conversations” had been pleasant ones. He stands to his full height, but even that is nothing compared to the overwhelming height of the King of Curses. “My ability has to do with reshaping the soul, so I guess it makes sense that I wound up in this place.” But something about Sukuna is different…

“Hey,” he says. Fuck it, there’s not much the King of Curses can do to him in this place. Sukuna raises his brow in response. “Something I meant to ask you. You were lying before, weren’t you? About living according to your nature. You weren’t acting in accordance with your nature at all, were you? You were taking vengeance for what was done to you.”

Sukuna stares at the cursed spirit and for a moment Mahito thinks he’s fucked up again.

Instead, Sukuna lets out a laugh that sounds almost amused and self-assured.

“What difference does it make?” He asks. “I lived how I knew how to go on. I…” He thinks, shuts his eyes a moment, remembering. “Well, not entirely true. I was afraid my own curse would burn me up, so I could only spit out the curses writhing in my guts. I had two paths open to me, and I chose.”

He doesn’t need to look to feel the familiar chill of Uraume by his side. They are quiet, eyes downcast, but Sukuna can see the tears glimmering on their cheeks. He places an arm around them, giving their slight shoulders an affectionate squeeze. The shiver that runs through them is one of relief and despair. Sukuna looks away from them, his eyes searching.

“Looking for her?” Mahito asks, his tone taunting. Sukuna’s crimson gaze cuts to the cursed spirit sharply for a moment, questioning without a word. Mahito wonders how far he can press his luck before Sukuna makes good to kill him once and for all.

“She passed through here not too long ago, we chatted for a bit,” Mahito places a finger on his lips. “Unfortunately, I don’t think her bosses took kindly to her loitering. She’s mortal now, after all. Can’t be caught holding up the cycle!”

Sukuna’s expression hardens, and the wheels of his mind turn quickly. Where was she, then? If she passed through this place, then her soul must already be on its way to rebirth.

Two choices.

In every lifetime, I will probably love you.

Sukuna shuts his eyes.

“I see,” he says quietly. “Then if there is a next time, I think it would be nice to walk a different path.”

“Do you think you’ll find her?” Mahito asks, grinning his malicious grin. Sukuna does not spare the curse a second glance as he takes Uraume’s hand and begins to walk, toward the darkness, toward the light.

“You’ve gone soft, old bastard!” Mahito grouses. “Chasing after love! Blegh!”

Sukuna laughs. “Of course I have,” he says. “I lost, after all.”

Uraume looks up at Sukuna, a rare breach of their unspoken decorum, a question writ in their lilac gaze.

“We’ll find her,” Sukuna says. “No matter how many times the Wheel spins, she was made for me. We’ll find her.”

Fin. Masterpost 𑁍 Previous Chapter

Author's Final Note: So, here we are at the end of a journey. I don't know if anyone is out there, silently reading my words and bobbing their head to the playlists, but to everyone putting eyes on this story and ears on the soundtrack: thank you! And to the folks who have been commenting on the chapters, or sharing my stories in the fandom: thank you! What initially began as a thought experiment of "what if Sukuna had a daughter with an immortal" became so much more, and I'd like to thank Gege Akutami for giving us Jujutsu Kaisen. I really haven't been this inspired to write for fandom for almost a decade, and I decided to check out this manga/anime and I've been obsessed ever since. It makes me so happy to write stories in such a fascinating world with such intriguing and fun characters.

Even though the manga is over, I'm holding out for an amazing anime adaptation going forward, and JJK is honestly a classic for me that I know I'll love revisiting it for years to come. I have other fanfic for JJK for those of you who are down to hangout at the Parallax Afterparty where I'll be posting stray stories, scenes that didn't leave the cutting room floor, character studies, and other cool lore that doesn't fit into the fics! Or, if you're really fucking with my galaxy-brain OC x Canon agenda, head on over to Lost Worlds & Endless Nights for the Parallax AUs. Or if you want different leads in other universes, head over to my series Sonder! I don't intend to leave the fandom, so for any holdouts: come get ya fanfic, here, hot off the presses! I'll be churning out these puppies for at least another six months to a year.

Again: thanks for reading. Talk to me in the comments or come holler at me on my other socials [if you got 'em] if you've got questions or wanna yell or whatever.

𑁍𑁍𑁍𑁍𑁍 Muse 𑁍𑁍𑁍𑁍𑁍

© 2024 Hajara Asiri. Do NOT copy, translate, plagiarize, repost anywhere without permission [reblogging posts is okay]. This includes copying my masterlist format or feeding ANY of my writing to the uninspired AI garbage machines. I only upload on Tumblr, AO3, and FFN. Title and footer banners by me. Dividers and support by @cafekitsune.

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