#The Unbroken Clan

[spooky-donut-ghost-house]

Am I making headcanons for a minor character that only showed up in one comic? Yeah I am

KRYNTHIA DESERVED BETTER

#star wars #star wars legends #star wars lore #star wars expanded universe #sweu #swl #sw legends #krynthia #star wars krynthia #princess krynthia #sw krynthia #mourner's wail #the unbroken clan #star wars bounty hunters #star wars comics #star wars comic #star wars headcanons #tw pregnancy #pregnancy tw #cw pregnancy #pregnancy cw

[andypantsx3]

𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 : 𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐨 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: 1.7k of unedited alien prince shouto thoughts based on this post from the other day! sfw, gender neutral reader. several elements of this universe were borrowed from my fave sci-fi novel; see end notes for deets!

he's beautiful—the todoroki prince. tall and strong in his high-collared uniform, strapped with lean muscle and handsomely humanoid. he's the first thing that snares your gaze as your party is guided into the hall of the sun—the reception dome that overlooks the rise of the star yuuei in the morning sky, used by the ruling family to receive visiting dignitaries.

it is morning, in endeavorian planetary time, and the sun has begun to rise. its light is weaker than you remember from back home—almost watery, pooling like quicksilver in the panes of the dome's ceiling.

up at the front of the hall, it catches in the strands of the white half of the prince's hair. from what izuku has told you, it's the half that indicates he's part of the himura bloodline. the himura dynasty has ruled the yuuei system from its capital planet of endeavor iv for tens of thousands of earth-years. it's the second longest line of unbroken rulers in mapped galactic history, an impressive feat.

the other half of the prince's hair is a fiery red, like that of the man who stands next to him—todoroki enji, the general of intergalactic renown, who donated half of prince shouto's genome as well as his clan name. each time a himuran royal from the main line marries, izuku had explained, talking at lightspeed in the podship, they take a branch name, typically sourced from the primary gene-donator. it helps keep inheritance lines clear.

prince shouto looks like he's inherited empress rei and todoroki enji's genes in exactly half—his coloring split down the middle, though his features are perfectly, almost hauntingly symmetrical. he wears a pin of flint at his collar that symbolizes his gender—one of yuuei's thirteen official designations. from what you understand from izuku, it most closely aligns with earth designation "man".

it's embarrassing how much you notice about the prince as you file into the hall, stationing yourself right at the gap between izuku and tenya's shoulders, so you can still see todoroki shouto.

"you don't think they'll reject the treaty and kill us all, do you?" denki mumurs nervously as he presses in behind you.

"no, i don't think so," izuku's gentle voice drifts back to you. he's a three-star ethnologist, studying for a command ethnology post. subsequently he's the most informed of any of the cadets that have been sent along with the treatise party. you and denki are just mechanics, sent along in case anything goes wrong.

"the alliance would be too much trouble for the yuuei," izuku explains. "they have good relations with the surrounding galaxies and tight control over a lot of resources. but the alliance is really large now, compared to the last time they approached the yuuei. they'll likely want to accept at least a loose federation with the allies."

up on the platform at the front of the hall, prince shouto blinks long and slow, like an earth cat. you realize with a start it's the first time you've seen him blink at all, and the subtle reminder that he is not just an extraordinarily handsome human man but the prince of an alien species makes your skin prickle.

"don't you think it's weird they are all this pretty?" denki asks. "it's weird, right?"

"definitely weird," you laugh, your eyes trailing over prince shouto's blade-straight nose, his pert, perfect mouth. "possibly illegal under intergalatic law."

prince shouto stills all of a sudden, and there is the tiniest tilt of his head. two heterochromatic eyes flick over your way, and you are completely embarrassed by the way your stomach swoops in response. you just manage not to grab onto tenya's uniform to steady yourself.

one of the prince's eyebrow arches almost imperceptibly, and you wonder if he's heard you from this distance—but no, that would be insane.

denki picks up his commentary, emboldened by your playing along. you think the prince's eyes linger just a little too long on the gap between izuku and tenya's shoulders, but then you're distracted by the reception beginning.

the alliance treaty officer strides forward, flanked by a few of the other officials your crew had ferried here. she performs an elaborate bow, as do the other officials. from izuku's muttering you gather it's some sort of ritualistic greeting, and empress rei at least looks pleased with it, waving a gentle hand to gesture the party forward.

there is some shuffling as various aides set up a table and a series of holo-tablets, along with various inks, a leathery roll of endeavorian traditional parchment, and—

"is that a knife?" you ask, peering at the long obsidian blade placed on the table in front of the officials.

izuku's fluffy head of green curls inclines. "treaties are sealed twice. once in the alliance fashion and then again in the local custom, to make it binding per both systems. blood pacts have been used in yuuei for millennia."

the brush of something over your face has your gaze turning back to the prince—to find him staring straight at you, those unblinking eyes boring into you.

"izuku, weird question. can the yuuei hear across rooms?" you ask, suddenly self-conscious.

a green eye peers back at you. "only in the event of their pair bonds—the yuuei are documented hearing their matepair across approximately ten earth-kilometers. i think we're safe over here though. why?"

matepair. the world settles strangely under your skin, as the prince's eyes brush across it.

"uh, matepair?" you echo.

tenya gives both you and izuku a quelling look, but it's not enough to deter izuku from ducking down to explain in slightly quieter tones. "the yuuei look human but they pair differently. they form a parapsychic bond with only a single partner, which they maintain and uphold for life. it's not just cultural—it's like a physical compulsion. they cannot take another pair, and they cannot be separated for long periods or they grow sick."

prince shouto is still staring straight at you, and it's not quite comforting enough to know that he cannot possibly hear you.

it's only his role in the ceremony that seems to eventually break the prince's weird focus in your direction. he steps forward to perform his duty as empress rei's chosen heir. you almost flinch as the knife draws across the pale skin of his palm, and he adds several drips of silvery blood to the parchment, symbolizing yuuei's intent to uphold the treaty across future monarchs.

the flesh of his palm knits itself back together in seconds, and another little shiver goes up your spine. those mismatched eyes flash back your way as he steps back, and the various aides and officials once again converge on the documents.

there is a brief flurry of activity, various bows and oaths, some stilted endeavorian verse. the chief treaty officer looks relieved when it's all over, and the royal family steps down from the dais to greet the rest of the visiting party, as is the customary honor granted to allies to the yuuei. tenya ushers you into the queue near the back with denki, a symbol of your lower status as mechanics.

you don't mind, as the thought of reaching prince shouto has your stomach doing what feel like backflips in your gut. the longer the delay the better.

izuku had walked everyone through the appropriate greetings on the podship, a few murmured words and a hand touch at chest-level—extremely hard to mess up, even for you. but nevertheless your pulse kicks up the closer you draw to the royal family.

there's a long line of them you greet first. offshoot branch members, then general todoroki enji, whose enormous palm burns hot against yours and who looks he'd rather take your party's hands off than touch them. then rei's unchosen heirs—the princess fuyumi, prince natsuo—and a gap where prince touya would have stood, were he not offworld.

and then you're standing in front of prince shouto, your pulse pounding in your ears. he's extremely tall up close, clearing six feet easily, broad across the shoulders and handsome in a way that almost makes your teeth ache. the yuuei look deceptively human, but this near you can see the tiny details that separate them from you—the slight double-point to their ears, the silvery undertone to their skin, the prolonged space between their breaths and their blinks.

and of course their inhuman beauty. they don't quite look like regular people, and it sparks a tiny note of wariness in the primeval part of your human hindbrain.

prince shouto's mismatched eyes pin you, silver and blue, as a sudden, silvery flush creeps across his face. you hold your hand out in greeting, trying not to wonder if you've somehow managed to offend him already—but instead of pressing his palm against yours, his long fingers suddenly grasp yours, clasping tightly.

beyond him, empress rei freezes too. all at once you can feel every single himuran noble turn to look at you, hundreds of eyes pinning on you.

reflexively, words tumble out of you. "shit did i—what did i do? were you supposed to get a different hand thingy?"

you can hear the treaty officer's horrified inhale at the terms shit and hand thingy, deployed in crass galactic standard in front of a literal prince. you immediately wish you could take them back, but from the look on the prince's face, he's already heard them.

something at the corner of his mouth twitches, like he's trying not to smile.

"y/n," he says, in a deep tone. it's crisply accented and just as beautiful as the rest of him.

it takes you a second to realize prince shouto has used your name, which he could not possibly know considering the uniform you'd been issued for the yuuei visit has no unique identifiers on it. you glance down at yourself, then back up at him, befuddled.

"how did you—? where did you—?" you garble out. "did denki put you up to this? how do you know me?"

prince shouto's fingers smooth over yours, delightfully warm, calloused and sure. "i would know you in any universe," he says, voice soft. behind you, you hear princess fuyumi make a tiny sound of delight.

you blink. "universe? what—uh, what universe? how would you—?"

but shouto leans in, tugging you closer with those deceptively strong fingers. he's so very warm up close, and so beautiful it makes your brain short circuit, especially as he lowers his face to yours. a shiver rolls down your spine as his other hand takes you gently by the chin.

and then he murmurs a single word before pressing his mouth to yours—

"matepair."

𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: credits where they are due!! the idea of a space general dna donator, an overarching space alliance pursuing a treaty, & the flint pin denoting gender were taken from my fave sci-fi novel winter's orbit by everina maxwell! (if you love heartfelt gay love stories in space i am actually begging you to read it).

#todoroki x reader #shouto x reader #todoroki shouto x reader #shouto x you #todoroki x you

[avtrbee]

the prince [2]

✢summary: what happens when your husband brings home a son that is not yours?

✢tags: arranged marriage gojo satoru x reader, reader is a clan kid, she’s v traditional, obvious cat and jon snow references

✢tw: implications of cheating, mentioned abuse, misogyny ig, fanfic gojo, ooc gojo

✢ a/n: here's part 2! i'd like to emphasize that depsite this being a gojo x reader fic, the main realationships i'll be focusing on are y/n and the kids gojo brings home lmao. also im raw dogging the lore as we go so if there are any inconsistencies, please lmk. as always, have fun and lmk what you think!

i don’t do taglists.

part one ✢ masterlist

If it were up to you, you would have shut the gates of the Gojo estate as soon as the child entered the grounds, but your husband had given him the the maids so quickly that you’re sure they have spread the word around already. You could hear the rumors in your head. Gojo Satoru has brought home a child out of wedlock. Gojo Y/N is barren. Gojo Satoru has a mistress.

You expected Gojo to be frantic, stumbling over his words in explanation as to why he has a son- it was his son, there was no doubt about that- reassuring you about his vows remain unbroken, or whatever else but silence. You are silent too as you watch the child get scurried away by the estate staff to scrub the dirt off his face and to get a change of clothes.

Even as he is being escorted away from you, his cursed energy did not fade. You feel it like how everyone feels Gojo’s, but more raw and untamed. Whoever this child is, it is Gojo Satoru reborn again. 

Silence. Silence is what took the Gojo estate into a chokehold as the maids finish bathing the child and then put him in a spare bedroom a good distance away from yours. The maids must think you resent him. 

Satoru pretends like everything is the same as if the boy had been there since the beginning. During the first night, you watch with a blank face as the cake you've baked for him is eaten by the child. Neither the boy nor Satoru expresses their gratitude towards you. You doubt they even know you baked it.

To his credit, Satoru had treated the child better than you had expected. He is blossoming into fatherhood, you realize and you feel the rage and anger burn in your stomach.

He pats the boy's head and messes his hair, before pointing to his own messy mane exclaiming, "See? We match!"

Satoru had tried to include you in conversations with the boy, even daring to seat him on his right at meals. Satoru would blab after seeing the child gobble mochi. "Mochi is Y/N's favorite too!" He turns to look at you with a bright smile. "Right, Y/N?"

You want to point out that the boy had gobbled everything served to him, but you just give a brief nod.

At night, you sleep like a log- rigid, straight, and quiet. Satoru, on the other hand, remains comfortable, snoozing the day's exhaustion behind him.

Tonight will be the same as it has been for the past few weeks. You stare at yourself in the mirror of your vanity, wondering if your reflection is the perfect example of a foolish woman. How stupid of you to think he was different.

There was nothing but quiet as you prepare yourself to sleep, brushing your hair quietly. You hear the door creak but you do not turn and greet him with a smile like you used to.

“I expected you to be more emotional about this,” came Satoru's words beside you. Me too, you want to reply but held your mouth shut.

You had expected yourself to scream, and let your anger flow through your voice. You wanted to cry until your tears were dry and there wasn't any left. Neither you nor Satoru would be surprised if you use your technique against him in a fit of fury, and if you truly knew your husband, you know he'd take your anger like it was penance. You want to be the fire that burns him badly. But you did none of those.

You are as cold as their blue eyes. You are quiet.

You continue to brush your hair.

"Do you want me to get rid of him?" offers Satoru. "Just say the word, and I will."

You blink in surprise. You meet his eyes in the mirror. Satoru looks nonchalant in his posture with his hands in his pockets. But the fact that his glasses were nowhere to be seen tells you he is not joking.

Your ears recall the promise he made months ago. My wife, my equal. A promise to try, to try to be happy to spite everyone who was determined to make your lives miserable. 

The sudden exhaustion hit you, your shoulders slumping from your previous postures. You lean back, letting your nape rest on the back of the chair. You stare at the ceiling, your head forbidding you to forget how the child looked like. White hair. Blue eyes. You hear Satoru sigh somewhere near you. You hear his footsteps come. From your peripheral, you see his figure beside you. A feather-like hesitant hand touches your shoulder. “I was not unfaithful to you.”

Satoru moves to kneel in front of your sitting figure. He reaches out to your head, and touches his forehead against yours. You find yourself looking up at his eyes, the same shade of eyes that he shares with the child. His hands cradle your face, desperate for you to believe him. “Please. Please, Y/N.”

You remain silent. 

“You’re the only one I have left, Y/N, please.” He begs. There are tears threatening to spill down to his pretty face, and you find some sick satisfaction in them.

That is not true. Your husband has his clan, his estate servants, his high school friends, and his teachers. It is you that has no one but him. By your culture’s traditions, you do not belong to your clan anymore. You know that some elders have begun to doubt their choice in choosing you as the wife of Gojo Satoru with the obvious lack of children, but with the sudden appearance of Gojo-sama’s bastard child, they might annul your marriage by force- or, god forbid, cast you aside for another, more fertile woman.

You do not wish to share your thoughts, but your husband grips your head so desperately. You have made a god beg.

“I know.” You say. The child may be young, but he was old enough to walk and talk small phrases on his own. He must be at least two years old. The child is older than your marriage.

His shoulders immediately drop in relief before quickly detangling himself from you and wrapping his arms around your waist. He slides his head to hide in your neck and like instinct, you welcome him wrapping your hands around his waist.

"Where would you leave him?" You manage to ask, still not believing his offer.

"The cabin," he says. You can see the cracks on your husband now. You spot his hand making a fist inside his pockets, like it pains him to speak. “The one by Nagasaki, remember? I’ll send a maid and give him money every month. We can send him right now. The maids will not say anything outside the estate, not if I threaten to chop their tongues off. We can send him off with a caretaker to a cabin somewhere and leave him there. I- I can visit him a few times a year- just to make sure he’s fine.”

You blink. You did not expect Satoru to offer that. You let the fantasy linger in your head. You imagine the boy’s life so far- abandoned by his mother and unknown by his father. Children do not understand things the way older people do, so it is up to the adults to help and explain certain things. But he has not had an adult in his life before. Would you be happy if you were left alone in the cabin in the middle of the woods with no one but a caretaker for company? Better yet- will the caretaker even stay to care for him without anyone around?

That sounds incredibly lonely, you realize. The premise sounds all too familiar to you- an empty house with no one but servants. But this boy will only get one.

He needs people to protect him, but you are unsure if you’d like to. Your instincts tell you to agree, get rid of the boy before he becomes more of a threat.

“Satoru,” you say slowly, thinking of your next words carefully. “He is just child. He is no danger to me.”

You hold your breath, suprised to hear the words out of your mouth. From your lap, Satoru holds your gaze- piercing eyes trying to read your mind. If he caught your lie he does not show it.

"Are you sure?"

No. "Yes."

-

Hiroki. Satoru had names him Gojo Hiroki.

He spends most of his days inside the estate surrounded by maids or inside his room playing with the toys you off-handedly ordered the day after he arrived. The maids gush about him already, the older ones excitedly murmuring how the little lord acts so much like your husband as a child. You would be a fool not to agree.

Hiroki runs barefoot through the estate, tracking mud on precious tatami floors before a servant finally catches him. He likes people, likes the maids and the servants, and thus has migrated to the kitchen a few weeks after his arrival like he was addicted to places were people are the most. He draws. He draws so much it’s almost ridiculous. You could have a library full of childish scribbles.

Like your husband, he devours his dessert the best before any dish. He eats mochi, ice cream, cookies and whatever sweets there are on the table like it was his last meal. You recall one of the maids gasp as a drop of cream lands on your cheek when he slammed his fork in his cake. 

Satoru is free in his affection for the boy, unexpectedly flourishing in fatherhood. He remains firm in his belief that children should be children and makes an effort to see Hiroki out. Satoru becomes known to sneak the child away from the estate to parks, to mini-vacations you begrudgingly join after Satoru’s incessant pestering. And of course- school. Hiroki made history once again when Satoru announced his decision to enroll Hiroki in a totally normal, public Japanese preschool.

You realize that Satoru was meant to be a father. And one good one at that. It brings you comfort that any children that he is at least good to his son after he confessed his plan to be a teacher after graduation.

Tokyo’s jujutsu highschool would be blessed with his presence, thought one of Satoru’s female seniors would disagree.

“Yo, Y/N-chan,” came a voice.

You twist your body over to the source of the voice, and your face lights up at the sight of a familiar face. “Getou-san!”

If Satoru's presence is an overwhelming force, making everyone and everything bow to him as if he is god, Getou is a dark, uneasy, slinking feeling. His cat-like features morph into a happy expression with a polite smile on his lips.

“Is there a mission today?” You ask as Getou comes nearer. Satoru would try his best to keep any of his classmates away from his estate, but there is nothing he can hide from Getou and Shoko. "Can I come?"

After you had let slip that you wanted to become a licensed sorcerer, Satoru had made it a habit to sneak you into some missions with Getou. You had fretted about the technical legalities and questioned the safety of the public when an inexperienced sorcerer like you enter the battlefield but Satoru merely shrugged and simply gestured to his best friend. We're the strongest!

Getou leans his shoulder on the wall. "Nope, not this one Y/N."

“I see,” you say, failing to hide your disappointment. Sometimes you wonder why you enjoy the missions so much. Was it the thrill of doing something you never would? Perhaps it was the freedom of it all, unleashing your power to poor curses who quiver beneath your feet?

Your ears perked at a familiar high pitched laugh, and your eyes immediately lock to the window where Hiroki soon runs across. He has dried soil on his feet. His pale hair is slicked back with sweat and it glistens against the sun like snow.

A maid forces a laugh in panic as she tries to catch him with his shoes on one hand.

Away from him. That’s why you enjoy it.

Getou follows your line of sight. “How is he?”

You glare at him. “How would I know?”

Everyone knows that Hiroki is a taboo topic if it’s within your earshot, lest they want the you in a foul mood. But Getou does not shy away from his question and only raises an eyebrow, calling your bluff.

“You’re telling me you do not know your own household?”

“The garden is his place,” you sigh., and admitting it felt like defeat. “He likes the grass on his feet and likes big spaces. He gets angsty when a room is too small.”

“Mmhm,” Getou agrees. “Did you know Satoru plans to enroll him in a daycare?”

Your eyes widen in horror. “In a- what?” You shriek. “He has a dozen of servants here willing to serve him-! Does he even realize the risk he’s putting the boy in? Assassins, curses, cursed users…” you trail off, remembering your own childhood. It was strange to be surrounded by servants but feeling so alone at the same time. “I see.” A daycare meant potential friends, friends that you never got to have. “Does…does the boy like it at least?”

“Me?” Getou barks out a surprised laugh. “Shouldn’t you know that?”

You glare at him. Getou meets your gaze unapologetically, almost as if he was challenging you. Finally, he sighs. “Have you ever talked to him at least?”

You roll your eyes. Your sharp tone echoes around the room. “And why would I do that? He is no concern to me.”

"He needs you."

"He does not need me," you snap, suddenly impatient for Satoru to come out of wherever he’s hiding so Getou and him can go. “He will resent me when he’s older, I know it.”

You have seen this same scene over and over again. Children and the wife of the husband do not get along. Both suffer at the existence of the other. This is the fate that Satoru had subjected you to. This is the fate you have set upon yourself when you refused to send him away. You wonder if your kindness will cost you one day.

“Well,” Getou shrugged nonchalantly. “You haven’t given him any reason to like you either.”

You opened your mouth to retort, only to be interrupted by Satoru.

“Getouu,” he whined, comically trudging towards his best friend with a hunched back. “Why are you so early?”

You see Getou open his mouth to reply, but you are lost in your head. You watch Getou ignore Satoru’s childish gimmicks, already dragging him out of the room and towards the door. You feel Satoru kiss your cheek before waving goodbye, but your head was in a daze mindlessly repeating Getou’s words. You feel shiver creep down your spine before shifting your gaze towards the garden where Hiroki’s presence was last.

-

thank you so much for reading guys! i’d love to hear all criticisms and suggestions for this universe <33 please lmk through comments :>

here’s my masterlist

#gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru imagine #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen #satoru gojo x reader #jjk #gojo imagine #satoru imagine

[beskarandblasters]

Me and My Husband

Chapter One: Lonesome Love

Married!Din Djarin x F!Reader

Series Masterlist | Series Playlist

Main Masterlist | Din Djarin Masterlist

Author's note: The first chapter is here. It matters to me.

Synopsis: Din Djarin is doing what any typical Mandalorian would be doing after reclaiming Mandalore, finding a riduur and settling down. He’s still a member of the Guild on Nevarro, taking bounties here and there to support his new family. But when he meets you while you’re working the front desk at an inn on Naboo, he finds himself hooked, feeling like he’s found something new and exciting in his now mundane life. How long can he keep up appearances with his riduur? And how long can he keep his little secret with you?

Series warnings: reader is able-bodied, set post season 3, canon divergent (long live the Razor Crest), some liberties taken with Mandalorian culture/weddings/marriages, infidelity, eventual smut (chapter two!), switches between Reader and Din's POV, no use of y/n

Chapter summary: Din marries a fellow member of The Children of the Watch hastily due to peer pressure and wanting to commit himself fully to the tribe. He takes a bounty from Karga on Nevarro to support his family that leads him to Naboo’s capital city, Theed, and ultimately... you

Word count: 4k

Chapter warnings: a Mandalorian wedding, a face reveal, Din is a bad flirt lmao, masturbation, feelings of doubt/guilt, use of Mandalorian words/phrases (translations included after)

Din 

“Din Djarin, repeat after me: Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde. (We are one when together, we are one when parted, we will share all, we will raise warriors),” the Armorer says. 

Kriff, why did he agree to this? He could take out a thousand men; an entire Imperial fleet if he had to. But this, the riduurok (marriage), has him weak in the knees (and not in the good way), at a loss for words, and more anxious than he’s ever been. 

“Din Djarin?” the Armorer repeats, snapping him out of his thoughts. 

“Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde,” he says, finishing with a shaky breath. 

Thank the Maker neither the Armorer or May can see his face right now because if they could, they would see the face of a man who’s never been more scared in his life, coated with a thick layer of sweat. 

“May Malric, repeat after me: Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde,” the Armorer continues. 

Without missing a beat, May repeats the vows, her visor shifting from the Armorer to Din, locked on his. Standing before him is his new riduur, in her forest green armor with lime green accents, her gloved hands joined with his. He gulps – no turning back now. 

“Now you two are joined as one, in an unbroken bond just as your ancestors before you. By entering a riduurok you pledge your eternal commitment to not only each other, but Mandalore as well. Let the celebration begin! This is the way.”

“This is the way,” May affirms.

“This is the way,” Din responds. It better be the way, because he just committed himself to this woman for the rest of his life.

-

This day can’t go by any slower. How is he supposed to celebrate this? Marriage was the last thing he wanted. But ever since they reclaimed Mandalore, other members of the clan have been getting married left and right; finally feeling like they have a permanent place to live, it only felt right. And so that’s what Din did. He chose May, a fellow member of the Children of the Watch to be his riduur. He figured he liked her well enough; respected her well enough so she would be a fine riduur. Or so he hopes. 

The Armorer leads the way back to the rest of the Mandalorians, a bountiful celebration ready to take place. All this attention on himself makes Din uncomfortable. But this is what he chose and now he has to deal with the consequences no matter how unbearable or overwhelming it may be. 

It’s a lot, just a never-ending string of people wishing him well it seems. He does his best to be polite; these are people he’s known his whole life basically or new members of the recently intertwined community. But eventually it proves to be too much and he needs to excuse himself. He scans the room for Grogu, just to make sure he’s okay. And he is. Of course he is; playing with some of the tribe’s younglings. He is another reason Din did this, getting married and all. Din thought it was important for Grogu to have a “real” family. It’s a multifaceted issue. Between the peer pressure, the pressure he put on himself to be a devoted member of the tribe, and the pressure he put on himself to be the best father he can be to Grogu, he made this decision… This lifelong, unbreakable decision

…Maybe he should’ve given this a second thought. Because now he’s bonded to May for life. No getting divorced, no getting remarried… Unless he wants to become an apostate again – and he knows that feeling all too well, a feeling he’d never like to revisit. 

He heads back to his new house; a simple utilitarian home made of stone, stone being one of the few resources here on Mandalore. It’s not like his home on Nevarro, complete with all the furnishings and a pond for Grogu in the front. The home on Nevarro also happens to be… a secret. Not on purpose. He just never told May about it. And now he thinks he’ll keep it that way. Not even because he wants to bring a flurry of women there, but because it’ll be nice to have a place of his own that only he knows about. 

He senses a presence behind him. Turning around slowly he sees May, the visor of her helmet glued to her gloved hands, fiddling nervously. 

“Got to be too much for you, too?” she asks softly. 

“Just overwhelming… That’s all,” he says stiffly.

“Do you think…” she starts, taking a step closer to him. 

“Do you think it’s time?” she finishes.

“...Time for what?”

“Time for… you know,” she says, visor still fixed on her hands.

“Oh,” he spits out, realizing what she’s insinuating.

Now that they’re riduurs they can show each other, and only each other, their faces.

“Now?” he asks.

“There’s no one else around. And we’re in our home…” she says, a smile evident in her voice, a smile Din would soon get to see. 

Seeing your riduur’s face for the first time is arguably the best part of a Mandalorian wedding, most would agree. Except for the fact that Din is scared beyond words. He’s staring down the barrel of the rest of his life, the face he’ll wake up to everyday, the face of the mother of his future children. 

“Okay,” he says, taking a deep breath.

At the same time they both reach for their helmets, lifting them up from the bottom and hearing the hiss of the modulator. Din’s worried about what she’ll think of him, sure. But he’s also worried about what she’ll look like, if she’ll be attractive. He feels bad thinking that way but he’s a man, he has needs. He supposes it’s not an unreasonable request to have the woman he’s going to be married to for the rest of his life be physically attractive to him.

He holds his helmet against his side, closing his eyes until she’s ready. 

“Din?” she asks softly.

“Hmm?”

“Are you ready?”

“...Yes.”

He opens his eyes to see May, standing in front of him. And to put it plainly, she’s just… fine. Not inherently ugly, not overly beautiful, just… fine. It could’ve been a lot worse. He was also hoping he would feel the spark when he saw her but he just doesn’t. Maybe it’ll happen over time but he also hoped he’d feel the spark for his own riduur on his wedding day. 

Can this day go by any slower?

It’s been about fifteen rotations since the wedding. They’re in the “honeymoon stage” (if you could even call it that). Grogu seems to like May well enough which is good. Her and Din have found a happy medium of… tolerating each other. But he’s itching for some freedom, some time away from her as horrible as that sounds. 

They’re standing outside their house, watching Grogu waddle around outside and get more accustomed to his new home planet when Din turns to her and says, “You know I’m still a member of the Bounty Hunter’s Guild on Nevarro.”

“Oh?”

“I was thinking I could go get a job or two… you know… to support us.”

“Okay.” she says, not questioning the idea.

“And you’re okay with that?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? It’s for us.”

“Right.”

“When will you leave?”

“This afternoon. Once I leave the atmosphere I’ll send a transmission to Karga.”

“Okay. Do you need any help preparing for the journey?”

“Not necessary,” he says curtly, scooping Grogu up into his arms. 

“But take care of him when I’m gone?” he asks, passing him off to her.

“Of course. He’s our son now. Why wouldn’t I?”

The term makes him sick, “our son”. But he says nothing, offering a nod before walking to the Razor Crest to make sure it’s ready for the journey. 

He takes off in the early afternoon, feeling a bit of relief he’ll be on his own for at least a little while. He bids May and Grogu farewell before getting in the Crest and taking off.  He knows Grogu is safe here with the other Mandalorians. They’d all lay down their lives to protect him. 

And now he’s alone in his ship, feeling like he’s in the days before he got married; before he even had Grogu. He sends Karga a transmission letting him know he’s on the way to collect a job before setting his course to Nevarro. 

Din enjoys solitude during the few rotations that it takes to get to Nevarro, taking the time to reclaim a space of his own again and have a chance to feel “free”. Deep down he knows it’s only a fleeting moment but once that he’ll savor until he’s forced to return home. 

Once he arrives at Nevarro he rests at his house for the night. The house is still bare bones essentially, not many furnishings inside. He’s been too busy on Mandalore with the others to make the journey here to complete his new home. But now that he’s going to be coming here more frequently, perhaps it’s time to make this house a home away from home… his home away from home, no one else’s. 

In the morning he heads to Karga’s, feeling a little excited that he’ll be exploring the galaxy once again. If there’s something Din learned over the past few months being anchored down on Mandalore, it’s that he doesn’t like to be anchored down in one place too long. It’s one thing to have a home base, sure. But Din’s old life led him to explore all corners of the galaxy and he’s missed that lately. 

“Well look who it is!” Karga says as Din walks in, his booming voice spreading across the room. 

“Long time, no see,” he continues, “Where have you been? Thought I’d never see you use that place on the outskirts of town.”

“I’ve been on Mandalore.”

“I see. Where’s the little critter?”

“He stayed back… with my riduur.”

“Your what?”

Kriff, why did he say that? Din isn’t one for interpersonal relationships. Maybe it’s because he’s dying to let his frustrations out; dying to tell someone how he feels. But he fears Karga, or anyone else for that matter, wouldn’t get it; wouldn’t understand where he’s coming from. So he decides to explain to Karga what a riduur is and say nothing more. 

“My… wife,” Din says. 

“Wow, congratulations! Didn’t peg you as the marriage type. But it’s nice that your little green fellow has a mother now.”

“He’s very happy,” Din says through gritted teeth. 

“Well, enough of the pleasantries. Let me get you your tracking fob,” Karga says, reaching into his pocket. 

“Here,” he says, handing the fob off to Din, “Tannon Rene, just your typical low life. Owes a wealthy family here a large sum of credits but ran off once he realized he couldn’t pay them back. Rumor is he’s hiding at an inn on Naboo, in the capital city.”

“Got it. Shouldn't be too long,” Din says, turning and leaving. 

“See you when you return!” Karga calls out. 

Din offers a small wave over his shoulder and sets off towards the Crest. Walking through the streets of Nevarro has him feeling nostalgic for the life he used to live, back when it was just him and Grogu, taking bounties as they come. At least this way he can feel a small sliver of this old life with also a new place to call home. 

It’s still relatively early in the morning, and it takes a little over a full rotation to get to Naboo. He should be there mid morning on the next cycle there, ready to hit the ground running on this bounty. 

-

Naboo is just coming into Din’s sight. He’s never been here before but from what he can tell it’s a beautiful planet, very green and full of nature. He lands his ship on the outskirts of Theed, parking it in a grassy field. 

He heads into the city, grass turning into sandy colored stones under his feet. Soon enough he’s met with ornate architecture, the buildings decorative and intricate. He feels out of place here. He is out of place here. He’s met with stares as he walks through the streets, but that’s typical for him. Some people aren’t accustomed to seeing a Mandalorian in their day to day life, much less one with the flashiest silver beskar you’ve ever seen. As he gets closer to the city center, the buildings start to be adorned with pastel green domed roofs – he’s getting closer to the palace. He walks past a cantina and does a double take. 

This would be a good place to gain intel, he thinks to himself. 

He goes inside and cantina was the wrong word to describe this place. It’s too… fancy. It’s more like a lounge, an upscale one at that, a far cry from the ones he’s used to on Nevarro and Tatooine. He’s met with more stares as he walks through the lounge, taking a seat at the bar in the center of the room. The bartender, a tall human male, goes to ask him for his order but Din puts his hand up and says, “No need. I’m looking for an inn.”

“There’s several. Are you looking to stay close to the city center or on the outskirts?”

“What’s cheaper?”

“The outskirts. I assume you’re going after a bounty.”

“Maybe.”

“Well I may have some information,” the bartender says. 

“Oh?”

“The Star-Lux. Pretty nice for a budget inn. If you’re standing facing the palace, make a left, and keep going down. It’ll be the last inn on the outskirts of the city. The girl at the front desk is real pretty; a sweetheart. You think your bounty’s there? Talk her up and I’m sure she’ll tell you what you need to know.”

“Thanks,” he says, rising from the bar stool. 

The bartender offers a small nod of his head and Din walks away, feeling all the sets of eyes on him as he exits. He follows the directions he was given, heading to the palace before making a left. He thinks about what the bartender said about talking up the girl at the counter… Din is not good at that; not good at flirting… at all. 

He eventually reaches the Star-Lux at the edge of the city, a building that matches the surrounding architecture with a modest sign written in Aurebesh. The tracking fob in his pocket is going crazy, beeping and vibrating strongly upon arriving at the Star-Lux. He heads inside and immediately spots the front desk situated in the back of the room. And that’s when he sees you for the first time. The bartender was right- you’re pretty, gorgeous even. He feels guilty for thinking that knowing he has a riduur back home but he can’t help it. You’re easy on the eyes and his legs feel like jelly as he walks closer to you. He’s cheated death numerous times and faced off with some of the biggest threats of the galaxy but just walking towards you, a pretty girl, has him weak in the knees. 

You look up from your data pad and raise an eyebrow at him. He doesn’t blame you. A Mandalorian sauntering over to your front desk is a strange sight. The visor of his helmet trails up and down your form, what he can see from behind the desk anyway. He takes note of your name on the name tag you're wearing pinned to your dress; a dress in a color that suits your eyes with a low cut neckline... exposing your collarbone and your cleavage. He feels his cock twitch in his flight suit.

“How can I help you?” you ask. Five words. Five words is all it takes for his attraction to you to grow deeper. 

“I’m… looking for someone.”

“…Okay?” 

“I’m looking for Tannon Rene. He’s here.” he says, holding out the tracking fob and holding it out in his palm. 

“I’m not allowed to just hand out information about a guest,” you say, folding your arms. 

Kriff when you do that your breasts are pushed together, defining your cleavage even more. He rests his elbow on the desk, leaning forward towards you. It’s time to pull out the flirting. 

“You… come here often?”

“…I work here,” you laugh. 

Oh Maker, he’s so stupid. He’s not good at this. He’s not one to flirt. He’s not one to go after women… they normally come after him, as bad as that sounds.

“Right,” he says, letting out a nervous laugh. 

“...Like I said, can’t give out any information about a guest.”

“You know… you’d look good with a helmet on,” he tries next.

“Excuse me?!” you say, face contorting into anger.

“I’m sorry- I meant- I’m-I’m a Mandalorian. It’s just part of our culture, it wasn’t an insult,” he says, the words coming out in an endless stream.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. “It’s okay,” you say, looking at him again. 

It’s almost like you can sense how hard he’s trying (and also failing), almost like you’re feeling bad for him. 

You let out a sigh. “Fine. He might be in room 122. But you didn’t hear that from me. Got it?” you say sternly, pointing a finger at him.

Din can’t believe his luck. It worked. His poor excuse for flirting actually worked.

“Th-Thank you,” he manages to spit out. 

You gesture down the hallway and he follows your direction, nodding at you as he walks. He stops at a door labeled 122 and decides to knock, pretending he’s inn personnel. 

Knock knock. “Mr. Rene? We have a question about your stay.”

He hears a voice cough behind the door. “Just a minute.”

Din takes a moment to get his blaster drawn and places another hand on the handcuffs attached to his belt. There’s some shuffling behind the door and finally, it opens. Karga was right… This guy is a low life.

“What the-” he starts but Din points the blaster against his chest.

He raises his arms and starts rambling. “Please, I mean no trouble. Is this about credits? I got credits. Hang on-”

Din sighs and pulls out the tracking fob, holding it out in front of him.

“Kriff,” he sighs, “Do what you gotta do I guess.”

Poor guy probably realized has no match in a fight against Din. This outcome is safer but… sort of boring. He lets Din cuff without so much as a scuffle before dragging him down the hallway and back into the lobby. 

“Thanks again,” he says, turning his helmet to look at you. His visor trails down to your cleavage involuntarily and you pick up on it, giggling and offering a small wave.

“Anytime, Mando.”

His cock twitches in his flight suit again. But it doesn’t last long because Tannon is already complaining about how tight his cuffs are. He walks out of the inn, fighting the urge to turn and get one last look at you before dragging Tannon back to the Crest. 

-

The journey back to the Guild is uneventful. Din ended up carbon freezing Tannon because he wouldn’t shut up, asking Din all sorts of questions about his ship and Mandalorians that Din just did not have the patience for. 

He lands back on Nevarro and Karga’s guys unload Tannon from the Crest while he collects his credits. 

“So you’ve still got it, huh?” Karga teases, counting out Din’s credits.

“Still got it,” Din affirms. 

“Taking another?”

“No. I have to return to Mandalore soon.”

“Gotta get back to the wife, the old ball and chain, huh?” Karga chuckles.

“Something like that,” Din says, taking the credits from Karga and offering a tip of his helmet before leaving.

Din could go home right now… But he could also go back to the house he has here and crash for a few hours before leaving. He gives into his temptations and heads to the house on the outskirts of town, thinking he’ll get some much needed rest. However… he can’t stop thinking about you; thinking about your cleavage and your voice and the way you pointed your finger at him. Maker, why did that do it for him?

As soon as he gets to the house he heads for the bedroom, sitting on the bed and taking his cock out. It’s been a long time since he’s had any action to say the least. He hasn’t done anything with May yet. He really doesn’t have the urge to… but he knows he can’t hold her off forever. She’ll want to raise warriors with him. 

He puts May out of his mind for right now and goes back to thinking about you, stroking his cock to the memory of his brief interaction with you. It doesn’t take long for his imagination to take control, imagining what you would look like underneath him, crying on his cock, whimpering his name.

Kriff, Din. Really? he thinks to himself.

The shame doesn’t last long, though. Because before he knows it his cum is spilling over his fist. He already came, and it was a hard orgasm, too. Except he now feels… guilty; guilty because he just stroked his cock to the thought of another woman when his riduur is waiting at home for him with his son. Maker, he feels terrible. But a small voice in the back of his mind is telling him to go see you again. He considers it briefly but ultimately that will have to wait. He goes to bed and of course, he’s dreaming of you. 

-

It’s morning again. Time to go back to Mandalore, something he’s already dreading. He’s had his taste of freedom but it’s time to go back to reality now. He leaves his house and heads into the town center, stopping to get one last look at it before leaving and wondering when he’ll return. He stops at the market and grabs some supplies; some rations, blankets, pottery, and some scrap metal, before going back to the Crest. He takes off with a sigh, already feeling like the journey home will be long and dreadful. 

-

He was correct, the journey back to Mandalore dragged on, feeling like it was twice as long as the journey to Nevarro a few rotations prior. He breaches the atmosphere and lands not too far from his house. As he unloads the ship May walks over with Grogu in her arms. He greets Din with an excited babble. 

“How was it?” May asks.

“Not bad. Got us some supplies.”

“Thank you, Din,” she says kindly, “Where did you have to go?”

“Ferrix.”

He lies. It came out naturally. He doesn’t even understand why he’s lying to her. Sure, he feels guilty for masturbating while thinking of you but technically nothing incriminating happened. 

“Hopefully the bounty didn’t give you too much trouble.”

“He didn’t. Surrendered quickly.”

“That’s good… I’m just about to make dinner if you want any,” she offers, walking back to the house alongside him. 

“That’s okay. I’m pretty tired from the journey.”

“Of course,” she says softly, “I’ll keep some left over for you.”

“Thanks,” he says curtly, heading inside and going straight to the bedroom. 

He collapses on the bed and already starts to feel sleepy. Once again, consumed with thoughts of you. 

Chapter Two

End note: I hoped you guys liked the first chapter!! I’d love to hear your thoughts 🩵

Graphic by @nostalxgic

Banners/divider by @saradika

MAMH tag list: @wannab-urs @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @catchallfangirl @patti7dc @nervoushottee @mandoisapunk @pr0ximamidnight @angel-in-beskar @littlegrungegirlaf @pamasaur @love-the-abyss @dameron-grant-spector @xdaddysprincessxx @drewharrisonwriter @milly-louise @engie115 @survivingandenduring @unit-1021 @rentaldarling @csarab615 @missladym1981 @swiftiegirliepop @spookyxsam @jbb-sgr @harriedandharassed

#din djarin x reader #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin smut #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedrostories #pedro pascal #mamh #din djarin x you #star wars fanfiction #star wars #starwarsficnetwork #married!din djarin x reader #married!din djarin

[kentopedia]

𝐈. 𝐊𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐀 𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐄 ❤︎༻°₊ ｡ villain!nanami + f!reader

series masterlist

chapter summary . . . it's been a year since the death of gojo satoru, and it seems that geto's plans have slightly changed.

chapter warnings . . . none other than jjk typical dark themes. see masterlist for series warnings!

author note! this series is my exploration of some of the themes and aspects about jjk that i find intriguing, but this story will be an alternate timeline, and will diverge from the jjk canon, lore, power system, etc. pls don't correct me if i get something about jujutsu or the current timeline wrong! <3

“𝐖𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐚𝐳𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐛𝐲𝐬𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐲𝐬𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐚𝐳𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮” 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐍𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐳𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐞

The sheet wrinkled between your fingertips, your grasp far too tight for the thin piece of paper. Words smudged into a pool of black from the oils that danced across your palm, but it didn’t matter much… You didn’t need to read them anyway. 

Those lines were as familiar to you as your own name, scribbled down in Utahime’s neat calligraphy, a daily report of new information gathered. The length of the list never changed, but, really, seldom changed, these days. 

The same could not be said of the numbers beside the names, the words that followed. They were altered, on occasion. Often when you least expected it.

Directory of known sorcerers residing in Japan, as of December 24, 2017. Most recent grade of every sorcerer identified. Status identified. Bounty set by Nanami Kento and Geto Suguru identified (if applicable):

GOJO SATORU . . . Special Grade . . . Deceased 

TSUKUMO YUKI . . . Special Grade . . . Deceased 

OKKOTSU YUUTA . . . Special Grade . . . Deceased 

GETO SUGURU . . . Special Grade . . . Defected 

NANAMI KENTO . . . Special Grade . . . Defected 

SHOKO IERI . . .  Grade 1 . . . Reward: 35,000,000

FUSHIGURO MEGUMI. . . Grade 1 . . . Reward: 50,000,000

Your name was next on the list. 

Immediately, you stopped reading, the anger consuming you as quickly as your eyes scanned the words across the page, crumbling it in your palm. 

Every two weeks, like clockwork, your bounty raised. It was the same with Megumi and Maki, as descendants of the Zen’in clan, and children that the higher-ups were so desperate to obtain. But no one else’s reward held quite the same inconsistency as your own, which never seemed to raise by a set amount.

Today, nothing was surprising about the list, no new deaths, no numbers that seemed otherworldly. You threw the wadded ball of paper over your shoulder, slumping forward as your head fell into your hands. 

Everyone was getting desperate, it seemed. Not just the Zen’in clan, but Geto too. Perhaps even you were losing your last shred of rationality, of hope that things would change. The only ambition you still had was keeping Maki and Megumi out of the disgusting hands of their clan leaders. 

You swore to protect them… And you would protect them, now that Gojo Satoru could not.

Glancing up, your gaze fell from the ceiling to the window, rays of sunlight clearing through a dark curtain of storm clouds. The sky had begun to open up into a steely gray abyss, but it never looked natural, with the curtain of curse energy that shimmered across the horizon. It encased the entirety of the country, unbroken, from each shore to the beaches, sinking into the seas. A navy hue that sealed your home into a prison, out of hatred and fear, and every twisted feeling that Geto Suguru had settling in his heart.

There was hardly anything that passed through the curtain; only things that were predetermined by Geto, who saw himself, surely, as your great benefactor. No communication to the world outside, no alarming any foreign sorcerers of what had become of your country. Maybe no one cared enough to come to your defense.

It was shield that did little to protect, and it would remain there until someone was strong enough to break it. But without Satoru alive, even that had become an impossible task. 

Month after month, the strongest sorcerers attempted to break it, to take it down, and collapse the cursed energy that was compacted into a swirling wave. Every one of them failed. There were only two special grade sorcerers left, and they were the ones that had trapped you in the circle of hell, to begin with. 

You let out a heavy exhale, turning away from the window to slink back into the darkness of your bedroom. Thinking too hard about the state of your survival only served to depress you further.

At least you still had the rain. The drizzle that maintained the farmlands, kept the rivers from drying out, and you and the rest of the country from dying. Geto had been kind enough to give you that.

As if in response to your dismal thoughts, a dreary rainbow unfurled across the sky, brightening it like a beacon. The colors were still muted, though, swallowed by the darkness of an energy created by hatred. It did little to draw a smile onto your face, and you collapsed onto a chair instead, wrapping yourself up in whatever dusty blankets covered it.

Satoru’s name lingered in your mind like he was whispering it there, his lighthearted, arrogant tone seeping through your eardrums, nestling into your brain. You could still see his smug smile, almost as if he’d been standing in front of you all this time, the image of it painted onto the wall across from you. 

The mere whistle of a memory of him sent a twinge of regret and longing through your entire frame. He was always a pain in your ass, and yet, you were certain that no one missed him more than you. What a pity it was, to have been the strongest. 

So caught up in your memories, you were ignorant to the door unlatching, footsteps padding through the threshold as Shoko came in. Although you hadn’t heard her, you saw her out of the corner of your eye, the shadow of her before she spoke. 

“Everything okay?” Shoko asked, and while things hadn’t been okay in months, there was no other question that could have been asked in place of it. 

You looked over, nestling deeper into the blankets, as you observed her stature, which only seemed to shrink with time. A cigarette was balanced between her fingers, nails painted a light shade of pink; a way to counter the dismal reality of her situation. Shoko’s dark hair had been cut short again, a shadow of her teenage self, a shell of that girl she’d once been, hollow and empty. 

Just like you, you supposed. A burnt image of someone who’d once longed to visit her friends in Tokyo, who’d looked up to all of them like they’d hung the moon. 

How sick you felt, knowing you’d once adored the men that did this to you. Nauseating, even, that you held a shred of love for them still. 

“You could’ve knocked,” you said, rolling your eyes as Shoko puffed out of a cloud of smoke, one that wafted over to the nest you’d perched yourself in. It didn’t quite reach you, but you coughed dramatically anyway, waving your hands around your face.

“Would it have made a difference?”

“For starters, I could’ve looked a little less like I was brooding.”

Shoko laughed, and her tiny little smile caused you to crack one of your own, grateful that you could still experience a fraction of joy. There was still hope, somewhere, even if you buried it deep. Without it, you would’ve given yourself up to Geto months ago, or died trying to escape. There was no point in fighting with nothing to live for. 

“I’ve been under the impression that that’s all you do up here,” Shoko remarked, taking another long drag of her cigarette. “Sitting so seriously in your dark, cold room, all alone. Perhaps thinking of the things that might have been.”

Although she was teasing you, you feel a stab within your chest at the remark. You’d been shy as a girl, and you’d grown into a quiet adult — something that someone as obnoxious as Satoru had always teased you about. But you’d learned to accept his remarks, as annoying as they were, because for all Gojo Satoru talked, he was, really, quite horrible at communicating. 

It just seemed like a punch to the gut, that Shoko sounded like him now. That her mouth twisted up in the same way Satoru’s did, even though it was unsurprising that she’d picked up on some of his quirks over the years.

You just didn’t like seeing a reminder of him everywhere you went. As much as you missed him, you hated him for leaving you in a world where the unthinkable came to light. Even the strongest flame had been put out, and there was no safety in that sort of place. 

Silence remained Shoko’s answer, and she sighed, accepting it as her eyes dimmed. Looking past you, the last of the day’s rays burned through the glass panels, coating the room in a purple haze. “Utahime wants to have a meeting,” Shoko said, resigned. “Be downstairs in ten.”

The curt response was the end of your conversation. Once you nodded, your old friend left, letting the door slam behind her.

Meeting was hardly a name that could qualify for your meager gathering of sorcerers, especially since almost everyone had been stuck together for months, with no other options. Yet, Utahime continued to put on a brave face, calling it a formal congregation, as if to instill the hope that you all could become enough to incite a rebellion. As if, maybe, you could train and strengthen yourselves, overthrowing two of the most powerful curse-users in the world.

It was laughable, really, and you saw why Shoko and everyone else thought that. Why they rolled their eyes at the flimsy sheets of paper that Utahime passed out every day, because, maybe, there wasn’t a point to any of it. 

You, though, were happy to indulge Utahime. It gave you just a few moments to pretend like things hadn’t changed. You could listen to her lecture to your measly group of sorcerers, and pretend that she was still a teacher in Kyoto. You could pretend that Satoru was still by your side, that you were still fighting nothing worse than grade one curses, and that everything was normal.

It painted a pretty peaceful image, even if it wasn’t real. 

Throwing the blankets off your body, you finally left the room, your breathing seeming far too loud for the empty halls. Papery hotel walls loomed over you as you trekked down carpeted stairs, sliding your hands along the banister. The elevators were never used, and lights were only on when necessary. It was a risk to use up any resources, when none of you were certain how much longer they’d last.

Really, it was a mystery that you’d made it this far. For all of his theatrics and grandiose plans, Geto Suguru was not an idiot. If he was allowing you all to live, for anyone who opposed him to live, then there must have been a reason. Society was likely blooming within the four walls of Geto’s cult following, and those who stood with him received all the finest things in life. 

And it may have been a ridiculous notion, but it seemed more realistic than the alternative. Whoever Geto was now, he was still a man who cared deeply for his new family. You couldn’t imagine him forcing them into a life where they had to fend for scraps off the streets.

When you got downstairs, to the lobby of the hotel that you were all inhabiting for the week, the room was already lit with candles, flames so high that you could tell they’d been burning for a while. With the sun already setting on the other side of the building, very little light filtered through the vast windows. 

Despite the cold outside, the building remained relatively warm, a heating system kicking on regardless of your precautions. However, you were grateful not to have to face the winter in a small town without some source of warmth. Even if it died out on you by the end of the night. 

Nearly everyone had gathered when you arrived downstairs… But at this point in your battle, the numbers were never very staggering. Many of the sorcerers never bothered to show up, despite knowing the severity of the position that you were all in. 

Not that you could blame them, though. Oftentimes, in these meetings, you just repeated the same information; it was rare that you stumbled upon anything noteworthy toward your survival.

The would-be third years sat huddled in a circle, and Utahime and Shoko talked amongst themselves in hushed whispers. At the far side of the vast table, one you’d created from various smaller ones, Takuma Ino sat, beanie covering his forehead, eyes closed as he leaned back in the chair. 

Something relaxed inside of you, at the sight of him sitting there so calmly. Since Stour had died, Ino had become something of a comfort to you. His steadfast optimism and energy were hard to match in such dire times, bringing a new life to people who might as well have been dead—including yourself. Despite the few years difference in age and the differences in your experiences as sorcerers, he’d become one of your closest friends. 

You approached him, quietly; though he heard your subtle footsteps nonetheless. A dark eye popped open, and he smiled, lips pulling back, eyes crinkling at the corners. Ino was still so young, but there was more evidence of happiness on his features than many of you; wrinkles were already obvious around his eyes and mouth. It was admirable how deeply he could hold onto joy, and you found yourself latching onto that, longing for it, even. 

“You left your cave!” Ino remarked, pulling his beanie off, dusty brown strands falling onto his cheekbones. “This must be really important if Shoko pulled you out of there.” 

As you took the seat next to him, you made an effort to poke him in the shin with your shoe. A kick, almost, with how hard the pressure landed. “I always come to these meetings,” you said, rolling your eyes. “If I remember correctly, it was your seat that was empty during the last one.” 

Ino’s lips tugged upwards again, not quite a smirk but close enough. He sat up a little straighter, less relaxed than before, when the rest of the sorcerers began filing into the room. “Well, it’s never me that those bastards looking for.” Ino shrugged, wiping a hand over his face, hiding his weariness of the entire situation. “They don’t need everyone. Some of us, they just want to capture to eliminate.” 

An objection rested on your lips, but you knew that it was fruitless. Sorcerers that didn’t have a technique inherently useful to Geto’s agenda would be imprisoned — or killed. The rest of you… Well, you’re certain you’d be used for something far worse. Dying seemed, almost, like the better outcome. 

“Well, it’s a good thing that none of us have been captured, then,” you settled on instead. 

Ino looked away, his dark lashes fanning over the hollowed shadows beneath his eyes. “It’s only a matter of time, though. Isn’t it? We can’t run forever.” 

You didn’t bother to respond. Ino was right. Of course, he was right. You’d all fought like hell to keep everyone alive, and though a few had willingly left, sworn their allegiance with a betrayal of information, no one had been captured. The defects never really mattered, though. There were very few secrets kept amongst you. What secrets could be kept, when your goal of escape was more than obvious?

Finally, Utahime drew all your focus with a dramatic clearing of her throat. She stood tall, proud before you, like you were all first-years, oblivious to your own talents, and far too naive for the world of Jujutsu. 

It seemed a realistic comparison, though, as all of you still trained like students, trying to learn something from others that you hadn’t known before. A disappointing concept, considering many of you were beyond growth in your technique, and your abilities would remain stagnant. But the grades of sorcery meant nothing anymore — hardly anyone referred to themselves as such, these days. 

“As you all know, for months, we’ve been trying to anticipate Geto and Nanami’s next move,” Utahime began, as always, with the obvious. There was a brief pause, and whether it was for dramatics or for Utahime to gather her thoughts, you weren’t certain. “Our infiltration attempts have all failed — The bounties tell us little, except that the clan’s children are wanted more than everyone.” 

You glanced over at Megumi, whose eyebrow only twitched in irritation. He would be eighteen soon, but he would remain your responsibility. A life you’d always protect, dying before the clan could ever attempt to take him away, sell him for whatever he was worth. You’d promised Satoru that much, hadn’t you? 

“Although,” Utahime started again, with renewed vigor in her voice, “we think we’ve gained some new insight into their operations. Or, at least, what their next ambition is.” A frown took over her face, then, slowly, curled to every corner of her expression. Wrinkles formed between her brows, and she licked her lips, pointedly avoiding the far end of the table where you sat. “But there is nothing proven in the information. It is a gamble — one we’re not sure we’re willing to take.” 

“What options do we have left?” Todo said, mouth drawn into a tight line. “Risks are all we have now. Every other plan has led to nothing, and Geto is a complete basket case. You act as if any of his goals are rational — as if we can predict them.” 

Utahime opened her mouth, but faltered, looking at Shoko, who had already begun to take over. She was onto her second cigarette since you’d last seen her, the habit only erupting after Gojo had been killed. Clouds of smoke rose above her as she exhaled smoothly. 

“No, Geto is not rational,” Shoko agreed. “But Nanami is. There’s a reason that those without cursed energy still reside in Japan. That Geto has not wiped them out entirely.”

“To supply him with curses,” Todo argued, fists on the table. It did little to faze Shoko, who was already so numb. “And money.”

“No,” Shoko paused, gathering her thoughts. “That may be part of the reason, but it isn’t the entire truth, I believe.” 

Although she took a few more breaths, no one interrupted, letting her expel whatever was residing in her mind. When it came to Geto, evwryone entrusted her entirely. There was no one else alive who knew him as well as she did. Even if Gojo had been the only one to ever know him completely. 

“How many sorcerers do you think are left in Japan?” she asked, staring Todo down with a flat gaze, shadowy eyes only growing darker by the day. “An estimate.” 

He shrugged, glancing around the table, and counting heads. Thinking of the clans. Of those who had joined Geto before that evening in Shinjuku, and those who joined him in the two years since. “I don’t know. Perhaps two hundred?”

“I’d argue less,” Shoko hummed, taking one more drag of her cigarette before she dropped it on the floor of the hotel, stomping it out. “But let’s stick with your guess. Two hundred is hardly a feasible number to sustain a society, without setting all of us back centuries. Geto’s goal of murdering anyone without cursed energy… Well, it’s not feasible, really. Not unless he wants the human race, including sorcerers, to cease to exist.” She smiled, though it was sad, exhausted. Things had never stopped being hard for her. Not since the day she’d met the two special grade sorcerers that had once been her best friends. “That’s why they’ve stopped. That’s why the rest of the world moves along, why there are still curses haunting Tokyo, even when Geto hates them. If his plan fails here, then how will it succeed in the rest of the world?” 

Utahime took her seat beside Shoko, bowing her head. Silence arose across the table, as the words sank in. How often you’d thought the same thing, how rational it seemed that that was the case. Yet, none of you had ever been brave enough to say the words out loud. 

Perhaps it didn’t matter, really, when all of you were helpless to stop them.

 “So this is a test run?” Megumi interjected, not allowing Todo to supply any more questions out of his fearful rage. “If Geto can build his utopia here, then he will continue everywhere else?” 

Shoko nodded. “Well. That’s what I think anyway. No one needs to believe me.” 

But her statements were never up for debate. They settled around the table like the word of God, bestowed upon unwilling servants. Giving to the last of you; people who needed to continue on a path that seemed to lead to nowhere. 

“What are we supposed to do, then?” Maki threw her hands up, standing as the chair screeched across the floor. “We’ve run and we’ve hid, and we’ve planned for a year. We’re cowards, aren’t we? Just trying to get by while a lunatic takes over the entire world.” 

Shoko flinched at the word, at the brashness of the teenager’s tone. But she sat tall, face neutral, never letting anyone see how deeply she was truly hurting. “I don’t know. I don’t have all the answers.” 

“Well let’s do something. I’ve lost so many people. We’ve all lost so many people. I’m starting to think that maybe their deaths were in vain.” 

Megumi’s eyes snapped over to her, muttering something darkly under his breath. In a failed attempt, Nobara tugged on her wrist, guiding her back down to her seat. But she flicked him off, sitting on her own, breathing heavily. You’d always liked Maki Zen’in. It was a pity you’d never get the chance to teach her as a third year — you would’ve promoted her to grade one sorcerer, given the chance.

“I agree, Maki,” Utahime spoke up again, softly, coaxing her anger back down. “We think that we might have a plan, though, as I have said, it is a gamble. And…” she blinked, glancing over at you before avoiding your gaze. “I’m not sure that everyone would be willing.” 

The statement started a chorus around the table, of those who would do anything to help, those who were tired of living as you had been living — if you could even call it a life. The students, more courageous than you’d ever been, were the first to offer up their lives. But it was not them that Utahime needed, and deep in your gut, you knew that to be true before she even said it. 

“Utahime,” you said across the wave of speakers, trying your best to make your voice louder than everyone else’s. “It’s me you need, isn’t it?” 

As quickly as the words had left your mouth, everyone was silent, blinking at you. And for a moment, you hesitated. How embarrassing it would be, to believe yourself so important to Geto that you must be the willing victim. 

But you weren’t a fool, and Utahime knew that. Geto knew that, and Nanami Kento certainly knew that. Your bounty had raised just as heavily, and the numbers were staggering. The price on your head was almost as high as Maki and Megumi, despite having very few sorcerers in your long line of descendants. 

It was just — your technique was rare. So rare, in fact, that other curse users had come for you before, when you were but a child. It was something that Geto could easily use to achieve his end goal, if he were able to use your technique to his advantage. 

Thinking of it now, it was logical and seemed almost ridiculous that you hadn’t thought of it sooner. He’d surely attempt to convert you, perhaps promise you a life of grandeur, whatever security he could provide you. 

Yet, the realization hadn’t made you any more prepared for when Utahime’s face fell. Everyone around the table seemed to have come to the same conclusion.

She sighed, looking over to Shoko before nodding. “I’m sorry.” 

Momentarily, your heart stopped. 

Ino flew out of his seat beside you, arguments spewing from his lips in an uncertain stutter. “What? What does that mean? You’re just going to ship her off to Nanami and Geto? Because I’m not going to stand by and watch you hand anyone over to the people that ruined our lives,” he shouted. The heat had risen in his body far too quickly, painting him the image of someone who could only be your lover. 

Your cheeks grew warm, your body hot all over from Ino’s words, from all the eyes that were on you, the dread of what was to come. You’d do it — of course, you’d do it, whatever they needed. Whatever it took to save Megumi and Maki, and the rest of the children. Whatever it took to save the world. If you were to be a sacrifice, well, so be it. There wasn’t much of a choice. 

“Calm down, lover boy,” Shoko laughed, and though Ino’s cheeks grew red, his anger didn’t subside, features pinching up tight. “We’re not going to do anything she doesn’t want to do. There could be another way, we can get someone else but…” Shoko looked at you, studying you for any fear. “You are the best option, aren’t you?” 

“What the hell does that mean?” Megumi asked, eyebrows narrowing. “I’m with Takuma. You expect us just to watch her walk straight into the lions’ den?” 

“It’s okay, Megumi,” you said, schooling your face into a neutral expression. All these months, you’d been promising yourself that you would do whatever was necessary. You’d become a loud voice against the tyrants that controlled what was left of the Jujutsu society, and you couldn’t go back on your word now, could you? “What did you have in mind, Utahime?”

She blinked, dark lashes fluttering over her cheeks, brown eyes wide. Almost like she’d expected you to say no — like she’d hoped for it. But, even though you knew in your heart and soul that you were a coward, you refused to let yourself act like one.

Megumi said your name again, an argument, as Maki became flustered beside him. How noble the two of them were. They were just kids, and already, they reminded you so much of Satoru. The good qualities, of course. Always standing up for what was right, fighting against the system that threatened to topple them. 

Geto had been like that once. Nanami had too.

Sadly, you smiled to yourself as Shoko cleared her throat, cooling the argument that had sprung up among you. Besides the students and Ino, no one had much to say. All of you were too tired, it seemed, to want to fight. To breathe life back into yourselves and your convictions, which seemed to barely be there at all.

“What we know for sure is that Geto has employed Mei Mei as a bounty hunter,” Utahime said, lips drawn thin. Her defection had never really come as a shock. Mei Mei could easily round up sorcerers with her technique, and Geto would supply her with millions; she’d never once put anyone first but herself. “We’ve managed to stay ahead of her, but…” 

Her voice trailed off, dark eyes drifting between Megumi and Maki, innocent children who had been dragged into it, simply because of their lineage. They’d fought bravely the past few years, had trained mercilessly, but they shouldn’t have been weapons in a war of this scale. 

Oh, Satoru, you thought, what a mess you’ve left us with.

“We won’t let any of the children get involved,” Shoko said, brushing her short hair out of her face. “They’ll be safe — away, with the rest of us. There might be casualties. We don’t know who else Geto has employed, or if Mei Mei will be on her own… I’m sorry, but we don’t know much.” 

“It’s okay,” you said again, but the wave of arguments had erupted once more.  

Shoko dropped her head, shaking it, as her chin fell against her chest. Under the table, Ino grabbed your hand, squeezing it gently. 

“You can’t expect us just to do nothing,” Maki argued, fists clenched by her side. “Last time you set us all on the bench, three students died. This is a ridiculous plan. Why don’t we just kill the bitch, and we’ll be down one less curse-user that wants us all dead!” 

“It’s not that simple.” Utahime, for the first time in a while, shouted at the former student. Her cheeks were flushed, bright and pink, her nose flared with the force of her breathing. 

For a moment, Maki seemed taken aback, but erased the emotion from her face, twisting it up before she sat back down. Utahime regained her composure quickly after.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Maki, but we need to be willing to do whatever it takes. We’ve spent a year playing it safe, and it’s gotten us nowhere. This time, we need to take a risk.” 

“If that’s truly the case, then I’ll help,” Ino offered beside you, threading his fingers through your own, palms clammy against yours. You let him run his thumb along the back of your hand, calloused and warm, even as you wanted to twist away. How often you’d gone to him for comfort, crawled into his arms… and yet, the subtle signs of affection made you want to writhe away and put distance between you. Sometimes, the dissonance of your emotions made you want to never speak to him again. 

It was a hard pill to swallow. Once, you’d been full of love, accepted it easily. But it was harder to give these days, and harder to take. Just a sign of how much you’d changed since Satoru had died. 

“If you need sorcerers, I’ll help, Utahime. I don’t mind giving my life so that the rest of you can live.” 

“Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

You sighed, looking around the table at all of the faces of people that had once been your friends, your colleagues, your students. Now, you were just a group of survivors, people who wanted to escape the miserable future you’d been given. How you loved them, even now, and it stung, to know this might be the last time you’d ever see them.

“Alright. Tell me what I need to do.” you said, putting on a brave face, swallowing away your fear. The little girl you’d once been, so terrified of curses and Jujutsu, threatened to slip back into your body. You pushed her away, refusing to let her in.

Shoko pulled another cigarette out of the box. “I think we should speak alone.”

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[linkspooky]

Hi! Thanks for your tremendous work, it's always a pleasure to read your blog! I just wanted to ask your opinion on Hidden Inventory / Premature Death Arc. I know this one is important to make parallels on different characters' stories, but I for me this arc is a surprise. I mean why would Gege suddenly make us involve in the future? 🥲 I just don't understand how he could come to telling us the stories from the past. Do you find it fitting?

Jujutsu Kaisen is a story primarily about cycles: the previous generation giving way to the newer one, spring turning into summer. In particular it's about the passing of the torches between generations. The elders in Jujutsu Society resist what is natural, they are such hardline traditionalists they often sacrifice the young because they refused to give way and let the new generation replace them.

Gojo Satoru's ideals which are in opposition to the elders state that not only should children be allowed to live out their youths, they should surpass their elders. Gojo is staunchly opposed to say, the elitist Zen'in who believe themselves the strongest, or even Sukuna the greater sorcerer of all time, in the fact he wants the kids he's raising to grow stronger than him.

On the flip side, Jujutsu Kaisen is also about negative cycles, like the curses which can never truly die so are exorcised only to be reformed. It's also about the cycle of abuse, such as Toji being abused by the Zen'in, only to abandon his own son in turn. The flashback arc is necessary, because the problems the current generation are facing started with the previous one. These problems persist because the cycle is unbroken.

Tengen in their explanation states that the distortion that caused Kenjaku's plans to succeed in the modern day happened eleven years ago, and he lists two reasons why, first Zen'in Toji who was not affected by cursed energy, and second Geto who could control curses.

Toji is hailed as the destroyer of destinies because he's free form cursed energy, but as for a more meta-textual reason why Toji gets as much focus in story as he does, is because much like Maki he's a product of the worst abuses of sorcerer society.

There's a reason for this line here when Toji appears before the collected members of the Zen'in Clan, Naobito the head, Maki the Toji of her generation, and Megumi who was almost sold to them and is Toji's son who he abandoned therefore another link in the chain of abuse.

All of these characters are effected by the cycle of abuse in the Zen'in Clan, yes, even Naobito and later on Naoya who appear to be at the top. It's that whole "Toxic Masculinity harms men" thing too. Naobito was not born a drunken, abusive jerk and he was likely not a good father in any capacity considering the way Naoya acts.

They're all trapped in the cycle known as the Zen'in Clan, and they all stare on in envy to the one they think is free, Toji, who escaped and became the sorcerer killer. Toji who, the whole clan was secretly fearful of because they believed he had the capability of killing them / also according to Naoya's take looked down on him because he was an otherworldly strength they did not recognize and tried to suppress him to make themselves feel superior.

Either way, Toji is someone who they have put down their entire life because he wasn't born to meet their standards, because he's something new and different from tradition and the big three houses are the worst traditionalists of Jujustu Society. The Toji they all fear however, is a monster created by the Zen'in Clan themselves. Despite being abused by toxic masculinity, Toji is also toxic masculinity incarnate. He drinks, gambles all of his money away, he's an absentee father, and his greatest onscreen time is shooting a girl who's about Mai's age in cold blood. If Mai was the ultimate victim of the Zen'in Clan's toxic masculinity, then Riko is also the ultimate victim of Toji's masuclinity which didn't just target sorcerers but reached out and targeted innocent girls (Riko) and children (Megumi).

The explanation of who Toji was in the past, how he both killed Riko and drove the wedge between Geto and Gojo's friendship creating the first dsiruption in the cycle is important because in the modern day the Zen'in Clan has not broken the cycle. The abuse of the Zen'in Clan is so bad, that one generation later they've already manufactured another Toji.

While Maki's rise to power is glorified a little bit too much, in story the fact that the cycle has repeated itself is not a good thing. Maki's lost her chance of happiness and reconciliation with Mai, she's won against the Zen'in but it's a pyrrhic victory, she's now strong at the cost of everything else. As I said before Mai is also a clear parallel to Riko, someone who just wanted to live a normal life cut down in the prime of her youth by a member of the Zen'in, who's death then sparks another person to spiral.

They're just girls who longed for an ordinary life and be together with their loved ones, and Maki and Geto are both haunted by the fact that they were unable to save them in the aftermath. Geto's actions are spurred by the way the world carelessly killed Riko, and Maki gives up on reforming the Zen'in Clan and chooses destruction after they swallow up Mai.

The flashback chapters do more than just give parallels between say Gojo and Geto's friendship and the current friendship between Megumi and Yuji, or even give us Gojo's backstory and insight to his character they also go to great lengths to show us how much things have not changed in the modern day Jujutsu World.

While the distortion that drove Toji to do what he did began in the Zen'in Clan, Geto is basically driven by the faults of Jujutsu Society as a whole. The death of Riko is his eye opening moment where he learns the truth of their society, the young are sacrificed for the old. It's not just the fact Riko died, but afterwards he witnessed crows of people appluading for it, and Toji acting like that death was nothing. There's also the fact her death / sacrifice was ordered by Jujutsu Society in the first place, but Geto thought he could overcome that cycle with strength alone until he couldn't. Geto's monologue that leads to his slow breakdown even refers to being a sorcerer as "an endless cycle."

The three years of Geto and Gojo's youth is referred to their spring, whereas Premature Death takes place in summer. Not coincidentally, in story Summer is referred to as the worst possible season for curses because curses accumulate during that time.

Jujusu Kaisen is about cycles, and the inability to escape them. Geto and Gojo's springtime of youth turns to summer, Geto begins to have doubts because of his inability to protect Riko, and his witnessing of sorcerers dying around him.

It's not just Geto's superiority complex, or his increasing antipathy for the weak normal people who demand sorcerers exorcise curses for them because they can't defend themselves. Geto also bears witness to the continued death of children around him. It's not just a hazard of the job, sorcerer society continually sacrifices young people to uphold the strict traditions of the elders.

Geto is moved by the mistreatment of the young in a way Gojo is, Riko's death is what opens his eyes, a few days Geto goes to the village he witnesses the brutal death of Haibara and Nanami's own feelings of helplessnes to stop it, and then his breaking point is when he sees two twin girls who are sorcerers ganged up on and imprisoned by an entire town, the same way that the indifferent crowds cheered for Riko's death and the same way sorcerer society considered Riko an expendable sacrifice to maintain Tengen.

Sorcerer Society's callous indifference to both the deaths of their sorcerers, but especially the young is what drives Geto to his breaking point. This is also the source of Gojo's ideals, because he realizes something went wrong with Geto and he doesn't want that mistake to repeat.

“For people like us, we naturally know how to get rid of the poisons within their heart. But for youths who hold onto a lot of sentimental feelings, it’s another matter altogether. Their heart might collapse just from getting struck by poison once.” “Isn’t it an adult’s duties to rid poison from a child’s heart? As a teacher, you should know this better than me, right?” [Light novel 1: Ressurection Puppet]

In Gojo's case he is actively trying at least, to raise kids in a way that they won't break like Geto did. It's the loss of Geto which inspires his current ideals. However, to dwell on this briefly Gojo is also still a very flawed mentor because he's a product of the system who raised him.

Kenjaku comes back in the form of Geto's body to defeat Gojo. Then Sukuna ends up taking Megumi's body away from him. There's a pattern here, two people who Gojo has a strong connection too have their bodies taken away from him. In Megumi's case this is where Gojo has failed to break the cycle because of his stated intetions, because Gojo didn't adopt Megumi to help him after his father died, Gojo swooped in to take Megumi because he was a potential weapon he could use against the elders.

The flashback arc ends with Gojo making his slightly predatory deal with Megumi, by threatening his sister's happiness unless he complies and lets Gojo train him instead of the Zen'in. Megumi is shown to be a child that's continually having trouble growing up throughout the story, because of his broken home situation.

The ending of Hidden Inventory could have been Gojo learning his lesson and breaking the cycle in regards to Megumi, but he deliberately did not, and so once again the problems the main characters are facing now is created by the failures of the past.

Gojo Mr. "I can totally beat up on Megumi, it's fine."

In this case though, Hidden Inventory is also about how the problems of the past are plagueing Megumi's life, because the primary villain of it is his father, and the ending of the whole arc is us seeing his first encounter with Gojo. Megumi is in this case the latest youth swallowed up by the old, because Sukuna is quite literally a member of the previous generation physically stealing his body away from him to prolong his life long after he died.

Tsumiki's death is also a repeat of the death of Mai Zen'in, and Riko Amanai. It's once again the death of an innocent being swallowed up by the toxic masculinity of Jujutsu Society, all while the person who wanted to protect them is completely helpless to stop it. Gojo also took responsibility for Megumi, and Tsumiki both and later on couldn't live up tot hat responsibility, Tsumiki is dead and Megumi is possessed.

The Hidden Inventory flashback arc is there to establish what is basically the beginning of the cycle in the story, so we can see later on how this cycle is repeating itself again and again without being broken even this late (200 chapters) into the story. With the eventual hope that if the adults like Gojo can't fully break the cycle, then the kids he raised will be able to do so in his place.

#jjk meta #metasks #suguru geto #satoru gojo #toji fushiguro #toji zenin #maki zenin #mai zenin #riko amanai #hidden inventory #tsumiki fushiguro #megumi fushiguro

[oftenlyshitposting]

wolfwren vampire/werewolf au | mini fic

sabine, as a juvenile vampire, used to wonder what it was like to interact with other supernaturals. back at the stonewalled confinements of the wren bastion, sabine is more used to briefly interacting with other vampires; mostly the staffs or other members of clan wren, distant relatives and whatsoever.

occasionally, a band of merlin would visit the bastion, bringing vials of potions and elixirs to supply the majik ritualists or to perform some kind of blood majik ritual that the clan wren has always done. but, merlins are typically still human. they've just been blessed and often transformed through their majiks into in-between creatures.

sabine always wonder what it'd be like to meet other actual supernaturals; something that she and tristan used to wonder about together. tristan had always wanted to meet the elusive woodland elves, he's fascinated by their connection to nature and how nature appear to follow their will.

personally, sabine wonders about werewolves.

sabine knows that despite being civil with each other, werewolves and vampires aren't exactly the best of kins amongst supernaturals. werewolves are much more tribal and nomadic than vampires; they also often does not regard blood lineage, unlike vampires who must stay pure in order to keep their full vampirical blood majik powers.

sabine often envy that; to not be so tied to blood lineage and to not be demanded to bore full-blooded borns to be considered as a someone. the downfall of living in the wren bastion was that everyone knows she is the humanborn vampire; the disgrace of clan wren and house vizsla.

that was decades ago, sabine fled the bastion so many years ago to live far, far away from them.

now, sabine wonders less and less about interacting with werewolves; borderline regretting everything.

for the past few weeks, sabine has been travelling with this... enigmatically annoying rogue werewolf; shin hati. the rogue werewolf had stormed into her cottage one rainy night, in her true form nonetheless. if her materialising in her living area didn't baffle sabine, the sudden barrage of hunters arriving certainly did.

the werewolf had been chased by these suspiciously strong hunters, only managed to maim half of their party. sabine had to reluctantly aid the wolf at fighting them off because if she didn't, the hunters would've slain her and eventually came to slaughter sabine too.

six hunters came, and five of them were slaughtered by the wolf's and sabine's claws as the monster within sabine fed from their dying carcass. one of them miraculously managed to escape with half of his limbs still in tact to his body. sabine's cottage was a mess, and so was the wolf's true form. the first thing sabine instantly noticed was the scent of rotting flesh under the wolf's thick mane, and the black spreading under her skin. she'd been poisoned with a type of lichen; the slow and painful kind.

"wolf, you need to return to your human form," sabine commanded, earning a glare from the injured shifter in front of her. sabine held her head high against the werewolf. "you are injured. i can help."

the wolf's voice was gruff and harsh as she coughs out blood, "i do not need your help, bloodsucker."

sabine rolled her eyes, ignoring the insult as she went to her cabinet to grab her healing vials and a long iron rod which she tossed into her fireplace. with her back facing the wolf, she then spoke, "you've been poisoned with lichen. it will rot your flesh before you see the first light of dawn." sabine turns, her gaze sharp and serious. "unless you let me help you."

the wolf's glare was unyielding and unbroken, and in the dim of the stormy night with only her fireplace lighting up her cottage, sabine almost felt fear from looking into the wolf's vermilion eyes. her glare was broken when the wolf winced in agony, and sabine's eyes shift to her wound to see that it's beginning to rot further.

"wolf, come on," sabine almost pleaded, unsettled by the scent of rotting flesh, "you're dying. let me help you. you won't be indebted."

sabine watches as the wolf appeared to waver and argue with herself. she finally relented, shifting slowly back to her human form. sabine watch as her fur began to shrink, and pale ivory skin of a human replaces it, along with her height shrinking to that of a human posture. werewolf transformations are something sabine had never seen before, let alone one from a true wolf.

the wolf is now a regular human, a woman who looked physically around sabine's age. bone-white textured hair falls short just above her broad yet slender shoulder, her skin pale from the injury if sabine had to guess. she's taller than sabine, slightly. she looks... young.

the wolf spoke, voice less gruff, but still harsh, "make it quick."

sabine instructed the wolf to sit next to the fireplace. with a more proper lighting, sabine can now assess the injury. the main injury comes from some kind of stab wound on her shoulder, which was where the lichen poison spread from. the flesh in the stab wound is rotting beyond repair, and sabine already knew she had to cauterize it to prevent the poison from spreading further. she grabs the iron rod, the metal end burns in an angry glowering orange.

"i'll need to burn the lichen from your flesh," sabine carefully says, furthermore warning the wolf, "this will be painful."

"just do it."

sabine nodded, sprinkling a black ash powder on the burning metal, before pressing the searing iron into the wolf's flesh. the wolf's eyes bolted into a rabid glare as she let out a bloodcurling howl of agony, skin and flesh sizzling. the wolf's eyes then shuts tightly as her face contorts miserably, teeth gritting and a restrained groan slips past. sabine knows the lichen is slowly burned out, and just as she knows its all gone from the wolf's skin and flesh, she pulls the now cooling rod away from the shapeshifter's wound.

the wolf's body seized violently, a sheen of sweat covering her skin. her breaths are laboured, borderline heaving. sabine worked quickly, spreading a mix of herbs to counter the poison, then dabbing a cloth with a healing ointment from a green vial and covers the wound with the cloth. she grabs another vial, uncorking it and brings it to the wolf's pale lips.

"drink," sabine gently instructed, her voice barely above a whisper as she guides the vial's rim to the wolf's mouth. she carefully tilts the vial to allow the contents to pour into the wolf's mouth and down her throat. sabine was meticulous to support the wolf's head as to not choke her as she drinks in the potion.

the wolf coughs, "it tastes like a goblin's fresh shit."

sabine huffs a brief amused snort, but didn't comment on it. she went to grab a thread and needle, briefly sanitising the needle over the fire. she began stitching the wolf's wound close, making sure she works quickly to spare the wolf from further pain. the wolf grimaces as sabine stitches her, breathing in sporadic sharp breaths.

"breathe slowly, wolf." sabine places a palm against the wolf's bare chest, right on where her heart is. she finishes stitching the wound, putting away the needle.

the wolf's eyes found sabine's, and now that she isn't in her wolf form, sabine finally noticed the wolf's human eye colour. they were the same shade as the ocean under her cliff; brilliant greenish blue, captivating and hauntingly serene. at that moment, sabine knew she could drown and get herself lost in this rogue werewolf's eyes the same way she always gets lost gazing into the ocean.

sabine didn't even realise her palm was still firmly placed on the wolf's chest, until the wolf's hand grabbed hers. their eyes broke away from each others', and sabine instantly withdrew her hand, mildly flustered now that the vampire realised that the wolf's upper body is mostly naked. to hide her flushed cheeks, sabine opts to grab a loose shirt and a blanket from her room. the wolf's eyes are continuously fixed on sabine's retreating form.

"here, put this on," sabine hands the shapeshifter the tan coloured shirt, eyes averting from her naked figure.

the wolf tilts her head, coupled with a faint smirk, somewhat teasing. "you do not enjoy looking at a naked woman?"

sabine groans softly. "just put it on, will you? you might get cold."

the wolf, to sabine's mild peeve, laughed somewhat mockingly. "never met a prudish vampire before. aren't the lot of you seductive?"

sabine scoffs, but decided to return the wolf's humour. "all i'm hearing is you think vampires are irresistible."

the wolf's face soured, scowling in a manner sabine dared to guess into disgust. she puts on the shirt, finally covering her naked chest and her wound. sabine sighs curtly in relief, no longer having to dart her eyes around to avoid looking at the other woman's chest.

"so, wolf–"

"i have a name, you know," the wolf interrupted, her tone amusingly flat.

"i didn't hear you mention it."

the wolf shrugs. "my name is shin. shin hati."

shin. sabine thinks the name suits her, and having a name to assign such a memorable face definitely helps her mental records better. she smiles, "you can call me sabine."

shin tilts her head, curious. her pale brows dip to a furrow. "i had assumed you were a member of one of the large houses."

sabine dreaded this, but chose to play it off. she crosses her arms in front of her, questioning. "now, what makes you say so?"

"you carry a regal energy within you. i can tell."

"good to know you smell aristocracy in me," sabine sarcastically jeered, rolling her eyes.

shin threw her an unimpressed look. "you are not as funny as you think." she then admits, "you are confusing. i smell human blood in you, but you are certainly of a large house. what are you? a kryze?"

"no. but, you're right about the human part."

shin's eyes widen, only for a fraction of a second, but it wasn't quick enough that sabine would miss it. "you were turned?"

sabine deadpans. "quite nosy, aren't you?" when shin stays static, the vampire shrugs it off, not really in the mood to tell her whole background. "yes, i was turned. i was humanborn, my father was human, while my mother was a countess."

"a countess? so you are a highborn."

the vampire shrugs, starting to grow uncomfortable. sabine opts to get up from her seat by the fireplace, grabbing a bottle of wine from her cabinet. she takes only one cup, unsure if shin wants to drink. she still feels shin's eyes on her back as she pours her wine.

"you smell like a vizsla. i met some of them a few moons ago, they have a very distinctive smell." shin's tone is mocking as she mentions house vizsla, but sabine can hear her figuring out the pieces slowly. "you belong to clan wren."

sabine sighs into her cup as shin delivers the final culmination of her thoughts. this was one of the reasons why sabine often avoids meeting with supernaturals despite her personal want to interact with them. the wren blood is still so strong within her, that supernaturals can still sense it even if she hasn't even tapped into her lineage's powers for years. sabine nods meekly, not bothered to deny shin's allegation.

"i was. not anymore."

shin's eyes flashed with something briefly. "how long have you been living here?"

"a few decades," sabine replied curtly, frowning in confusion, "why?"

"well, one hunter escaped," shin stated, in a matter-of-fact manner, as she drew her knee close to her body and leans one of her arms over, "and i am willing to bet my head, he will return with a larger band for retribution."

"whose fault was that?" sabine retorted, annoyed.

"i know, wren, not the point." shin's tone was bitter as she hissed out sabine's clan, not appreciating sabine's attitude. "i am going to leave by sun up. my travel is due north. i suggest you to leave this place as well by tomorrow eve."

sabine sighed, knowing that fact already from the moment they slaughtered the hunting party. to leave this cottage and move again had never been an option sabine thought about for the past few peaceful decades, but living the nomadic life isn't something new for her. and if she has a travel companion, things should be easier than alone.

"okay, wolf. we can leave by sunrise."

shin frowned. "sun up? do you have a death wish? you will burn and die."

sabine laughs. "i do appreciate your concern, wolf." the vampire smirks when shin grumble at sabine's lack of name usage, evident from the dipping of her brows when sabine only calls her 'wolf' instead of her name. "but, i'm not a full blooded born, remember? as long as i wear thick shades, the sun won't kill me."

shin eyes her, brows still slightly furrowed. if sabine had to guess, she looked like she's debating with herself. again. the vampire wonders if that's an actual werewolf thing, or if that is just a shin specific quirk.

"you speak as if we will journey together."

"you're due north. i've got nowhere to go." sabine shrugs as she points out the obvious. "i might as well just join you until we have to part ways."

shin crosses her arms. "what makes you think i am willing to take you with me, wren?"

sabine steps closer towards shin, feeling something awakening inside her the closer she gets to the werewolf. shin is looking up at her from the floor, gaze hard and unbroken; it makes sabine feel drawn magnetically to her.

"didn't you say vampires are irresistible, wolf?"

shin growls, lunging towards sabine to grab both of her wrists and pins the vampire down to the floor. sabine shot an amused, almost teasing, smirk back at shin when she bared her fangs at sabine.

"do not test me, wren. i will not take you with me." shin snarls at sabine, gripping on her wrists to further cement her point. it mildly irked her when she watches sabine's unfazed reaction.

sabine catches shin by surprise as she flips the werewolf over to her back, this time pinning shin by the neck as she anchors her weight down on shin. she couldn't exactly understand why she felt the need to be aggressive and dominating with shin, but she revels in the shock and frustration on shin's face.

"i don't care if you'd take me or not," sabine hisses as her grip on shin's neck tightens, leaning forward to lower her face closer towards the werewolf's, whispering, "i'm going with you. end of discussion."

shin's breaths are laboured in gasps, surprised by sabine's display of strength over her. she gasped a large intake of air when sabine released her grip of her neck, shooting a venomous glare at the vampire sitting on top of her.

"get off of me," shin growled, pushing her torso off the floor. she shot sabine a disgusted glare when the vampire winked flirtatiously at her. sabine watches as the werewolf groans reluctantly, "fine. but, if you slow me down, i will chain you to a stake at midday and leave you to burn."

"promise?"

shin's eyes turned vermilion as she barks, quite literally. sabine laughs, she hadn't known shin is rather exciting to rile up and tease. the pointed tips of shin's ears are dusted pink, a rather jarring contrast to her werewolf alpha eyes.

they didn't speak much afterwards the whole night as sabine goes to catch a brief sleep in her couch, whereas shin continued feeding the fireplace with more wood to burn. sabine had told shin to eat whatever choice of cured meats in her cabinet before she slept, and shin had helped herself wolfing down a large smoked vennison leg by the fire.

by sun up, they were already long gone from the now empty cottage. sabine had burned all of her trinkets down to erase any trace or proof that someone had lived in this cottage for decades. shin suggested they burn down the cottage, but sabine vetoed, reasoning that the building can still be used as a shelter.

they travelled further up north where the climate has gone colder and dryer for the past few weeks, sparing sabine's hypersensitive eyes and skin from the blazing southern sun. they had run into a few other supernaturals; namely a number of stray vampires, small packs of werewolves, a few goblins, and a single merlin living deep in the redwood forest.

sabine observed shin's behaviour and personality deeper as they travel, studying the werewolf. most of the time, shin prefers to stay in her true wolf form as opposed to her human or werewolf form because it allows her to travel further and faster. however, her true form is a beast by nature and required a lot of energy, which substantially demands her to consume more food for energy.

shin doesn't speak much about her past, not unlike sabine, but sabine had guessed that shin's history isn't too different from her own. the rogue werewolf mentioned briefly about her master; the alpha wolf who turned and took her under his tail. shin would have a flash of fondness skirting across her expression as she speak of him, but it would soon be replaced with the seething hatred sabine had grown accustomed to seeing.

in a way, it reminds sabine of her own mother.

"why did you run away from your clan's ancient seat?" shin curiously asked, leaning against the wall of the cave they are camping in; the crackle of the fire between them was the only consistent noise. the werewolf is holding a leatherskin bottle of mead by it's throat, aquamarine eyes fixed on sabine.

sabine chews on her stewed meat, slow and avoidant of shin's question and piercing gaze. she sets her bowl down, huffing contemplatively. "why should i stay in a castle full of vampires who disregarded my existence as a humanborn? a disgrace, as they said."

"is your mother not the countess? is she not the head of your clan?"

"yes, she is. was. i'm not sure."

shin's brow quirked. "did she not ever punish the vampires who held no respect for you?"

"it's not that simple, shin," sabine sighed. "i'm a very rare case of a humanborn, especially in clan wren. my mother was in the hottest seat of the clan, and if she acted brutishly, she will be deposed."

shin's face was stony, but sabine can sense her pity and frustration. sabine doesn't comment on it. shin took another few gulps of her mead, and if sabine dared to guess, her mind is running a few hundred thoughts at the same time.

"you are a powerful creature for a humanborn," shin spoke slowly over the crackle of the fire between them, voice level as always, "and yet, i have never seen you feed on human blood for the past few weeks we travelled. you starved yourself, and you have been burying your other half."

"astute observation." sabine ignored shin's elusive compliment for the monster half within her with a sarcastic comment. she almost grinned when shin rolled her eyes, undoubtedly vexed.

"that makes you a fool."

sabine glares at shin. "thanks."

"you may hate your monster half, but you must remember that it is a part of you. it should serve you as your strength, instead of your demise." shin's voice was sagacious yet gentle as she speaks; as if she had learned it for years. she takes another swig of her mead, before finalising with, "remember that it will stay as your foe, until you treat it as your friend."

shin's words echoed in sabine's mind the whole night, as she stays up in watch as her werewolf companion sleeps. it does make sense that she views her vampiric half as an illness for as long as she's been turned; seeing it as a curse she must rid instead of a power she could embrace.

when the first light of dawn began to rise, sabine had grown drowsy as she tucks herself into her black cowl's hood and shifts deeper into the cave. shin awoke half an hour after, stretching out the cave in her werewolf form and took off sprinting, sabine presumed to go hunting.

sabine had her very first experience in a full blue moon the next week with shin; and it is unlike what she heard. she knows that the werewolves drew more of their power from the moon, especially during full moons. she heard that blood moons exaggerates the werewolves' aggression and hunting need, just as how vampires are affected strongly by the phase.

full blue moons are when werewolves, specifically alpha werewolves such as shin, are at their peaks.

shin had already shifted into her werewolf form when the moon began to rise; sitting at the patio of the unoccupied wooden cabin they found in the middle of the great northern pineforest. sabine watches from inside; shin was sitting cross-legged with her back strictly upright, basking under the moonlight.

"you can come join me, wren," shin calls to her from outside, eyes closed and still moonshining.

the full moon had grown larger and much bluer, bathing shin under it's bluish shine. shin's eyes are open now as she looks at sabine, who remained by the window. the werewolf's body language is inviting, but not demanding at all. sabine couldn't tear her eyes away from shin's; bright vermilion bathed under soft blue of the moon that makes her eyes purplish.

shin appears almost exalting in sabine's eyes.

when the moonrise reaches it's peak, shin was already in her true wolf form. she soaked all of the blue moon's light and energy, appearing larger and regal. her bone-white fur flows beautifully in waves; almost jarring in contrast to her vermilion eyes and knife-sharp canines in her mouth.

sabine isn't entirely sure if blue moons are supposed to enhance all werewolves' beauty or if this is just a shin specific feature that she's just lucky to see, but sabine is sure travelling with shin had satisfied the curiousity of werewolves from her youth. shin may have not spoke much, but sabine only needed to observe her to learn from the alpha werewolf.

shin begins to slowly shift back into her human form as the blue moon sets slowly from the horizon, returning to it's regular yellowish hue. sabine was still watching her from inside the cabin, leaning outside through the window, growing slightly drowsy.

"the blue moon is affecting you too, isn't it?"

sabine blinks as she registers shin's voice. the werewolf is still sat in her place, but her body is now fully facing towards sabine and her eyes are much too soft that it unnerved sabine out of unfamiliarity.

"i'm getting sleepier," sabine replied, her voice only above a whisper.

shin rises to approach sabine, kneeling in front of the vampire, observing her for a good minute. her eyes narrowed, a mix of confusion and frustration. "you have not fed. i reckon it's already been five days since you last fed on blood."

sabine's brow quirked, dismissive. "you notice we haven't run into any hunters or passed any towns.

"there is a town on the foot of this forest." shin raised her head towards the sky, nose catching whiffs of... something. she then grimaces, seemingly disgusted. "the town is a hub of low-lives. a den for filthy criminals and offenders."

sabine mirrors shin's disgust, scowling. "i would rather burn in the sun."

shin groans, husked and exasperated. "wren, please."

"no. i don't want to feed on disgusting lowlife criminals." sabine was unmoving in her spot, refusing to feed despite the monster inside already growling incessantly for her next meal.

"you are unbelievable."

shin glares at sabine who stays dismissive, head lulling into her arms and eyes slowly shut in drowsiness. sabine's skin is so much paler, and her eyes are starting to sink in; a telltale sign of exhaustion and lack of blood feeding.

when shin spoke, sabine didn't expect her to say: "fine, you can feed on me tonight."

sabine's eyes bolted open, scandalised. "pardon?"

shin jumps inside the cabin through the window sabine was leaning out from, to sit across of the half-blooded vampire. the somnolence in sabine's systems were instantly thrown out as shin began untucking her tan shirt and holds her hair up to reveal most of her neck down to her collarbones.

"you have to feed, sabine," shin's voice was so much softer than usual, neck tilted to the side. the way her name rolled out of shin's tongue sent warmth down sabine's abdomen, and it doesn't help calming her flushed cheeks.

"i-i... i'm not gonna feed from you, shin!"

shin clicks her tongue, vexed. "just get on with it."

"no!"

"sabine, for fuck's sake." shin then grabs sabine by her cheeks, forcing the vampire to open her mouth and reveal her fangs and brought her closer to the skin of her own neck. "just feed."

sabine pushed off of shin by her shoulders just before the sharp points of her fangs punctured shin's delicate ivory skin, her breaths laboured as she grows equally irate. her eyes began to flicker from the vampiric ruby-reds and back to her bright brown. she shoved shin's shoulder with her fist, harsher than sabine would've liked.

"are you insane? i could end up killing you!" sabine yells as she tries to control her vampiric half.

"no, you won't. you will only drink my blood, not draw out my wolf powers." shin takes off her shirt, going completely chest naked this time, her stellar blue eyes are steel against sabine's, unbroken. "drink as much as you need. i promise it will not kill me."

sabine was indisposed of the idea to feed on shin's blood. what if she couldn't restrain herself from overly indulging on the feed? wouldn't that kill shin? what if shin couldn't handle the prickling of sabine's fangs? she was about to argue again when shin claws at her own neck, drawing ichor so sweet to sabine's nose that she couldn't resist anymore.

"drink, sabine."

sabine's eyes are already glowing bright ruby and her fangs protruding from her lips as she eyes shin for one final consent, which the werewolf alpha assured with a firm nod. sabine crawled towards shin, sits herself on the werewolf's lap, and began lapping on the dripping blood from the area shin clawed at. sabine places a firm hand on shin's fleshly column.

shin hisses a sharp breath through her teeth when sabine's fangs pricked her skin and deeper into her flesh, as she begin feeding on shin. sabine had never tasted anything sweeter than shin's ichor-flavoured blood; not even the finest honeyed wine in her old cottage's cabinet.

drinking from shin is erotic and sensual.

sabine could hear shin's laboured breaths as she leans their weights on her propped arms behind her back, and she could feel the wolf's arousal echoed in the pooling warmth in sabine's underbelly. her grip on shin's neck tightens as she struggles with her monster to control the feeding.

"fuck, sabine…" shin husked out in a strained moan, the sound was so much sweeter in sabine's ears than her own blood tasted in her mouth.

sabine's tongue laps against the rapidly-healing bite wound on shin's neck, savouring whatever taste left of shin like she had been starved for decades. her eyes remained rubies, half lidded and heavy with so much lust and arousal.

shin's vermilion eyes are mirroring the same as her.

the wolf's thumb pads over sabine's lips, smearing scarlet on the pad of her thumb and on sabine's lips. sabine couldn't help the ecstasy of moans when shin captured her lips with her own in a ravenous kisses; the kind so insatiable with just flesh and must be met with teeth and fangs violently.

shin's blood was mixed with sabine's own from the pricklings of shin's canines against sabine's lips; the taste mingling in their mouths like saccharine, a sinful yet divine ritual between two powerful creatures of the supernaturals. the more they kiss, the less significant oxygen becomes.

"shin…" sabine gasps between kisses that smeared red all over their tongues and lips.

sabine's own hips have begun moving on it's own consciousness against shin, her nails raking deep in shin's back. the wolf groans against their hungry kisses at the welcomed pain, the sound immediately swallowed by sabine's throat.

shin broke away from their kiss, vermilion eyes so clouded with lust and breaths laced with arousal that it made sabine burn from the inside with untamed carnal desire to feed on shin in so many different ways than just drinking her ambrosia-sweet blood.

sabine doesn't even remember how they ended up where they awoke the next morning, entirely stripped to only skin and haphazardly strewn fur blanket over their overlapping limbs. the air had the unmistakable sweet scent of sex and blood, and sabine's memories began to flood back in.

shin had brought her to climaxes so sweet and high, that sabine swore she felt herself combust from each waves of pleasure on the wolf's fingers, mouth, thighs... anywhere that sabine could remember. sabine also remembers the deliciously erotic noises the alpha made as she made her reach such explosive peaks that triggered her own against shin.

when shin began to stir awoke, her lips immediately chased after sabine's, tasting the remnants from last night, granting a lazy smirk against sabine's lips.

"you were right, wren," shin sleepily gasped in between pecks against sabine's lips.

sabine hummed, curious. "about what?" she had to choke back a sharp moan when she feels shin's thigh slotting itself against sabine's sensitive center, teasing her over the edge.

shin has risen up as she crawls backward to spread sabine's thighs wide, peppering her sensitive limbs with a balance of feather-light kisses and knife-sharp grazes of her canines on the silky smooth skin. if sabine was choking back on her moans earlier, she definitely howled out loud moan when she felt shin's tongue on where it makes her almost see stars.

"you vampires are quite irresistible."

#sabine wren #vampire sabine wren #shin hati #werewolf shin hati #tristan wren #wolfwren #ahsoka series #ahsoka #star wars #oftenlywrites #wolfwren supernatural au #wolfwren fic #happy halloween #holy mother of fuck this took WAY TOO LONG #um yeah.... #enjoy this somewhat nastyfuck wolfwren #...dont look at me like that #my drafts had gone less loud now that this is out #dont ask why i skip a lot on the spicy scenes #consistency what consistency #i say 'mini fic' but is it really #hashtag no planning we rawdog this shit #WHERE ARE THE HALLOWEEN WOLFWREN ARTS #i would like to see the babies

[anjian]

Notes below.

1. “I know the Stalkers still watch the clan, but I survive alone these days.” I like to imagine how the City stays in light is due to some variety of orbital laser.

2. —-And now, you are unbroken.—-

3., 4. Casque shape explorations. I always thought he resembled a cassowary.

5. And I thought the frill on his Disciple armour would be a callback to his actual physical form (feather frill), but Nezarec also has it, so I don’t think that’s true.

6., 7. Naturally colourful to contrast with the austere Disciple armour.

8., 9. Regime items. Bright and lively, Light-derived. Repression represented by hidden and bound feathers.

10. Some scene explorations (that I think are too Earthlike).

#anjiandraws #long post / #nudity / #violence / #weapons / #i don't really know how to do character design i just try and copy what other people do #i think no matter how many tags i put characters always appear in their tag if i tag their name alas #rhulk #destiny the witness #lubrae #destiny 2

[rippleclan]

RippleClan: Moon 15

(Moon 15, Part 1)

RippleClan declares war against AshClan.

[Image ID: Downstar and Autumnstar face each other. Downstar says “We’ve had it with your bullying, Autumnstar. We are a sovereign Clan!”]

“AshClan won’t be happy,” Fennelspot groaned as Downstar led him, Rustshade, Clampaw, and Shadowpaw along the border between AshClan and WheatClan.

“I know that,” Downstar huffed. “I don’t really care if they’re mad at this point. I gave Autumnstar our ultimatum. I’m not bowing down to him anymore.” 

Clampaw walked between Downstar and Rustshade with a basket in her jaws. Flint shards littered the bottom of the basket and gently clattered together. Their shiny black surfaces caught the light of late dusk. The leaves around the RippleClan patrol were just starting to turn into their brilliant autumn colors. Shadowpaw, who wandered beside his mentor, stared at the shadows that pooled under the leaves. The human farms in WheatClan territory bloomed with the yearly harvest; fields of flax shimmered in the distance. The patrol walked in an unbroken line, with Downstar strolling along the border itself.

“I don’t like this,” Rustshade grumbled, glancing toward AshClan territory. 

“When are we going to get an actual artisan to trade with the other Clans?” Shadowpaw groaned. He shook out his pelt and walked closer to Rustshade.

“We’ll have to recruit more cats like Parsley and James,” Downstar explained. She slipped around the patrol and walked on the other side of her son. “I’m sure someone will want to be an artisan.”

“James doesn’t even do anything,” Shadowpaw grumbled with a sneer.

“He’s only been with us half a moon,” Downstar chuckled, nudging Shadowpaw. “Give him some time to adapt. He helped prep the apprentice’s den for autumn, didn’t he?”

“And then he complained about splinters,” Rustshade muttered.

“You’re supposed to be on my side, Rustshade,” Downstar laughed. Rustshade purred softly and rolled his eyes. “James is fine. We’ll all be fine.”

“So you made good on your promise,” a loud voice called. Downstar could smell Autumnstar and his patrol before she saw them as a stiff wind shoved their woody stench over her whiskers. Autumnstar shoved through the browning foliage and into a brilliant orange sunspot. The setting sun turned his orange pelt into fire and the scars around his mangled tail into currents of blood. Bearchaser, a crooked old tom who looked like a darker version of Puddlespeckle, stood at Autumnstar’s side, glaring at the RippleClan patrol. Bile rose in Downstar’s throat as she remembered Weedfoot’s horrified retelling of just what those two did to her and her friends.

“That we did,” Downstar said, marching in front of her Clanmates. “It’s just like I told you at the Gathering last night. We’re going to trade with the other Clans whether you approve of it or not. We’ll be sticking by the border, just like LynxClan does when they visit you.”

“We don’t want you wandering through our lands,” Autumnstar huffed. “All we ask is that you wait for us by our border and let us escort you past!” Autumnstar stomped up to Downstar with Bearchaser lurking behind him. The tortoiseshell leader could feel his hot breath against her whiskers. “We let you trade with the other three Clans, we let you attend Gatherings, we let your antsy little cleric there freely visit StarClan’s Shrine, what more do you want from us?”

“Respect,” Downstar hissed. “We’ve had it with your bullying, Autumnstar. We are a sovereign Clan! We will conduct our own business with our neighbors and we will not let you hound after us!”

“StarClan would not allow a band of traitors to so easily enjoy the well-fought privileges you demand from us,” Autumnstar hissed. He stepped back and glared at each member of the patrol. Clampaw squirmed next to her father and Shadowpaw lifted his chin at Downstar’s side, forgetting the fact that he was half of Autumnstar’s size. “Everything you have is because of charm and pity. You’ve won nothing by the strength of your own claws. How can we ever respect a Clan that is too afraid to stand its ground?”

“Meet us by the border, and we’ll show you who can stand their ground,” Downstar snapped. “If our words mean nothing to you, we’ll show how strong we really are. RippleClan, we’re leaving.” Rustshade nudged Clampaw onward. Fennelspot lurked behind Downstar, glancing over her back at Autumnstar’s burning yellow eyes. 

“Good job, Mom!” Shadowpaw whispered as the stiff winds that whistled through the trees sent clouds over the half-set sun. Downstar looked over her shoulder toward Autumnstar and Bearchaser, but the duo were already returning to their territory.

“Downstar, did you just declare war on Autumnstar?” Fennelspot gulped, scampering in front of her. “They have so many cats! Downstar, we have maybe ten cats who can actually fight them off!”

“I wish we didn’t have to,” Downstar groaned, stepping around Fennelspot, “but Autumnstar won’t respect us without a fight. We need to get back to camp quickly. I need fresh paws. Hurry, everyone!” Downstar ran along the border. The sound of clattering flint was her only indication that the others were following her. Fennelspot ran alongside her, the worry as evident on his face as the clouds were evident in the sky. A few drops of rain speckled Downstar’s pelt as she ran to inform her Clan of what she hoped was the best decision.

(Fennelspot: 72, male, cleric,  insecure, valuable insight, incredible runner)

(Downstar: 74, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Rustshade: 59, male, codekeeper, sneaky, learner of lore)

(Shadowpaw: 7, male, codekeeper apprentice, adventurous, confident with words)

(Clampaw: 9, female, caretaker apprentice, lonesome, interested in Clan history)

Despite wishing Autumnstar would listen, Downstar feels forced to send a border patrol out to the AshClan border and prepare for an assault.

[Image ID: Downstar and Weedfoot face each other. Weedfoot says, “There will be other battles. It’s too dangerous out here!”]

---

The clouds that overtook the sunset brought a strong rain with them. It was the sort of rain that glued Weedfoot’s fur to her skin and turned the ground into slick mud. She helped Oilstripe, Scrubmask, and Parsley keep their footing as they made their way to the AshClan border. Downstar led the way, her soft and fluffy fur transformed into a soaked mess. The cold rain turned the world gray and nearly blinded Weedfoot. The only way Weedfoot could tell they were at the border was by the sight of those ever familiar trees with AshClan scratches lining the trunks.

“Mark as much of the border as you can!”  Downstar yowled as the sky rumbled.. “Be ready to challenge any AshClan cats you see!” 

“Downstar, the rain is going to wash away any scent we leave behind!” Oilstripe called, her belly fur sagging with water weight. 

“I know Autumnstar,” Downstar snapped, “you don’t! He won’t wait for the rain to pass to show his strength. If our scent isn’t fresh, he’s going to come here and claim our territory! We need to make a stand tonight! We’re walking the whole border tonight.” Downstar pushed past Oilstripe and marched along the border. Scrubmask looked half-drowned from the rain, but she dutifully searched for a spot to mark.

“If there’s one thing I miss about my old barn,” Parsley groaned, shaking herself out, “it’s the water-proof roof.” Her paws slid in the mud, but she followed after Downstar. Oilstripe pressed into Weedfoot as her dirty claws searched for solid ground.

“Weedfoot, I don’t like this,” Oilstripe gulped. She coughed out the ever-intrusive rain and said, “This is a big storm. It’s not safe to be out here!”

“Downstar’s right,” Weedfoot huffed. The mud sucked at her paws as she followed the rest of the patrol. “With what she’s said to Autumnstar, he’ll be looking to reclaim the territory we took from him. Fresh scent markers may deter him for a bit.”

“I can’t even smell you, Weedfoot!” Oilstripe whined. Her eyes bounced around as though searching for hidden enemies. “Weedfoot, if we stay here, I think one of us is going to die.”

“It’s just a storm, Oil,” Weedfoot promised, touching her nose to Oilstripe’s ear. Thunder grumbled once more as distant lightning flashed in the clouds. Oilstripe jumped into Weedfoot and nearly knocked her over.

“Weedfoot, do you trust me?” Oilstripe yowled.

“Always,” Weedfoot said immediately.

“Then get us home before something horrible happens,” Oilstripe snapped. Up ahead, Downstar and Scrubmask were marking the border. The rain disrupted their process, but they closed their eyes and pressed on. Weedfoot hurried through the mud, squinting as the wind blew the rain into her eyes.

“Downstar, let’s head back!” Weedfoot yowled.

“We’ve only marked a portion of the border!” Downstar snapped, turning her face against the wind. “If we don’t mark more of it, Autumnstar will swipe it for himself! Winter is coming, we need this land!”

“We have the entire ocean!” Weedfoot cried as lightning screamed somewhere in the distance. “We’ll have enough prey! It’s just land, Downstar! Storms like this send trees and mudslides down. We can’t get stuck here. Think of your kits!”

“I am!” Downstar yowled. Rain dripped from her face into her wild amber eyes. She hissed and shook out her pelt, but the water came right back. A new crack of thunder echoed through the Clans with such force that the entire patrol jumped. Downstar’s back arched as high as the Shiprock.

“There will be other battles,” Weedfoot promised, reaching a mud-soaked paw toward Downstar. “It’s too dangerous out here!”

“StarClan’s telling us to go back,” Oilstripe huffed, slipping beside Weedfoot.

“You aren’t a cleric, Oilstripe, you don’t know what StarClan wants,” Downstar hissed.

“I can guess!” Oilstripe yowled as more thunder roared overhead.

“Even the humans huddle inside in a storm like this, Ms. Downstar,” Parsley added, mud clinging to the back of her legs. “There’s no shame in it. Autumnstar’s a fool if he brings his cats out here, and I’m sorry, but you’d be a fool to make us stay.” Downstar’s back slowly smoothed out. The ground was more water than mud at that point. Downstar’s paws splashed rather than sunk into the ground. She stared at the puddle she found herself in.

“Then we’ll go home,” Downstar huffed. Her ears sunk as she turned away from the border. Oilstripe bolted ahead, any patrol decorum lost in the face of such a loud storm. Downstar took the hint and picked up the pace. Weedfoot helped Parsley and Scrubmask through the mud as her neck burned under the eyes of unseen AshClan warriors.

(Weedfoot: 64, female, deputy, charismatic, very clever, formidable fighter)

(Oilstripe: 19, female, historian, charismatic, ghost sight)

(Downstar: 74, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Parsley: 109, female, warrior, righteous, good speaker)

(Scrubmask: 32, female, warrior, gloomy, fast runner, good hunter)

Halibutpaw convinces his siblings to defend the border with him.

[Image ID: Shadowpaw, Graypaw, and Halibutpaw gather in the bottom left corner. Halibutpaw yowls “And stay out!” at a distant gray and white tom in the upper right corner.]

---

The storm a quarter moon prior made the territory look more like mid summer than early autumn. The rain and thunder had knocked the colored leaves off their trees, leaving only those still clinging to their green glory. The ground had finally dried, at least, allowing Halibutpaw and his littermates to journey across the territory with dry feet.

“Mom will be so mad at us when we get back,” Graypaw giggled, wiggling her flank.

“How can she be?” Halibutpaw scoffed. “This is our job.”

“Technically, it’s our jobs when we’re with our mentors,” Shadowpaw reminded him. He walked on Halibutpaw’s right and kept an eye out for other cats, AshClan or RippleClan. 

“Yes…” Halibutpaw admitted, dragging his back foot for emphasis, “but don’t you think they’ll be impressed if we can get some of our territory back?”

“Autumnstar may respect our gusto,” Shadowpaw said with a flick of his whiskers. “He seems like the sort to appreciate a move like this. It’s what he did to us during the storm.”

“We’re here!” Graypaw said. She ran in front of her brothers and eyed the land ahead. The siblings were partway through the forest northwest of camp. If Halibutpaw climbed a tree, he could probably see the old border, but it was too shrouded in shrubbery and trees to see from where he stood. AshClan scent drifted off each rock and stained the earth around them.

“According to Weedfoot,” Shadowpaw said, sniffing the new border, “this is where AshClan territory used to end before Mom founded RippleClan.”

“The patrol should have stuck around,” Graypaw huffed. She scratched at the grass. “If they hadn’t come back to camp, Autumnstar might not have moved the border.”

“They also might have died,” Halibutpaw groaned, one ear turned to Graypaw as he sniffed for fresh scent. “Either way, it’s the same; Mom starts moping around camp like she did right after Duskkit died.” For a few moments, Halibutpaw wondered what his older sister would have done had she become an apprentice. She probably would have suggested their little adventure days earlier. 

“Shadowpaw and I came up with this little trick a while back,” Graypaw said, trotting up to a tall fir. “It’s sunhigh, so whatever unfortunate soul Autumnstar picked for border patrol should be coming around any minute now. If we wait up here for them, we’ll show them we’re serious when we move the border.” Graypaw scurried up the fir, sending crumbs of bark tumbling after her. Shadowpaw was at her heels, and Halibutpaw climbed up a moment later. Graypaw and Shadowpaw delicately balanced on the thicker branches of the fir, studying the ground below, while Halibutpaw wrapped his paws around the branch and kept still. His tiny heart flew into his throat.

“Halibutpaw, even if you fall, you’ll land on your feet,” Shadowpaw scoffed.

“I know!” Halibutpaw huffed, staring dead ahead. “I just realized that I… don’t like heights.”

“Scaredy-mouse,” Graypaw sang, swaying her tail back and forth.

“I am not a scaredy-mouse,” Halibutpaw snapped. “Now stay focus! AshClan could be here any minute!”

“This is so exciting!” Graypaw cheered in a whisper. 

It didn’t take long for someone to appear. It was a silver and white tom with laurel leaves tucked into his fur. From the way his white pattern laid on him, it was like his front half was dipped in white dye.

“Anyone recognize him?” Halibutpaw whispered as his littermates noticed the new arrival.

“That’s Heronflank,” Shadowpaw explained. “He became a codekeeper last moon. I met him at the Gathering. He’s a nice tom. Maybe we should wait for someone else.” His paws shifted back.

“AshClan won’t be back here for ages!” Graypaw groaned. “We’re doing this.” She glared back at Shadowpaw, who stiffened and crouched along the branch. “Halibut, unclench!”

“I don’t think I can,” Halibutpaw gulped.

“Then you can just watch us,” Graypaw purred, eyeing Heronflank below like prey. The unassuming codekeeper carefully marked the new border, yawning as he did so. Graypaw and Shadowpaw danced on their feet, stalking closer and closer. Graypaw raised her tail high. Halibutpaw swallowed hard and slowly unpried his front legs from around the branch. His unsure paws dug into the wood. Before Halibutpaw could pry his feet up, Graypaw and Shadowpaw jumped from the tree.

The two gray tabbies landed on Heronflank before he realized what was happening. Heronflank yowled and screeched, batting at the two as Graypaw attached herself to his back. He smashed her into the fir trunk while Shadowpaw clawed at his side.

“Who’s a coward now?” Graypaw laughed as she fell off Heronflank. 

Heronflank spun and kicked Shadowpaw in the jaw. He pinned Graypaw down and bit into her scruff. Her scream ripped Halibutpaw’s feet off the branch. He launched off the tree, claws unseathed and eyes shut, yowling the whole way down. His claws struck something soft as they flailed. Heronflank screamed as Halibutpaw landed on all four paws in front of him. Halibutpaw inched an eye open as he processed the fact that he hadn’t died. A long claw wound ran down Heronflank’s right eye. Blood dripped into his eye and turned it from green-yellow to brown. Heronflank stumbled back, desperately blinking the blood out. He scrambled back into AshClan territory as the blood trickled down his jaw.

“And stay out!” Halibutpaw yowled, panting.

“Ha ha ha, yes!” Graypaw cheered. “We scared him off! Come on! Let’s move the border before he brings reinforcements!” Graypaw hurried over the border. Halibutpaw stared at his feet. Blood and fur stuck to one of his paws. 

“Did I just blind someone?” Halibutpaw gulped as Graypaw moved the border further into AshClan territory.

“AshClan has a good cleric,” Shadowpaw said, rubbing his chin on his shoulder. “Heronflank should be fine. Let’s help Graypaw before she yowls at us.” Shadowpaw joined Graypaw further into the trees. Halibutpaw rubbed his paw into the grass and ran after the others.

[Image ID: Parsley, Rustshade, Carnationspeckle, Oilstripe, and Burdockpaw stand in a line on the bottom half of the screen. In the upper half, in the distance, we see AshClan cats; Barkfur, Eelgrowl, Autumnstar, a ginger tom, and Bearchaser, in that order. Carnationspeckle says “StarClan, what did they do?”]

Halibutpaw, Graypaw, and Shadowpaw took a chunk out of AshClan’s new border, marking as much of it as they could. They made it all the way to the WheatClan border before Halibutpaw suggested they turn back. Sunhigh had passed, and the rest of RippleClan was certainly looking for them. 

“Do you think Rustshade will be impressed with me?” Shadowpaw asked.

“He’d be a fool not to!” Graypaw laughed. “Oh, did that bite draw blood earlier?” She lowered her head. Shadowpaw and Halibutpaw stared at her scruff.

“I think he bruised the skin,” Halibutpaw said. Graypaw groaned and kicked a small stone. Shadowpaw chuckled, but his ears perked up. 

“Do you two hear something?” Shadowpaw asked. Halibutpaw and Graypaw tilted their ears. Somewhere in the distance, voices yowled through the trees.

“Graypaw?” the voices called. “Shadowpaw? Halibutpaw? Anyone?”

“That’s Carnationspeckle,” Graypaw chirped. “Let’s tell her what we did!” 

As Graypaw preened in her imagined praise, shapes danced within the bushes. Halibutpaw dropped as figures ran through the trees toward Carnationspeckle’s cries. The brown molly herself slipped through the scrub with Parsley, Rustshade, Oilstripe, and Burdockpaw behind her.

“Halibutpaw?” Shadowpaw gulped. Before Halibutpaw could say anything, a wizened gray tom soared into view and collided with the patrol. Shadowpaw and Graypaw dropped as Autumnstar raced toward RippleClan with Eelgrowl, Barkfur, and a ginger tom thundering beside him.

“StarClan, what did they do?” Carnationspeckle yowled as she pulled the gray tom, Bearchaser, off Rustshade.

“My son was doing his job, you fox-hearts!” Bearchaser screeched. “You nearly blinded him!” Halibutpaw pressed his full body into the earth as AshClan collided with RippleClan. 

“Our first battle!” Graypaw gasped. “We need to help!” Autumnstar and Parsley locked into each other’s shoulders. Burdockpaw faced down Barkfur and held his focus as Oilstripe attacked from the side. Bearchaser turned on Carnationspeckle and slammed her head down.

“You realize Bearchaser fought an actual bear?” Halibutpaw hissed. “Do you know what he might do if he sees me?”

“We can’t stay here!” Graypaw huffed. 

“You’re not going to.” The three gray apprentices yelped and spun around. Rustshade loomed over them, a tuft of fur torn off his shoulder.

“How did you get over here so fast?” Shadowpaw stammered.

“We’re going back to camp, now,” Rustshade hissed. He pulled Shadowpaw to his feet.

“But the others!” Halibutpaw gulped.

“They’ll handle it!” Rustshade snapped. “You’re not ready for this. Hunter’s crouch, all of you. Stay low and stay quiet.” Rustshade dropped into a low crouch and glared at the apprentices. Slowly, each one copied the ginger codekeeper. He shoved them forward and kept his eyes locked on their identical pelts as they snuck away from the disaster of their own creation.

(Halibutpaw: 7, male, warrior apprentice, impulsive, quick witted, lover of stories)

(Graypaw: 7, female, caretaker apprentice, bloodthirsty, careful listener)

(Shadowpaw: 7, male, codekeeper apprentice, adventurous, confident with words)

(Carnationspeckle: 17, female, caretaker, compassionate, talented swimmer)

(Rustshade: 59, male, codekeeper, sneaky, learner of lore)

#warrior cats #clangen #rippleclan #warriors #rippleclan story #downstar #injury #halibutpaw #graypaw #shadowpaw #fennelspot #autumnstar #bearchaser #heronflank #weedfoot #oilstripe #parsley #rustshade

[thenightcallsme]

ATWOW | Neteyam Sully, pt. 5

"The further we walk along the sandbar, the further we are closed in. The Reef People stand at all sides; we are entirely at their mercy."

Synopsis: You and the Sully's have reached the Metkayina Clan at their seaside village, Awa’atlu. Their acceptance is something to be fought for, and despite your willingness, it is no less challenging. (A/N: this is just a bit of a world-building/filler chapter)

Pairing: Neteyam x Fem!Ometikaya OC (Gi'anya, or Gi for short)

Contains: established OC POV, mentions of menstruation if that makes you uncomfortable (mostly me projecting my health issues onto MC lol), less talking more thinking in this one,

Word count: 4,735

find the rest of the chapters in my masterlist here :)

• • • • •

By some miracle, the grazed bullet wound on my thigh has healed. No purplish bruises, no angry red hints of infection, no scab, not even the silvery hint of a scar. Unbroken blue skin takes its place. Cuts and bruises on both Sully brothers from the incident during their last raid have just begun to fade, all injuries that are less serious than mine for the most part. And yet I’ve healed days before they have even begun. I ran my fingers over the soft unmarred skin in wonder upon removing the bandage, and if I’m honest, it almost unsettled me. Though I’m not surprised. 

All my life this has happened. An accidental bite of my tongue heals in an hour, a graze on the knee scabbing over in two. Being called to my talents of healing and crafting, I do not often partake in hunts or any activity that entails injury. But on the rare occasion I do injure myself, nothing ever lasts. My body is untouched by scars. Even the littlest things like chapped lips and dry skin are almost nonexistent for me. Not to mention my immune system and stamina are impeccable, as if my body is in a constant state of replenishment too advanced to be natural.

I once brought it up to the human scientists who lived alongside us. One theorised that my cells work at an advanced rate, an attribute of my half-Avatar heritage (as far as we know, at least), and offered to run some tests. Already burnt out by the excessive and invasive tests for my unusual menstrual cycle, I declined. Count it as a miracle, I had reasoned. It’s best not to challenge something good. 

My conception and its mysteries have influenced a constant state of questioning. Nothing about who my mother and father are—or were. That is something I accepted to be lost in time. It's myself that I question. The five toes and fingers, the fine hairs on my brow and the queue stemming from the base of my skull were questions answered by the Sully children; having at least one Avatar parent gave the possibility of a few inherited traits. Those traits were black and white through the extensive knowledge of their creation. Perfect genetics concocted in a lab do not leave room for imperfections, and those perfect genetics did not include incredible cell sustainability. And then there’s my menstrual problems, something not recorded in Na’vi women and something not programmed into the Avatars. 

How, how, how… It’s a ruthless cycle of endless questions not meant to be answered. The regeneration doesn’t bother me as much. The menstrual problems, however…

Na’vi women experience their cycle twice a year at the height of their heat. The surge of their female hormones causes an extraordinary desire for a male counterpart shadowed by a light shedding of blood from the womb. Accompanying that is the slightest hint of pain and pressure. Nothing crippling, just noticeable enough to entice the occasional hiss and wince.

Eywa, do I envy the other women. 

Four times a year, I spiral into a week-long suffering so debilitating I wonder if the end is near. My presence from clan life is snuffed like a flame as I lay curled in my hut, a mess of tears and too much blood for me to handle. I spend most of those weeks submerged in lonely streams if I can make the journey without vomiting. Of course, I battle the same…wants as the other women. It dances with the debilitating pain in a dangerously tempting, mind-numbing tango.

The visits paid by a certain someone in those weeks are almost unbearable.

The scientists told me I display symptoms of disorders that are entirely human in nature, opening up a can of worms they were eager to explore, given my mysterious conception. They did the best they could with the limited knowledge and Na’vi adapted health equipment they had. Something was wrong, that much was concluded, but to know the extent of it would require surgeries and more of those terrible internal exams. In the end, I was left with no solid answer and extensive knowledge of the human menstrual cycle and its inherited flaws.

Oh well. There is no use thinking about it today of all days, especially with the bleeding stage of my cycle about a month away. Those four weeks are worth spending enjoying the moments I’m able to function. So I brush the thoughts away, instead testing the unbroken stretch of skin across my thigh. How strange…

Jake believes today will see our journey’s end. A flat expanse of water stretches out endlessly beneath the flock of Ikrans, reaching its watery grasp to each corner of the horizon. Soon enough, his prediction manifests.

Peaking from the endless ocean is the promise of land; spires of rocks and greenery that meld into staggering mountains dance in a misty haze on the horizon. Small islands orbit one gigantic one that reaches for the heavens with jagged fingers. A wall of arching roots exploding from the sea floor keeps the islands in a circle of calm waters, filtering out the strong currents and merciless waves beyond. As our Ikrans cross the protective boundaries, I get a glimpse of shallow pools climbing the natural walls, teeming with life. Not just the splash of a tail or glitter of scaled bodies, but intelligent life. Na’vi life.

We are here.

Greenish bodies pause in acts of play and leisure to turn skyward as our Ikrans soar past. Some point, some remain unreadable from this distance. Some dive into the waters below and disappear beneath marbling azure blues and emerald greens. 

The stretch between the wall and the main island is crossed in just a few minutes. My Ikran dives to skim the surface of the water. Small bodies of aquatic life jump through the calm ripples alongside Vaana as if in competition. It’s not long before they’re lost to the sea. Standing at attention along the approaching shore is a compact network of gigantic mangroves. Their great roots dive dramatically in and out of pale sand and crystal waters. Nestled into the root system are the woven huts and platforms that make up Awa’atlu, the settlement of the most westerly Metkayina village. We’re halfway when the deep bellow of a horn echoes across the bay.

The Metkayina dive from their platforms, abandon shore-side activities and emerge from the waters atop strange creatures as our Ikrans approach an outstretched catwalk of sand. A crowd has already gathered as the first of us touch down. Neytiri’s Ikran screeches a mighty cry. I run my hands along the stretch of Vaana’s white neck, fingers following the purple and black patterns as I silently urge her to remain quiet. Our arrival is meant to appear in some confidence, but too much may strike the wrong impression. 

I slide off Vaana, feet met with the unfamiliar scorch of hot sand. Sand beaches are not common in the jungles of Pandora and are often traded for natural pools and gushing waterfalls. Even then, the sand isn't nearly as fine, nor responsive to the heat of the sun. I share a wordless look with Kiri, who falls into step beside me as we shadow her brothers. With a nod she returns, I look ahead at the approaching people, pulling my woven shawl tight around my shoulders at the sight of them. Some brandish wooden spears, some carry children on their hips. Some appear curious, others cautious. And some…some look ready to strike. Yips and cries are passed between the Metkayina as Jake takes the lead, palms outstretched and arms flourishing in a sign of peace.

The further we walk along the sandbar, the further we are closed in. The Reef People stand at all sides; we are entirely at their mercy.

It doesn’t take a second look to see a striking difference in anatomy besides the obvious green skin and markings, which closely resemble ripples instead of stripes. In both males and females, their ribcages are wider, protruding in great contrast to their soft stomachs. A jutting form branches from elbow to pinky resembling that of a fish's fins. Thin and tufted tails are traded for oar-like ones, thicker and flat. While I try not to stare at one face for too long, I’m caught off guard by the blinks of blue eyes. Their eyes are double-lidded, one layer blinking towards the inner corners before the outer layers meet in the middle. Swirling designs cover their skin, etched permanently in black ink.

It shouldn’t take an expert to understand the difference; their bodies are built for the water.

The hushed whispers set me on edge. My ears prick this way and that as my brain attempts to pick apart every conversation. One woman leans towards her friend, whispering that she is unsure why we are here. It’s one of the more tame comments, and though I wish to bare teeth at some, I know it is not wise. They are right to be unsure, right to question what they do not know.

From the crowd, two boys that I assume are similar to my age emerge. The one in front is taller, staring us down through heavy brows. Intimidating. His black braided hair is pulled into a topknot high on his head. A leather band circles his thick bicep, stitched with small shards of iridescent paua shells and practically shouting his ranking. A warrior. Strapped to his grass loincloth is an impressive blade. Behind him, his shorter companion appears more curious, albeit still on the offence. He, too, carries a blade, but his arm is bare of a band. Neither of them is marked by the swirling tattoos.

As they advance, their gazes leave Jake and Neytiri to focus on us. Kiri and I linger a step behind Neteyam and Lo’ak, who incline their heads and draw two fingers from their foreheads outwards in a sign of respect. The gesture is not returned. Kiri and I make similar gestures regardless. Still, their ruthless stares do not soften.

The pair pass behind the brothers to reach Kiri and me, the two of us no longer able to cower behind the broad shields of Neteyam and Lo’ak’s backs. They turn over their shoulders to keep a close watch. In usual fashion, Lo’ak is distracted within seconds and his eyes travel elsewhere, melting into awe at something I cannot see. Neteyam, however, is entirely invested. There’s a sort of warning in the way he watches the Metkayina boys. The tall one seems to find it amusing.

The two are unapologetic in their dissecting stares, brows raising and lowering as they take us in. The taller one’s blue eyes remain on me longer. Too much longer. His gaze is too slow as it drags over my body, too curious. When our gazes meet, the hint of a smirk pricks at his full lips. It takes a ridiculous amount of will to school myself into indifference. I couldn’t be more thankful when his friend nudges at his arm, pointing at Neteyam’s swishing tail.

“Look, what is that?” He says with a bemused grin. “Is that supposed to be a tail?”

At his loud comment, a few curious onlookers giggle and laugh. His friend finds great amusement in it. Neteyam’s jaw clenches but, unsurprisingly, he chooses to remain silent. Not interested in childish jabs, I follow Lo’ak’s gaze to the shoreline, which has caught my attention in its intensity.

Emerging with grace so admirable it's envious, a Metkayina girl approaches. The sea of people part for her without hesitation. She’s important. Small braids stop behind her ears to unravel into a glistening shroud of black curls strong enough to resist the weight of water. Beads of water trickle down her heart-shaped face, following the curves of her soft cheekbones, the bridge of her nose, the plush of her full lips. The further it trickles, the further my eyes travel. Subtle curves, short but lean. Shells that reflect different colours upon each footstep are woven together with ropey twine to fashion the most beautiful top I’ve ever seen.

She was beautiful. Utterly beautiful. So much so that I envied it more than I envied her grace—not out of spite or self-hatred, of course. It’s impossible for me not to recognise her beauty out of awe. …An awe Lo’ak shares.

She approaches the two boys, sweet face souring as she hits away the shorter one’s outstretched hand.

“Do not. Rotxo. Aunong.”

Rotxo retracts his hand, grin falling at her tone. The other, Aunong, simply shakes his head, returning his gaze to stare me down. I try my best at faking obliviousness. 

The girl turns her gaze to regard us quietly, a vague calculation in her pale blue eyes. Nobody has shown outward kindness yet, and in a way, neither has she. All she does is regain courtesy. However, there’s an aura to her that sucks me in, catching me so off guard that I smile, shoulders relaxing. She doesn’t hesitate to smile back.

Lo’ak nods his head towards her. “Hey.”

She looks away with a flustered huff that almost resembles a giggle, as musical as her breathy voice. Lo’ak’s tail swishes.

Eywa, already?

Kiri sighs at her brother's eagerness, a sound quickly drowned out by a guttural bellow.

Launching from the calm waters come three creatures, all bones and scaled, sleek skin, fish-like and foreign. Close to the base of elongated, slim jaws clustered with razor teeth spread a pair of wings wide. Blue bodies melt into fiery wings not nearly as flexible as our Ikran’s and fin-like in structure. A smaller pair sprout further down the snake-like bodies, merging into a flat tail. Over the sand bar they fly, mounted by males who, without a second glance, appear to be decorated warriors. 

The creatures dive towards the water and submerge tail first. Spiked spines peak through the surface beneath the males. The first one to emerge onto the sandbar catches not only my attention, but the entire devoted attention of the Metkayina. They yip in response to his grunt. Tonowari.

Tonowari is the chief of the Metkayina tribe. If I had not known so already, it would have been obvious in his attire. His loincloth is impeccably detailed, with beaded swirls of purples, greens, and blues. Strapped to his chest is what must be their equivalent of a warrior belt to us; a curved, thick leather strap that comes from his left hip, crossing over his ribs and over his left shoulder. A spine-like design of shells decorates the piece, and around his neck a huge display of mollusc shells that dance in the space between purple and blue. A cloak of yellow feathers lines his broad shoulders before descending into braided orange yarn. 

With each slow, purposeful stride, Tonowari digs the head of his spear into the sand. The hostility he presents is not near as much as I had expected. He instead appears confused. Surprised. Swirling patterns inked in black stem from the point of his wide nose and the curve beneath his full lower lip. The patterns dip beneath his jaw and fall down his neck to cover his chest. Vaguely, they seem to ebb and flow like the soft lapping of waves against the shore.

“Olo’eyktan,” Tonowari says by way of greeting.

Jake bows his head, repeating the gesture his sons gave to the boys. Behind him, the rest of us bow our heads to do the same. “I see you, Tonowari.”

The chief of the Reef People returns the gesture. “Jake Sully.”

As Tonowari turns to greet Neytiri under customs was no longer required under our exile, a woman emerges from the tight-knit circle, clad in a get-up as exquisite as the chiefs. The Metkayina bow their heads and bear the spears skyward as she passes. At the sight of her less welcoming face, my stomach turns, recalling Jake’s warnings about today.

The Tsahik of the clan approaches her mate, hips swishing, sending ripples down an incredible grass skirt. There’s a fullness to her hips and roundness to her pale stomach that promises the bearing of a child. A thick netting tangled with shells hugs her throat tightly, falling down to cover her fuller breasts. Similarly to her mate, facial tattoos mark her face, stemming from her nose and beneath her lower lip, although more modest. Delicate. Where his covers all of his neck and chest, hers follows a central line from her mouth, over her throat and between her collarbones. It disappears at her sternum, reappearing beneath her breasts reaching her naval. A beautiful headpiece holding a flat shell against her forehead is tucked into a thick head of wild black hair. Her eyes are wide and aware, lips parted as if something is dying to be said.

“I see you, Ronal,” Jake says before she can question anything. Neytiri echoes his words. “Tsahik of the Metkayina.”

The Tsahik does not respond, painfully silent and painfully critical in her stare.

“Why do you come to us, Jake Sully?” Tonowari asks after a long pause.

Jake looks back at his family before answering. “We seek uturu.”

Ronal’s questioning eyes turn bewildered. “Uturu?”

Her judgment is off-putting, but I do not blame her. Uturu does not just mean a place to stay for the Na’vi, it means protection. Alliance. A welcoming into one’s way of life as if those seeking it were family. Acceptance is celebrated in our cultures but not without the allowance to question.

Jake nods. “Yes, sanctuary for my family.”

Tonowari seems torn as his mate wordlessly advances towards us, searching, judging. “We are Reef People. You are Forest People. Your skills will mean nothing here.”

Ronal levels Neteyam and Lo’ak with hard stares as she breezes behind their parents. The two of them lower their gazes out of respect, not the challenge that she seems to be searching for. I chew at the inner flesh of my cheeks as she comes Kiri and I’s way. Respect her, understand her. The first indication of negativity will have the Tsahik demanding our retreat.

“Well, we will learn your ways,” Jake reasons, turning back to give his mate a silent call for help. “Am I right?”

“Yes.”

Neytiri can barely breathe out her answer before the Tsahik’s hand wraps around her tail. It slips from her grasp as Neytiri turns. Their gazes meet, hard and demanding the other to speak first, but Ronal drifts away without paying her any more mind. Instead, she reaches for Tuk’s arm to hold it high above the child’s head.

“Their arms are thin,” she announces. Tuk backs away so fast that she stumbles from the comfort of her mother, instead thumping into her father’s thigh. Ronal continues, doing the same to Kiri as she had just done to Neytiri. “Their tails are weak. You will be slow in the water.”

With an indignant ‘ow’, Kiri snatches back her tail, holding the tufted end to her shawl-draped chest. An energy of incredulousness buzzes from my friend. I place a hand on Kiri’s shoulder, squeezing softly. Don’t bite back. Let her express her concerns. Kiri seems to heed my silent plea. When her gaze travels to me and the hand on her shoulder, I have to remind myself of the same plea. Especially when her three-fingered grasp pulls at my wrist.

Ronal is anything but gentle as turns my palm skyward, eyes jumping over each finger. She pulls at my other hand to do the same, recounting the extra digit over and over as if certain she has imagined it. Jaw hard, she raises my hands skyward so hard my shoulders ache in protest. I look to the sands below in shame.

“These children are not even true Na’vi!”

A collective gasp rolls through the crowd like a ripple in a lake, upset by the plunk of a skipped stone. This, I had expected. Beyond the forests, nowhere else on Pandora has seen the uncanny forms of the Avatars and their descendants. Na’vi are incredibly accepting in appearance, but our culture has never accounted for physical mutations, something unheard of throughout history. Instead, I’ve come to learn that acceptance lies in expression; the clothes you wear, the way your hair is done, the precious stones and woven jewellery decorating your body. All things controllable. I do not fit that narrative.

“Yes, we are,” Kiri counters, but Ronal has already had enough, prowling away as the murmurs and gasps continue.

The others look on, helplessly silent as she grabs for Lo’ak’s hand. It’s a rebuttal to Kiri’s comment, proof that we are not true Na’vi. I share a sympathetic look with Lo’ak, who runs his tongue behind his lower lip to subdue any arguments. There is nothing we can do but listen.

“They have demon blood!”

The murmurs grow deafeningly loud, horrified and angry. My ears flatten as I attempt to drown out their words. Some back away, positioning themselves on their haunches as if prepared to strike. Considering the wooden spears in their hand that happen to tilt down from the clouds…I wouldn’t be surprised.

 “Look. Look!” Jake brandishes his hand, extending his fingers and waving it before the Tsahik’s face. “Look, I was born of the Sky People and now I am Na’vi. All right? You can adapt.”

Unchanging in her display of disgust, all Ronal does is drop Lo’ak’s hand, drag her eyes venomously over his father’s face, and then prowl back to Tonowari’s side. Jake spreads his hands wide and turns to address the crowd.

“We can all adapt. Okay?”

At the ensuing silence and unsure look on the clan leader’s face, Neytiri steps forward. She regards the Tsahik with her chin purposefully high, looking down the flat bridge of her nose as if the female was her lesser counterpart instead of her equal. Unsurprisingly, it is Neytiri who is unapologetic and unafraid to display her distaste for our treatment. My respect for her is endless, but I cannot help but fear for the response.

“My husband was Toruk Makto,” she begins, voice dancing between contempt for the female and pride in her mate. “He led the clans to victory against the Sky People.”

Ronal scoffs. “This you call victory? Hiding amongst strangers? It seems Eywa has turned her back on you…Chosen One.”

At the sarcastic power behind the name thrown at Jake, Neytiri’s lips curl back into a livid scowl, fangs bared. Ronal reacts in kind by mirroring the look. The two women snarl at each other. Strangely, in their clashing, the Tsahik and Neytiri are incredibly alike. It is their stubborn pride in the protection of their people that cannot coexist. Jake places a hand between the two.

“I apologise for my mate,” he says slowly, trying to appease the Tsahik without offence to Neytiri. “She’s—”

“Do not apologise for me.”

“—flown a long way, and she’s exhausted.”

“Jake.”

Jake shoots her a look. With a huff, she falls back a step to remain in line with him.

“Toruk Makto is a great war leader!” Tonowari suddenly announces. At the dizzying speed that everyone's head turns, it seems we have all forgotten his presence, entirely captivated by the unnerving clash. He steps forward, a giant hand falling on Jake’s shoulder. “All Na’vi people know his story.”

The onlookers nod slowly, humming their hesitant agreements. Tuk tugs at her father’s arm as the Metkayinan chief addresses his people. He picks up his daughter, cradling her small body to his chest tightly. The image of him holding her as if he had just carried her across a battlefield, face twisted in desperation for a godly miracle to promise her safety, is signal enough. Its time.

Slowly, Kiri and I drift to either side of her mother. We are not shy in our closeness—we have a part to play, after all. Kiri flocks beneath her mother's outstretched arm, a hand reaching up to hold the one resting on her upper arm. Neytiri’s own free hand rests on my shoulder, her thumb running over the curve at the base of my neck. The great warrior that holds us has lost all hints of hostility, eyes downcast and touch comforting. Her sons stand as our shadows, towering over us women. I look back to see Lo’ak watching his mother with convincingly sad eyes. Neteyam gives me a reserved nod.

“But we Metkayina…are not at war.” Tonowari turns back to Jake then. “We cannot let you bring your war here.”

“I’m done with war. Okay?” Jake pleads. “I just want to keep my family safe.”

His quiet, defeated voice breaks beneath the anguish. For a moment, the chief and his mate go quiet, considering his request as they take us in. Weak, hopeless, broken. That’s how we look, just as Jake had instructed us to. The Metkayina would not sway easily; he had thought right. Manipulative as it was, we had to capitalise on our desperation, drag it out and brandish it like scars of war.

“Uturu has been asked.” With great difficulty, Neytiri repeats what we have come here for. It shames her to seek help from a foreign clan. To ask twice is unbearable.

Still, they remain silent, sharing an indecipherable look.

“Do we have to go now?” 

Tuk asks the question quietly against her father’s neck. He reaches his hand to her skull, cradling it in his palm to hush his daughter with the promise of everything being okay. Clever girl. The scene captivates Ronal entirely as if she had just witnessed Eywa herself descend from the heavens. Leave it up to the innocence of a child and the threat of danger to pull on even the coldest heartstrings. 

One million words are spoken between the chief and his mate, but not one lands on my ears. Through raised brows, lowered eyes, hard jaws and pursed lips, they soundlessly speak entire conversations, going over the risks and the gains, what is morally right but what is wrong for their people. A sigh, a nod, then…

“Toruk Makto and his family will stay with us.”

My heart flutters. A breath I had not known I was holding escapes my lips. Neytiri squeezes my shoulder.

“Treat them as our brothers and sisters,” he continues, speaking to the contrasting sea of emotions that surrounds us. “Now, they do not know the sea, so they will be like babies taking their first breath. Teach them our ways so they do not suffer the shame of being useless.”

Jake chuckles softly, bewildered. To Tuk, he murmurs, “Hey, what do we say?”

Tuk looks to the chief with a beaming, utterly youthful smile. “Thank you.”

The praise is echoed between us. Kiri’s voice is an unenthusiastic whisper, barely anything more than a breath as she does the same.

“My son, Aunong, our daughter, Tsireya, will show your children what to do.” 

Tonowari gestures to his children as he speaks, first the tall boy with the wandering eyes, then the pretty girl who had told him off earlier. Tsireya beams at us, and so far the only person happy with our arrival, and I couldn’t be more relieved that she will be the one to show us our new way of life. Her brother, on the other hand, looks mortified. I’m just as displeased that he has to do the same.

“Father, why do—”

“It is decided.” Tonowari cuts him off firmly with a pointed finger and a shove of his spear into the sand. Aunong stares his father down.

“Come!” Tsireya wastes no time in skipping towards us, breezing past the boys with a welcoming smile towards Kiri and I. She takes my hands in hers and pulls me away from the confinements of the circle. At first, our arrival was unbearable, dragging out like a terrible memory on repeat to torture me. Now, the pace has kicked up, and everything moves too fast for me to comprehend. “I will show you our village.”

I smile back at Tsireya. First impressions mean nothing, I tell myself. So what if the rest of the Metkayina are hesitant to accept us? As long as I can find a friend in the chief's joyous daughter, our time here may not be so bad.

#avatar #avatar the way of water #atwow #neteyam #neteyam avatar #neteyam sully #neteyam x reader #neteyam x oc #fanfiction

[whistleclangen]

Moon 0, Part Three - The Aftermath: Addendum

Juniperpaw wishes Mousepetal had believed them sooner. Well, they’re not sure if he’d ever really believed them really, but the senior healer had finally let them go speak to Whistleclan, after days of awful dreams that they’re sure are trying to warn of something dangerous coming for the other clan. The visions and the wailing and screaming of cats intermingled with the sound of wind whistling through the seaside rocks had made it pretty clear to him that Whistleclan had some kind of peril in their future. He hopes he’s not too late.

Juniperpaw carefully makes his way down the cliffs where Blufflcan territory ends and Whistleclan territory begins. He gazes out toward the horizon, at the endless blue expanse of the ocean with the midmorning sun glinting off its oddly placid surface, and for some reason, the sight makes him shudder. They hope they don’t have to spend too much time away from home. Just a quick trip to the Whistleclan camp to speak to their healer and maybe their leader. What’s the Whistleclan leader’s name again, Bramblestar? Brushstar? Something like that. And the healer is named Shadowstreak, Mousepetal had introduced him to them at their first Half-Moon meeting. Juniperpaw wonders why Starclan sent this warning to him instead of to them. 

Mousepetal had instructed him on where to find the Whistleclan camp, but had refused to escort him himself. Apparently, the kits or the elders needed him to treat their scrapes or tick bites or something, and he was completely booked for the day. Ugh. Juniperpaw hopes he remembers his mentor’s instructions. The path to the camp ends up being pretty easy to find, once you know what you're looking for. But as they approach, it is immediately obvious to Juniperpaw that something is very, very wrong. 

For one, there’s an eerie silence in the air, unbroken even by the screeching of seagulls, and the scent of blood hangs heavy, getting stronger with every step toward where the Whistleclan camp should be. Oh, stars above, am I too late? Every instinct in them is screaming at them to turn around and race home, but they have to see, they have to know what happened. 

Juniperpaw breaks into a run, no longer caring if he’s spotted by Whistleclan warriors before he reaches the camp. The sand shifts uncomfortably below his paws, but he doesn’t slow until he reaches the hidden tunnel to the camp. The sand around the entrance is disturbed by pawsteps, which they hope is a good sign. They strengthen their resolve and pad into the tunnel. 

It is dark only for a few moments before the mid morning sun reaches him again on the other side of the tunnel. Laid out before him is a scene of carnage. Blood is splattered across the sand and rocks that make up the Whistleclan camp. Everywhere they step, the sand is churned up from movement and what looks like fighting, and he can’t help but step in some of the drying blood that’s already soaking into the sand. There are also streaks of blood and claw marks in the sand that seem to imply that someone was dragged away, toward the ocean. However, despite the alarming amount of gore, there is a disturbing lack of corpses anywhere that Juniperpaw can see.

What in Starclan’s name happened here?

The healer apprentice is overwhelmed. They’ve never smelled this much blood before in their life, and the cloying coppery scent is invading their senses now, but they can’t seem to stop themself from padding further into the Whistleclan camp. Juniperpaw doesn’t even know what they’re looking for. Survivors maybe? There’s no dead bodies that he can see, let alone living ones. But still his paws carry him forward, around the large tidepool at the center of camp and down the beach, following the lines of blood and marks scored into the sand by claws that couldn’t dig deep enough to catch hold, until he’s standing right at the edge of the tide. Here, the trail of blood ends, as if a cat was dragged toward the waves and pulled under the surf. 

But what kind of creature would be able to do that? What kind of creature would even want to do that? It looked like the camp had been attacked and ransacked, maybe by dogs or rogues, but neither of those would bring the bodies of their kills into the ocean… would they? No, that’s just stupid, it has to be something else. Juniperpaw doesn't know all that much about sea creatures, maybe Whistleclan was massacred by something perfectly natural. 

Abruptly, Juniperpaw decides they’ve seen enough. He needs to report back to Mousepetal and Quillstar, he needs to get away from here as fast as his legs will carry him, because the more he dwells on it, the more he thinks that something entirely unnatural happened here. This doesn’t feel like an attack by some regular creature. For some reason, Juniperpaw has a creeping feeling that whatever did this isn’t… normal.

The healer apprentice is about to turn and leave when something catches his eye under the waves. He pauses, and stares at that spot, trying to get a better look at whatever it was, but he can’t seem to find it again. In the back of their mind, they know they need to leave, they need to leave now, but they can’t help but feel like Whistleclan’s death was their fault, and if they'd just warned them a day earlier, some of them might have lived. If he can figure out what happened to them, maybe it will absolve him of the blame he carries.

Juniperpaw sees another flash below the surface of the water. He waits, barely daring to breathe, and swearing to himself that he’ll run as soon as he gets a good look at the- whatever it is. Then all of a sudden, something erupts from the depths of the water, something long and winding, like the tentacle of an octopus, but much, much larger and nearly void black. Blood still clings to the thing where the seawater hasn’t managed to wash it off yet.

Juniperpaw stares at the thing. He knows that this is his chance to run, but for some reason he can’t bring himself to look away as the tentacle undulates before him. He feels almost hypnotized by the thing, and as he watches, a few more of them rise from the waves to join the first, waving around in the air. 

Then suddenly, quick as a flash, one of them reaches up to whip around Juniperpaw’s ankle, and he loses his balance as it knocks him off his paws. Then it drags him toward the hungry ocean, and Juniperpaw never sees another sunrise.

#whistlemoon #clangen #whistleclan #cw blood #cw animal death #warrior cats #warriors #clangen comic #wc #warrior cats clangen #whistle juniper

[fallenclan]

FC I'M GOING TO BLOW UP EXPLODE ABOUT THIS . GOD. GOD!!! CYCLES!!!!!

Otterslip was Insecure as an apprentice, then Ambitious as a warrior, mentored by Maplethorn, the current deputy. Adopted son of the former leader Scorchstar and respected deputy Nettlestem. By all accounts, a good mentor.

Stormsight was Lonesome as an apprentice, then Righteous once they got their name, mentored by Silverbelly. Son of Toro, second of the two litters that redeemed the medicine cat Sunwish in her own eyes.

Interestingly, Silverbelly had that same trait progression - lonesome, then righteous. Which on one paw is really cute to consider that they both dropped the lonesome trait at the end of their apprenticeship, as if to signify they have more support than they first did, or at least first thought, but it *also* means this.

Every single medicine cat since Sunwish, sans Eaglestripe(? from all I could find), has had the Righteous trait at some point. (Eaglestripe was Compassionate, now Loyal.) It shifts as it goes on, growing and changing as it's handed from each mentor to apprentice, but the knowledge is the same. The heart of it is the same. It's an unbroken line from Sunwish, all the way down.

The righteousness is a part of that, I think. At least for Silverbelly and Stormsight. Silver might've suspected, and Storm might've found out for sure - after all, he saw Nick in his apprenticeship. It's not unimaginable that he could see another Starclan cat more recently. That he could ask.

I wonder if he told Otter, too. If he thought he deserved to know, or if let it slip in an argument, or Otter saw or heard him and Silverbelly talking and suspected the worst - confirmed it, teeth bared in rage, near the edge of the cliff.

That's not the point of this ask, though - that cycles are. BECAUSE! I'M GOING INSANE ABOUT BOTH THE SIMILARITIES HERE AND WHERE THEY DIFFER.

Both Sunwish and Stormsight wanted to reach out to someone before their murders. Only Stormsight succeeded in this. Both were Righteous, and struck down by someone who grew to loathe them, possibly blaming them for the death of someone dear who couldn't be saved. Otterslip was trying to defend his mother's secret, too. Both were medicine cats struck down by their own clanmates. Sunwish didn't want to be. (Do they even remember that part of her story, anymore?) (God. Lays on the ground. I wonder if it was the opposite that sealed Stormsight's fate. His connection to Starclan gave him the chance to learn the truth, and it was for the truth Otterslip killed him.)

As much as Otterslip's hurt and fury at Grassroot's death (WHICH I AM. SO MOROSE ABOUT I'LL MISS HER… . God. Imagine Grassroot having to look down and see her dad doing this. Being exposed to this seasons-old anguish and having to reconcile her place in all of it. She didn't *ask* for this.) makes sense, it's not a solid defense. Grassroot was killed by a dog - there probably wouldn't be a chance she *could* be saved, even if she was alive when they found her, and still alive when a medicine cat could attend her with the herbs necessary. And besides that, Stormsight isn't the only current medicine cat! Silverbelly, Eaglestripe, both were equally bound to try and save Grassroot's life, and they couldn't. But Silver was here before him, he grew up beside her, and Eagle is still just a kid. And of course - even if Silver's not his favourite cat, he doesn't **hate** either of them like he does Stormsight.

So it has to be his fault.

god… I had to stop typing to handle something so I've kind of lost my train of thought but this is . SO. God.

Thinks about Silverbelly. JUST READ THE NEWEST JAGUARFIC. GOD. THINKS ABOUT SILVERBELLY X100. Ohhh unrelated to current tangent but Jaguar I really enjoy how you take care to use more cats than just the focuses, it makes the whole clan feel a little more alive, it's nice :3… BUT SERIOUSLY. Silver just lost one of her own kits a few moons ago, grandkits left behind, and Stormy - god. Stormsight was her little brother. Stormsight was her little brother, her apprentice, he was stubborn and passionate and he liked to make her laugh, she got to see him come into his own from the lonely kit he used to be, and he just. He never comes back. What did they even talk about last? After everything about Sunwish - did she wish him good luck, when he left? Did she remember to say I love you? What was the last thing he said to Eaglestripe, his apprentice, bound by blood and teaching, that kind-hearted cat who's grown so well herself? Did Eagle even know something was going on?

Does Stormsight weep angry tears for them, from his perch in the stars? Does he wish, desperately, to warn them? For someone to *know?* Does Sunwish sit beside him, bad with cats at the best of times but feeling the need to support him, this apprentice of her apprentice, this kit she saw as a newborn, struck down for trying to reveal her own fate? More than her - does he get his tearful embrace with Toro and Goosewing, do they sit vigil with him from the clouds? Is Scorchstar warned away with raised hackles, the wound still all too fresh?

Sorry. Sorry. I'm thinking all too much.

(- 🐈‍⬛)

i am so fucking unwell about this whole thing. but yeah Stormsight and Silverbelly were Best Fucking Friends. making me even sadder

#falls onto the ground and fucking dies forever. #fallenasks #black cat anon

[secret-engima]

Snippet of Pebbles verse Chap 8

He stopped. If they had been farther apart, or if Madara had not been looking for it, the Senju would have looked like a blank slate.

     Looking for it however, Madara could see the conflicted micro-expressions, the mix of passion-doubt-grief. Madara finished the sentence for him, “To risk being killed too young.”

     Red eyes flicked toward him, meeting his eyes for a split second before looking away over the valley again, “There are too many knee high graves already.” It was not a direct response, but it was an answer.

     Madara rocked back on his heels, mind spinning. Of course he had thought of the village when he could, had dreamed of Senju and Uchiha children growing up side by side without risk of pain or heartache, no longer being forced to die on the battlefield before their time. But Tobirama had taken it a step further, hadn’t he? He had thought of how to keep them from dying so young. How to bring each generation closer together simply by gathering the children in one place and teaching them as equals, sorting them into groups, multiple stages of learning and tightly controlled risk that actually make strides for the core of his and Hashirama’s dream; protecting the children. And of all the people to put such intricate, practical thought into the dream, it had been the White-.

     No.

     It had been Hashirama’s brother. And maybe that was a distinction that Madara should have focused on more than his blood connection and obedience to the previous Senju clan head. But from how he acted on the battlefield, how could Madara have ever imagined that such a mind and passion for peace existed in the younger man? “You have put a great deal of thought into Hashirama’s dream.”

     “It is more than just his dream,” Tobirama retorted quietly, and Madara considered the ceasefire unbroken for longer than he had ever hoped possible, the intricate, concrete plans for something unlike anything the world had yet seen.

     “Fair enough, but what convinced you that peace was even possible between our clans? Hashirama certainly never mentioned his brother having a childhood Uchiha friend.”

     Grief flashed through Tobirama’s features so quickly that if Madara had not been daring to stare right at him, he would have missed it. The flicker of the eyes, the tilt of the mouth and bob of the throat that all rang with the pain of the heart. The kind of quiet, deeply rooted pain that came from loss, mingled with the guilt of any loved one who would spend the rest of their life wondering if there was something, anything, they could have done to stop what was now set in bleeding, heartbroken stone. “Some lessons,” Tobirama whispered, “are only learned too late. All we can do after … is pick up the pieces left behind and carry them with us to try to make something better than what was broken.”

#Pebbles verse #Shisui Time Travel verse #Secret Engima Rambles #EHEHEHEHHEHEHE #I GIVE YOU NO CONTEXT FOR HOW THESE TWO ARE HAVING A CONVERSATION

[nw-of-dark]

Vampire Clan: Hecata

The Clan of Death, Necromancers, Graverobbers, The Family, Stiffs, Corpses, Devil-Kindred, Lazarenes

They do not constitute a completely organic clan stemming from a singular Antediluvian and an unbroken lineage. Instead, they consist of the Giovanni, the remaining members of the ancient Clan Cappadocian and their associated bloodlines, and even the Nagaraja, despite lacking a direct tie to an Antediluvian. Together, they form a novel and (largely) cohesive Clan of Death, encompassing various Kindred bloodlines that specialize in necromancy through the use of Oblivion. Similar to the Giovanni, whom they predominantly absorb, they function as a family, albeit an extensively extended one.

Disciplines: Auspex, Fortitude, Oblivion

Bane - Painful Kiss: Steeped in death, the fangs of the Hecata bring not bliss, but agony.

Bloodlines

The Hecata are composed of ten main bloodlines:

La Famiglia Giovanni, or Clan Giovanni as it has been known until recent nights, still largely occupying the overall leadership role in the Hecata, even without Augustus Giovanni as an anchoring influence. They do not normally identify themselves to clan outsiders as Hecata. La Famiglia also includes other satellite families, such as the Della Passaglias and Ghibertis, who have not earned their own individual bloodline status to date.

The Harbingers of Ashur, the aggregate remnants of Clan Cappadocian, of both the mainline clan and the Harbingers of Skulls.

Nasyon san An (Nation of Blood), the new face of the Samedi bloodline.

The Gorgons, the surviving remnants of the Lamia, the Cappadocian bloodline of devout Bahari faith from whom the curse of the painful Kiss originates.

The Flesh-Eaters, a group of Nagaraja; a bizarre bloodline of flesh-eating vampires, feared by all Kindred.

The Bankers of Dunsirn, the cannibalistic banking family from Scotland, once a branch of Clan Giovanni, and now considered a bloodline in their own right.

The Children of Tenochtitlan, the Giovanni allies Pisanob (now without the leadership of Pochtli), once driven to the brink of extinction by the Harbingers of Skulls.

The Criminal Puttanesca, a Sicilian crime family formerly attached to the Giovanni.

The Little Siblings, are the Rossellini, once a rival necromantic family (now attached) to the Giovanni, they are known for their cruel treatment and exploitation of wraiths.

The Grudge Masters, are the Milliners, a minor Giovanni family with many connections in organized crime.

#clan hecata #hecata #vtm #vtm hecata #vampire: the masquerade #vampire #clans

[ae-neon]

The House of Mirrors

Chapter 9

The difference between history and a story, her father had taught her, lay in the telling.

The story of Velaris, for example. Which Nesta had learnt from her grandmother, who - by the very nature of their language - had described it as a woman, elderly and revered. The story spoke of a trading outpost at the edge of an empire, assigned the protection of a noble general and his renowned legion.

And, after the fall of the empire, the five clans descended from those soldiers founded Velaris, which was then called Calla Velaria after the Mother Goddess they worshipped and brought with them. The memory of those men still lived today, preserved in the names of streets, monuments and a few families who carried their legacy forward.

In some ways the story of Velaris had reminded Nesta of the stories she'd heard of her great grandmother, Helena Archeron, who had been born in poverty, worked her way to fame and married into money. Like Velaris, Helena had been swept into a violent revolution in her prime, but, unbroken by the turn of the wheel, had emerged an icon of the new world. One a city at the forefront of innovation and art. The other the first woman to hold a parliamentary seat in Scythia's constitutional monarchy.

But those were just stories, trimmed of fat and made easy to digest, told one way or another to suit the taste of the audience.

Histories were raw, uncut, infested with complexity and plagued by strains of fate and coincidence. History beat still warm blood into those it connected. Always on the brink of dying, of becoming myth, but persisting in a phoenix-like act of parthenogenesis. Both reoccurring and unending; like a daughter born and raised to obey her mother, who had been a daughter born and raised to obey her mother.

The history of Velaris included the brutal subjugation of the native Halian tribes, the crimes of general Artorius – murdered by his own men – and how the empire began to cannibalise itself after a long decline. It was marred with the violence of men who had been glorified in its mythology.

Not unlike her great grandfather, whom no one ever said much about.

And not unlike Tomas, who was now ingrained into Nesta's own story, venerated by her public grieving. The thought made her want to claw at her skin until it ripped, until she was able to tear it off and shed who she had become for him.

Her history - her past, present and future - like Helena, like Velaris and perhaps every woman who had ever and would ever exist, was ripe with the promise of pain.

No amount of obedience, cleverness, beauty or anything else she had ever been told to be, and broke herself to become, held the escape it promised. In fact, it only ever seemed to invite an added layer of voyeurism.

An inescapable eye which had manifested itself into her young mind and, desperate to please her mother and grandmother, pushed her to perform. To direct and play out her story in a way that satisfied. To smile even if she didn't want to and to weep in her hour of greatest relief. To wield her beauty as a weapon to win the most advantageous match, even if it meant striking down someone precious to her.

Every history could yield a dozen stories but the best of them, those that matured into myths, always tasted of some truth.

And so, in the courtyard of the Ressina Altara School of Arts, before the Hall of Lucis, under the heat of a hundred flashing lights, she posed. Because Nesta Archeron had long ago mastered the art of storytelling.

She wasn't anyone important enough to be featured on a front page after the initial buzz surrounding Tomas' murder but the undercurrent of interest persisted.

Grieving widow or scheming gold-digger, immigrant success story or foreign whore, vicious killer or beautiful victim. Tomas had come to define her story but Nesta was no passive narrator.

Her golden hair was gathered into a french bun, her black dress loose below the waist, wrapped over her breasts but cut low and off the shoulder to draw the eye, to please the audience.

She smiled in a way that only involved curving her lips, not enough to convey joy or excitement but enough that she would not be accused of sulking. Enough that no one could tell there was a scream locked behind the seam of her lips.

And at her neck lay a single, eight carat, pale sapphire, strung on a delicate gold chain interlinked with tiny diamonds; a recognisable Mandray family heirloom.

~

Mor handed Rhys a flute of champagne, no doubt provided to the Gala by a generous but well compensated patron. That was how things worked in Velaris. Push and pull. Always something to be gained.

He and his cousin stood overlooking the enormous courtyard of the Ressina from the third floor of the Hall of Lucis and it's windowpane walls. Named for a legendary figure, one Helion claimed direct descent from, and because it was an almost entirely transparent building, designed to catch light from every angle.

The courtyard was lined on either side by tall buildings. One was a set of dorms, a cafeteria and an art supply store; and the other, a collection of lecture rooms, work stations and a library.

The Hall itself sat between the two adjacent buildings, creating a large H shape. Behind it was a park sized garden open to students for leisure or use if they were in need of natural light or subjects.

Ahead of the Hall was the courtyard, now being used as a sort of runway, filled with press and recognisable faces posing against a mural print submitted by a Ressina alumnus.

The courtyard led into the Rainbow, a long, wide walkway that followed the Sidra, littered with antique stores, book-nooks and quirky cafes.

It was almost always teeming with artists doing anything from tourist trap trinkets to live music shows. Except tonight it was cordoned off on both sides and almost eerily empty. Tonight, the haves were granted the jewel of Velaris to flaunt their wealth, looks and displays of goodwill, while the have-nots were expected to be elsewhere.

Rhys took them in: Feyre in her art deco suit, somehow both loud and contained. Elain, in contrast, managing to still look soft and quiet even in a pop of pink. And Nesta, finally resembling an amalgamation of the two sides of her he had seen, still in black but not someone to be underestimated.

In some ways, he felt an odd kinship with them. They existed half in and half out. They were wealthy, and in their country, from a respected and well established family, but here, they would always be outsiders forced to tie themselves to a group of people not known for their acceptance.

Seren and Rhys had had the right family name, attended the right schools and befriended their peers. But it had never been enough. His father had been hounded with potential matches and offered affairs even when his mother had lived with them. It had broken her heart, made her distant, though she tried her best to help her children love their Illyrian blood with holiday visits, home cooked meals, lullabies and bedtime stories.

Then Seren had died. And everything changed. He’d been uncontrollable, unable to express his grief, his father had buried his head in his work and his mother had been more alone than ever.

Rhys pushed away the memory, blinked away the pain behind his eyes and focused on the scene before him, “Did you look into Mandray like I asked?”

"The Mandrays are mostly in luxury vehicles – explains the man's globetrotting and circle of rich clients become friends – they dabble in the drug trade but almost exclusively on a personal export level. For said rich clients.” Mor sipped her champagne, leaning one hand on the rough hewn oak railing before them, red lips matching her scarlet dress, “Tomas was the eldest son but with him gone, his brothers stepped up. One took the office here in the city and the other was given a property in Ravenna, initially inherited by Nesta Archeron."

A light chuckle erupted from somewhere behind them, forced and insincere, so familiar to the cousins who had grown up in a montage of prep schools, yachting and money laundering fundraisers. Not unlike the Rainbow Gala.

"The information in the three years leading up to his murder is a bit hazy. Signs his marriage was rocky, but that wasn't anything new, he’d bought a house down by Silverlake and a suite at the Pichano Maria, both now in Nesta's name. There was traces he’d somehow acquired a third stream of revenue but there's no papertrail on that outside of offshore deposits."

"And?"

"All in all, he's just some middle management crook with an okay family name, nothing stands out.” Mor seemed to chew on her thoughts for a moment, “Except his death. There was too much damage to the body for a conclusive cause of death and the crime scene had been expertly cleaned, but it was also reported relatively close to it's occurrence. Which is why no charges were pressed against Nesta. There's no way she could have done it alone but there was also no evidence of anyone else being present."

He wasn’t sure if any of that might fall into Azriel’s area of expertise but he didn’t want to underestimate the man. Rhys slid his almost violet gaze away from the courtyard and towards his cousin, “...And?”

Mor shrugged, "And nothing. You asked me to look into him so I did."

"I also know that you think I've missed something. Something about Nesta. Something I’m sure you've taken it upon yourself to not miss."

Her honey eyes bore into him, they knew each other too well, had been forged in the same fire.

Mor sighed, "Born in Scythia to a family with pro-democratic ties despite their aristocratic past; public school education; immigrated here at 14; engaged at 19; married at 20; on track to graduate top of her class at 21 and tapped by several big names including the DA herself by 23.”

Rhys nodded, he’d already pieced together most of that by himself, adding, “Except she drops out the next year and does…nothing? Parties and travels everywhere her husband goes but otherwise disappears from everything except social media and TST’s reports.”

Mor exhaled a breath full of worry, "And in that time: Mandray's sales skyrocket; he pays off all of his father’s off the record debt and invests in a couple things: tech, alternative energy, a Xianese beauty brand. They all see hit returns and, in turn, his family business is boosted by a group of newly rich CEOs and their associates.”

“Mandray might have been a good salesman but it’s not hard to guess who was really pulling the strings.” Rhys noted the hint of worry that manifested itself in a slight crease between Mor's brows. He lifted his hand, the arm of his midnight suit drinking in the light of the room, and gently pressed against the spot, earning a full frown in response.

Mor batted his hand away, “With this newfound wealth, Nesta buys out a 22% stake in TST, adding to the 10% each sister has – which she controls – bringing the business back under the family name, kicking out the investors who were trying to take over from under her father and, for a moment, it looks like she's going to take over. But then,”

“But then she actually vanishes, drops off the map.”

“Exactly. Mandray floats between Silverlake and Velaris but his trips overseas are rare and his trajectory without her is” she shrugged, “...unremarkable. Two years and no one hears from her until a 5am phone call to Silverlake Sheriff's office. No emergency call, no ambulances, just a dead body. But there’s something off about it...” at that, Mor turned a little pale, but continued "The acoustics of the lake valley, I don't know how it works but, the neighbours can always hear each other. I checked, there have been reports before, neighbours saying they'd heard all sorts of things coming from the house - parties, arguments, music she liked to dance to… but that night and the morning after, the morning she found her husband almost decapitated? Nothing, not so much as a side note in the reports.”

A chill seeped into his limbs but Rhys wasn't sure if it was because he realised he had suspected Nesta killed her husband the day he met her or, if because, now, he was less certain. The idea of retaliation, of a beaten housewife turning on her husband like a caged animal finally set loose, did not disturb him. It was only natural.

But, he thought as he turned to see the Archeron's ascending the stairs to the third floor, whatever had happened to Tomas Mandray a year ago, seemed anything but natural.

#the house of mirrors #acotar fanfiction #nesta archeron #rhysta #where is this story even going

[south-of-heaven]

stephanie mcmahon x fem!reader where reader is shanes best friend and she falls in love with her in high school and never tells her and is basically apart of their family and she comes over for dinner with the family and works with vince and shane backstage and on screen ? tysmmmm

Best friend's sister || Stephanie McMahon x Reader

Summary: You've been friends with Shane for years and years but a secret you'll never tell him about is that you fell in love with his sister.

A/N: Let's pretend the age gap between Shane and Steph isn't so big because the high school part would be weird considering that Stephanie is six years younger.

You and Shane have always shared a special bond. From high school shenanigans to the professional world of wrestling, your friendship has remained steadfast. But there's a secret you've held tightly within yourself, a secret that time has failed to fade – your feelings for Stephanie McMahon, Shane's younger sister.

Back in high school, amidst the laughter and camaraderie, you found yourself drawn to Stephanie in a way that went beyond friendship. Her charm, wit, and radiant spirit had captivated your heart. But you knew the unwritten rule: sisters were off-limits, especially when it was your best friend's sister.

Years passed, and as you and Shane pursued careers in the wrestling industry, your connection only grew stronger. Sunday dinners at the McMahon household became a cherished tradition, a time to catch up with the family and share stories from the week. Stephanie's presence was magnetic, her smile lighting up the room, and her laughter echoing through your heart.

The chemistry between you and Stephanie was undeniable, a force that sparked whenever your eyes met. Yet, you remained steadfast in keeping your feelings hidden, buried beneath layers of friendship and respect for Shane and the McMahon family. The years had taught you the value of loyalty, and you wouldn't jeopardize the precious relationships you held dear.

As you and Shane continued to work side by side in the wrestling world, you found yourself navigating through the complex dance of unspoken emotions. Stephanie's proximity was both a blessing and a challenge, a reminder of the feelings that had never truly faded. Every Sunday dinner, every backstage interaction, every shared smile only served to reinforce the connection you shared.

But you were determined to honor the bonds that had shaped your life. The secret of your affection for Stephanie remained locked away, a silent testament to your commitment to both friendship and family. And even though your heart sometimes ached with the weight of what could have been, you took solace in the moments you shared with Shane, Stephanie, and the entire McMahon clan.

Through the ups and downs of life, through the victories and challenges of wrestling, your resolve remained unbroken. You carried the unspoken truth with you, a secret kept for the sake of love and loyalty. And as the years continued to pass, you found solace in the genuine friendships you had, the laughter that echoed during Sunday dinners, and the knowledge that sometimes, the most profound feelings are those left unsaid.

#wwe fanfiction #wwe x reader #pro wrestling #wrestling #wwe #stephanie mcmahon x reader #stephanie mcmahon