#Jewel of Three Prayers | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

amuromi · 11 days

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★ ₊ ⊹ ⋆˙ ┈ 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 X ᶠ!ᴿᴱᴬᴰᴱᴿ

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ┈ 9.1k

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ┈ SFW! heian era!au, concubine!reader, true form!Sukuna, established relationship (married), major character death, canon typical violence, era typical misogyny/gender roles, unhealthy obsession, mentions of death, mentions of cannibalism and blood, (Sukuna is a lunatic), Sukuna is referred to exclusively as “Lord Sukuna”

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐀!𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ┈ The canon will begin to matter less and less as this story goes on it seems, but it will all make sense I swear!

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈

✮ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 & 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!! ✮

There are two bodies to burn. The sparse tinder is laid by careful hands. In the deep cold of winter the earth has so few things to spare, only the thin branches of a fledgling tree bowed over by the blistering wind. The wood is dead and brittle, splintering like breaking bones where it’s been bent into curving shapes. Tied with twine in a braided wreath of ashen wood to surround First Mistress’ body. She’s laid over a fine fur in her most sumptuous clothes and most lustrous jewels, the broken parts of her carefully placed where they’re meant to be attached to her body. Beneath her clothes, parts of Jurina are missing. A bit of flesh flayed from her ribs, a gouge taken out of her thigh. There’s a thin square of white silk laid over her face, hiding the claw masks and the fissure where her head was nearly torn from her body. The wound flutters in and out of sight as the wind stirs the edge of the white sheet, flashing the curving groove where Lord Sukuna fit his teeth into her flesh and tore.

The fire catches quickly after the priests say their rites, burrowing like red mice through the wood. Burning tongues leapt from wood to fabric, outfitting Jurina’s body in a brilliant, golden shroud for only a moment before her clothes are burning away and the fire takes to skin. The perfumed wood dampens the scent of burning flesh but it will soon become overpowering as the small crowd gathers to pay their respects before the pyre. There’s weeping for mistress and servant alike as Jurina’s personal maid chose to continue serving her in the afterlife. There was little attention given to her body. She’s simply laid beside Jurina with her collar of bruises from the white silk that had choked the life from her throat. Her name escapes you and you wonder if she has a family that needs to be informed of their loss. A raven was already sent out by Uraume to inform Jurina’s clan of her demise at the hands of the King of Curses.

It’s your hope that Uraume elected to omit the extent of the damage done to Jurina’s body so that her family might have some peace in their ignorance. The winter winds snuff out lives like blowing out candles, ravaging weaker bodies with boiling fevers and gasping coughs that never seem to pass. It’s just the right season for pneumonia and illnesses of that ilk. Let them think that she went with some semblance of peace. It’s a selfish sort of wish as you watch the snow hiss and turn to steam over Jurina’s funeral pyre. It would absolve you of blame, remove the hand you had in her death with your careless words. Poisonous tongue spelling out her death. She’d been staring at you when she died, or perhaps she was dead before her glassy eyes rolled towards you standing at the edge of the engawa, snow dotting your lashes and melting into moisture when the tears wouldn’t come. You hadn’t wanted her death but you can’t find it in yourself to be saddened by the loss.

Even so, you clasp your hands in prayer along with the remaining Mistresses. Still three despite Fourth Mistress’ arrival. Now Second Mistress is the wife with the most seniority and yet she stands to your right, a subtle show of deference that hadn’t been there only so many hours before. The night has stretched on for a small eternity, bleeding into daylight without reprieve as the household scrambled to deal with Jurina’s death. Messengers were sent out in the waning storm to fetch priests from the village, servants were dispatched to clean Jurina’s chamber and erect a platform for her to be burned upon. Tatami mats were changed and floors were scrubbed. The blood soaked courtyard has been renewed with another layer of downy snow to cover the splatters of blood where Lord Sukuna dragged Jurina outside to make a spectacle of her death. He tore at her with a deranged sort of satisfaction, grinning when he saw you watching, as if he’d only been waiting for a moment to tear her apart. She burst open between his teeth and claws like a ripe fruit, spilling across the snow in a brilliant spray of crimson. And all you did was watch, trying to remind yourself that Jurina wasn’t like you. She was still human in a way that you weren’t.

Her dedication was to herself above all else, perhaps her clan came second. Lord Sukuna wasn’t a priority in her mind. Her world was vast, reaching far beyond the bounds of the Ryomen estate. During meals she would tut over letters she received from her clan, bemoaning the poor marriage of a cousin or cooing over the news of a new baby. She needled the servants for gossip whenever they returned from an errand outside the estate. Jurina was just a woman and she died as a woman would at the hands of a being like Lord Sukuna; screaming. She’ll be happy to know that he isn’t in attendance to watch her flesh and bones be rendered to ash, her favorite maid beside her. When the smoke clears they’ll be swept into urns or perhaps tossed out with the dirt swept off the engawa. It’s your hope that she’ll be sent home. It’s clear she never belonged here and it would be cruel for this forbidden corner of the world to be her final resting place.

There’s also a piece of you that thinks she doesn’t deserve the honor of being laid to rest here. Though you suppose decisions like this will be left up to you now that there is no First Mistress to lead the household. Lord Sukuna has made it plainly clear that those responsibilities and honors are now yours. So when a servant comes to ask what should be done when the fire is quelled you send them to find some proper urns of expensive material for Jurina and her maid to be gathered in before being sent off. It doesn’t escape your notice that the servant stopped quite a ways away from you. In fact everyone seems to be giving you a breadth that borders on excessive. As if so much as breathing a breath of air that passed through your lungs will have their body burning next. Everyone that already treated you like a piece of glass is suddenly too fearful to even raise their head in your presence. It’s only Uraume that speaks to you as they had hours ago, entering your chamber with only the lightest knock on the shoji. They find you plucking tunelessly at the strings of your koto with only candlelight as your company.

The midday sky is gray and dim, still choked with the clouds of the breaking storm. Dull light bleeds through the thick paper of the shoji leading outside. The faintest firelight as Jurina continues to burn.

“Have you slept?” Uraume asks, coming to sit beside you. You haven’t. There’d been no time to sleep. Hours have passed since Lord Sukuna returned home, since he took you in the bathhouse, since he tore Jurina apart. Hours spent making arrangements and delegating tasks so that this funeral could be held in a timely manner. It’s doubtless that if Lord Sukuna had presided over the proceedings he would’ve simply sent Jurina to the kitchen and used her bones to pick his teeth when he was through with the meal. It would’ve been an honor to be so wholly consumed by her husband but Jurina likely wouldn’t have seen it as the blessing it was. To be so desired that Lord Sukuna wanted to devour every bit of her. To use her body as a means to bolster his own. A shiver trickles down your back as Uraume gathers your hair to comb, the chill of their skin cutting deep.

“The raven you sent to her family… Did you say how she died?” You ask carefully.

“She died serving her king.” They say evenly. Of all the people bowing to your lord husband, it is only Uraume that understands you completely. The servants were wailing and whispering about the cruelty of their lord but what cruelty was there? A doll doesn’t despair when the owner breaks it. Jurina’s porcelain face was cracked and her straw body torn open, but what higher purpose is there than to serve the whims of something greater than yourself? Jurina was ill fit to be Lord Sukuna’s wife. She didn’t understand duty or sacrifice. She didn’t understand her place beneath him. Not in the way that you did. A flower doesn’t question the might of a tree nor the warmth of the sun.

“How do you feel?” Uraume asks, leaning closer than any servant would dare. If they were anyone else, you might stifle at the audacity, but it feels as though the two of you are cut from the same cloth. As Lord Sukuna’s wife, you are an extension of his being. And no one would dare to touch him so intimately without permission. No one except Uraume. They chuckle and ask, “Are you happy?”

“I’m happy. Always.” The feeling is innate. Whether Jurina lived or died, your happiness would remain the same. There’s no great pleasure taken in her demise, nor is there the pang of loss. It feels like something akin to relief. A thorn finally removed from your skin. The itching, burning sting of her presence has been removed at last and you’ll only be strengthened by it. It’s already begun. The servants had come to you for guidance once the house physician had declared Jurina dead. There was no need for the commotion of an official declaration. She looked like a butchered animal by the end. And when the fire dies, nothing will be left of her but ash and memories. She’ll be swept up and sent away, forgotten with the melting snow.

“Did Jurina serve her purpose? Truly?”

“No,” Uraume answers without hesitation. “I don’t think any of Lord Sukuna’s wives have served their purpose. Certainly none more so than you, sweet girl.” There were never any honorifics between you and Uraume, at least not in private. They saw you as an equal, perfectly matched in your standing with Lord Sukuna.

It feels like an honor you’ve yet to earn. Uraume would wage war for your lord husband. You could do no such thing. Even with your cursed technique, you’d be useless in battle. Uraume was lethal, a blade in Lord Sukuna’s hand where you were simply a plucked flower. A blade can be sharpened and polished, but sooner or later a flower would wilt and wither, and your time as a person of importance would pass. Whether it be by death or age, you’d soon be without purpose and Lord Sukuna would likely do away with you as he had Jurina. You can only hope he’ll honor you with consumption. To know that, even in death, you’d been of some minuscule use would soothe your soul.

Sometimes you find yourself wondering if you’d become a curse, though the only thing worth cursing in this life would be Lord Sukuna. It wouldn’t be so unimaginable that you’d cling to your lord husband even after death. You pledged yourself to him in this life and the next. To go to a place where he cannot follow would be to abandon your vows. And you’d loath to be an unfaithful wife.

“You’re tired,” Uraume said, though you hadn’t acknowledged the lethargy yourself. They finish the careful task of combing through the last section of your hair before urging you to lay down.

“Shall I prepare your tea?” You shake your head. It’s become a nightly ritual to have tea before you sleep, but there is no strength left in your body to wait for Uraume to prepare it. Usually the task was left to your personal maid but she is nowhere to be found. Uraume has made the offer but you imagine it to be a simple courtesy rather than a genuine offer. They aren’t your servant to be ordering about. That honor is reserved solely for your lord husband no matter if they offered the service themselves.

“Sleep for now,” they hum, “I’ll wake you if there is a need for your presence.” Which is to say, if Lord Sukuna calls for you. No other task would be worthy of rousing you from your rest. They tuck you into your futon and blow out each candle before leaving you alone in the darkness. There’s still the faint flickering of the pyre crackling in the courtyard, but it’s easily ignored as fatigue settles over you.

It seems as though no time has passed at all when you rouse to wakefulness, yet you feel perfectly rested. The light slipping in from outside is that same pale orange glow that sent you to sleep; reminiscent of firelight, yet there is no crackling of burning wood and smoldering flesh. Instead there’s the faint whistling call of the wind and the strangest sound of scratching. At first you imagine it to be a wayward branch scraping against the eaves or the sound of geta scuffing against the wooden walkway. But the sound is too close, too concise to be an untrimmed tree or heavy-footed servant. It was closer to the sound of woodwork. The same noise that preceded Jurina’s pyre as branches were cut and stripped of the snow-sodden bark so the fire would not pittle and hiss over damp wood. The faint whittling noise comes from outside. The sound of scratching sounds nearer still.

In the gray-gold light, you see the edge of something shift like a shadow dancing between flickering candlelight. But there are no candles burning. No shadows dancing. The shape in the corner of your room seems far more tangible than any trick of the light. It twitches and writhes like an overturned beetle, wriggling between the seam of the adjacent walls like water leaking through a crack.

Waves of cursed energy surge from the corner like miasma, permeating the room. The scent of it stings your nose and clings to your tongue with the acidity of poison. The curse moans deep and haunting. An almost lyrical sound, as if a dozen voices are folding over each other, like plucking every string of a koto at once. A discordant whimpering undercut by the sound of digging and clawing as it peels away the planks of wood to make space for itself. The walls begin to squeal and splinter, tearing away to allow the winter morning and the curse inside.

Its bulging eyes wriggle, protruding like those of a frog, and twitching as though it’s a hardship to focus them both so singularly on something. One arm falls away from its scratching and three more follow. The weight of each limb hitting the floor sounds much like a bag of peaches tumbling in a cart. It twitches, body contacting inward until it’s a thick bulging ball of pale flesh before it flattens and drags itself forward on its four arms. It moans again, bearing its long, blunt teeth. Again, it moans, and you think you hear the number three. Then again with more clarity,

“Three, three, three.” It whimpers ceaselessly as it drags its bulging body towards you. Its skin is shapeless and loose like a boiled dumpling, contracting into a thick mass before stretching thin as it drags itself towards you with the agility of a caterpillar. Its face is snow white with red horns peeking out from beneath a hood of pale flesh. For a moment, you consider a monster trying to hide its true face, laughing at the absurdity of it. The sound of hysteria bubbles from your lips louder than any other had, and it only seemed to incense the creature. It dragged itself closer with more ferocity. The moaning chant of “three, three, three,” only gets louder.

When it’s close enough, it slashes at you, slow and clumsy like a child playing swords with a stick. The morning chill overtakes you as you leap from the futon in a cloud of silk and fur. The curse hisses, then tries again, and when it misses once more the noise it makes is something like a wail. It sounds far too anguished, far too human. The sound sinks beneath your skin, deep enough to rattle your heart and you shiver in your hakama. Your own voice is lost somewhere in your throat, tangled between your quickened breaths and thundering heartbeat.

Curses aren’t meant to speak, they’re incapable of it. And yet this one reaches towards you with taloned fingers, groaning “three, three, three.”

It lumbers through the room, weight knocking over side tables. It swings its thick arms, claws grasping to rend your flesh from your bone as it chases you. Needles prick at the soles of your feet as you stumble through the hole torn through the wall, splinters of wood stippling through your socks as the curse herds you onto the engawa. The prickling of wood shards gives way to something wet, though far too warm to be ice melting off the eaves. Your eyes are far too intent on the creature dragging itself out of the hole it burrowed into your room to spare a glance at the ground, and you go from staring at the pale creature to looking up at the light sky.

The cold is immediately, stabbing into you like a dozen blades as snow clouds your lashes. A cloud of it drifts down around you, stirred through the air as you land. Gray clouds roll by overhead as you make a wheezing noise. The air rattle inside your lungs as you try to regain the breath that had been knocked from your chest in the fall from the engawa. It hadn’t been a far drop but you hardly had breath in your lungs to start, too startled to take more than shallow gasps of air. The curse comes poking over the edge of the walkway, tossing itself into the snow beside you.

“Get back.” Your voice is as thin as the wind whistling through the courtyard. “Stay away from me.” The curse wails again. Deeper as if it meant to give the toneless sound meaning. “Three, three, THREE!” It says it as if it’s your name, reaching towards you through the snow. Belatedly, you realize that it is your name. You are Third Mistress. Third, Three. The curse bellows the word again, moving like a slug through mud as it drags its malformed body through the bank of snow. Still on your back, steeped in the chill seeping through your thin robe, you watch as the curse reaches towards you with grasping claws. There’s a pondering to your gaze as your eyes watch the dull glint of the morning light wink off the edge of its claws. Jurina had always been so preoccupied with her perfect nails. A talon finds your cheek, scratching a burning line across your face before the connected limb bursts like a crushed melon.

Hot viscera replaces the frigid kiss of the wind as bright purple blood and bits of white flesh rain down over your face. It’s nearly warm enough to scald, made worse by the shrieks of pain ringing in your ears as the curse writhes in the snow. Clouds of frost dance around its wriggling body though it doesn’t seem to move far. With muscles tensed and shivering, you shove yourself onto your elbows to see over the veil of churning snow. The curse is pinned to the ground with spears of ice. Wailing and thrashing to be free. The stump of its arm still reaches for you, joined by the three that remain. You find your knees, then slowly your feet, only to be knocked into the snow once more as a pillar of ice shatters and a flailing hand reaches towards you in another spray of violet blood. The feeling burns hot as fire, spreading through your body like sparks through a dry brush. Warmth blooms through your side, seeping over your hip and down the length of your thigh as blood weeps from the wound torn through your side.

The feeling of warmth blooms between your fingers as you press your hands against the gouge taken from your torso. It’s a strange, hollow feeling. As if your body has yet to accept the prospect of pain just yet. It comes in waves, lapping over you in an ebb and flow as your vision begins to swim. Everything is hot as fire and cold as ice. The world looks as though you’re seeing it through a cloud of steam, rippling and fading as you blink through the blood loss. This feeling isn’t new and yet the feeling hasn’t lessened in its intensity. There’s a sound that you find familiar. Frantic and sharp as a bird chirping at the rising sun. It grows colder still, though there’s comfort in the chill as you recognize the shape of arms wrapping around you. It hurts as they squeeze at the hole gaping in your side, still weeping red tears of blood through the silk of your hakama. The chirping turns to feral growls, a wolf bearing its teeth, and the curse wails anew. It sounds like Jurina if only vaguely. Shrill and bitter. The ground had only just been dusted with a cover of snow, hiding the place her blood had been spilled. Now it was your turn.

Dazedly, you blink up towards the sky, lashes shining with tears or melting snowflakes as a face swims through your periphery. The soft chirping returns and you try to piece together the sounds over the weeping curse. A voice that you recognize. It soothes your fluttering heart, lessens the flames still burning where part of your body is missing, and more is still spilling onto the snow. A red puddle blooming over a sea of white. It reminds you of Uraume’s hair, and reminds you that their voice has always been melodic like birdsong. It must be them holding you so gently, speaking soft words to you though your hearing has faded to the sound of your blood and breath, like hiding your head beneath a pillow. Something cold and soft brushes over your face and you imagine it might be the gentle fingers of your protector, but your eyes can’t find anything other than the vaguest shapes.

Everything has melded into a light wash. Gray sky, white snow, ivory-skinned curse. Everything is white until it isn’t. A sudden burst of color as a shade of sunset pink appears overhead. So far above that, for a moment, you truly think it to be the sun. But the sun has no teeth to bare, no eyes to watch those beneath its shining face. But, perhaps, he can be considered your sun as Lord Sukuna sneers at the curse still sniveling a few paces ahead. It’s pinned and bleeding. Pierced with long shards of Uraume’s ice formation. Lord Sukuna’s towering form stoops to look at the creature before his sights are set on you. He reaches out and for a moment you expect the gentility of a caress against your frigid cheek. Instead his hand closes around your neck, choking the last dregs of air from your lungs as he lifts you from Uraume’s arms. His height leaves you dangling far above the ground, legs too numb to kick though you have no reason to protest such rough treatment. Punishment is in order.

How shameful you are. The daughter of an unimpeachable sorcerer clan unable to defend herself. The wife of the King of Curses being maimed by the hands of another. Your life was not for anyone but your lord husband’s to take and yet you feel the familiar feeling of your body giving out. Made worse by the way Lord Sukuna’s fist is closed tight around your throat. Your head feels swollen, vision darkened as the pressure bursts the capillaries in your eyes. Lord Sukuna regards you with vague interests. His four eyes dance over your face, likely taking in the way your lips must be deepening to an asphyxiated blue as the veins in your face lift to the surface of your skin. You can’t bring yourself to fight against him, hands doing little more than holding his wrist as he keeps you aloft with one hand. Another comes to stroke against the wound in your side, claws raking over the ragged flesh. It feels more like pressure than pain as the feeling fades from your body. Lord Sukuna says something but it’s only a dull rumble in your uncomprehending ears. All that’s left is a ringing, then a sound like a branch being torn from a tree. Then nothing.

A lingering hollowness haunts the light floating before your eyes in clouds of flickering red. It burns through your eyelids as your lashes flutter, eyes disobeying your intentions to open them. It feels like pulling a string with no tension and expecting the puppet to move even still. No part of your body wishes to do more than twitch as you claw towards consciousness like climbing a mountain. First your toes begin to move as intended, then your fingers. It feels like filling an empty cup, bit by bit the water rises until it’s spilling over the brim and your eyes flutter open at last.

The warmth of wakefulness is nearly overwhelming. Hot as the stifling heat at the height of summer as your eyes watch the glow of the braziers flickering across the walls. Sweat trickles over your skin beneath the layers of bedding pulled up to your chin, gathering between your breasts and at the nape of your neck. It’s made worse by the tackiness in your throat. It’s hard to swallow as you shift in your nest of blankets, moving with the grace of a newborn fawn. This isn’t the rising from a fitful sleep but the emergence of a newly formed butterfly escaping its cocoon. You move with a practiced delicacy, wings still soft against your back as you strip the layers away from your sweltering skin. How long have you been asleep?

The light blooming outside the shoji gives nothing away. It could be early morning or midday and the faint glow of the winter sun remains the same. You turn away from the doors leading outside and regard the inner shoji with vague interest. There’s faint hints of knowledge in your mind. It drifts just beyond comprehension like fish dancing just below the surface of a pond, bright and fleeting as you try to grasp at the thought that won’t form. The walls around you are unfamiliar yet you can’t be certain of why. The scent in the air is foreign in a way you can’t place. Everything is wrong. A frightening sort of foreignness as you try to rattle any modicum of knowledge loose from the haze of unconsciousness. The tatami is cold underfoot, your bare toes pressing into the woven mats as you wobble towards the door on the tips of your toes. This much you know.

There’s the broadest strokes of understanding. The door slides open when you pull, red light giving way to darkness as the halls stretch out in either direction almost endlessly. The embers burning in the braziers only reach so far into the yawning blackness so you set forward blindly. One hand trails along the left wall, fingertips grazing along the screens painted with falling leaves. The halls twist and turn, darkness fading to gray as your eyes adjust to the sinuous corridors. At each corner you turn left with the vague knowledge that it will eventually lead you somewhere. The last hallway doesn’t end so much as an obstacle appears in your path. A slim figure cuts across your vision, a burning stroke of white standing out in the dimness. Their face is familiar as is the word they whisper into the darkness. The dulcet sound knocks something loose in your head. Your name. As if you’d been underwater since your eyes opened, the broad strokes of knowledge rattling about in your head are slowly refined. Returning to life is always jarring. Without guidance it takes some time for you to realize yourself, to reclaim your memories and mannerisms. Your mother had said you were like a puppet brought to life before your mind returned, always the last thing to heal from the ordeal of death.

“Lord Sukuna will be glad to hear you’ve awakened.”

“How long was I asleep?” A gentle way to ask for how long your body had been dead. Faintly, you remember the wound in your side, Lord Sukuna’s hand about your delicate throat. From the inside of your body, breaking your neck always sounds like a tree being cleaved in two. A thick tearing noise that echoes dully in your ears before the unknown sound of death swallows you. That you never remember. A small miracle considering how often you’ve found yourself being relieved of your life. Drowning, choking, burning. And yet your body mends itself without fail, becoming stronger for the pain you endured. You touch your side and wonder what it will take to pierce the skin there in this lifetime; because there have already been so many.

“A fortnight.” Uraume tells you. Usually a broken neck would not take so long to heal. But the damage is rarely paired with the viscera of a curse attack. It had been a lucky thing that Lord Sukuna had honored you with death at his hands. The first since you’ve entered his household as his third wife. If the curse had taken your life, you imagine there might not have been another life to live. No death had ever come at the hands of a curse or anything imbued with cursed energy. If it can keep a sorcerer from becoming a curse, it can likely keep you from reviving with more strength than before. It would’ve been a great shame to have been killed by a curse when your lord husband was so near. An insult to allow anyone other than him to determine what happens to his wife. His third wife. His favorite wife.

Uraume leads without much grandeur, simply walking a few steps ahead of you. The path becomes clearer now. Still dark and unlit but there’s a familiarity to it that hadn’t been there only moments ago. The air is chilling as Uraume leads the way outside, meandering along the engawa until they jump from the edge, their landing softened by the clouds of snow still blanketing the ground. It seems less than it had been when your eyes had last opened, as if it hadn’t snowed heavily since the night of Jurina’s death. Yet it was still winter and you clutch the folds of your hakama closer around your shoulders as Uraume trails ahead. Clouds like wisps of smoke puff from between your lips as shivers tremble through your renewed body. If they feel the cold, Uraume doesn’t acknowledge it. The cold is something intrinsic to your lord husband’s most favored servant. Even in the height of summer there’s a slight chill to their presence. Likely a consequence of their cursed technique.

Uraume leads the way past the unattached buildings that are only frequented by servants, towards the far bounds of the estate. There’s never been any reason for you to be this far from the main house. You imagine these are places where things you never think of are stored, preserved foods and wagons for trips into town. The armory is the only building you recognize. A haze of cursed energy looms over the building like a shroud. It’s the same for the building that Uraume seems to be leading you towards. The air around it is thick with the presence of great power. Both auras are familiar in different ways. Just as each person seems to carry their own distinct scent, cursed energy has an element of individuality. Even with your eyes closed and ears plugged, you’d know the approach of your lord husband by his cursed energy alone. He is inside. As is another being that you imagine must be the curse that had attacked you. Their energy is recognizable in a fractured way. Like a dream slipping away as soon as you wake.

Uraume announces your arrival as they open the door. The room is bathed in gold, lit by dozens of lanterns all flickering in tandem. The room is modest in size and made smaller by what must be hundreds–if not thousands–of talismans hanging from the walls and ceiling. All in various sizes and written in different hands. Some of the ink has the neatness of a learned scholar while others have the shakiness of illiteracy, though the quality of the script hardly matters to what is written. Each tag holds the power to bind. As do the thickly woven ropes wrapped right around the pale curse that attacked you all those days ago. It gurgles and strains within the ropes hung with more binding talismans, bulging eyes bobbing in its head as it tries to fix its gaze towards the sound of your approach. You hardly notice, eyes fixed on the vision of your lord husband standing over the creature with his spear in hand.

Lord Sukuna takes over your vision, eclipsing everything with his daunting figure. He takes his eyes away from the curse bound at his feet with an unhurried sort of interest, and the weight of his gaze makes you bloom like a flower beneath the kiss of the sun. Red eyes piercing as burning iron stab through you, pinning you in place so absolutely that your knees buckle. He sees the weakness before you can fall and catches you by the waist, pulling you against him. Your eyes fall away from his face, head bowing as you try to find the words to apologize for your mistake; your death. He silences you before you can find enough words to express the deep rooted feeling of inadequacy.

“The misstep has already been punished.” When you dare to look up, Lord Sukuna is looking towards Uraume. With a sharp nod of his head he dismisses his right hand attendant to leave the two of you alone with the curse that tried to take your life, tried to claim something that belongs to your lord husband alone. Not even you have such control of your life. You’ve heard tales of unhappy concubines seeking death in the face of neglect and mistreatment. Though you’ve always found yourself spoiled in your marriage, you can’t imagine that you could ever take your own life even if you were set aside and forgotten. Lord Sukuna will always be your world. The sun doesn’t cease to exist simply because it has set. The darkness of night must be endured to enjoy the light of day. You’ll suffer anything at the hands of your lord husband if it pleases him. Your life is his to manage as he sees fit.

“My Lord,” you try to speak, but you’re silenced once more.

“Don’t start. I’ve already told you you’re forgiven. Besides, words are useless without action. If you truly seek forgiveness then prove it.” He takes his hand away from you and nods towards the curse still squirming in its bonds. Its eyes wheel this way and that until one finally finds its way into a position to see you. The aborted struggles seem to renew with the vigor you’d seen upon its arrival into your chamber. The ropes burn red welts into its pale skin where it writhes and strains, spittle dribbling from its mouth as its empty whining turns to hissing yowls.

“Three, three, three.” The creature spits, straining towards you with the singularity of an arrow launched from a bow. Lord Sukuna stands behind you, a pillar of strength and a post keeping you from turning away. One of his hands finds yours, pressing his spear against your palm. It’s heavy and your arm trembles with the strength it takes to hold it. His intentions are clear. Kill the curse. It takes great strength and both arms to lift Lord Sukuna’s spear. All of your weight pitches forward as you drive the three-pronged blade through the curse’s head. Blood sprouts like a fountain as the creature screams. The sound pierces through your ears, ringing in your head as you drive the weapon further through its head in a rush to silence the noise. It chuffs and squeals, thrashing against the ropes with slowly waning strength until, at last, it goes still and silent.

For a moment the pale lump of bleeding, bulging flesh takes on a shimmery red glow like flames burning within ash and ember. It grows then fades as the creature sags in a haze of dissipating cursed energy. The only movement left is the blood dripping from the spear still lodged in its head, forming a puddle on the dirt floor. Perhaps a flower will sprout from the soil wetted with purple blood though you doubt something so delicate could spring from the death of such a violent creature. Kneeling next to the puddle you touch the spot of dampness and ask the question that’s been on the tip of your tongue since the curse first spoke.

“Was this First Mistress Jurina?” It had to be. It would explain the vague familiarity about the curse’s energy. Like the scent of someone lingering in their clothes after they’ve worn them, Jurina’s cursed energy tainted the new signature of the cursed spirit. Lord Sukuna barks out a laugh.

“There’s no need to be so respectful of the dead. Jurina is no longer my wife, nor was she ever worth your deference.”

“She was your first wife,” you mumble, lowering your head against the admonishment you expect to meet your stubbornness. It doesn’t come.

“They are wives in name only. Perhaps I laid with them, but there has been no woman above you since we wed.”

The wedding had been something of a formality performed in the absence of your lord husband. The vows had been spoken before your family and the deed was done long before you completed the arduous journey from your home to Lord Sukuna’s estate. You were his wife for some time before you met and, truly, you will be his wife forever. Not even death could sever your allegiance. It makes you wonder if one day you’ll become a curse too. Some amalgamation of your grief and anguish. The dark, rotted feeling of failure as you abandon your lord husband in death. It’s unthinkable when your body has been blessed with such resilience and yet you know that there may come a day when death is no longer like sleep, your eyes will close forever, the butterfly dead at last. It brings a mournful feeling to your heart.

“Would you let me curse you, my lord?” Jurina had become a vengeful spirit fueled by her hatred of you. She’d cursed you in her death and you can only hope to be so attached to your lord husband, even in death. It’s the dividing line between you, the gate guarding you from the rest. In her last moments, Jurina hadn’t been thinking of Lord Sukuna. Her husband, her murderer. Instead he eyes had looked to you and her soul had screamed to tear at you the way Lord Sukuna had shredded through her body. It was with no small amount of pain that Jurina had lost her life and even in the midst of death she had found it in herself to hate you with such passion that it burned even after she died. If she had hatred you wished to burn with love in your afterlife, to be so consumed by the flames of your desire that your essence will cling to Lord Sukuna even in death.

“Would you curse me?” He asks sardonically.

“I think I would.” There’s a bashfulness to your voice as your eyes stay towards the ground, watching Jurina’s purple blood seep into the soil. Lord Sukuna places a finger under your chin, sharpened nail digging into the soft skin beneath your jaw. When your eyes lift towards his face he’s smiling, a stark baring of fanged teeth. He smiles like a wolf and you’re the rabbit a hair’s breadth away from being bitten.

“You’ll have to die first.” His tone is peculiar. There’s a hint of humor though it’s colored with something darker, as if Lord Sukuna is angered by the prospect of you abandoning him in such a way.

“I will someday.” You remind him. Your Chrysalis technique may revive you from traumatic deaths, but a gentle departure, a final breath gasped in the night, is likely to go unrenewed. A winter frost through which no spring flowers will bloom. Nature cannot be denied and to live is to die.

Lord Sukuna cups your face in his hand, clawed fingers digging into your cheeks. “How little you know, woman.”

He says no more and you decide that he must know something that you don’t. He is leagues more worldly and likely does know things beyond your understanding. It isn’t your place to pry if he won’t tell you freely. He must see a thousand questions behind your eyes but he neglects to answer any of them. Instead he pulls his hand away from your face and the warmth of his skin against yours is replaced by the winter cold. There are no burning coals in this room. A shiver snakes through your body, and that Lord Sukuna acknowledges. He removes his outer robe and drapes it around your shoulder. Immediately you’re drowning in the warmth of his body still lingering in the silk. It’s far too long for you and you gather the massive swathe of fabric into your arms to keep it from dirtying on the ground. Lord Sukuna tuts and picks you up, easily keeping his clothes from dragging along the dirt. Cradling you in one arm he pulls his spear from Jurina’s second corpse with another. It comes loose with a sound that reminds you of chopping vegetables.

Lord Sukuna calls for Uraume and they appear in an instant as if they had been by his side all along. There’s an unspoken order that passes between them and your lord husband’s servant accepts it with a resolute nod. Then he says, “come, woman,” as though you could go anywhere else while still held aloft in his arms. It’s so different from the last time he held you, his fist locked around your delicate throat. Now his arms cradle beneath your knees and across your back as you lean against the warmth of his chest. The light of the sun is a bright wash of hazy white after spending some time in the dimness of the talisman room. You expect that Lord Sukuna will take you back to the main house, but he continues off in the direction nearing the furthermost bounds of the estate.

“What will happen to Jurina now?” You dare to ask. Her human form had already been burned, but you weren’t sure what would become of her cursed form. It would be cruel to send it back to her family and burning wasn’t meant for curses. A human body could be purified in flames in preparation for the next life, but a curse could not shed the truth of its nature even in death.

“I’ll show you,” Lord Sukuna said cryptically, still walking towards the building that stood alone on the outer reaches of the estate. Like the talisman room and the armory, there was a heady cloud of cursed energy blanketing the structure, though it was far more potent than anything you’d ever encountered aside from Lord Sukuna. His cursed energy seemed as deep and unending as the ocean and this strange building was just as unfathomably thick with traces of cursed energy. It was nearly overwhelming despite your constant exposure to your lord husband. It was ominous. Terrifying in its foreignness. Were you not held by Lord Sukuna, you might’ve run from this place. But there is an inherent safety in his arm. Your lord husband wouldn’t take you to a place that he could not protect you.

“What is this place?” You ask quietly, as if speaking too loudly would rouse something from the aura of darkness.

“An onsen of sorts.” It had the warmth of a bathhouse though the sound of babbling water was traded for that of rain, like a rushing waterfall as Lord Sukuna opened the door. It seemed just like the onsen of the main house. Stone floors around a deep pool, yet there was no water here. Instead the pit where a hot spring might’ve been was filled with something black and vicious. The dripping sound came from the strange hammock hung far above the pool. That same dark liquid seeping through the large patchwork of fabric. And when you look closer, there are those same talisman symbols painted on the bulging material.

“This is where Jurina will be taken,” Lord Sukuna told you, “so that she might finally be of use.” Just as Uraume said, none of his wives have served their purpose. It makes you wonder what purpose Lord Sukuna would have you serve. You dare to ask.

“That’s why I’ve brought you here,” he says vaguely. “You’re my wife, and I expect that you’ll serve me as a wife should.”

His words send a shock down your spine. What task have you been neglecting? You were raised in an affluent household as the daughter of a large and prosperous clan. The ways of womanhood have been stitched into your brain from the moment you were born. The proper way to act and speak, the things a wife must pay heed to if she wishes to keep a well run household. Though you’re only the third in line of authority–second, now–you’ve taken up most tasks to do with the household. Jurina hadn’t the patience and Second Mistress was always sequestered in her room. Such a sad girl like a flower wilting at the height of spring. She cried at Jurina’s funeral where few others could find the fondness for it. It was you that the head household maid reported to and the cooks asked about which meals should be prepared on which days. At first, you simply thought it was the convenience of receiving prompt answers, but now you know that it was simply expected. You were the favorite, the de facto lady of the house. So what could there be that you weren’t doing to your lord husband’s standards?

“My apologies, my lord. Whatever I’ve been lacking I will–” His hand covers your mouth, ear to ear.

“Enough,” he groans. Then he says, “Children. A wife should give her husband children. You’ll serve this purpose for me.” There’s a fleeting hint of fondness in his voice that sends a twinge through your heart. Lord Sukuna is asking you to bear his children. You weren’t married into the household as his main wife and yet he’s given you the highest honor of being the mother of his heirs. A warmth blooms across your cheeks and down your neck, a flush of excitement igniting through your body.

“As many as you’d like, my lord.” It’s what’s expected of you though you; an expectation rather than a choice, but you’re excited to fulfill the role even still. Though, part of you had considered it an impossibility. Lord Sukuna had been human once but something in him had changed, gone beyond that of an ordinary man. But he is a man even still. Desiring progeny, a legacy beyond his own being. To know that he wants to use your body for such an honorable purpose washes you in a great sense of pride. It will be your womb that births the King of Curses his heirs. Little pink haired babies with your nose and their father’s four eyes. But pride slowly turns to contemplative anguish.

If you were meant to give Lord Sukuna his children, it is nothing short of a miracle that you haven’t conceived in the year that you’ve been married. Lord Sukuna did nothing sparingly. He indulged to his heart’s content. In blood and carnage, in food, and in bed. He laid with you often enough that a child should’ve come long ago and yet you’ve yet to feel the stirring of a baby quickening within you.

The room dips and swoops around you as your eyes lose focus, lost in thought. What was wrong with you that you hadn’t yet fallen pregnant? Your hands clutch at your stomach, empty beneath the layers of your clothes. A hidden fragment of your heart wonders if it’s truly your fault at all. Lord Sukuna had three wives, and while you were most favored there were times when he took the others to bed, a time before you entered his household. And yet the estate remains empty of heirs. Though you don’t dare to entertain the thought longer than a moment, it flashes through your mind as quick as an arrow. Perhaps it was Lord Sukuna that was obstructing the blessing of a child. Still, your hands remain on your stomach, caressing the place meant to bear the fruits of life. Since birth you were told it would be your only honor in this life. To give a man a son to further his glory and continue his legacy. Lord Sukuna isn’t in need of such a successor, yet he’s asked for them even still.

“You are truly too valuable to die,” Lord Sukuna says, lifting your eyes towards his. They’re piercing as red flames, burning into your face with such intensity that it makes you want to wither in his arms, like a flower left with no water. “Jurina was poisoning you. Every night. And yet your body was kind enough to preserve itself for me.” Because what other reason would you have to defy death so vehemently? If Lord Sukuna says the purpose of your cursed technique is to keep you by his side, then who are you to deny it?

“You like tea.” Lord Sukuna says, passing the pad of his thumb over your lips. “Dark tea. Dark enough to mask the color of anything added to it. Jurina was bribing your little maid to slip poison into your tea every night before bed. Nothing lethal. She meant to poison your womb and purge any seed I might’ve planted inside you.” He laughs scornfully, “I thought it was jealousy, at first, but she was drinking it, too, and feeding it to the second one. Likely the work of her family urging her to cripple my reign by blocking the chances of an heir.”

Another hand brushes against your stomach, sweeping away your desperate grasping.

“I chose you well, woman. Though the poison did as it was made to and purged your body of any child that might’ve grown, you healed. What made Jurina and the other barren hardly touched you. As soon as you closed your eyes your body repaired itself. Uraume thinks you might be close to building a tolerance for it since your technique heals as well as strengthens. I might start feeding you poisons to fortify you against future attacks.” It was so terribly wonderful that you knew as soon as he said it that you’d gladly eat anything your lord husband asked without question. The poison might even taste sweet on your tongue if it was prepared by him.

“Things will be different now. You will give me children. Strong children.” He says it with an air of finality, as if you’d ever deny him anything, though you’re uncertain of how strong any child of yours will be. Of course, your maiden clan is a powerful one, but you’re hardly a descendant of the three elite sorcerer clans. Jurina had been a Zenin. Her blood would’ve given him strong children. Second Mistress is a Kamo and her children would carry that superiority in their blood. As a humble Hoga, you were the least desirable of his brides to have his children with. Unless Fourth Mistress was of a lower clan than even you.

“If I may, my lord,” he grunts his annoyance but allows you to continue. “If you want children, why did you not have them with Jurina? Certainly a Zenin would be better suited to creating a powerful heir. My cursed technique is unheard of even within my own clan.” You remind him. It would break your heart to disappoint him with a child that couldn’t even do you the service of inheriting your technique. And there likely would be no second chance to amend the error.

“I don’t want your technique, woman, though it would surely be of great use. That’s what this place is for.” He sweeps his arm towards the pool of darkness gathered in the center of the room. The longer you look the more it begins to turn from black to deep purple. Slowly, the immense level of cursed energy sufficing the air begins to make sense. The staccato waves that don’t seem to match any singular signature aside from Lord Sukuna’s. It is blood. The blood of curses. And Lord Sukuna had called it an onsen of sorts. Did he mean to bathe you in the blood of those he’d slain? To give your child over to these tainted waters to imbue them with its power?

It made you fear for the child that had yet to be made. Of course, their purpose in life would be an extension of your own. To serve their lord father in any way that he asked, yet they’d still be a piece of you. A terrible selfish piece of your heart began to crack and splinter, breaking away in revolt of turning your baby into a monster. But what was Lord Sukuna if not a monster? Adoration did little to cleanse the crimes of the King of Curses. Any child you gave him would be heir to that title. With a few measured breaths, you resigned yourself to it. Your child would know no other way of life and you would love them as proudly as a mother could. They would always be a manifestation of the love you bear for your lord husband. His flesh and blood joined with yours to create a life. It felt like a privilege to even consider the thought.

#sukuna ★#sukuna x reader #jjk x reader #★ mine!

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star-girl69 · 1 year

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My Heart Never Knows

a/n: ok just to clarify- the confession last chapter was mostly just for jake and neytiri to say that they're both ok with this and that it is an option they're willing to explore. but please keep in mind they have not know reader long and basically they're trying to figure out what they want while flirting w reader at the same time. it's a mess but they're cute so!!

and this chapter kinda sucks… i’m still figuring out where i want this story to go but i hope you all enjoy!!

warnings: mentions of fighting, swearing, tell me if i missed anything!!

Chapter Five - Breathe

—-

"Why are you dressed up?"

Ronal looks at you oddly as you enter their mauri, the sun still rising behind you. You pause in the entrance, placing your hands on your hips, feeling like a fool.

"I am not."

“You are." she shoots back, before a smile finds its way onto her face. "Have you met someone?"

“No!" you blurt out, far too quickly, and she only smiles wider.

"You have," she insists, walking over to you and touching one of the green jewels on your woven top, reaching up your neck, falling just to your ribs.

You shake your head adamantly, explanations spilling from your lips, but she only shakes her head.

"No. You must tell me, Y/N," she pushes some of your hair over your shoulder, knuckles brushing your skin.

"I haven't.” You repeat, trying to sound unbendable, truthful. She cannot question you, and you cannot question yourself.

“Fine. Do not tell me. I understand new love... and it is nice for it to be just the two of you,” you have never known Ronal to give up easy, and she scoffs at your unimpressed look. "I speak the truth." she says, before smiling at you once more and turning her back to you.

While you eye her, suspicious that she will suddenly turn around with demands on her lips, you do think about her words.

Have you met someone?

—-

When you wind down the woven paths, no mothers pull their children away. A few passersby even smile at you, and you return the gesture, eager to distract yourself from your thoughts.

Have you met someone?

The words ring in your head like a prayer, but instead of making you feel connected to Eywa and fulfilled, you feel like you are being torn in two.

Your feet take you to their mauri of their own accord, you body betraying you and already used to your new routine.

When you came around the bend, you saw them, standing and talking. Your eyes flicked to the blue water next to you. You could jump in right now, swim out to the seawall and live in Three Brothers Rock forever.

Instead, you keep walking. If only because no matter your heart, you promised Tonowari, and it would break you to not keep your promise.

You had decided late last night that you would take them in the water today. They have swam before, but not with the breathing techniques you had taught them. Besides, if Jake was so insistent on riding a tsurak, he needs to get used to the water.

But while the path bounces and wanes and waxes beneath you, you cannot help but feel that this morning is different.

Maybe it is the change of plans. Maybe it is the fact that you are wearing your nicest top, for reasons unknown to you.

Instead, you ignore it, because you have a duty to fulfill.

When Neytiri sees you, she smiles brightly, and you resist the urge to pull away. Neytiri is kind and beautiful, but not the type to smile at you the way she is now.

Then, Jake turns, and you see him do a double take.

You resist the urge to look down, wondering if perhaps you top is crooked, or your bottoms have shifted over. But you feel the fabric, the twine against you, and it is in all the right places.

But as soon as it is there, it is gone.

"Good morning," you say, hoping your smile does not reveal the storm underneath that is you.

"Good morning. Y/N,” Neytiri says, stepping out in front of Jake. Her eyes trail up and down, and while it still makes that ache under your ribs flare, you have grown used to her encompassing, wandering looks.

"You look fancy," Jake blurts, almost as if he has to say it before it burns him up inside. But when you look back towards him, he is only confidence. Thoughts swirl- did he mean to say it? Did he want to? Does he know what it does to you? “I like the green things. Pretty."

Suddenly the floor seems very interesting. Anything to get away from his burning eyes, like he is looking into your soul, your heart, under your ribs. “Thank you,”

You wish Eywa would appear in front of you, press your face in her hands, command you to be well, a little less of the mess you seem to become around them.

You feel stupid and small. The urge to wrap your heart in layers and layers of cloth and flesh, protect it from this strange man and woman who you refuse to believe what you feel about them.

“Would you like to swim?”

A wide smile crosses Jake’s face.

Even if you do humor the possibility that you see a future with them, they would never like you. Never want to mate with you. Not you.

“Hell yeah,”

Have you met someone?

When you walk past them, dive into the sea, the ache under your ribs hurts the most it ever has.

—-

You hear splashes behind you, and you feel the disturbance in the still water, the currents pushing at you.

You try ignore it, instead diving deeper and deeper, trying to escape their current, until you get to the bottom and can hide yourself in the coral, bury yourself instead.

But you don’t do that. You have a duty. Instead, you turn towards them, watch Neytiri’s eyes fix on a small fish swimming past, and she reaches out to touch it as it swims away.

Her hand raised, she watches as the small creature carves a path for itself, and you watch her.

When you tear your eyes away from her, you go out farther and Jake follows, Neytiri slowly trailing behind.

When you move your hands, Jake squints for a second, and you almost smile. But he recognizes it, one of the first words you had taught the two of them in Metkayina sign language, in your hand-words, as Jake said.

Breathe, you say, and-

He starts to breathe.

—-

Two Weeks Later

It is much easier to live in the moment, you have decided.

The label “friends” is precarious when placed on the three of you- you, Jake, and Neytiri- but the more you think about it the more your ribs ache and your head starts to hurt.

You have decided to let yourself float, enjoy their attention, their company. They are still cautious around others, but you think they have let you in, if just ever so slightly. They like you and you like them, and it does not have to be anything more than that.

You had dinner with them once, where Lo’ak spent most of the time trying to subtly ask questions about Tsireya, and you found that you got along well with all of their children.

Later, when Neytiri was handing you a shawl to walk home- she had insisted, saying you could return it when you saw her again- you confided in her that you had been nervous.

She had just smiled and told you, “They loved you. We all do.”

And when you look at her now, your mind flicks back to that moment.

Not thinking about what it means, for you, for the clan, for them, but instead just basking in the feeling of being wanted.

Neytiri has taken your place, assisting Ronal in her day to day tasks as the Tsahìk, and there is really no use for you anymore. But Ronal doesn’t trust Neytiri, not like she trusts you, so she still wants you to come.

And she is your sister, so why would you refuse her?

Now, Neytiri sits next to you, helping you wrap a man’s leg, cut open in a hunting accident. Ronal makes a tea on the far side of the room- too far for her to hear you two.

The man you tend to is delirious from the pain, but you can’t bring yourself to speak.

It is too nice to just be here with her, to sit next to her, to feel your knees touch so slightly. Your skin burns where it touches hers, but you don’t move.

Would it matter if you burned, as long as you burned with her?

—-

“Jake! Jake!” when you call, you almost expect him to ignore you. But he turns, almost immediately, walking towards you.

He is a force, cutting through the people on the walkways, because he commands a room. His song is one of violence, and he is walking towards you, fists clenched, dark look in his eyes.

It is only a few steps, but it feels like a lifetime until he is in front of you. Scars line is chest like a spiderweb, and you want to reach out and trace each one with your fingers, your tongue-

“I- I didn’t think you would-” you say, flustered, surprised that he actually gave you the time of day.

His face drops. “I’m sorry, ‘M just-”

He curses under his breath, fists clenching, and is it so wrong for you to grab his hand? Because you do, pull his fingers out, unfurl them like a flower.

He stares down at your intwined hands for a second, the back of his palm resting in the bowl of yours, your other hand wrapped around his fingers. It is just basic biology- his hands are bigger than yours, but you find that you quite like it.

“I heard what happened,” you whisper, staring at him, but his eyes are still downcast. “I’m sorry that Ao’nung said that to Kiri, did that to your boys.”

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, shaking his head, and when he looks up it is your turn to look down.

“You are not your children, and I am not my nephew. But, I- we are okay, right?”

“What?”

And the disbelief in his voice makes you look up, makes you stare him right in the eyes and you are pinned under him and your ribs ache and it is not enough, you think, not enough not enough-

“We- we are okay?”

He smiles, and you are standing on a cliff and he is below and you are falling, falling, doing everything you said you were not.

“Why wouldn’t we be okay? We are. Okay, I mean. I can’t blame you for the actions of someone else.”

And you cannot bring yourself to answer, because you don’t know what you would do if the three of you were not okay. You let go of him and nod, swear his face drops, and say you will see him tomorrow.

You are sinking underneath their waves, and you know you should be dying, drowning and falling and sinking. But you still breathe.

You do not- cannot- think about why that is.

—-

taglist:

@sully-stick-together @corrupt-cadaver420 @jadynchronicle @imthefunniestpersonalive @fangil101 @mashiromochi @rey26 @soothinghummerz @myheartfollower @pwallettes @melodykisses @ghoulfiendz @fanboyluvr @itsyaspwr @khaleesihavilliard @capbrie @nothingfuninthislife @faceaeter @thetrashindrakensroom @makeup-stuff-and-such @my-dearest-agent @miyamuraaaa @ex0ticnobody @xoxovienna

#jake sully x neytiri #jake sully x reader #neytiri x reader

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bloodyshadow1 · 3 days

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just for fun, I assigned the bad kids a vestige from critical role because I love both and am bored at work. My own little rule is that no one can have overlapping vestiges. example Fig and Fabian both would be great with mythcarver, but I gave it to Fig since I think she could use it better and I explain why. I also wanted things to fit with the Bad Kids thematically instead of just being efficient in assigning powerful magic items to adventurers.

Riz

Whisper- pretty obvious as the party's rogue even though Riz uses a gun he does have the sword of shadows that he uses as a melee weapon. Having a weapon with a free teleport with his rogue disengage is amazing

Danothar’s visor- a great item for a sneaky investigator like Riz, he already has gadgets that lets him do similar things, but still, the other abilities like advantage on investigation and perception checks are great for him. It also lets him auto save from illusions and see through them, see through solid matter up to a foot and cast antimagic field. It’s perfect for someone who used to get screwed over by magic a lot like he was the passed 2 years

Infiltrator's key- an item made for rogues even if thieve’s tools aren’t normally Riz’s thing, it does come down to him to unlock doors and disarm traps that the bad kids face. Being able to create your own doors is also just great in general for an investigator. Not to mention the spells that the key grants are perfect for rogues and means he doesn’t have to burn his spell slots since he doesn’t have that many compared to most of his friends

Adaine

Wraps of Dymak- while this is of course not great for Adaine, the first 2 seasons she was so intent on punching her enemies despite not having the strength to do so, Ayda even gifted her the spell Adaine’s furious fist so she can do so more effectively. Sure she has the sword of sight now, but it’s always important to remember where you came from. Also a free misty step isn’t bad by any means

Jewel of Three Prayers- as a wizard, Adaine has shit ac so any boost from it that wouldn’t interfere with her other ac boosting items or abilities would be great for her in general. Being able to burn a charge to get rid of a nasty affects like Paralyze, restrained, and grappled is great for anyone, but especially a squishy wizard like her. Being able to burn a charge to grant anyone she can see a reroll on a save is great and fits with her diviner subclass. And finally the exalted ability to breath and swim under water with a walking speed is thematically great for Adaine who has a slight fear of water given what happened to the previous elven oracle.

Grimore Infinitus- I mean there isn’t a better vestige for a wizard, 25 free spells in your spell book would make this amazing on its own. Being able to prepare 3 extra spells per day in its exalted state is great for any wizard who is nervous about what they are going to face that day. Additionally, saving throws on all magical effects is great for any character, but for Adaine who is alway being targeted by harmful magic it would make her less depended on Boggy giving her the help action for her saves and put him in less danger.

Kristen

Plate of the dawnmartyr- not to keep ripping off critical role’s cast choices, but Kristen is the only one of the bad kids who uses heavy armor so she would get the ac boost, and the any resistances is a good thing so the resistance to fire in its awakened state. Bounce back damage is great because clerics tend to be targeted above other pc’s. And of course the ability to come back after going to 0 hp is perfect for any cleric.

Honor’s last stand- Kristen I believe has high AC because it’s flavored she’s wearing heavy armor and wielding a shield, so having a legendary shield would be great. It’s awakened ability to make it’s user immune to prone is also great for someone with her dex

Fig

Spire of Conflux- it is a staff with extra spells which is great for any spell caster and in its exalted state it increases the casters spell attack and dc by +1. Additionally in its awakened state the spire allows the wielder to reroll any 1’s they get on the dice for elemental damage and since Emily has been rolling pretty poor this season damage wise, I think it would really help Fig out with her damage rolls

Armor of the Valiant soul- I believe Fig can use medium armor, not sure with all her multiclassing, but she should be able to by now. The ac buff is great all around and so is the resistance to acid and immunity to fear. However the free use of the command spell is why I chose this for Fig since she is always trying to mess with her opponents heads though that was more so in freshman and sophomore year I still think it fits.

Mythcarver- While this would also work for Fabian, I think as a lore bard with cutting words, it would have more utility in Fig’s hands instead of Fabians, though it would still be very good for him. Fig is more of a primary spell caster than Fabian so using cutting words to give enemies disadvantage on saves would be more useful for her than him. Not to mention that the exalted ability to get more attacks, would be more useful for Fig as Fabian already gets multiattack and action surge as a fighter while Fig only has 1 for now, and as a Paladin she can smite on each of those attacks while Fabian already has Fandragor to due something similar.

Verminshroud- While not exactly good for Fig, I do think she would have a lot of fun with it, being able to turn into a giant rat, wasp, and scorpion would be fun for her and her chaos bringer mentality. Honestly, resistance from poison is still a resistance. Again, I just think she would have fun with it

Fabian

Kiss of the Changebringer- I think this is just a generally good vestige for anyone but I think it fits Fabian because he’s always trying to get his kisses in.

Deathwalker’s Ward- Fabian is a dex fighter, so light armor with bonus ac is perfect for him. In its exalted state it gives him a resistance that he can change during a short rest which is good for every character, but especially someone on the front line like Fabian. And of course the ability to fly for an hour is perfect for a maximum legend like Fabian who loves to show off and it also is incredibly practical too

Cabal’s Ruin- It’s good for any character, being able to get resistance to damage you would take from a spell is great. As a fighter/bard, fabian has a great ac of 19 and can boost that with his defensive flourish and maybe battlemaster abilities, so hitting him isn’t the easiest but he is just as affected by magic as any other martial character, but Cabal’s ruin gives him advantage on all saves against magic. So the ability to halve spell damage and use it to boost the damage you do is perfect for him. Also, despite being a bard, Fabian doesn’t really use his spells in combat, preferring to use them to fuel Fandragor and hammer away at his foes making Cabal’s ruin perfect for him as a fully charged exalted vestige can do an extra 10d6 lightning damage on one attack or being able to spread the damage around.

Gorgug-

Titanstone knuckles- again, not to rip off critical role, but the knuckles are an all around great item for anyone with its multiple resistances to common damage types. For a barbarian it’s a no brainer with the extra damage the enlarge spell gives and of course putting his strength above 20, maxing out at 26 exalted as opposed to his current 18 isn’t anything to sneeze at.

Pyremaul- Thematically not really Gorgug’s thing because he doesn’t have any specially affinity towards fire and uses axes, but the maul is still a two handed weapon and does an extra 3d6 fire damage on hits so I don’t think any Barbarian can pass up that damage. It also has a similar ability to Zelda’s mixtape if he ever wants to retire that since they broke up it would give him the chance to. On the flip side of themes, it wouldn’t be the worst thing for Gorgug to put aside the axe meant to kill to pick up a hammer than can be used to kill and craft. To symbolically choose to walk the path of barbarian and artificer.

Stormgirdle- like the Titanstone Knuckles, these are perfect for a barbarian as it buffs your strength score, not as high as the knuckles, but still higher than the natural max any character can get to. 2 extra elemental resistances aren’t anything to poke fun seeing as magic tends to be barbarians bane as they have physical residences as they rage. The storm avatar form is cool in general, most barbarians don’t have much use for their bonus action after they rage so the extra damage is great and being able to fly is amazing for any martial class.

Tell me what you think, if you agree or disagree. If you have better suggestions. Or just think another character should get one over the other that I put here

This was a lot of fun but also more difficult than you think. I'll admit I thought more about utility and defense than pure offense. Like with Kristen I focused more on her being harder to hit and put down because she's already an extremely powerful cleric. Fabian was also kind of difficult because he's a fighter, he's good at it, Mythcarver or the Star Razor would be great for him, but I also think that there isn't a better sword for him than Fandrangor so I couldn't argue that for him to get an offensive vestige.

Like I said, it was still a lot of fun, might do something similar for the seven since they're still my favorite season of d20

#fantasy high #fantasy high junior year #fhjy #the bad kids #adaine abernant #riz gukgak #fig faeth #kristen applebees #fabian seacaster #fabian aramais seacaster #gorgug thistlespring #critical role

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swanmaids · 2 months

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cw childbirth

They hung the nauglamir on a hook behind the door of the birthing chamber. For luck, Dior said, and Nimloth, who had previously considered herself above superstition, did not disagree.

Luck was needed. This child would be only the third of her kind, following her own twin brothers born three years before. The midwives, Eldar and Edain both, had warned them, over and over, that there were no guarantees – but Nimloth hardly needed the reminder.

It was not only the child that raised concerns. Nimloth and Dior had not intended a second pregnancy – but it had come upon her nonetheless. She had not even realised that such a thing was possible. The Eldar did not bear their children in such close succession. She knew of no other who had done so, and might be a guiding hand. Instead, she and Dior would have to guide themselves.

When she had first realised that she was with child again and felt the babe’s presence, she had said a prayer of thanks to Ivann that this time it was not twins.

The holy jewel in place, Dior lent her his arm while she paced the room, their daughter turning over inside her. His presence, the solidity of him, was a comfort. She was afraid, but she was not alone.

Hanging from the door, the necklace threw sparkling beams around the room, making everything within it — the bed and the birthing stool, the midwives murmuring among each other, the bowls of water and the swaddling cloth — shine. It was as though the world had made itself beautiful in preparation for their daughter’s arrival.

Nimloth would never be able to speak mind to mind with her mortal husband with the same clarity of two wedded Eldar, but through their abstract bond she felt the hope rise within him as they took in the gentle beauty of the scene; at odds with the coming violence of childbirth and the uncertainty of their future. It felt like a sign.

Dior squeezed her hand. “All will be well,” he murmured.

#my post #my fic #feb ficlet challenge

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frootyloopy · 9 months

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Been in a bit of writing kick today!!

Sea creature Scar au by the wonderful @stiffyck who inspires me constantly!! Love sharing my thoughts with you king <33

Trigger warnings: body horror, emetophobia

It's been nearly five years, since he left them on that pathetic little island. The treasure wasn't what the tall tales had explained, it was a mix of fool's gold and scratched jewels. It looked so beautiful when he'd opened the lid of the box, but when he'd opened it again on the SS Flying Jellie miles from shore, distant shouting still faintly ringing in his ears, it'd be nearly empty. He didn't realize the true "treasure" that was in the box until weeks later. It started slowly, with his hair starting to fall out. It took only three months for the tentacles to start growing in. They started at his hairline, bulging under his skin. He thought he'd gone insane when they started to *move*. By the end of the year his hair was gone and replaced by a slimy writhing mass. He used their hats to hide it. Ironic really, considering he didn't even realize it was that horrible box that caused him to lose his hair until the gnawing regret that was eating him alive by abandoning them made his gaze linger for a little too long.

He spent weeks nauseous, spitting up blood that would turn black once it hit the deck and *bubble* as it dried. He didn't realize it stopped looking like blood until he'd spent a night drinking and had watched it cover his hands after leaving the shore too soon. That was the first night the rumors started, when he'd left the bar without a tip after someone had taken one of his hats off the pile as a joke. A tentacle slithered along his neck, normally hidden by the neat little stack, and had caught someone's attention. His boots were loud against the wooden pier, and his hands were raw from how he untied his ship by yanking on the knot until it gave. By year three his veins, once a dark dark blue, began to turn a sickly dark green. He realized that night that eventually, there will be nothing left of him. Not unless he stops the curse, or somehow is able to reverse it.

(His prayers whispered to the shrill night air have always felt unanswered. But they turned from unanswered to ignored.) His nightly prays began to sputter out after that. He knows only a god or deity could reverse what's been done, as only a god or deity could have *done* this in the first place. It becomes a mantra. He has to find them, he has to prove he is no longer heartless. That he has learned his lesson. Time ticks on slowly as he tries to grow prepared enough to look, but the amount of things he can find to do before that is growing slimmer and slimmer. The whispers at the back of his thoughts go ignored as he begins the trek, on the same date their own had began, four years after. There's something eating away at him, and his hands shake as he sails. His hands have always ached, but they've started to *burn* as he gets ever closer to the island. He doesn't know what he should expect, but he took off their hats and left them in long abandoned and neglected rooms. No one has been allowed to stay where they did, and he refuses to try. He boarded them up, at one point, but the nails would slowly pull out and be *placed* neatly in front of his door. He stopped trying after the third night it happened. His hair seems nervous, as his destination grows closer. No longer is it unruly and unmanageable, it seems almost *scared*. He doesn't want to think about why.

By the time he arrives, he's taken aback by the sheer *foliage*. The once barren island, with long snaking roots covering every shore and hiding in deep murky dark water, looks almost *pretty*. It's taken care of, and looks loved, in some strange way. It makes him uncomfortable. This isn't right, he must be at the wrong place. But the pier he once docked at is in the same place on his map, and the shores haven't changed, but they're *cleaner*. He hates it. He hates how nervous he is. He feels like the sea is rising inside of his torso and trying to pour out of his mouth. When he spits over the side of the hull, the taste of salt is undeniable. He goes through the long errands of docking, anchoring, and exiting his ship. His knees ache as he leaves his vessel and hit a long familiar uncaring wood.

#Hermitcraft #gtws #sea creature scar au #goodtimeswithscar #cw body horror #cw emetophobia #gtws fanfiction #Hermitcraft fanfiction #Ed writes #HAII STIFF THIS IS FOR YOU!!

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prayersforpalestine · 5 months

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To the Essence of All Buddhas, Bodhisattva Mahasattva Vajrasattva, I pray, turn your compassionate eyes to the suffering people of Palestine.

OM VAJRASATTVA HUM

To the Holy Vajra Mandala, Bodhisattva Mahasattva Ksitigarbha, I pray, turn your compassionate eyes to the suffering people of Palestine.

OM AH KSITIGARBHA T-HALENG HUM

To the Guru of Great Bliss, the Wish Fulfilling Jewel Padmasambhava, I pray, turn your compassionate eyes to the suffering people of Palestine.

OM AH HUM VAJRA GURU PADMA SIDDHI HUM

To the Three Jewels and Three Roots, I pray, please turn you compassionate gaze towards the suffering people of Palestine, suffering for over 75 years, the illegal occupational forces of israel backed by america have robbed them of life and love, of peace and prosperity, of dignity and sanity, and they have suffered much without respite and can only survive through their devoted resistance fighters who day and night protect them and upholds their hope of a Free Palestine without fear and is backed only by faith of a better future.

Holy Vajrasattva, Compassionate Ksitigarbha, Wish Fulfilling Padmasambhava, hear my prayers for the People of Palestine, hear my prayers for the Holy Land of Palestine, hear my prayers for the Suffering people of Congo, Sudan, Syria, Ukraine, Kashmir, and all other places whose innocent people are suffering, especially in Tibet, the Land of Snows in particular, I pray to you, grant them Respite, grant them Refuge, grant them Resistance, grant them Freedom from their suffering, grant them Liberation from their suffering, grant them Salvation from their suffering!

To all the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas of the Ten Directions and Three Times, I pray to you, let all my merits and all the roots of my virtue, even if only the size of a mustard seed, be dedicated for the Freedom and Sovereignty of those who are suffering from Oppression and Injustice!

OM! AH! HUM!

#palestine #pray for palestine #falasteen #prayers #please reblog if you see this #vajrasattva #ksitigarbha #padmasmbhava #tibetan buddhism #buddhism

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brokenjere · 2 years

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seventeen going under (j.f) (part 6)

"remember calling me the one saying 'don't freak out' now you're kissing that girl I shouldn't worry about - how do you think I'm dealing?" - villain by maisie peters

catch up here

“Vivian?” I snapped, whipping my body around to face Jeremiah. Water pooled at my feet and my hair was plastered to my cheeks. Jeremiah was treading the water, a confused look on his face. “Fucking Vivian?” I repeated, louder.

“What about her?” He asked, panic rising in his voice and he swam closer to the edge. I waved his phone in the air, not caring that it could fly out of my hand and right into the pool.

“She’s texting you,” I said. His face went pale and he pulled himself out of the water, water dripping off his body and landing on the cement pavement with a splash. “I thought you didn’t speak to her anymore.” Vivian. Her blonde hair, freckled cheeks, and bright blue eyes that matched Jeremiah’s like perfect jewels.

“I don’t,” he said, grabbing for his phone but I pulled it away from his grasp. He stumbled forward a little and I stepped back. “I don’t,” he repeated. We stared at each other for a while. His blue eyes, the ocean blue eyes that I loved, were pleading with me to believe him. All I could see was Vivian swimming in them where I should be.

“Then why is she texting you?” I pushed his phone into his chest and he grabbed the phone with one hand and my wrist with his other. I wanted to pull it away, but I didn’t.

“I don’t know,” he said, looking down at the phone briefly. He pressed a few buttons and then showed me the phone. Number unknown. “She’s gone, okay? She’s gone.”

Last spring, age 16

I hated parties. I hated the noise, the smell, the boring small talk with people you didn’t really know but felt obligated to speak to. I usually ended up crowded in the corner with the other losers, a bottle of water in my hands because after a few drinks I tend to tap out. I checked my watch. Midnight.

I started my search for Jeremiah. Our curfew was coming up but since it was a weekend and Conrad was around here somewhere, the moms were a little more lax about it. I found him on the back porch playing beer pong with Cheater Chester from math class, Jonah from the football team, and Vivian MacDonald. His arm was slung around her shoulders as he tossed the white ping pong ball across the table, sinking it into Chester’s cup.

He pushed his arms up with fists at the end, howelling in celebration before he picked Vivian up and spun her around in his arms. I thought he only did that to me. He noticed me standing there, watching, and set Vivian back down on her feet. “YN!” He called.

I couldn’t help but laugh, but he was drunk. Really drunk. I could smell it on his breath when he picked me up the same way he picked up Vivian just moments prior. “Are you ready to go yet?” I asked through my laughter as he spun me around.

“No,” he begged. He sent me down and put his hands together in prayer and his lips were pursed in a pout. “No, please, no.” I put my hands on the outside of his and said: “yes.”

“Let me finish this game?” I glanced over to the ping pong table to see Vivian leaning her hip against the edge with her arms crossed. She was glaring at me like I was a nuisance fly circling her dinner. “Please.” His voice brought me back to him. His blue eyes were hazy with alcohol but he was still Jeremiah.

“Okay,” I gave in. He squeezed my arms three times and ran back to the table. I sat down on the back porch steps and watched as Jeremiah played. He was starting to miss more than he was making, the beer getting to his brain. Vivian kept putting her hand on Jeremiah’s back and laughing in his face. He leaned down to her height, taking the cup from her hand that she was supposed to drink and they were too close. My palms started to sweat and I wanted to punch her. I’ve never wanted to really punch anyone before.

After the last ball was thrown and Jeremiah lost, he told Chester and Jonah to do one more round because he can’t go home a loser. He didn’t even glance back at me until I cleared my throat, interrupting the group as they set the cups back up. Jeremiah excused himself by touching Vivian on the hand and lingering it too long. “I’m sorry, I know I said when the game was done.”

“Yeah, it’s done. Can we go now?” I crossed my arms over my chest and Jeremiah looked over his shoulder. His hesitation was enough of an answer for me. “Are you serious? It’s late as it is. I’m ready to go and I’m your DD, remember?”

“I know, I know, but..” he trailed off. I cut him off and said: “but nothing, Jere. You’re wasted and you told me we could go.” People were starting to look at us now but I didn’t care and he was too drunk to notice.

“I’m not that drunk,” he said, slurring his words just slightly. We exchanged expressions and the silence was too much. He rolled his eyes and shifted on his feet too close to the edge of the porch and I reached out and grabbed him so he didn’t fall down the steps.

“What were you saying, again?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Excuse me?” I snapped. He never spoke to me like that. Not even when he was drunk like this but rarely did he get drunk like this. The only time I remember him being like this was on his sixteenth birthday. Susannah threw a huge dinner with both our families and it was nice but afterward, the three of us went down to the basement and watched movies and got drunk and Conrad and I let him drink as much as he wanted because he only had to travel upstairs.

Then, he was curling up next to me on the couch, draping his arms over my body and not Vivian’s. He was whispering in my ear that he could smell my perfume too strongly and I pushed him away, laughing and thinking he was joking but deep down the butterflies roared in their cages. Then, he was falling asleep on my lap as I played with his curls.

Now, he was filled with rage.

“Just wait for me, okay? Just one more game.”

“Is this about her?” I spat over his shoulder at Vivian, who was again starring at us with jealous rage in her eyes. “Do you want to stay for her?”

“What?” He glanced back at her and rolled his eyes. “This isn’t about Vivian.” He spat out her name like it was sour milk. “I’m just having fun, why can’t you just let me do that for once?”

“For once? I always am following behind you as you ‘have fun’.” I use my fingers as quotation marks. “I am always cleaning up your messes.”

When he fell off his bike, I was the one that cleaned up his scraps. When he failed to study for his tests, I was the one who stayed up too late with him to study. When he played too many video games and didn’t wake up for school on time, I came and woke him up with fresh coffee to make sure he wasn’t late. After he fell asleep on my lap, he leaned over and puked on my shoes. I cleaned that up, too.

“What is this even about?” He asked. “You never want to do what I want to do. We’re not attached at the hip, YN. You don’t need to follow me everywhere.” His words stung and tears filled in my eyes but I turned away from him so I could blink away the tears. He saw them anyway and put his hands on my shoulders. “Shit, I didn’t mean that.”

“Yeah, you did,” I whispered. He shook his head and then cupped my cheeks, forcing me to look at him.

“I didn’t mean that. I always want you here, you know that. You have to know that.” I looked at him. His drunk eyes, smelly breath, and rueful expression.

“Do you want to stay because of her?” I asked him again. More direct this time. I don’t know why it mattered. I mean, I knew why it mattered. I loved him. But I don’t know why this mattered. This party. This game. This girl. It just did.

“No,” he said. Certain. “She doesn’t matter. Why are you so worried about her?” I shrugged instead of speaking. “You don’t need to worry about her, YN. She will never compare. No ne will ever compare. Not when you’re the one.”

The one.

“What?” I breathed. He rubbed his thumb on my cheek and I almost melted into him. I really could have but he was drunk. “You don’t mean that, either.”

“Of course, I do.”

“I have to go,” I said. I pulled myself away from him but his touch lingered down my face, neck, shoulder, and arm. All the way down to my hand. He wanted to keep me here. His eyes said he needed me here. “I’m gonna go get Conrad, okay? So we can go.” Jeremiah nodded solemnly and I turned away. I couldn’t look back at him.

“What did she say?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest. I shifted on my feet. I knew I should calm down. It wasn’t his fault she was texting him and he wasn’t mine to claim but he felt like it. He always felt like mine.

“She just asked how my summer was going,” he said. He threw his phone down on the lounge chair and grabbed my hands, unfolding them from the safety of my chest. “I don’t care what she was saying.”

I looked down at my feet and Jeremiah tried to keep eye contact with me but I kept looked away. “YN…” He mumbled softly.

"Has she texted you before?" I asked, looking up at him. Jeremiah didn't reply. "She has, hasn't she?"

"She's texted me a few times this summer, yeah." I ripped my hands away from him. I wanted him to be as far away from me as possible. "Yn..." he trailed off again but this time I cut him off.

“I just need space. Can you go?” He stiffened and swallowed his saliva, his apologies going with it. He nodded and left me on the patio all alone, leaving a snail trail of water behind him.

I couldn’t shake the feeling of dread off my shoulders. Why did I feel this way? I think it’s because he’s drunk. Absoutely wasted. How can I know he means what he says? Sometimes, he barely even remembers what he does when he’s drunk. He’s unlike Conrad in that way: Conrad can hold his alcohol. He remembers everything. Conrad would never tell a girl she was the one if he was drunk. Would he? I wouldn’t know.

I was looking for him. Conrad. I was weaving in and out of the groups of people until I finally saw him in the kitchen, holding his beer to his lips. He was talking to some people I recognized from the football team but I didn’t know their names. He smiled when he saw me. “Hey, can we go?” I asked, wasting no time.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, setting down his cup. “Are you okay?” No hesitation, no questions, no ‘one more game’. I nodded my head and turned to exit the room. Conrad put his hand on the small of my back to guide me out and through the crowd. Always the protector. When we were in a quieter part of the house, he stopped me and put his hands on my shoulders. He wiped my cheek with his thumb. A tear I didn’t know was shed. When did I start crying?

“I’m okay,” I told him. He nodded, not believing me. “I’m serious, Conrad.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he chuckled. I tried to look away, but he kept my face forward to look at him. He searched my face and I could tell he was mostly sober. Maybe one or two beers. Nothing compared to how drunk his brother was.

“Jeremiah. He’s just really drunk and I really wanna go home.” I didn’t want to tell him what happened. It shouldn’t have made me cry, really. I was embarrassed. Embarrassed that I was crying over it. Embarrassed that I wanted to believe him. Embarrassed that I want him to have meant it.

Conrad nodded his head and he wrapped his arm around my shoulders and we walked outside where I left Jeremiah at the ping pong table. I saw Jonah and Chester talking off to the side, red solo cups littered on the floor and table but before my eyes found Jeremiah, Conrad pushed me back in the house.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked, bumping into his chest slightly.

“Nothing, I- uh,” Conrad glanced behind him and I tried to peak around his broad shoulders but he pushed me further into the house. “Just, they’re finishing up. We’ll wait.” He was always an awful liar.

“Jonah and Chester weren’t playing, I think they’re done.” I tried to walk past him but he cut me off. I was filled with too much rage to play this game with him so I pushed him back a few steps. “Let me go, Conrad.” He pushed his hair out of his face as I walked past, brushing my shoulder against his. When I rounded the corner, I saw what he was trying to keep me from. He wasn’t being an asshole, he was trying to protect me. Always the protector.

There was Jeremiah, between Vivian MacDonald’s leg, with his tongue down her throat. He had her sitting on the ping pong table. His hands were on her ass and her perfectly manicures fingers were in his curls. My curls. His curls. I don’t know anymore. Any belief I had that he was telling me the truth was gone. He was just pure intoxicated. Too much alcohol was clogging any part of his brain that knew how to think rationally. My hands started to shake.

I felt Conrad put his hand on my back but I was too angry to push it away. I could hear him saying something to me but I was too mad to listen. He was saying my name, I think. He was grabbing my hand. He was pulling me off the porch but my feet were nailed to the wooden boards. “YN, let’s go.” I think he was tyring to be quiet up until that point because his voice was suddenly booming. Jeremiah stopped kissing Vivian MacDonald long enough to turn around and see me standing there. I couldn’t recognize the expression on his face. I didn’t bother to look at it long enough. I let Conrad take my hand and pull me out of the party.

#the summer i turned pretty #tsitp one shot #the summer i turned pretty imagine #tsitp imagine #team jeremiah #jeremiah fisher #tsitp #conrad fisher #conrad fisher x reader #jeremiah fisher imagine #conrad fisher imagine #jeremiah fisher x reader

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