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onesunofagun · 3 years ago

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I shall now yell about Ingo, please stand by:

Ingo’s transformation from the underappreciated backbone of the ranch to an absolute ruff-wearing cantaloupe of a man is also pretty interesting (if you’re the kind of person who absorbs the Zelda series through your skin like a frog to live).

I’ve bolded the key points for skimmers.

Granted, the manga has it that Ingo just gets brainwashed by Twinrova into being a staunch follower of Ganondorf. That’s not canon, but it’s not informing any of this thinking, either way.

In the beginning of OoT we meet Talon by waking him up from a nap, and we learn pretty quickly that he’s lazy and often yelled at by his daughter for slacking off like this. Ingo at the ranch confirms again that Talon doesn’t pull his weight around there, and since Malon’s still a child, it’s pretty obvious that Ingo’s settled with the bulk of the work.

Ingo is grumpy, he’s resentful, and he complains a lot. But he does do the work, and you can find him (presumably) in the process of mucking out the stables.

Let’s examine what he does at the ranch:

Epona really liked that song... Only I could tame that horse... Even Mr. Ingo had a hard time...

Now, Epona is established in game to be a real winner of a horse. She’s fast, she’s smart, she’s got a lovely sorrel coat and white mane that seems to be quite rare or highly prized coloring. The catch is, she is notoriously wild. The only people she tolerates are Malon and Link, due in large part to being soothed by the song Malon’s mother taught her.

Ingo had to really try to crack this horse, which Malon’s observation suggests is unusual.

Epona is very young when we first see her, so it’s never really revealed if she was caught wild, or bred at the ranch with a very headstrong temperament.

Ingo’s clearly the guy that’s breaking them in, though. The most Talon is doing is... sleeping in with the cuccos. We never see any organisation of the cuccos, in terms of egg collection or poultry farming, but nevertheless, Talon has the much less physical jobs even if he was doing them. His focus seems to be cuccos, deliveries to the castle and book keeping between naps (and to be fair it’s probably a little depression related, given the dead wife).

Malon gives us a cow later on, and she’s got the egg for the crowing cucco that wakes up Talon, so I’d like to assume for simplicity’s sake that even as a kid, Malon was up at dawn most days helping Ingo with the cows and milking them. It’s never really implied that she has amazing skill in dealing with horses, just that Epona has a special connection with her specifically. Other than that, Malon is simply kind and respectful of her animals (though I’ve got no idea how she got that cow to Link’s treehouse and that’s worth investigating).

Later on, Ingo is also shown to be a competent rider. Enough that he has absolutely no qualms in challenging Link to races for wagers, and was quite confident of his ability to win.

The takeaway is, Ingo is usually VERY GOOD with both caring for and training horses, if not breeding them for the ranch.

That kind of lends to his grumbling, when he is referring to himself as ‘the Great Ingo’ and comparing himself to Talon, who is a ‘bum’. His claim to greatness may not be undeserved, at least in horse circles, and especially if he’s not getting particular credit for it, his bitterness and frustration (alongside envy, exhaustion, and dreams of recognition) would be quite deeply run.

So it seems that his friend and employer is clearly taking some advantage of him, especially after the death of Malon’s mother.

So now, let’s examine his feelings, and how he changes.

The feelings Ingo has about that are pretty textbook for the sort of thing ‘evil takes hold of and twists’, in the Zeldaverse.

Focussing on the game itself, Malon says this as an adult:

Since Ganondorf came, people in the Castle Town have gone, places have been ruined, and monsters are wandering everywhere. Mr. Ingo is just using the ranch to gain Ganondorf's favor... Everyone seems to be turning evil...

We do see other characters in Hyrule become influenced by the ‘darkness in their hearts’ as byproduct of Ganondorf’s reign.

A prominent example of a character who was visibly dissatisfied with their lot, and then notably changes (while praising Ganondorf for what he’d done), is the Castle Guard who is heavily implied to have become the Poe Dealer. Even if by some slim means it’s not the same person, the Poe Dealer does still express that they could not do the work they do without Ganon as King, and that they now benefit from him being in that position and are grateful to him.

The Kakariko Carpenters seem to have given into their fantasies about living among the Gerudo women, and gone out to the Valley and gotten themselves taken prisoner. Following work near the fortress, the team chooses to act on their selfish desires and go for broke, chasing their dreams. They weren’t previously prepared to act upon these fantasies when Link was young, admittedly much milder in their still very prominent obsession, but seven years later, they’re quite happy to risk it all and piss away the stability of their careers (and nearly their lives) at the first opportunity.

Anyway, the trend is, those across Hyrule who are unhappy with their lot before Ganondorf’s coup tend to be ‘corrupted’ by seven years later, and appear to have given in to a twisted version of whatever they most wanted.

This is noteworthy especially because the language in the game revolves around the Sacred Realm being opened and corrupted, too, by Ganondorf’s unbalanced heart and selfish goals. It is unable to be ‘sealed’ again while Link has the Master Sword. In aLttP, we know there is a mirror like effect to do with the sacred turned dark realm, in which it reflects the hearts of men.

So it is very reasonable to say, that for OoT in particular, much of this evil influence plaguing the land and preying on the darkness an people’s hearts is a result of the corruption of the Sacred Realm. It is an indirect byproduct of Ganondorf’s acquiring of the Triforce, but not necessarily something he himself does to people on purpose, unlike the brainwashing of Nabooru.

Mr. Ingo is just using the ranch to gain Ganondorf's favor... But Dad... He was kicked out of the ranch by Mr. Ingo... If I disobey Mr. Ingo, he will treat the horses so badly...

This explains a lot of the more callous and greedy behaviour that Ingo shows later on, and why it seems to disappear when he is truly humbled by Link.

Link’s win serves as a reminder of Ingo’s stagnating skill with horses, the very thing that made him feel so deserving of praise and recognition in the first place, in that for everything he now has control of at the ranch, he still cannot control that horse. He has become as much of a bum as Talon ever was, relegating Malon to do all the hard work while Ingo struts around uselessly. He’s even lost his touch with the Horses so much, in his arrogance, that now he has taken up mistreating them and using harsh and abusive methods (according to Malon’s concerns).

The humiliation and shame takes hold, his pride shattering with the loss of Epona-- not only as a valuable asset, but also as the horse he could never truly tame.

The dark feelings he was holding onto are let go of, as he regains a sense of humility, and the corruptive influence upon him dissipates. He even seeks out Talon to bury the hatchet and invite him back to the ranch.

Oh, I have to tell you about Mr. Ingo... He was afraid that the Evil King might find out that Epona had been taken away... It really upset him! But one day, all of a sudden, he went back to being a normal, nice person! Now my dad is coming back...I can't believe it, but peace is returning to this ranch!

But what about his obsession with Ganondorf in particular?

When the coup happened, Ingo watched the King of the Gerudo unwittingly play out a sort of grand parallel to what Ingo felt should happen on the ranch. To Ingo’s perception, I think Ganondorf was representing an ideal version of Ingo himself.

A man of the desert, where hard work and grit are as second nature to survive the harsh conditions. A man frustrated with the King of Hyrule’s shit, and forced to swear fealty to him despite being a King himself. A man resplendent with wealth, with fine and flashy clothes and plentiful jewelry.

And perhaps the most important note of all, the Gerudo in OoT?

They’re horse people.

They love horses. Ganondorf’s horse is reputed to be a purebred Black Gerudo Stallion, which is obviously a specialty breed, that is fully armoured and as flashy as he is. When the Gerudo cut the bridge leading to the valley, the only way in and out is to have a skilled horse jump the gap.

They also have a huge horseback archery range, and prowess in the sport is an incredible source of respect amongst the Gerudo, and many of the guards possess bladed polearms suitable for mounted use. From this, it can be assumed that during the recent civil war, Gerudo weapons, war tack and military tactics were probably built around mounted cavalry archers foremost, with a lesser focus on light and heavy cavalry aside (iron knuckle armour springs to mind).

Anyway, Horses are very important to the Gerudo in the era of Ocarina of Time.

So Ganondorf is also unique in the sense that he is the King of a people who value what it is that Ingo does very highly. He, of all people, stands to immediately recognise the knowledge and skill that Ingo possesses in rearing horses.

So this is a man who successfully stages a coup of Hyrule, who clearly inspires Ingo to do much the same of the ranch, and who Ingo also feels is very likely to take his side should he appeal the matter.

And Ganondorf does.

And if that’s not a great compliment to Ingo’s actual skill, I don’t know what is, because Ganondorf is not a man that suffers fools. He’s got a limited patience when it comes to shit that is beneath his notice. Clearly, he recognises that Ingo is indeed the backbone of that ranch-- and the main reason for the quality of its Horses-- and rewards this accordingly.

And for Ingo, being on decent terms with the big scary goth King is a very, very good place to be. But it’s more than that!

What a guy! Not only did he deliver on Ingo’s long due validation, he gave Ingo everything he’d ever dreamed of having to his name, and the authority to kick Talon to the curb. He gets it! Ganondorf, this great eight foot beacon of freshly sought divine power and topaz-encrusted glory, this absolute unit of a man, this great underdog horse-lover after Ingo’s own heart; he really understands how great Ingo is. Ganondorf is paving the way for people like them! Oh, to rub shoulders wiht such greatness when the rest of Hyrule is scorned.

Ingo feels seen. The Great Ganondorf made all that thankless time spent shovelling horse shit while Talon slept mean something. The Gerudo appreciate Ingo’s talents.

And all Ingo has to do is keep turning out really good horses, and promise to present the King with his finest.

So Ingo knows he’s in deep shit when he gets cocky and loses Epona to a wager, who at this point, he’s prepared pretty well and sunk a lot of money into on the idea that she’s going to Ganondorf.

Who he’s probably bragged to about how fast she is.

He lost her to some jerk in tights who’d barely ridden before, too. And then when Ingo tried to cheat him out of the win, the kid jumped the damned fence an in ass-bustingly cool move that really just drove home how excellent and rare Epona was.

One does not promise the King of the Gerudo a fast horse and then fail to deliver, let alone for such a stupid reason.

Honestly, by the end, the man’s just happy to be alive.

Also I’d like to think he and Talon had a much fairer delegation of work and forgave each other, each really learning to appreciate what they have and what’s really important.

how the fuck did the Kokiri leave the forest for this scene anyway, they don’t even have their faries???

#tloz #tloz oot #Ocarina of time #legend of zelda ocarina #nostalgia #ingo #malon #talon #lon lon ranch #hyrule #zelda meta #legend of zelda #gerudo #ganondorf #zelda discussion #zelda theory

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sk-lumen · 3 years ago

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Hello dear enchantress Lumen,

I hope you are well and safe♥️ I just came here to seek for some advice from you and ladies out there if possible. I often get men complimenting me on my eyes and lips, more so my lips (I know damn well what they’re thinking about while they’re at it lol) but it’s become frustrating and to a point where I am objectified because of my looks.

I feel like I am a shell with a pearl inside- weird comparison I know but men just rather focus on what’s on the outside paying little attention to what may be inside. I like talking about mind stimulating stuff and the conversations get dragged to sexual stuff. While I am playful being sexually objectified is really a buzz killer 😞They start asking for naughty pictures and such. Every conversation I make online or in person with men has to always start with me addressing the fact that I do not send nude photos or videos.

I do understand that men naturally have a big appetite for sexual things. My question is dear Lumen; How do I deal with men like that? To have them to see more than and past my looks, but the beauty within? And also how can I keep the sexual thing playful yet not super nudity type? (Like for eg can I pose half nude or wear things to still keep his i terest but playful enough to leave the rest of my body to his imagination, hopefully enabling him to see me for my soul as well) Please tell me tips you would think be best in how to keep men going sexually but not getting things over done, how to handle situations like this, etc)

Your advice and tips are highly valued and appreciated by me. Thankyou in advance. ♥️♥️

Hi darling,

Note: you pose some very good questions which is why I thought it's important to share it with others. I will mention that advice requests, which are slightly more explicit in nature, should be redirected to my personal inbox where I can reply in-depth: either in private, or share on the blog to help others as well. I'm happy to help, however such topics are not the main focus of my tumblr blog, which I would like to keep as a more light and safe space, welcoming to all regardless of goals or sensibilities. I'm open to everyone else's thoughts on this suggestion.

After reading your story, let me address each topic one by one:

You may be looking for gentlemen in the wrong circles. There is a repeating pattern here, and it is either from navigating the same circles, or attracting the same type of guys, or simply being surrounded by the same type in your local area. For this, I would advise to experiment and try new places more associated with higher value men (theatre, art exhibitions, museums, upscale restaurants, etc).

This whole trend with provocative photos is simply a result of the p*rn culture combined with consumerism, which has normalized the access to/objectification of female bodies as a product so to speak. Yes, it is unquestionable that the female body is a work of art - but unfortunately today's society does not yet understand this. Ignore the trend of n*des. Do not for a second succumb to it unless you are in a 100% committed relationship, completely trust your partner, and feel very much safe to do so — and even then, thoroughly considered. Is it worth risking things like having those photos leaked, your privacy and trust broken, just for a nondescript guy’s validation? The smart answer is simple: never.

Generally speaking, women have an equally big appetite. It’s simply about how both genders (or any gender) are socialized in expressing it. LVM learn that they can express it any way they wish, HVM act as gentlemen, as they should; whereas women oscillate between the double-edged blade of being too little or too much, either way facing risking judgement over it.

How to deal with low value men (because no man of class would ask for licentious photos, and I stand by that statement)? Block, delete, move on. If you are determined to embark on a journey of leveling up, you cannot waste time with such behaviour, dear ladies. There’s zero benefit, zero return of investment from engaging with men that have not yet reached the baseline of respecting you as an individual. There's no two ways about this, and there’s nothing to negotiate there.

You can’t make a man see, do or say anything. He either sees your value or he doesn’t. If you have to bring arguments to the table, the game is already rigged and you have lost, because the moment you question your worth is when they have already won. The only thing you should do then is find another table.

"Can I (…) to keep his interest" - Please don’t entertain this line of thought darling, it serves no one but LVM. You don’t have to do anything to keep someone’s interest, except be yourself. If you have to go above and beyond, bend over backwards, be someone you’re not, or step out of your comfort zone/boundaries at any point, it’s time to walk away. Besides, a man's interest is not a warranty for commitment or love.

Don’t rely on the mindset of luring in a guy with desire, to capture his heart. It should be the other way around, or simultaneous. But if he desires solely your body before even considering your mind, heart or soul… his priorities are clear, and they’re not likely to change.

My universal strategy for dating/relationships, which is in the best interest of your sacred feminine energy, the safeguarding of your heart, and the wise use of your time, is this:

Have clear standards, know what kind of man you’re interested in, take your time dating accordingly. When you find a good one, let him court you until he’s proven himself as a worthwhile companion that you can trust with all of you. Once commitment is made clear (and I mean clear, open commitment stated out loud, no juvenile "what are we" allusions), wait at least 3-6 months to further strengthen the relationship’s foundation of intimacy, and only then open completely.

It may sound complicated or long-winded, but it is a smart strategy for countless reasons: only a HVM will be patient, consistent and dedicated enough to stay for the long run all throughout. LVM will either bail, protest, test your boundaries, or other red flags which will reveal themselves on their own and spare you the trouble.

Hope this helps. Take care. ❤️

-Lumen

#glow up #dating advice #relationship advice #(note: should i tag such posts? with warnings or anything just in case?)#(i'm very mindful of any sensibilities)#ask

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mcmusing · 3 years ago

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Respect for life, specifically how there's no real sign of it, is one of the most frequent grievances I have against the X-Men movies. I'm not referring to Batman's no-kill rule- that's a whole other discussion. I mean the way certain works depict death with no gravity or realistic consequences.

From x2 on, the X-movies entered their moral descent. Magneto tried to kill the entire homo sapien population out of petty revenge. As the FC sequels would eventually prove, whenever he's given the chance to be the better man, the moron of magnetism goes out of his way to be the worst one instead. Never does the narrative hold him accountable for his misdeeds. In fact, he's usually painted as sympathetic, even when he treats fellow mutants as disposable cannon fodder.

Meanwhile, Professor X suffers at every turn when he commits even the smallest error in judgement. Worse, his kindness gets thrown im his face as he's tormented and betrayed by almost everyone he loves.

There's also the ongoing theme of mutant lives being superior to homo sapiens. For a franchise that is supposed to tackle real world issues, it has so many horrible messages. I stand by my belief that the franchise is one long assault on mental health.

Now, let's look at how the MSU handles this.

As a half vampire, Blade's story can be interpreted as an allegory for children conceived in rape. I realize I am the only person on the planet to assert such a notion, but hear me out. Like the rest of us, Blade had no control over his parentage. Still, he's such an outsider and stigmatized for his paternity. Instead of imitating his evil origins, he takes on a mission to exterminate vampires. While his human half might never truly accept him, he still risks himself for their protection. Children from rape are similarly reviled and dehumanized with many advocating for their termination before they even take their first breaths. In actuality, their lives are just as sacred as everyone else's- deal with it.

There is an attempt made at a respect for life message in Daredevil, but the execution mishandled it. Matt Murdock started off as willing to kill rapists and murderers who rig the court system. After his persona frightens a little boy, he comes to the conclusion that he doesn't want to be the bad guy. But he picked the worst possible time to put this epiphany into practice. Want to be merciful to petty hoods-for-hire? Fine. Want to be merciful to the ruthless, Machiavellian Kingpin? NOOOO! I love Matt, but I didn't like the implication that he was going to play the revolving door of the prison system the way Batman does with his random roaming psyche patients. Ironically, Ben Affleck's Bruce Wayne handled the respect for life message better- more on that another time. Still, I give Daredevil a point for the attempt, thus keeping him ahead of the X-madness.

Here's another heaping helping of irony. The Punisher has a pretty well done respect for life theme going. Yes, Frank goes on a personal vengeance quest. But only because his so-called brothers in law enforcement let mafia intimidation prevent them from getting justice for the massacred Castle family. During his mission, he stays focused on who the real enemy is. Whatever money he comes into, he shares it with civilians. Even though he only knew his housemates for a short time, he expresses and demonstrates his gratitude for their loyalty and kindness. These are three borderline impoverished youths we're talking about. Society might not consider them valuable, but an angry, heartbroken, vigilante widower certainly did.

After returning from death by the power of- what the freakin' heck, Sticks??!- Elektra pursues the assassin career path. She's compelled to do this by reason of- dang boo, you okay??! But when she's ordered to kill a single father and his teenage daughter Abby, Elektra not only refuses but takes it upon herself to do whatever it takes to protect Abby and her dad. Throughout the movie, Elektra struggled with rage from childhood trauma. It is not until Abby is killed that Elektra is able to put her anger aside so she can use her new powers to revive the girl. The script might not have been great, but Elektra's story arc with Abby crushes modern Marvel maidens. The superheroine acts not out of ego and glory seeking but due to the natural feminine instinct to safeguard young ones in leonine fashion. Love and life ultimately win the day against anger and death.

Funny enough, respect for life is actually what sent the Fantastic Four into outer space. Reed sought to use the cosmic storm as a means of curing diseases and extending the human life span. Compare this to NASA who use countless tax dollars to go to space.... cuz it's there. After the cosmic rays alter their DNA, Ben's body is mutated and his fiancee is repulsed by him. Despite being at his lowest point, when Ben sees a man attempting suicide, he immediately urges him not to. Said man was ready to jump off a bridge, but the compassionate orange rocky guy somehow scared him into causing severe vehicle mayhem. Reed, Sue, and Johnny go to find Ben and all Four wind up using their unstable powers to save everyone on the bridge. Being superheroes has not crossed any of their minds, but because they're needed, they jump in and do everything they can to prevent casualties. Most initial hero fights are all about showing off the protagonists' special effect powers, but the Four felt as human and vulnerable as anyone else. It shows that nature already existed inside of them without them realizing it.

Be still my heart for the Amazing and Definitive Spider-Man. Similar to his darling of an actor, Peter doesn't carry himself like some sort of duty-bound demi-god unable to interact with the mere but helpless mortals. Even though this Peter is more handsome and masculine, he still sees himself as a regular guy. He nonchalantly removes his mask to emphasize this to members of his protectorate. He reveals himself to Gwen so early and confides in her instead of believing her to be an overly fragile damsel. Peter also pushes through his own fear and injury all to put others at ease. These are not only traits critical to respecting life, but also the qualities of a real man.

This has been an excerpt from

MSU Moments 💛

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erzherzog-von-edelstein · 3 years ago

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Sacrality and Legitimacy

Summary: The evening before Charles V is crowned Holy Roman Emperor Austria shares a private moment with his husband. For the second day of @aphrarepairweek2021 for the prompt “royalty.”

Characters: Spain and Austria

Ship: SpaAus

Word Count: 1.4K

Austria regarded the glittering crown of the Holy Roman Empire in the low candle light. It was a beautiful glittering thing, set with images of saints. It had been a gift from Byzantium long ago, and it had been handed down from emperor to emperor.

In the morning the pope would place the crown on the head of Charles V, and legitimize his title in a way that had been done since the middle ages. It would also grant the shared crown of Austria and Spain unquestioned legitimacy.

The regalia was laid out carefully the night before, and Austria was making sure that everything was in order. The necessary pieces of the imperial coronation were very familiar to him since Maximilian was elected.

He ran his hand over the embroidered lining of the thick mantle, and then lightly touched each the scepter and crown in turn. The objects were familiar, and he knew that they were in the safekeeping of his royal family, but the reverence that he felt for them had never lessened. They were ancient pieces, endowed with sacred power. Beyond his own political power, which was rooted in Charlemagne’s empire, the holy relics of the empire made his heart beat faster.

He heard the sound of footsteps, but it didn’t alarm him. He had sent a message to Spain to offer him the chance of seeing the sacred regalia before the day. He turned to see the Spaniard standing behind him, as he had expected. If he had learned anything about Spain in the years that they had been married, it was that he had the greatest respect for the sacred and would enjoy the opportunity to be this close.

Spain looked like he had been prepared to go to sleep when he received the message. He had clearly thrown a cloak on over his chemise and not bothered to put on a doublet underneath. There was something incredibly sexy about seeing him in little more than his under-layers, with his hair tousled.

Austria had to focus on not staring at the neckline of his shirt, and the tempting glimpse of tanned skin beneath it. The time in the New World had given Spain’s skin a beautiful amber glow.

Though he found nothing particularly wrong with feeling lust for his husband, he knew that the point was to show him something that would be meaningful to him. He was certain that being able to see and touch the regalia was something that Spain desperately wanted.

Austria spoke, “I see that you got my message.” Spain strode across the space with the air of a man who commanded the world. Once he was at Austria’s side he answered, “Of course I came as quickly as I could.”

He turned his gaze to the regalia, and his breath caught in his throat. He said, in a hushed voice, “The holy relics.”

For a moment, all of the bravado of a conquering empire vanished, and Austria was looking at a pious man overcome with emotions. He saw someone who had spent years of his life completely devoted to the church.

Silently, Austria watched as Spain’s eyes moved from the crown to the holy lance and the sword of Charlemagne, which had been transported from Aachen for the occasion. In the low light he could see the shimmer of water in Spain’s eyes.

He said, softly, “You can touch them if you want.”

Spain looked at him, and looked momentarily like a little boy who was terrified of doing something wrong in church. Austria was reminded for a moment that he really was still quite young, and had been a unified kingdom for less than a century. For all his confidence, he was still an emergent kingdom not entirely used to this position.

Spain said, “Can I really?” It was so odd to hear him ask for permission, since he rarely asked for it for anything else. But, on this subject he seemed hesitant, and in need of the reassurance. Austria put a hand on his shoulder and said, “You can, I promise.”

Only once Spain had nodded and reached out to touch the imperial cloak did he say, “You usually aren’t one to need permission for anything.”

Spain shook his head. His eyes were still full of wonder as he moved his hand from one item to the other. He was only touching them lightly with his fingertips, like he was worried that too much contact would be damaging.

He answered Austria, “For most things, I would not. But this-“ He put his hand on one of the most holy relics and drew in a breath through his nose, “This is the holy lance. The blade that pierced the side of our savior.”

He sounded like he was choked up, and Austria could see every bit of his piety. No one would ever accuse Spain of being fickle in his love of the church. Spain closed his eyes for a moment as he pressed his palm against the relic.

Austria allowed him the moment with silence. He had always known that he had married a man who prided himself on his faith, and he was not going to interrupt. But he did rub comforting circles on Spain’s shoulder, to remind him that he was not alone.

Spain moved his hand again and opened his eyes, drawing in a deep breath as he seemed to emerge from his revelry. Then, he blinked away the beginnings of tears.

Austria decided it was finally time to break the silence, and he asked, “What is wrong, my dear? Aren’t you happy?”

He had never seen Spain quite so emotional before, and it felt like he was seeing the man truly vulnerable moment. His voice was somewhat steady as he answered, “I never thought I would be able to have anything from my father. Everyone knows that bastards never inherit.”

Austria hoped that his touch was at least comforting, since he knew that the subject of legitimacy was a sensitive one. Spain put his hand very gently on the crown, and Austria could see the swell of emotions in his eyes.

He said, trying to remind Spain of how far he had come, “Tomorrow your king will be crowned Emperor of the Romans by the Pope. That is more legitimacy than blood could ever give you.” Spain turned to meet Austria’s eyes, and said, “Our king. I know that I have been granted this because of you.”

Austria felt his heart beat faster. He could see the gratitude in the other’s face and he was certain that he had never felt quite so in love. Their marriage had not been made for love, but as he looked at Spain he saw a young man overwhelmed with the feeling that he was finally coming into his own, and he could not love him more.

In the candle light, Spain looked soft and handsome, and very vulnerable. He replied, “It’s everything that you deserve, Antonio.”

Spain put his hand softly on Austria’s face, and seemed to struggle with his words for a moment. He finally managed to say, “You cannot imagine how much this means to me. This past decade God’s love has granted me so much. I have the empire that I always dreamed of.”

He drew in another breath to calm himself. Austria took the opportunity to say, “I do understand, Schatz. That’s why I invited you here.”

Spain nodded and the look in his green eyes was enough to melt Austria. He had not realized how desperately and deeply he loved the man he married. Spain replied, “Your love has given me just as much, and I am grateful to have you." He stroked Austria’s cheek with his thumb, and said quietly, “My Rodrigo. You are a blessing.”

He gently pulled Austria into a kiss. Austria leaned gratefully into it. He loved the touches, and he could feel the intensity behind the way their lips joined. The way that Spain was holding his face felt especially tender. His Spanish bull could be gentle when he tried.

The kiss felt like it lasted a pleasant eternity, until Spain finally broke it to take a breath. Austria didn’t want it to stop. This felt like one of the most intimate moments they had ever had, and he didn’t want it to end.

Spain slipped his arms around his husband’s waist and pulled him close. He whispered into his husband’s ear, “Come to bed with me, and I’ll make you feel like a king.” Austria nodded and kissed him one more time.

#aphrarepairweek2021 #hws austria #hws spain #SpaAus #spaus

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grailfinders · 3 years ago

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Fate and Phantasms #193

Today on Fate and Phantasms we’re building the new guy everyone knows and loves, Prince Nezha! They’re an Ascendant Dragon Monk for their fire wheels and spear skills, as well as a Strength Cleric to pick up all those sacred treasures they get while still being the stabby stabby bot we all adore.

(I’ll be perfectly upfront right now; we did not have the time to read through Investiture of the Gods and Journey to the West to make one character, so they’ll be getting all the sacred treasures that we found while binging OSP’s videos on the latter. Also, lots of anti-demon stuff. You don’t need first-hand knowledge of a series to know that the “Demon-Hacking Blade” probably has some anti-demon features in it.)

Anyways, check out their build breakdown below the cut, or their character sheet over here!

Next up: The Mysterious Miss Moolah!

Race and background

Nezha’s more clay than metal, but they’re still hanging out in an artificial body, that’s a Warforged. They get +2 Constitution and +1 to any stat, so +1 Wisdom, as well as Constructed Resilience, so you don’t have to eat, drink, breathe, or sleep, don’t get sick, and have advantage and resistance to poison effects. Instead of sleeping, you take a Sentry’s Rest, spending 6 hours awake but not moving. You also get Integrated Protection for +1 AC. There’s more to it, but you’re a monk, you don’t use armor anyway. Finally, your Specialized Design gives you proficiency in one skill, I picked Animal Handling for the same reason I grabbed it for Nero. If you can “handle” the king of the monkeys, the rest should fall in line.

I meant beating him up, don’t be gross.

You respect your coworkers, which means to mortals you’d probably be an Acolyte, which gives you proficiency with Insight and Religion.

Ability Scores

Wisdom comes from making mistakes, and dear god have you made some doozies, so make that number one. Second highest should be Dexterity, you can fly, but only by balancing on wheels. That’s a high-stakes highwire act. Your Strength is next- going toe-to-toe with the monkey king requires a lot of it. Your Constitution is also above average, the zhenren sages don’t skimp on their designs. This means your Intelligence will be a bit low since we don’t need it for the build, but we’re dumping Charisma. There’s a bit of a disconnect between you and others, and also you have a lot of self-loathing issues to work through, which just makes hanging out a bit awkward.

Class Levels

Monk 1: Starting off as a monk gives you plenty of goodies, like proficiency in Strength and Dexterity saves, Acrobatics for balance, and History. I cannot emphasize enough about how all these servant builds should probably just get free history proficiency. You also get Unarmored Defense, which adds to your Integrated Protection for a total AC of 11+ your dex mod + your wisdom modifier. That brings your current AC up to 16 for a start, not bad. You also get Martial Arts so your monk attacks deal at least 1d4 (which grows as you level up), can use your dexterity instead of strength, and if you make one of those attacks as your action you can make another attack as a bonus action. Spears are simple weapons and versatile, not two-handed, so you’re in the clear.

Cleric 1: We’re gonna bounce over to cleric right away to become a worshiper of Strength. When you become an Acolyte of Strength, you learn one Druid cantrip, and gain proficiency with another skill- in this case, Athletics. For your free cantrip, grab Shillelagh. I know it says club or quarterstaff, but just hold the spear backwards. If gives you a d8 for damage, turns the weapon magical, and you can use Wisdom to attack with it instead of dexterity or strength. While we’re on the topic, you also get Spells now that use your Wisdom to cast and prepare. That means you don’t have a hard and fast spell list, but you can switch things up each long rest. For cantrips, Spare the Dying gives you beans of immortality that you can pop into a creature’s mouth as an action to stabilize them. You also get Sacred Flame for sacred flames, and Thaumaturgy to show off your celestial origins. As a strength cleric you’ll always have Divine Favor and Shield of Faith on tap, but you can also use Detect Evil and Good and Protection from Evil and Good for demon fighting.

Monk 2: We’re not going to focus on cleric too much though, we have martial arts to learn. At second level, you get Ki points equal to your monk level each short rest, letting you attack twice, dodge, disengage, or dash as a bonus action. You also get Unarmored Movement, adding to your speed as you level up.

Monk 3: At third level you can finally set down the Way of the Ascendant Dragon, making your fists a lot more fiery. You’re now a Draconic Disciple as well as a cleric, so when you hit a creature with your fists or feet you can deal bludgeoning damage as normal, or acid, cold, fire, lightning, or poison. Obviously fire is the most in character, but there’s probably a baobei that works for the other elements if you really want them. You can also spend your reaction to re-roll a failed intimidation or persuasion check, succeeding once per long rest. I guess Nezha can be kind of scary when they want to be. You can also use the Breath of the Dragon, replacing one of your normal attacks with a cone or line of acid, cold, fire, lighting, or poison damage, forcing a dexterity save against your ki save (DC 8 + proficiency + wisdom modifier), taking 2 rolls of your martial arts die on a failure, or half as much on a success. If that monkey king’s modern iteration can get beam weapons so can you. You get Proficiency free uses per long rest, but you can use it more by spending 1 ki point per use. Finally, you can react to someone shooting you with an arrow to Deflect Missiles, reducing the damage, If it’s reduced to 0, you can spend a ki point to launch it back at them.

Cleric 2: Back into cleric for a hot second. Second level clerics can Channel Divinity in one of two ways per short rest. Turn Undead makes nearby undead run if they fail a wisdom save, but you can also use a Feat of Strength to add +10 to an attack roll or strength check/save. The Zhenren really don’t mess around.

Monk 4: Fourth level monks get their first Ability Score Improvement, so improve that Wisdom for a higher AC, better shillelagh attacks, and stronger fire powers. You also learn how to Slow Fall as a reaction so falling off your wheels isn’t quite as big an issue.

Monk 5: Fifth level monks get an Extra Attack per attack action, bringing your total in a turn up to two with just an action, three with your martial arts bonus action, or four with flurry of blows. You can also turn those attacks into Stunning Strikes by spending ki. This forces a constitution save on the creature you just hit, stunning them if they fail until the end of your next turn.

Monk 6: Sixth level monks get Ki-Empowered Strikes for magical unarmed attacks. If you’re fighting a triply immortal monkey it’s best to prep as much as possible. You also get the reason we’re here in the first place, Wings Unfurled. Now when you use your ki points to dash as a bonus action you get dragon wings for a turn, giving you a flying speed equal to your walking speed until the end of your turn. If you’re in the air, you will fall, but to be fair Nezha mostly uses this to go like, 20 feet up and divebomb someone, so it’s not a huge restriction. You can fly Proficiency times per long rest, or by spending a ki point each extra time you use it.

Monk 7: Our final level of monk gets you Evasion for better dexterity saves. You probably know the drill by now- failures are now as good as most people’s successes, and successes negate all damage. You also get a Stillness of Mind, letting you end a charming or frightening effect as a bonus action. Just hit ctrl alt delete on BeScared.exe, not hard.

Cleric 3: Now that your training is complete, it’s time to quest for all those sacred treasures. Starting off strong at third level, you get second level cleric spells, including the freebies Enhance Ability and Protection from Poison. You can also make a Spiritual Weapon to summon whatever demon-slaying tool you might need, creating a floating weapon as a bonus action that’ll move around and deal force damage if you use it each bonus action for up to 1 minute. Alternatively, you can use Hold Person to summon the Diamond Snare/Wukong’s headband/The five Golden Rings (there’s a lot of sacred treasures that focus on immobilization) to force a wisdom save on one humanoid. If they fail, they’re paralyzed for a while, or until they succeed on a save. Paralysis is nasty too, it gives attacks advantage to hit plus guaranteed crits when they do.

Cleric 4: Use this ASI to bump up your Dexterity for better unarmed strikes and a better AC. You also get the Light cantrip to use your fire constructively.

Cleric 5: Fifth level clerics get a boost to Turn Undead, “turn”ing it into Destroy Undead instead. If a creature of CR 1/2 or lower gets caught in it, it’s just gone. You also get third level spells like Haste and Protection From Energy. Either get out of the way of the beam weapons, or shield yourself from them. Alternatively, grab spells like Spirit Shroud for a more heavenly aura, or Speak with Dead. You can literally just go to the afterlife to talk to them, what like it’s hard?

Cleric 6: You can now Channel Divinity twice per short rest, and you can also use that divinity to give out Rhonas’ Blessing! It’s like feat of strength, but it has a range of 30′ instead of self. You’re not the kind of person to hang out with weaklings.

Cleric 7: Seventh level clerics get fourth level spells. Dominate Beast is Wukong’s headband but for all sorts of creatures, and Stoneskin... yeah. You can also use Death Ward for an actual immortality bean that prevents one case of koing, Guardian of Faith to call in a favor from another celestial, or Banishment to make Lao Tzu take his goddamn pets back. If the target isn’t from another plane, they’re just gone for about a minute.

Cleric 8: Eighth level clerics get another ASI to max out your Wisdom for the best attacks, good defense, and stronger spells. Destroy Undead bumps up to CR 1, and you get a Divine Strike once per turn, adding 1d8 of an existing damage type to your weapon attack. They don’t call you “lancer” for nothing. Actually they do, you should be called “spear-er”, I guess.

Cleric 9: You get fifth level spells! Your freebies are Destructive Wave and Insect Plague, which aren’t super in character, but they do sound like something a sacred treasure could do. You can also call down a Flame Strike for some real fire power, turn your spear into a Holy Weapon for even more damage, Dispel Evil and Good to roll protection from E&G and a faster banishment into a single spell, or you can Summon Celestial to call down a coworker to help out. You get either an Avenger or a Defender, the former dealing more damage and the latter giving allies temporary HP.

Cleric 10: At tenth level you finally get a direct line back home, letting you call them up for some Divine Intervention. It’s a percent chance based on your cleric level, but if you succeed it’s basically up to the DM how much help you get. You can do this once per day, or after a week when it works. You also get the Resistance cantrip. You’re tough, it tracks.

Cleric 11: Destroy Undead hits CR 2, and you get sixth level spells. Planar Ally summons a celestial coworker for as long as you can pay them, but be prepared, it can be steep. You can also use Sunbeam for more fire.

Cleric 12: Use your last ASI to bump up Dexterity again. You know the drill, more AC, better unarmed attacks, the works.

Cleric 13: Your final level gets you seventh level spells, letting you Conjure Celestial for a much cheaper celestial companion that’ll stick with you for up to 1 hour. You can also Plane Shift to visit the heavens for yourself.

Pros and Cons

Pros:

Flight is always good to have, event if it’s a limited trial version like yours. Hop over to where you should be, and keep out of range of anyone you don’t feel like fighting.

Strength Clerics are basically war clerics but better, and Feat of Strength will make it really easy for you to grapple, lift, push, or just be the powerhouse of the team.

Clerics are really versatile casters, getting healing, buffs, utility, and damaging spells, so your spell list will always be handy. On top of that, your dragon fists let you pick your element when you hit people, so you won’t be completely hosed by fire resistant enemies.

Cons:

You have limited resources for your best abilities, with only 7 ki points and 2 channel divinities per short rest. Wings Unfurled might let you instant transmission, but you won’t be able to spam it like they do on Dragon Ball Z, sorry.

For a strength-focused subclass, your strength score is pretty underwhelming. Sure, you can use Feat of Strength to power yourself up, but odds are there’s someone else who could put Rhonas’ Blessing to better use. Learn to share, it’ll help.

You also have a really low charisma, so don’t be surprised if you get into fights more often than you’d think. Also, it’s a good thing you got plane shift at level 20, because you might get banished a lot.

#fate grand order #fgo #D&D #DND 5e #Nezha #Monk #Cleric

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honorable-wanderings · 4 years ago

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Word of Honor - Episode 3 Part 1 - Someone finally eats their damn food

FUCKING FINALLY OMG

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Why is the rum always gone?

It’s because you’re an alcoholic, Dear.

Lucky for you I’m an enabler

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Why y’all gotta drag me into your gross flirting? Disgusting

Ah don’t worry! I’ll help! I’ll help with anything! Let me be helpful! Please I beg of you!

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I like you. You like me?

No.

How bout now?

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Don’t you fuckin’ touch me.

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I don’t know why but like in just about any context someone smelling their fingers is just a tiny bit gross.

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A beautiful person is beautiful regardless of what life and the world has done to them. An woman made homely by long suffering is no less beautiful than a princess whose hands were made to touch nothing harder than water.

Learn some respect.

That being said it ain’t life that made you ugly. Take off the damn mask! Let me sneak a peek! ;)

You couldn’t fucking handle it.

Oh yeah? Fucking prove it.

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So what’d y’all do to piss off the Ghost Valley? Asking for a friend and I definitely don’t know the answer. I don’t even know who they are. Ghost Valley? That sounds made up.

But what did you do to piss them off?

I don’t know and honestly I don’t give a FUCK. About anything. Except wine. And sleep. Let me get drunk and go to bed. Please. Rest. I crave rest.

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There’s a weird children’s rhyme floating around *ahem*

RING AROUND THE ROSIE

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A bunch of sects got their sacred texts stolen and shoved into a cave somewhere 20 years ago and supposedly the knowledge gathered can make you invincible.

Also apparently none of these sects had thought to like... i don’t know... write down a second copy? Or like have a master that actually knows the stuff so they can teach it and pass it down? I guess? I mean I don’t feel like this needed to be so big of a problem.

That being said Zhou ZiShu’s “the fuq” head tilt when Wen KeXing says that it makes people invincible just does it for me. lol Mr Sass Man Like “Press X to Doubt”

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Everyone’s always trying to kill each other over some mystical mcguffin or another.

Get this thing and you’ll live forever. Get that thing and it’ll cure any ailment. Get the other thing and you can destroy all your foes. Blah Blah Blah

Y’all can miss me with that shit.

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Wen KeXing, your mirthless laugh is kinda giving up the ghost on your disguise as it were.

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Ignorant people create their own troubles. And drag innocent others into the squall.

And I ain’t down for that shit.

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Wait I get it! People who suck try to cheat!

And they’re dumb!

I’m so smrt.

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Stop asking my boy questions you know he doesn’t want to answer.

I love how much Zhou ZiShu tries to protect ChengLing’s boundaries. Like no. He doesn’t want you to treat his wound. He doesn’t want to answer that question. Then by god he’s not going to. He’s old enough to know if he needs help and to make his own decisions so I’m gonna let him. And if you try again I will cut you.

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Unfortunate.

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You can always tell when someone’s a shit manager when they order you to do something you’re already doing as if you hadn’t thought to do it and then pretend that it was their idea all along.

“Cover the bodies” do you see all these fucking sheets? Do yous ee my hands already covering his ass? Do you see? You cover the fucking bodies you damn layabout!

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And then there’s this guy! What happened? Fuckin ghost assassins came in and killed everyone! What the fuck do you think happened?

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It’s sad that y’all lost your sworn brother or something. Like it is. And y’all are making me believe that you’re in pain! And his two kids that really sucks too!

But like...

I don’t know who ANY of y’all are. Like Sucks and all but like... who are you? I’m not emotionally invested in you at ALL. Which makes it real hard to hit that sympathy card in any substantial way right out the gate.

But Idk. Maybe I’m not supposed to care all that deep? Like maybe you’re just supposed to be all like

That being said, this guy’s selling it though. He’s really goin for it.

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Hahahahahahahha your friends died and you couldn’t save them. Ha ha. We’re watermelons. :D

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ARE YOU TRYING TO PROVOKE ME ON PURPOSE?

Well fucking duh!

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Hold your blade! For I too am old and here to start shit!

That being said if y’all could stop antagonizing literally everyone you meet for 5 minutes that would be fantastic.

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What light through yonder window breaks?

It is the East

And A-Xu is the sun!

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Are you still staring? BLINK MOTHER FUCKER!!

I know you hot as fuck you can’t hide from me

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*Poke*

What the fuck dude???

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AACCKKK MY HEARTTTTTTTTT

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Whelp I’m out. Still gonna stalk me?

Oh absolutely

Eh. Guess it could be worse.

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Heyyyyyyyyyy stop walking away when I’m trying to flirt with you!!! ride my damn boat! i have a boat! Please just get on my damn boatttttttttt

Denied

Alright fine. Play hard to get. I know you like me ;)

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Um if you could wrap up the stupid love-struck staring and let us get a move on that would be greaaaaaaaat.

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That ass will be mine.

#word of honor #Shanhe Ling #Wen Kexing #zhou zishu #zhang chengling #Gu Xiang #writing woh #spoilers #episode 3

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tothemeadow · 4 years ago

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Commissioned by @azurenocturne

Douma x Reader

- After your friend disappears while investigating the Eternal Paradise, you decide to follow after her. Little do you know, but the leader of the cult, Upper Moon Two, is as beautiful as he is conniving... -

warnings: mentions of death, blood, and gore

words: 2.1k

Birds of a feather flock together, but not this time. She’s walking on an unfolded road in a distant dream, long gone, almost forgotten. Sometimes, her laughter rings in your ears. Sometimes, when you close your eyes, you can see that very day, cloaked with white and the chill of winter.

It’s because of her that you’re the person you are today.

Seasons have passed, as have many moons; day by day, you wait for your crow to bring you an ounce of good news, but to no avail. Months have gone by, and yet your friend has still not uttered a single word.

You’re confident in her skills, of course. She’s a tough fighter, practically too stubborn to die, but paranoia follows you around, wraps around you tightly during the night’s long hours. You figure it must be because of the façade she must put up – to be captured means death.

The lead she told you about was strong, and she was more than determined to follow it to its ends and meet the leader for herself. The Eternal Paradise, as she explained, where Upper Moon Two leads blind followers to their deaths. It’s disgusting, isn’t it?

From your understanding, some demon sat on a pile of corpses and bones with an entourage of mindless sheep waiting for slaughter. It is disgusting, down to the tiniest detail. You encouraged your friend to take down such a damned blood-thirsty creature, but you sent her off with plenty of warnings in your stead. If anything looked to shady or dangerous to deal with, you begged her to make her return home. She didn’t deserve to die in a place like that, not to people like those.

You wish you were naïve. You wish you could tell yourself that it would be okay, that your friend will come back to you safe and sound someday, but that’s not the case. Your gut told you otherwise, warned you of the truth. She was in danger and needed help, whether she liked it or not. You had to follow down that same road, seemingly disappear and become one with this so-called “organization.”

She was going to come home.

“You’ll like it here, sister,” Hanako says, voice devoid of all emotion. Hanako was appointed as your ”guide,” told to show you around the mansion, provide the ins and outs of how the cult worked. Unlike the others straggling in the halls, her expression is plain and lifeless. With hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes, you wondered what hell she must’ve been through to find herself living in the halls of the Eternal Paradise.

As you pass the others, they turn to you with way too pleasant smiles, their eyes squinting to the point where it looks painful. There’s no way that they’re that happy to be here, right…? Surely, they’d have to notice how some of their fellow followers randomly disappear from time to time. It’s possible that their demon leader manipulates them to forget, or straight out threatens them to keep silent…

“You’ll be staying in here,” Hanako says, coming to an abrupt stop in front of a room. The room itself is on the smaller side, nearly devoid of any furniture besides a rolled-up futon sitting to the side. “This is where I reside,” Hanako continues. “There used to be another, but then they decided to leave.” Stepping inside, Hanako unceremoniously drops the spare futon and pillow she was holding onto the floor.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand straight at her ominous words. “Uh, what do you mean, they left? I thought anybody who became part of the… Eternal Paradise would never want to leave?” Saying the words leaves a nasty taste in your mouth; you’re a slayer, for gods’ sakes. You shouldn’t even be here, but you’re determined to find your friend. It’s partially your fault that she came here all by herself; you should’ve tagged along, made sure she wasn’t alone when going up against a cult.

Hanako blinks at you, her eyes a cold, empty shell. “They died.”

What?

“Everyone lives, everyone dies. That’s life, after all,” Hanako says. “They left before they passed. To die in this sacred place… It’s repulsive. Our lord doesn’t deserve such disrespect. Imagine if I woke up to a corpse and had to tell our lord? He’d punish me for not dealing with it.”

Swallowing thickly, you turn away. If Hanako was afraid of telling the demon that somebody died – that in itself raises an alarm, jeez – then what were they even like? Cruel and ruthless, obviously; why so followers, then? Don’t they know who they’re even dealing with?

“Hmmm, I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” a new voice says.

Hanako squeaks, then, whirling around to the door and snapping over in a deep bow. “Fool,” she hisses at you, “what do you think you’re doing? Show some respect!”

Glancing towards the door, your entire mouth goes dry in an instant. A large, muscular man almost completely fills the doorway, his wide shoulders nearly spanning the entire length of the opening. He’s beautiful, simply put; birch hair, multicolored eyes, a face carved by the gods. The man’s entire being oozes with power and intensity, yet his enticing scent is tinged with blood. So, this is the leader, Upper Moon Two, it seems. After another moment’s hesitation, you follow after Hanako and bend at the waist.

“Forgive me, my lord,” Hanako stammers. Rather than her monotonous tone before, she addresses her leader with the outmost respect. “The newcomer obviously needs to learn the proper mannerisms.”

The demon giggles. Shivers run down your spine; he isn’t like any other demon you’ve encountered, not by a longshot. The room becomes even more cramped as he steps in, his large body mere steps away from you. “Stand, my darlings,” he purrs.

Hanako shoots upright, her usual blank expression twisted into a pleased grin. Wringing her hands before her, she rocks back and forth on her heels, seemingly having a bit of trouble holding back her excitement. Like her, you stand straight, but you take the chance to truly analyze the man before you.

True, while he is one of the most handsome men you’ve ever seen, you’re all too aware of what he really is, what he really does. Cocking his head, his long hair sweeps over his shoulder, frames his attractive face. He flashes you a knowing smile. Heart dropping to your stomach, you wonder if he knows who you are, just like you know who he is.

“I don’t think that will be much of an issue,” he continues. Offering his hand to you, he silently urges you to take it. “Welcome to the Eternal Paradise,” he purrs, “My name is Douma.”

You’re a fool. A total, complete fool.

How… how could you be so stupid? After all this time, after all the effort into finding your friend… You should have never come. That bastard stole your heart even though you knew it was wrong, terribly so, and yet you did it anyway. Despite knowing Douma is a demon and that he kills people for the fun of it, you fell for him. Hell, you should slit your own stomach for pulling such a move.

He played you this entire time, pulling at your heartstrings and treating you with utmost kindness. You let love get in the way of your mission, cloud your thoughts; for a short while, you believed that maybe things would turn out okay, that you would somehow have a happy ending to the story you call life.

But no, that isn’t how things work. Karma, that bloodthirsty queen, always gets what she wants.

You’re not sure what’s worse – the slurping of blood or the smell of it. No, scratch that; it’s the look in Douma’s eyes, the surge of power and unadulterated hunger. Violent rivers stream from your eyes, ungracefully drip from your chin and onto the wooden planks below. That’s your friend he’s eating, her blood that he drinks.

“I’ve always preferred female flesh, female blood…” Douma begins, tongue flicking out over his lips. His fangs gleam ruby as he flashes you a smile. “They’re so sweet, so wonderfully soft… How do you do it, love? How is your kind so delicious?”

“Don’t you dare call me that!” you growl. “You don’t have the bloody right to.”

Placing a bloody hand to his chest, Douma has the audacity to look offended. “That’s not what you said last night.” The corners of his mouth curl salaciously, a dark giggle spilling from his lips. “If I recall correctly, you were begging for more, my little slayer.”

That makes it even worse. Cursing yourself internally, your grip on your blade tightens. There’s no point in trying to hide it anymore; Douma knew exactly who you were from the get-go. Both yours and your friend’s missions were complete and utter failures. You’ve entered a damned slaughterhouse, for gods’ sakes. You should’ve seen this coming, but your feelings got in the way.

“You never loved me, you twat,” you spit.

Douma cocks his head, drops your friend’s severed hand. “No, no, no,” he begins, drawing himself to his monstrous height, “that’s where you’re wrong. The truth is, well, I’ve never loved anyone!” He breaks into a malicious cackle, then, his whole face twisting with mirth. “And to think you fell in love with me! I’ll admit, I liked you better than the others, but loved? Don’t flatter yourself, dear. Nobody could ever love you, especially not me.”

“I’ll pin your fucking head to a spike and watch you burn.”

Through your torrent of tears, you spring at him, an animalistic growl ripping itself from your throat. Despite the grotesque, bloodcurdling rage surging through your veins, you have to remind yourself to breathe. People used to tell you all the time that you’re worthless, weak, and that you should give up on becoming a proper slayer. At the time, you’ve become so angry that they were right; being a Breath of Water user, you could never get the technique correct. You envied others (mostly Tomioka Giyuu, the Water Pillar) for their abilities.

If it weren’t for your friend taking you to that viewing on that magical winter’s day, you would have never grown. No, you weren’t a Breath of Water user anymore; you honed your skills into something new, something wonderful. Breath of Ice is something to behold in itself, albeit relatively new. You’re proud of your graceful, fluid movements, but that nagging voice in the back of your head tells you that it’s pointless, just like what everyone else said before.

You didn’t want to do this, swirling around in a furious blizzard of snow and ice, floating and skirting around your friend’s remains. Douma follows through with each attack, nimbly dodging your blade, your range of attacks. In time, your body is covering with miniscule cuts, barely thicker than a hair, but the sheer amount of blood pouring from them is obscure. How much you’ve lost, you don’t know, but seeing crimson decorate the floor and Douma’s metallic fans tells more than you want to know.

It’s no good; he’s too strong, too fast, and he seems to know every single move you plan to make. Your face is wet with blood and tears, your vision blurring, snot running from your nose. A punched-out groan bursts from your chest as you’re knocked to the side, back colliding with the wall. You collapse to the ground with an unceremonious thump.

Gasping for breath, you scramble for your blade, fingernails digging into the wood in your desperation. A foot comes down on your hand, then, making you cry out in pain.

“I really thought you’d put up more of a fight,” Douma sneers. Dropping to his knee, he leans down over you, his hair curtaining his face. “Trying to take on an Upper Moon with an underdeveloped breathing technique… You’re so stupid!” With another cackle, he presses the tip of a fan to your throat. “You came all this way to save your little friend, and now look where you are! She’s dead! Funny how that works…”

“I’ll kill you, you lying bastard,” you wheeze.

“Love, you aren’t really in the position to say such things,” Douma says, his voice suddenly turning softer. It’s the same tone he used during the lovelier moments, the moments where he held you close and stroked your naked body. “I’ll let you stay with me forever, though. You’d make such a great decoration!”

“Douma, no-“

Splat.

#kny #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #kny x reader #kimetsu no yaiba x reader #demon slayer x reader #douma x reader #douma #kny douma #commission #azurenocturne

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the-darklings · 5 years ago

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—𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒃𝒆;

—PART XIV. | WHAT IS AND WHAT SHOULD NEVER BE

pairing: john wick x f!reader x santino d’antonio

word count: 10.4k+

summary: A part of you has missed this quiet, this dark.

warnings: aside from pain? none.

notes: well this will either be the saddest or the happiest chapter of COA so far. Let's roll!

children of ares series: 01 | …. | 12 | 13 | . . | 15 |

“My mother who was a great lover of art always told me that life is like poetry. It rhymes.”

Inhale.

“I believe that everything eventually comes around full circle.”

Exhale.

The silver viper ring between your fingers rotates for the hundredth time.

For the first time in days your hands are not shaking.

A stillness has fallen over you; a hush that has wiped away all else. A part of you has missed this quiet, this dark. It has given you back a sense of ease. You can’t even feel the pain in your body anymore. There is just…nothing.

Crisp footsteps approach the spot where you are sitting and you don’t need to look up to know who it is.

Winston sits down beside you with deliberate slowness but there is a heaviness to it. Distantly, you wonder if anything like this has ever happened before. The man next to you is unmerciful in enforcing the rules in his hotel and city at large. Such a violation must be a first.

You sit in silence for several minutes, neither of you moving. Your elbows keep digging into your thighs but all you can focus on is the ring between your fingers. On the faint traces of blood still lingering beneath your nails and cracks of your skin.

The stillness between you is the loudest thing you have ever experienced. Matched in magnitude only by the initial few seconds following the gunshot—

“What happens now?”

Your question is so steady, so calm—it surprises you. You might as well be asking him about the weather.

The older man doesn’t answer right away even though you feel his attention turn to you.

“The High Table has been informed,” he tells you flatly, his hands clasped in front of him. “This will…echo.”

There’s just enough trepidation in the final word for you to know that a more accurate expression would be a “shitstorm”. You wait for something—anything—to hit you but nothing comes. Panic, fear, dread that have always followed any possibility of invoking the Table’s wrath is absent. Winston’s words barely register. Maybe you can go into hysterics later. Maybe not.

“Is there anything I can do—”

“You could come to Paris with me. You still owe me a trip, carissima.”

The ring in your hand rotates again.

Winston focuses on the movement but doesn’t comment. You’re not quite sure if he knows the significants of the ring in your hand, if he’s ever even guessed it. He has certainly seen it before. He knows you’ve had it for years.

The silence stretches for what seems like hours.

“Are you—”

“No.”

It’s an empty answer to an empty question. You’re very not alright right now.

Your fingers still, folding around the ring till the viper disappears, devoured by your hand. By the prison of darkness.

Your head finally turns to look at the older man and his expression draws tighter at whatever he finds on your face.

“Will you—”

“Yes,” he cuts you off before you can finish, nodding his head just once with a pointed stare. “Even if it wasn’t a part of my job—and it certainly is—yes, of course. You need not ask.”

It’s one of those few, serene moments where you feel immensely grateful for having him in your life. To a point you doubt there are any words that could aptly express it. Neither of you is prone to displays of sentimentality though so you choose to say nothing. Still, you think he can read it on your face. See it in the way you blink just a little too fast and swallow thickly with a grateful dip of your head.

Your fingers stiffen into a fist, and you feel the metal ridges of the ring cut into your flesh. It’s a dull, vague discomfort and you turn to stare at the too-clean floor for another beat before you rise smoothly, your joints clicking.

Nothing hurts and the fingers of your other hand flex. Experimental. Deliberate.

Your turn to go.

“Where are you going?”

You pause, but don’t look at him. “I have unfinished business.”

More hollow, calm words that drag from somewhere deep down. From the abyss.

But because Winston is Winston, he doesn’t drop it like most would. “I know what Johnathan did was—”

Inhaling sharply at that name, you begin walking away.

“V,” Winston calls out, and you hear him rise. “(Name).”

It halts your feet, that tone. The authority in it.

But you don’t stop because you fear Winston. You stop because you respect him enough to do so. Care for him enough to at least hear what he has to say if he’s so insistent on saying it.

“If you do this,” he begins, and there is such worn heaviness in his voice that it almost makes you falter. Almost. “You will regret it for the rest of your life.”

Don’t go down this path again.

He doesn’t have to add it verbally for you to hear the words in the space between you. Be it because he doesn’t want a bigger mess than this has already become or because he wants to shield Jo—

Or maybe he just cares about you in his own way.

He knows what revenge does to a person. He knows how slippery of a slope hate can be. He has seen what resentment has turned you into once.

That, you think coldly, was child’s play compared to now.

You look back at him over your shoulder. His face is still drawn, his eyes narrowed, but you know that if you choose this, he will not stand in your way.

A man who believes that everyone is a master of their own fate. That one has to learn how to live with the consequences of one’s actions.

You are the father I wish I had. You taught me well.

It’s what you want to say but don’t.

Instead, something far less kind leaves your mouth, “The only thing I regret right now is not letting him bleed out on that platform.”

With that, you turn to go, and he doesn’t try to stop you again.

Kimber Super Carry.

A custom semi-automatic model with a good sturdy handle and sleek edges, making aiming easy and reloading smooth due to lightweight casing. The seven-round magazine is the smallest capacity it’s manufactured to as far as you know but it’s undoubtedly a weapon crafted for death all the same.

A gun that was fired on Continental grounds.

A gun that—

Your feet halt in the debris of a dream.

John’s home is now rubble.

You haven’t seen it since the news about its destruction reached you and you drag your eyes over the ruined space. Once upon a time, you think it would have made you sad to see this. Now, you don’t feel much besides an inkling of satisfaction.

Consequences.

The echoes of them are everywhere you look as you move through the ash and the dirt. Your footsteps crunch underneath you, and the charred remains still stink of smoke even with the heavy deluge of rain falling down on it.

Your grip on the pistol doesn’t loosen as you step slowly through John’s home.

As if there’s anywhere else he would go to mourn, to wait for what he already knows he will not escape.

Like a ghost, you move across the graveyard of John’s dream. Your eyes linger on the half-burned photograph of him and Helen that still sits on the crumbling mantelpiece. Half of John’s face is burned away, leaving an echo of a smile and love and you stare at it for longer than intended, your jaw set.

You find him minutes later, sitting alone and hunched over on a blackened armchair.

He doesn’t move.

Even though you know he’s aware of your presence.

Rain trails down your face and you blink the tiny droplets out of your lashes as you step into the room unhurriedly.

The dog suddenly appears, dashing towards you from behind the seat and wags his tail happily at the sight of you. He nudges your hand with his nose and your fingers absentmindedly play with his ear, patting him a few times.

Your eyes don’t leave John’s prone figure once.

A dark spectre haunting the ruins of his own life.

Lips parted, he lifts his head towards you eventually, a thin bracelet tangled in between his bloodied fingers—the same hand you injured with your blade only hours ago. His face is bruised just like yours, and through the space between you, the roar of rain washes away the would-be silence.

He doesn’t say anything.

Your lips curve.

“No apology this time?”

John with his sorrowful, dark eyes who is always quick to plead for forgiveness. As if you have the power to absolve him of his many sins. You are not his absolution. He has shown that time and time again.

There is, perhaps, no one left on your side now.

John’s shoulders slant backwards with a deep breath, his voice a rasp, “Not when I did something I know there will be no forgiveness for.”

You stare at him.

He’s not wrong.

He doesn’t look at the gun but you’re both intimately aware of it. His hand had forged your own after all. Right now all you can think about is those long months of work you had to put in just to barely keep up with him—too slow, too erratic, too rigid. His grip on your wrist and the low, measured words of instruction, of guidance.

Viggo Tarasov never made you. He gave you the tool to make yourself.

John Wick never made you. He guided the creation with his careful, deadly hands and an unspoken promise that he will be by your side, always.

Santino D’Antonio never made you, either.

You did it all yourself.

“I spent the journey here thinking how I’m going to put a bullet in your head,” you inform him calmly, amiably. “How far we have come, Jardani.”

His sad, worn expression goes rigid at your gentle murmur of his real name. A name you have held sacred in your heart and hidden so meticulously underneath your tongue for years.

This is not anger, or rage, or hurt.

This is just…nothing. The final stage perhaps.

“He had me hunted,” John mutters in defeat, his voice thick with pain as he stares up at you. “I gave you time, (Name). What was I supposed to do?”

“Stop, Jardani,” you whisper sadly. “You could have stopped for me. Like he did.”

John’s expression creases and you watch as rain trickles down his nose and lips. His confusion is palpable. You take a single step towards him and the dog whines, sensing the shift in the air.

“I was taken after we split apart,” you reveal to him and make sure that every word sinks in, your words slow and deliberate. “That trouble you wanted to help me with initially, remember? The Black Dragon and the Lovers. You won’t know much about the latter because it was after you left. But you know how it goes. Bad blood from years ago come back to haunt me. I was taken but managed to break out with some help. I rushed to the gallery. I got there only minutes before you did. And then I asked him to stop. Call the contract off. Do you know what he said to me?” you wonder bitterly and don’t wait for his reply. “That he’ll do it. You were minutes away from freedom, Jardani, and now look at you.”

Doomed.

One way or another.

Now, there will be no ticket back. No peace.

You watch the realisation sink in. The quiet agony that follows right after.

“I—”

“I don’t care that you didn’t know,” you choke out, pained, watching the planes of his face crease at your wet words. “I just wanted you to listen. How much more? How much more can you take from me?”

You wait for his answer but this time he has nothing to say. Nothing, at least, that won’t be empty words designed to make you forgiving and docile.

“I walked through your home and figured it would be symbolic to finish it here,” you continue through the thundering of rain and the dog whines again, quieter this time. “But then I realised something. You want this. You want it to be by my hand. The moment you pulled that trigger you knew exactly what would follow. All that carnage. An attack on Continental grounds. A forfeited life debt that makes your life mine. You knew that I would never forgive you for almost taking the people I consider my family away.”

Drawing a breath, you lift the gun in your hand but don’t aim it at him. The gleaming, silver surface greets you and in it, you see a blurred reflection of your eyes. The shadow of emptiness there. The hollowed out person staring back at you reminds you of a girl from years ago.

“You did love me,” you go on after another moment, still staring at the gun. Your body is soaked from the rain by now but you ignore the heavy weight of your clothes clinging to your skin. “I think a part of you still does. But the sad truth is that you never loved me more than this. This dream of a normal life. You leaving was never about a choice between Helen and I. It was always a choice between being John or being Baba Yaga. You didn’t stop for me because you couldn’t. Because you don’t know how to stop. Not even for yourself. I bet you used to wake up every morning, look in the mirror, and feel just as empty as I do. Maybe you thought that by running from this life—from yourself—you could be happy. And I think you were for a while. But Tarasov was right to say that we’re cursed, the three of us. We don’t get happy endings.”

You lower the gun and take another few steps closer towards him, watching his expression as you feet creak on the damaged floor. He looks accepting of whatever you will say or do next.

“You said…almost.”

A brief, harsh smile contorts your face. “Yeah,” you acknowledge quietly, viciously, your grip on the gun creaking. “You failed. I made you fail. Santino lived. I don’t know…I don’t know for how long…or if he will ever—”

You can’t continue because it hurts too much.

Because you remember a haze of blood and Winston pulling you back. You sobbing that Santino is still warm, that he’s still breathing.

A bullet that had hit the side of his head, creating what had appeared like a river of gushing blood.

Missed shattering his skull by 2 millimetres. You saved him, (Name).

Winston’s hand on your shoulder, gripping, gripping, trying to tug you back and over the edge with his words.

“Critical care,” you spit out and press your lips together to stop yourself from cracking now. “They don’t—he might still not make it and even if he does…there is a high chance of permanent damage. It’s too early to say yet.”

John exhales, staring up at you in wonder. Maybe even relief. You don’t care enough to search deeper than that.

You simply don’t care. About any of this.

Taking another step towards him, you reach into your pocket, pulling out the ring that’s been with you for years. Your only reminder of him.

The man in question goes as still as death at the sight of it.

You can still remember his muted disappointment at the fact that you no longer wore it. He no doubt thought that you had gotten rid of it.

“I wonder what it says about me that I still have it,” you mutter with a bitter chuckle and droplets of rain cover the metal in moments. “I kept it with me for years. And when Santino asked me if the fact that I still have it means that I love you, I told him no. But that was a fucking lie. I convinced myself that I wanted to mend our relationship because of what happened to Marcus. So I would never have regrets but that was only half the truth. I just…missed you. A tiny part of me never stopped loving you. Despite everything,” you exhale weakly, pausing, and your expression hardens with your next words. “Until you pulled that trigger I would have still forgiven you. I still loved you. Even after all these years. Now…Now I don’t know what you are to me. Not anymore.”

John’s breathing has picked up, his chest moving up and down as he stares up at you. For once, his calm has fled and his dark eyes are desperate, wilder.

“(Name)—”

“You will never stop,” you state frankly, knowingly, your tone wooden. “You will destroy yourself, Jardani. This vengeance will consume you till the man Helen and I both loved is long gone. I don’t hate you. I pity you for that. I pity you.”

The ring in your hand stills. It hovers against your skin. This familiar warmth of metal you’ve clung to for years.

The rain falls harder, beating against your skin, a distant rumbling of thunder echoing in your bones.

The girl who had needed this blanket of safety and comfort is gone now.

You don’t need anchors to the past.

You just need Santino to live. You need Roberto to recover.

You just need yourself.

No one else.

Your hand tips to the side and gravity does the rest.

The ring sails through the rush of falling rain and drops at John’s feet and into the ruin surrounding you both soundlessly.

Like a stroke of the sharpest blade, it cleaves the past from the present.

“I will not kill you,” you tell him simply, but you’re not sure if John is listening. He’s staring at the ground, at the ring, and you can no longer see his face. “You will live and reap the consequences of your decisions. Maybe one day I can find a way to forgive you for this. I…I don’t know. But know that if you ever touch the people I love and care about again…” you give him a grim, empty smile. “You’re as good as dead to me.”

Silence.

You’re not quite sure how much time passes.

Eventually, the downpour eases up, a few minutes of tranquillity following that.

There’s a dull crack of someone stepping onto burned wood and your head slants to the side.

Charon stands still and silent in the ruined doorway of the living room. His face is solemn and like a messenger of death, he chills the space at least a few degrees.

Behind his glasses, his eyes glow with quiet, unspoken regret as he looks at John.

The High Table has been informed. This will…echo.

This, you know then, is about to go South in the worst way possible.

His stare is full of relief when it meets yours though, and you know that he was prepared to find a very different sight.

John dead. Or maybe you dead, or even both of you. Destroyed by the others’ hand.

Won’t that be ironic?

“Mr Wick,” Charon begins and John’s head rises slightly at the call, just barely. “You have been summoned, Sir.”

There is a breath of quiet and then Charon’s eyes transfer to you. Something about the look on his face makes you release a slow breath.

“As have you, Miss.”

The dog naps draped across you both, seemingly the only one enjoying the heavy hush hanging over the car.

John doesn’t speak. You don’t either.

Charon knows better than to even begin and untangle this mess of a situation. So he does what he’s always done, and that’s obey his orders without comment.

You stare out of the window, taking in the scenery of your city and wonder if you are still living in a world that has Santino in it. You have no way to contact anyone and his condition—

“You’re right,” John’s voice slices through your thoughts and you almost flinch, your fingers stilling against the dog’s ribs. “Everything you said back there. You were right. I love Helen but a part of me…a part of me never let you go either, (Name).”

You don’t reply.

He’s not expecting it either because he no doubt realises that his confession is ill-timed.

You imagine it’s less about forgiveness and more about…

You’re not sure what it’s about. Not anymore.

What’s done is done.

It will not change anything now.

Your fingers play with the chain around your neck as you continue staring out of the window.

The quiet stretches on and by the time the car crawls to a stop just outside of Bethesda Fountain, you know that Winston is waiting for you. The fountain is the man’s favourite spot at Central Park and both of you have taken walks here several times over the years. As have—

As have you and Santino.

Cockiness in his step and a sly smirk on his face.

You rip the door open, gasping for breath, and try to blink away the phantom of him beside you, offering the crook of his arm to you.

Walk with me, cara mia?

He’s not dead.

Yet, adds Kishi’s cold voice inside your head.

No, let him live. Let him live even if I—

“It has been a pleasure, Mr Wick,” Charon says politely, offering his hand to John as you round the car. The two men shake hands and you can see John’s hesitation, his attempt to read the situation. Charon stares at him for a beat before adding a quieter, “Goodbye.”

John’s head lowers in understanding and he moves in the direction Charon extends his arm towards, leaving you behind.

For a few moments, you stare at the man who has been a part of your life for years. Who has seen you at some of your best and worst.

“Miss Vipress.”

Charon’s voice sounds defeated, a touch sad, and behind his glasses, you see a glimmer of remorse.

“Take care of the old man for me, would you?” you request softly, taking a step closer when you notice John pause, realising you’re not following him. “The safe in my room. There are two letters inside. One for Winston and one for Santino—”

You work your jaw, trying to bite back your emotion and Charon’s neutral expression strains, too.

“The combination is 29091942.”

For the first time since you’ve met him all those years ago when you were nothing more than a young naive girl, lost and alone, you see Charon’s expression crack. Just slightly. Just enough.

He knows what those numbers mean.

Winston’s birthday.

“Would you—” your wet whisper breaks off and he nods his head promptly.

“Of course, Miss,” he tells you quietly and offers his hand to you, his eyes sad. “It has truly been an honour and a joy.”

You grasp it firmly, squeezing the gloved fingers before leaning forward and wrapping one arm around him too. Charon is rigid but doesn’t push you away.

“Thank you,” you breathe into his woollen coat, scratchy and comforting and him. He smells like the Continental. Like home and you soak in that scent one last time. “Take care of them for me. Please.”

“I will.”

You step back but he doesn’t let go of your hand, giving it another gentle squeeze before releasing your digits.

You both know this is goodbye.

There is no other reason as to why you would be summoned.

With one last look, you turn to go, straightening your spine into a rigid, unyielding line. Whatever it is, you will face it as always.

There she is, a sly voice hums in your ear. My sea on a stormy night, hm?

John is still waiting for you a respectful distance away, his eyes downcast, and you move past him without a word. The dog trails after you, his tail wagging and you hear John follow moments later.

Winston is waiting for you by the fountain, his head tilted towards the sky like his thoughts are miles away, and the muted glow of the setting sun paints him in a golden light.

You come to a stop before him as always and his eyes go to you first before John halts at your side, too.

Your stare is desperate, you know that, but something in your heart eases when Winston simply dips his head in a tiny nod of reassurance.

Still alive.

Oh, Santino.

You cling to that knowledge with every shred of your being.

The older man takes you and John in, all limbs attached, and his eyes flicker to you again. He doesn’t say anything but you can’t help but think that perhaps some minute part of him is proud. Maybe just a little bit. If you’re foolish enough to allow yourself such a pathetic thought.

“Johnathan. V.”

“Winston.”

John’s voice is weary, guarded. There is subtle tension coiling those limbs that tells you he’s expecting an open attack at any given moment. But if that were a case it would have happened by now. Something else is going on and Winston’s thoughtful hum as he stares at his old friend only confirms it.

“What am I looking at?” John asks eventually when Winston does nothing more than gaze at him blankly.

The older man bobs his leg up and down, still staring, but the look in those blue eyes is cutting. It surprises you a touch—the lack of pity you see there.

“Camorra has doubled Santino’s open contract. It’s gone international.”

14 million.

Your blood chills in your veins.

Gianna dead. Santino clinging onto threads of life.

It surprises you it’s not more. For Camorra, that kind of money is pocket change.

John exhales. “The High Table,” he assumes.

Winston hums again, nodding. He looks no less weary, then, and something tells you that the worst is yet to come.

“And the Continental?”

Your muscles lock. For one, sluggish second you see red. Almost go for him with your bare hands alone.

After what he did—

Winston’s head snaps up, and this time something old and merciless stares back at you both. “You shot a member of the High Table on company grounds, Jonathan,” he reminds him coldly, the corners of his mouth tilting downwards. “You leave me no choice but to declare you Excommunicado. The doors to any service or provider in connection with the Continental are now closed to you.”

No weapons. No medicine. No supplies.

Every helping hand cut off and your body effectively tossed to the very bowels of the pit that is the underground world ready to be devoured.

You’re not surprised that it takes John a few moments to digest something like that.

Your eyes lower and you smile.

A sad, accepting thing.

“I am so sorry,” Winston says with an exhale.

Your eyes lift and his stare is on you.

“Winston,” John growls under his breath. “She had nothing to do with this.”

The man before you blinks, sparing his old friend a brief look before he nods his head. “Oh, I am well aware of that. The High Table, however, does not see it that way.”

You look towards the lake, towards the sky, towards the trees.

“Santino lived because of (Name) interference,” John insists, his voice growing colder, harder. “She saved his life.”

Winston rises to his feet, his hands slipping into his pockets as he strolls closer. His steps are forceful though, and there is just a trace, a glint, of anger there as he stares at John flatly.

“Do you believe that I do not know that, Johnathan? The fact that Santino lives is the only reason why, unlike with you, there is no bounty on her head. Yet.”

“But—”

“There are no buts about this,” Winston cuts in, his calm words laced with ice. “The security footage from the museum was retrieved. Can you guess what it showed? V saving your life time and time again. The High Table believes that she should have shot you in the head the first chance she got and been done with it. Her inaction with Tarasov and subsequent saving of your life when you came after Santino—one of their own—has been deemed treasonous.”

John is quiet after that; a rolling, barely contained storm.

You’re still staring at the trees, silent.

In the far distance, kids screech happily as they chase pigeons.

You wonder if any of them belong to the Bowery King.

Winston steps closer and you meet his stare calmly, expectant. “I told you this would happen, my dear. I did warn you,” he remarks unhappily but his words lack accusation. They’re just…sad. “You can’t expect to walk this line between both sides forever and come away unscathed every time.”

Luck runs out. Consequences follow.

His words from your last summoning right after Tarasov’s death.

You should have known that it’s only a matter of time before they came back to haunt you.

“Keep him safe.”

It’s the only request you can think of.

The only one that matters right now.

Because the list of people that would rather see Santino D’Antonio dead is a long one.

Winston’s mouth thins into a hard line but he dips his head in agreement, his gaze solemn, and the relief that follows that is immense. He will keep his promise. Even if he doesn’t like the Italian. You would trust no one else with it.

“I’m sorry but both of your lives are now forfeited.”

There is regret there. Genuine and plain to hear and see.

The older man looks like he rather be doing anything but standing here with you and delivering this news.

“Then why are we not dead?” John wonders carefully, his words low.

Winston’s head tilts, almost insulted, and that ruthless man you have come to respect and rely on and even love over the years stares at John like he has said something incredibly funny.

“Because I deemed it not to be,” he replies bluntly, his head turning to nod at someone behind John.

You hear a faint command of “now” and every person in the Bethesda Fountain Square simply stops.

They turn to face you as one, and your eyes track over the crowd, taking in all the faces surrounding you.

Winston’s eyebrows arch, amused, and you think that on any other day you might have been both amazed and terrified by such a casual display of power. Of influence.

Winston is the beating iron heart of New York City.

He nods once, and every person in your line of sight turns around and walks away.

Dozens of people. Gone.

Just like that.

The older man pulls back his sleeve, checking his watch before calmly informing you, “You have one hour. Couldn’t delay it any longer.”

He reaches into his pocket, pulling out an all too familiar object and offers it to John. “You might need this. Down the road.”

A Marker.

Your jaw clenches subtly.

Another trap for someone.

Those wise blue eyes move towards you, and you force back a scornful smile. “Let me guess? Locked down?”

Winston sighs and slants his head in agreement. “Yes, any and all of your arsenal located at the Continental is hereby locked down and no longer accessible to you,” he informs you coolly. “They have forbidden anyone from so much as touching it. Everything is now under the Table’s jurisdiction.”

Your lips pull back but it’s not a smile. “Good luck to them,” you mutter tightly. “They will never get their hands on my work.”

You had made sure of it.

His lips twitch slightly, a gleam in his eyes. “But of course not,” he agrees easily, knowingly. “However, this was in my personal possession and as such I see no reason as to why the Table’s restriction rule should apply to it.”

A tiny box rests in his palm, even smaller than the Marker he offered John moments prior.

You know that dark gleaming surface well.

Your breath hitches, your wide-eyed stare flying up to his. “Is that…”

“Mhm.”

He offers it to you and you reach for it, having to draw a few deep breaths to keep your voice steady. “Thank you, Winston.”

A possible lifeline down the road. And a personal risk if anyone ever finds out he gave it to you.

His weathered, warm fingers linger against yours for a beat. “You know what you have to do,” he tells you pointedly, sternly.

You will always make the same mistakes. You will always lose.

Yes, you do know.

You’ve always known.

Fight, Winston’s expression tells you and you straighten, your fingers clenching around the tiny box. Make me proud.

I will.

His mouth twitches again.

“I do.”

Here at the most critical time in your life—and even with the lingering, awful dread churning in your gut about Santino—you feel calm.

You feel the calmest you’ve ever been.

Santino will live and I will succeed.

You repeat it in your head. Over and over. In the beat with your usual counting.

Those words will be forged into reality and you don’t care who you have to go through to make it happen.

The significance of your exchange with Winston might have escaped John, but that doesn’t stop his next, icy words. “Winston, tell them, tell them all,” he starts and for the first time since his house, your look towards him. It isn’t John speaking, not right now. “Whoever comes, whoever it is, we’ll kill them all.”

We.

Before you can interject, Winston speaks with a faint smile, his previous coldness easing a touch. “Of course you will.”

For several moments, you all stand unmoving but you know you can’t delay any longer.

“Johnathan.”

“Winston.”

The man glances at you, a furrow between his brows accenting the deep lines of his face. “It’s a goodbye, my dear.”

You don’t so much as blink. “For now,” you note coolly.

“Coffee and brandy are 7pm sharp every night,” he remarks casually, seemingly pleased at the steel in your voice, and his hands slip into his coat pockets. “I don’t tolerate tardiness.”

You read his words for what they are.

I’ll be waiting for you back home.

Nodding your head once, you turn to go. You don’t look back, either. It would hurt too much. There is always a chance—

No, no chances. Not this time.

With every step, you repeat your new mantra in your head. Form a new plan.

Continental first. Not for weapons. But because you need—

“(Name).”

“Make it quick, John.”

His fingers brush over your hand and you pull back, halting on top of the stairs. He stands a few steps below and dog joins you at the top.

“We should stick together,” he tells you urgently, his voice soft, cautious. “If there are people out there who are after you then they will use this opportunity.”

“Let them.”

Let Lucien come. He wanted you over the edge.

Right now, you feel ready to rip his spine out with your bare hands.

Lucien. The pale-haired monster who robbed you of the precious hours that could have averted this entire mess in the first place.

He might not have pulled the trigger but he took from you the only chance of fixing this peacefully.

His name has joined the list of those who will be dead soon enough.

He wanted a dance. You will give him a hurricane.

“In an hour we’ll be hunted by at least half of this city.”

Your eyes sweep over the park before they drag back to him and your brief smile is cold. “No, John,” you disagree mildly and watch him blink. “What will happen is that you will be hunted by 90% of them because they’re money hungry and 14 million is a pretty price to pay for someone’s head. People will come for me, too, but they will be so eager to get to you first that I will be long gone from this city by then. Buy me at least an hour, would you?”

You turn to go but he grips your wrist and you tense, rotating your body back in his direction.

“Where are you going?”

“None of your business.”

“(Name), please.”

Your eyes narrow and you tug your wrist back. “I don’t owe you anything, John. Good luck. And I mean that, but you’re on your own.”

It’s started raining again.

The harsh, cold liquid slides down your arms and clothes as you dash up the staircase of the Continental.

The doorman pauses when he sees you, inclining his head in polite greeting. You only spare him a brief smile before dashing inside. Ignoring the wet squelch of your shoes against the gleaming floor, you go straight for the elevator, not needing to look towards the reception to know that Charon is not back yet.

Your eyes track over the people in the lobby, watching for any threats. Even with 35min still on the clock, you’re not about to take chances.

Wiping the water from your face, your partially numb fingers press on the floor one level below the basement. The basement floor only Charon and Winston have access to. The vaults. But you know better than to tempt fate. You’re not here for your solutions or poison.

The door pings open and you pull the door to the side, pushing ahead as quickly as possible.

Continental’s medical floor is eerily still. Most visitors receive care in their own rooms. This floor is for emergencies only. For worst of the worst.

Hurrying along the hall, you stumble to stop at the sight of a lithe frame of a woman sitting alone on a bench ahead. Her tattooed fingers rest on her other heavily bandaged hand and you exhale slowly, approaching cautiously.

Ares looks up, her expression pinched. She doesn’t look surprised to see you.

The clinical, dim light makes her face look more gaunt and the usually fierce glow in her blue eyes is dimmed too.

She rises slowly and you can see the difficulty in the action.

Your paralyser, as always, has done its job well.

“Ares—”

It’s slow and clumsy and you see it coming but don’t try to dodge.

Her punch connects with your lower jaw and your head snaps to the side, the impact rattling your teeth.

You steady yourself with a wince, your fingers rising to nurse your tender skin and meet her raging eyes with a single, understanding nod.

“Yeah, I deserved that,” you mutter tiredly, wiping at your still damp skin. Your eyes lower for a second with a shaky swallow. “Can I see him?”

It’s a faint question, brimming with uncertainty.

For several minutes she only glowers at you, unmoving.

You’re about to plead with her that you have to see him but her hands lift before you can open your mouth again.

Alive. For now, she signs and her movements are more sluggish than usual. But no one is allowed to see him. Still in operation.

Swallowing, you glance towards the floor.

Few droplets of water have fallen to the floor from your dripping clothes.

“And the blood?”

They had enough.

The puncture wound in the crook of your arm twinges at those words.

An emergency transfusion had been a priority after the doctors just barely managed to stop the bleeding.

Noting the still furious twist of her features, you let your eyes flutter shut in defeat.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe quietly. “But what was I suppose to do?”

Ares doesn’t hesitate.

Shoot him in the face.

Your jaw clenches and you shake your head. “You know I couldn’t do that.”

And my friend and boss might die because you could not, is her angry reply and your throat closes up. I thought you cared about him more than that.

“I do care for him. I—” you shoot back immediately but your words twist around your tongue, halting you. “You have no idea just how much I care about him,” you add quietly, your voice thin, and something about the hard set of her features eases a smidge at that.

“I guess the punishment fits the crime,” you continue with a sardonic twist of your lips. Your eyes meet hers and the confusion you see on her face, in turn, confuses you. “I’m being made Excommunicado, Ares. I have 35 minutes before it goes live,” you explain slowly, your voice pinching with pain.

She blinks, her lips parting slightly.

The morose curve of your lips stretches. She knows full well what this means.

That’s why you move closer towards her even as your jaw still aches from her earlier punch. Reaching deep behind the layers of your clothing, you pull out an ordinary looking flip phone, holding it out to her.

“So please. I know you’re angry at me. I know, but—” you plead for her and tighten your grip on the burner phone. “I need to know. Whatever happens to him I—please, Ares. Please.”

After everything that’s just happened, she doesn’t have to do anything you’ve asked of her. She doesn’t owe you anything.

But her hand grasps yours, tightening her thin but worn fingers around your own. Your shoulders sag in relief as she pulls the phone from your hand and slips it into her pocket with a single, reluctant nod.

She still looks angry but—

“Thank you,” you whisper with a wobbly smile and focus on her bandaged hand. “Your hand?”

Roberto, you know, is recovering already.

She doesn’t get to answer though.

Because before she can do so, a door opens from behind you, and a group of purposeful footsteps approaches.

At least four pairs.

“Well, well, look who it is.”

Your expression slackens.

Ares doesn’t react fast enough.

Hector reacts just fast enough.

You’re not sure if it’s the adrenaline or that humming dark or desperation or just anger and poor timing on his part, but you slam the man twice your size against the wall with a strength that causes a bang to rip through the empty hallway.

“Where were you?” you snarl, furious and low, your blade against the curve of his throat as you other tangles in his silky, dark suit. “Where the fuck were you?”

“Careful, sweetheart,” Hector warns softly, his mouth twitching into a sneer, but something glints in those icy eyes for a brief second. Surprise. “I’ll give you one free pass given the circumstances but there won’t be a second.”

Bodies surround you, but you ignore them, still glaring at the man before you.

“V, stop!”

“Oh, let her beat his ass, Julian,” another familiar voice drawls, unconcerned, his voice full of amusement. “I’ve been waiting for a rematch for years.”

A frustrated sigh. “Shut up, Step, you’re not helping.”

Another tall figure comes to a stop beside you—one that towers even over Hector but neither of you looks away from the other. “Let’s cool it, everyone,” that deep rumble of a voice tries to ease the tension. Dario. If Julian fails to mediate, then the burden falls onto him. Some things truly never change. “Come now, bella. Ease it up. V.”

You ignore Ares. You ignore the other members of the Four who are watching you and Hector with clear worry.

“Where were you?” you wonder with a quiet exhale, your fury palpable.

Hector scowls at you and leans into your blade. The metal kisses those mighty wings but there is no fear in his eyes and your expression warps with rage. “Did you hit your head?” he mocks, annoyed. His grip on your hands constricts, his rings scoring your skin. “I was covering your slow ass and taking on a small army so you could get to Santino quicker but oopsie, am I right?”

You drop your hands away from him with disgust, breathing heavily and Hector rolls his eyes, fixing the cuffs of his suit with a bored expression.

“You failed him,” you whisper, choked, your voice soft with vicious sort of accusation. “You failed Camorra.”

The lowest insult you can offer him. His loyalty to Camorra is absolute. He may not follow the individual but this harms the entire family.

It goes so quiet at your words that you could hear a pin drop. Even Step’s not so subtle snickering ceases. Like they can all appreciate that this situation may take a turn for worse very quickly.

The last time you two fought, there was blood spilt.

This time, you imagine it might come down to more than just blood.

Hector straightens, his sharp features stony. “I know.”

But it’s not enough.

And you can’t stop the avalanche now that it’s been unleashed.

“He needed you to be there for him and where were you?” you continue on, spitting out every word out like a curse, an anathema. “You should have been faster getting to the gallery. You should have been better.”

Hector peers at you, unblinking.

“Are we still talking about me?”

You leap at him but this time he’s ready for you and catches you in his grip, his back hitting the wall again, quieter this time.

Julian and Dario are there at once, their hands trying to drive you apart but a cool, calm command freezes you all.

“Enough.”

Charon.

Others look towards the man at the other end of the hallway but you and Hector are unmoving, still glaring at each other. You’re practically shaking with fury.

He’s right.

Your words were directed more at yourself than they were ever directed at him.

And yet.

“This doesn’t concern you, butler,” Hector calls out coolly, his quicksilver stare drilling into you and his grip on you doesn’t loosen. Smart man. “This is a Camorra matter.”

“Miss Vipress is not, however, Camorra.”

The unspoken Get your hands off her is clear to anyone with any semblance of common sense.

Hector relaxes against the wall, his head tilting as he waits.

“If you’re done with your hissy fit, sweetheart,” he speaks gruffly after another tense few seconds and clicks his tongue. “We need to talk. In private.”

All eyes are on you.

Hector only blinks, bored.

You release your grip abruptly, your fingers flexing, and Ares practically materialises by your side while Dario partially places himself between you and the Camorra Devil.

Your eyes slide towards Charon who stands with his hands clasped behind him. He’s still clad in his coat and scarf from earlier, indicating that he’s just returned. Winston is nowhere to be seen. You incline your head in a silent thanks and cut a brief look at the Camorra Elite.

All four are rigged out in their typical dark suits. The deep burgundy you have also seen them wear is for Camorra’s special occasions only. Like births, deaths and coronations.

You suddenly recall that Julian and Dario never wore the typical Camorra wine red on Gianna’s coronation and your curiosity peaks. Except, of course, you have no time for a catch up with them now. No matter how welcomed the distraction would be.

“Fine,” you mutter, your muscles still taut. “Hurry it up.”

Hector brushes past Dario and the Four part for him, following his lead effortlessly. They move like a well-oiled machine. Dario shares a brief look with Julian, and the shorter man looks like he’s forcing back a sigh, his dark moustache twitching.

Hector wrenches the first door in the hallway open, slanting his head in your direction impatiently.

Ares, Dario and Julian walk in first; all of them varying degrees of uneasy.

Step moves to follow, too, but Hector raises his hand, stopping him halfway.

“Not you.”

Step with his thin, wiry frame and pale face looks like a kid picking a fight with a bull. Even though he’s the youngest from the guard, that makes him no less dangerous. You can’t quite see his eyes behind those customary round sunglasses he usually wears everywhere but you can see the irritated strain on his face.

“You’re joking.”

His voice is low and stark with bitter disbelief but Hector doesn’t so much as twitch.

“No,” Hector deadpans without missing a beat. “Guard the hallway. We don’t need ears.”

For a second, those pale eyes jump over your shoulder where Charon no doubt lingers.

“Fine,” Step forces out, forcefully cheerful and his head tips in your direction, his grin bright. His tattoos stretch across his neck and he wiggles his fingers at you, his own Camorra rings gleaming in the artificial light. “Would thy fair lady like anything from the vending machine? My treat.”

Your eyes go to Hector for a second.

“Skittles.”

Step grins even wider, if possible. “Only if you let me eat the yellow ones.”

You almost smile, then. If all this wasn’t going on, if Santino wasn’t clinging to life and you weren’t about to become one of the most wanted individuals in the world, you might have.

“Sure,” you agree before adding a deliberate, “I reckon I owe you after the last time.”

Hector’s eyes narrow at that, becoming two slits, and Step’s strained grin transforms into something slyer, more biting.

He always enjoys having something over Hector’s head.

He pushes the glasses up his nose and gives you a staged nod. His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek and he gives Hector another stare before wandering off without a backwards glance.

The leader of the Elite’s gestures for you to get into the room and you push past him.

Julian is signing something to Ares when you enter, and Dario stands beside them, his hands burrowed deep into his suit pockets. His long hair is pulled back into a high bun as always and loose strands brush against his beard when he turns towards you.

Beneath their pitch-black jackets, you can just make out the gleam of their weapons.

They’re armed to the teeth.

Good.

The other two turn to you when you enter the room and you try for a smile, no matter how forced.

“It’s good to see you both,” you tell them and mean it and both men smile, too. Your attention swings back to Hector, however, just as the Devil closes the door behind him, sealing you all inside. “But whatever it is that you want from me make it quick.”

A subtle threat.

The man doesn’t outwardly react, simply lifting his arm.

“Catch.”

Your hand snaps out, your actions instinct alone, and grab the tiny object that sails through the air towards you.

It’s small and cool to the touch.

Your fingers loosen from a fist, blinking in confusion and something in your gut hardens at the realisation of what exactly you’re looking at.

“They—” your voice cracks and you pause, forcing calm back into your demeanour as you turn your attention to Hector who only stares at you emotionless. “They will not follow me. I’m an outsider. Half of them don’t even like me.”

The ring of Camorra sits in your outstretched palm.

The ring only the Head of Camorra is permitted to wear.

Or, in this case, the Acting Boss appointed prior.

Your stomach churns.

You have seen this ring on Giovanni’s hand many times. The golden metal that gleams like new even though you know it’s been in the D’Antonio family for generations. The blood-red ruby the size of your thumb nail glimmers in the light and you stare at it in disbelief. You can’t even begin to imagine this ring’s worth.

“You’re right,” Hector retorts blankly, unfeeling, and crosses his arms over his chest. A ripple of his muscles teases the deadly strength there. In dimmer light, his pale eyes seem to almost glow with wry mirth as he addresses you. “Frankly, they rather shoot you dead than follow you. But there are still those who value what that ring represents. That believe the order and the command that comes with it. Those who answer to that ring will obey. Princeling at least had enough foresight to prepare for the worst case scenario. Little Saint has made you his heir, sweetheart. And until he either dies or revokes the title himself, it’s binding.”

Binding because it came from Hector himself and no one would ever question his loyalty or integrity towards Camorra.

Santino has outmanoeuvred everyone by giving away his symbol of power. The very ring he’s been desperate to wear since he was a little boy.

A safety net in case he dies.

The realisation makes your heart hurt.

The families of Camorra will not obey you because, to them, you are nothing. You have not been sworn in, do not answer to their laws and their authority. But they cannot harm you either. And anyone who does, Camorra or not, risk invoking the wrath of the entire family if they do.

But above all that—

Those who answer to that ring will obey.

Your head turns towards the other two Elites’ and Ares. They’re already looking at you and not one of them looks surprised by this turn of events. Either they already knew beforehand or know Santino well enough to not put a gamble like that past him.

Almost in sync, the three of them bow their heads.

A show of respect. An unspoken promise that what you command, they will do.

A shuddering breath rushes out of your lungs that has nothing to do with your damp hair or clothes.

Clenching your jaw, your eyes drag towards Hector who hasn’t moved from his spot by the door.

He doesn’t budge, his arms still crossed over his chest, stretching the seams of his suit.

The Devil of Camorra does not bow his head to you.

He bows to no one.

The only man he’s ever respected enough for such a gesture is rotting six feet under the dirt and his ring is now in your hands. You don’t think there will ever be another individual alive that Hector will ever respect enough to bow his head to them. Oh, if only Giovanni had known years ago that one day you will be bestowed the most valuable heirloom in his family’s possession.

You imagine he would have killed you on the spot.

He laughed, and he said, ‘He is more like me than I realised. He would let this whole world burn to ash, as long as she’s the one standing beside him in the flames.’

Gianna’s words echo at the back of your mind, and a part of you wonders if perhaps Giovanni always did know. If perhaps he always suspected that due to whatever circumstances you might reach this moment in time one day.

You think about your brief conversation on that snowy balcony at Prague and know that you’re right.

“Stay here,” you tell the trio on the other side of the room. Your words sound far away, distant, but strong too. Focused. “No one who isn’t us or the doctor comes near him, understood?”

Your stare drifts to the far off wall in a daze, and you know that somewhere in this building, Santino is out there fighting.

As will you.

Nodding your head at them, you turn to go.

Hector’s arms loosen across his chest and he steps after you when you move in the direction of the door.

You halt at once, your head snapping to face him.

“What are you doing?”

A slow, lazy roll of his eyes as he fishes for a cigarette.

“Coming with you. Were you not listening? I go where that ring goes,” he informs you dully, and lights a cigarette with expert ease. He takes a deep drag, savouring it, and frowns at you, the deep curve of his eyebrows pinching together. “Drop the fucking scowl, sweetheart. I know you think that just because you’re in New York and your connections here run deep, you’re untouchable or some shit but you’re wrong.”

Smoke rolls from between his lips as he talks and your scowl only deepens. In return, he looks amused at best. “In twenty minutes half the scum of this city will come for you just to prove a point,” he reminds you, tapping the glass of his expensive watch, and the bird tattoo on the back of his hand flutters like your slipping time. “Don’t let your over-inflated sense of self-importance cloud your common sense.”

Your turn towards him fully, your chin tilting.

“You will stay here,” you tell him calmly, ignoring the way his eyes narrow and every strong muscle in his body quivers as if in anticipation. “And you will guard him with your life.”

You think you hear Julian curse under this breath. Dario takes a step towards you both.

“Are you ordering me?”

A dark, silky snarl of a question.

Your expression is as rigid as your body. Your fingers around the Camorra ring tighten. “I’m asking you. And I only do that once out of respect.”

A glint of something in his eyes that’s gone too quickly for you to examine.

He retreats and it feels like missing disaster by a breath.

The cigarette returns to his mouth and he grins around it. It’s a callous, mocking thing.

“Fine. Enjoy being hunted, sweetheart.”

You stare at him for a beat, too aware of your time constraint.

Camorra ring rolls in your damp palm again. Grasping it, you drag the heavy metal onto the middle finger of your left hand. Your fist clenches, the skin under your knuckles straining. The ring glimmers in the light, filling your veins with…purpose.

I will see you again, Santino.

Inclining your head in an equally disdainful manner, you only offer the man before you an aloof, “Blood for blood.”

Camorra’s words.

D’Antonio family words.

This time Hector’s version of a smile reveals teeth, almost pleased.

“Blood for blood.”

Streets blur around you.

Stumbling through the rain and the puddles drowning the New York streets, you count every breath you take, focusing on both not exerting too much energy but also your surroundings.

Everyone is an enemy.

In 7 minutes that will become a painful reality.

No one has tried anything yet. But you have seen and felt far too many eyes on you already. Many are no doubt weighing the risks. There is no reward for killing you, and most know the danger that shadows your every step.

You don’t need to touch them to kill them.

Ducking into a narrow alleyway, you slam your body weight against the sturdy metal door. Your fists follow, slamming against the door over and over again.

“Doc! Let me in! It’s me!” you shout over the pour of rain and slam your fist against the metal a few more times. “Doc!”

The door swings open suddenly and you brace yourself against the door frame.

Doc’s frantic stare meets yours and all he forces out is a shaky, “You shouldn’t have come here.”

Bowing your head in respect, you push past him. “Yeah, I know,” you mutter under your breath, working on steadying your breathing. “I just need a few things. I still have time so—”

Your words die on your tongue and you halt, your eyes narrowing.

John sits on the patient chair, his white shirt undone and a lamp shining over his bloodied shoulder.

Fresh blood.

He grips a gun in his hand but doesn’t raise it in your direction.

You hate the fact that he looks relieved—happy, even—to see you.

Blinking, you swipe your forearm over your face and move towards the shelves. Doc rushes back towards John and you glance at the clock on the wall.

4 minutes.

“What happened?” you question coldly and start opening different drawers and pulling ingredients apart.

“Ernest.”

“Funny guy but always lacked common sense,” you drone without looking at him and rip another drawer open, rummaging through the content inside. “Did you know that he tried to ask me out on a date once?”

“No.”

“Yeah.”

3 minutes.

Grabbing a familiar-looking vial, you give it a shake, lifting it to the light before you unscrew the top and drown the liquid inside.

The taste is bitter and numbs your tongue a little. You allow your face to scrunch up in disgust and shake your head harshly.

“I’m going to pay you back, Doc,” you wheeze, continuing your frantic search.

The older man huffs and you hear the fatigue there. “Just try and not make a mess.”

A few beats of quiet follow aside from your hurried rooting around Doc’s supply closet.

“Where is it, Doc?”

“Indonesian Green Erla—”

“I’ve found the plant,” you cut him off, glancing at the clock on the wall again. “Where is it?”

2 minutes.

Doc works with nimble, experienced fingers but he’s meticulous and his focus remains on John’s wound. The man in question looks bewildered by your exchange but doesn’t interject.

“Doc—”

“You gave it to me because you told me that you were afraid of what it can do—”

“Where is it?”

You have never dared to take that tone with him. Because you like him and respect him too much. But your frayed temper strains and the coldness in your voice stills both Doc and John.

“Doc, I need it.”

The clock keeps ticking.

Your head snaps towards the wall for the hundredth time.

1 minute.

“Floorboards. Under the table by the wall.”

You rush towards it, pushing the table aside roughly, and ignore the clatter of glass as vials and medical supplies fall.

Slipping free a blade, you wedge it between floorboards, trying to rip it open.

John is urging the Doc to hurry but you focus only on your task.

“Five.”

John counts and your breathing kicks up a notch.

The wood creaks, finally coming loose and you rip it away, dropping it unceremoniously beside you.

“Four.”

You pull different boxes and packages apart. You know what you’re looking for.

“Three.”

Your eyes snag onto a tiny box and you grab it. It’s a twin—the same dark, smooth material that fits into your palm—to another tiny box already sitting in your pocket courtesy of Winston.

“Two.”

Your two deadliest creations. One created out of hate and malice and another out of hope for a better future.

One finished. One incomplete.

“One.”

Your gaze snaps to John’s just as the clock above head strikes 6pm.

Time’s up.

. . .

an: And so everyones’ favourite Italian lives. For now. :) also the man really said “fuck tradition, I do what I want” and we love to see it!!!

Fun fact, I was planning to do Chicago (finally) right after C13 but since Chicago will be a 2 parter, I imagined that waiting for six weeks to know if Santino lives might not have been that much fun for you lot lol.

Also a few people really worried about Team John after C13 and were like “Team J is ded” and actually as you can see from the events of this chapter the exact opposite is true. Now, you may be reading this and be like “how is this positive for them?” but this had to happen. V needed to realise that she still clung to John and loved him but it wasn’t the right kind of love. A love for a man gone, a spectre, a dream. Her dropping the ring represents her letting go of the past and starting completely fresh. Their mend after Marcus was just a prelude oppose to actual break. This is the break. All these years, V has blamed herself for John leaving by assuming that she wasn’t good enough or that John loved Helen more. Neither is true. The choice was always between who John was and who he wanted to be. He loved both V and Helen the same and it really could have gone either way. Now, at this juncture, they can start again on the same page. Now, this is not to say he’s magically forgiven for all the shit he did. He isn’t. A lot still hinges on Santino and how he will get on in the upcoming chapters. But a lot of you were like “um kat wtf?” and I hope this chapter proves that I do things for a reason and that this build up has been coming for a while now.

There’s been a lot of things set up that are yet to be revealed.

As always, all my love to all of you for your support and encouraging comments <33 and love for my dumb OCs, too! Love you guys and hope you’re all staying safe!

#john wick #john wick x reader #santino d'antonio #santino d'antonio x reader #john wick imagine #john wick fic #john wick fanfic #riccardo scamarcio #keanu reeves #fanfic #fic: children of ares

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sun-summoning · 4 years ago

Text

"Nine Months” Summary: Zuko’s having a baby. A baby dragon, that is. Note: Shameless Zutara. Ignores all finale kisses.

Zuko isn’t at all tipsy when he sneaks into the room his coronation gifts are stored and begins trifling through everything. And why should he be sneaking, he wonders, not at all drunkenly stumbling into the chest of sacred scrolls someone had given him. He groans as he bends forward to rub his knee. Then he loses his balance and nearly falls flat on his face.

Fortunately, Katara is there to stop him, catching his shoulders and helping him stand straight. “You okay there, Fire Lord?”

He tries to focus on her but mostly goes cross-eyed. As the three Katara’s wave their hands in his face, he thinks he might throw up. If he threw up on her, she’d probably be furious. Especially because that would mean he ruined her dress. Perhaps she could bend it away? Was vomit-bending a thing?

“I’m fine,” Zuko replies. “I’m the Fire Lord.”

“Oh, I heard. Today was your coronation, after all.”

His coronation! Zuko perks up, now remembering why he asked Katara to play ninja with him again and sneak into the room the servants brought all the gifts into. Sokka didn’t look all that impressed with the term “play ninja”, but since Sokka was the one challenging him into a drinking contest, he wasn’t really in a position to fight. He was so far gone that Suki had to bring him back to his room.

“Why did we need to sneak in here?” Katara asks. “You’re the Fire Lord. Can’t we just waltz in?”

“But I don’t want to waltz.”

“That’s not what I--”

“Oh, swords!”

Zuko runs to the set of broad swords Master Piandao gifted him like Sokka on a shopping spree. He draws out both blades and Katara is quick to grab his hands and make him put them back down.

“You said we were here for an egg?”

“Right.”

Zuko puts the swords back on their decorative stand with only a small pout. When he remembers the reason he came here, he rummages around the piles of presents. He finds a few more weapons that peace time will only allow him to admire and not use. He finds scrolls that will bore him and scrolls that might actually interest him. He even finds some pieces of jewelry that he assumes are supposed to go to the future Fire Lady but that he’ll offer to Katara instead. Not that he assumes she’ll be the Fire Lady, of course--

“I think I found it!”

Zuko rushes over to her side, nearly knocking her over in the process. Katara has to balance both of them as Zuko leans over the box she opened and marvels at the dragon egg. He reaches in to pick it up, but Katara grabs his wrist.

“Are you sure you want to pick that up right now?” Katara asks. “You’re a little, well, inebriated.”

“I was literally just playing with the swords.”

“Yes, but if you stab yourself, I can heal you. Whereas if you drop the priceless fossilized dragon egg, that’s it.”

Zuko decides that he’s heard her warning, respects it, and isn’t going to listen. He plucks the egg out of its box and holds it delicately enough. The shell is surprisingly smooth for the scales that line it. Like virtually everything in the Fire Nation, they’re a deep red, but at certain angles the scales flash gold. Zuko turns it slowly, amazed that something barely bigger than his head could grow into the majestic beasts he met with Aang months ago. He lowers his hands to put the egg back into its case, but pauses when he feels a beat.

“Huh?”

Zuko frowns. He brings the egg closer to face, looking for something but unsure of what. The egg pulses in his hands, as if burning with life. Zuko’s hands begin to shake, so he places the egg back in the chest it came in.

“Katara?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think that dragon egg is a fossil.”

ii.

Zuko tracks down the gift giver, an eccentric old merchant that was old friends with his uncle. He explains that the egg truly had been a fossil for dozens of years, sitting in one of his smaller warehouses as a lump of black rock that he held onto for sentiment’s sake. However, that warehouse caught fire during the day Zuko returned to the Fire Nation to claim his rightful place, and among the ashes, he found the egg restored, ready to hatch after nine months. Considering it an auspicious sign, he simply knew the dragon egg would need to be given to the new Fire Lord.

The next day, Zuko announces his impending fatherhood to the rest of his friends.

Sokka is quick to pick up the knife he’d been using on his breakfast before Katara explains that Zuko is having a dragon baby, not a human one.

“Oh.” Sokka sits back down. “Wait. What? A dragon?”

“A dragon,” Zuko confirms.

Aang looks ecstatic. “That’s so cool, Zuko! When your dragon gets big, you guys can race me and Appa!”

Toph punches Aang’s shoulder. “No way! The first thing that dragon is doing is taking me on my life-changing field trip.” She scowls at Zuko’s general direction. “I’m still waiting, you know.”

“I think Zuko needs to focus on, you know, reforming the Fire Nation, Toph,” Katara points out.

Toph sighs dramatically. “You’ve really changed, Sparky. How dare you.”

Later at dinner, Sokka tells them that he spent the day in the library. That isn’t much of a surprise to anyone because Sokka absolutely loves the palace library and often only leaves when he’s told it’s time to eat.

“I was reading about dragons today,” he explains. “Did you know you have tons of books about dragons?”

Zuko did not. “Of course I did.”

“Well, okay, so where’s the egg?”

“Still with the other gifts?”

“Zuko!”

Sokka stands with a small shriek. He takes off running. The rest of them resume eating until a few minutes later, Sokka returns with the egg and a long length of cloth that may or may not have been a banner.

“Sokka!” Katara yells. “Don’t run with the egg! What if you dropped it?!”

Sokka ignores his sister and deposits the egg in Toph’s lap. “Here, hold it.”

“Yeah, that sounds safe,” she grumbles.

“I’ll hold it!” Aang says.

“No!” Toph folds over where the egg sits. “It’s mine!”

“No fair!” Aang pouts as he turns to Katara. “Katara, Toph isn’t sharing!”

Katara sighs and tells them to take turns.

Meanwhile, Sokka succeeds in making Zuko stand with his arms outstretched. As he works, he explains that the books all said that the egg needed to stay warm at almost all times, meaning Zuko would need to use his natural body heat to take care of his future dragon. Sokka proceeds to wrap the cloth around his middle and shoulders, leaving a small pocket on Zuko’s chest. As Toph finally agrees to let Aang have a turn holding the dragon egg, Sokka plucks it away and tucks it against Zuko.

“Behold, the Dragon Daddy...Carrier...Thing.” Sokka holds his arms out as he shows Zuko’s new look off to their friends. Everyone regards Zuko in his formal attire with a dragon egg strapped against his chest. “Super manly, am I right?”

Katara crosses her arms, utterly unimpressed. “There’s nothing manly about it.”

Sokka glares at her and Zuko looks positively offended.

She rolls her eyes. “What I mean is that women have been doing that for centuries, Sokka. You’re hardly a genius.”

“But I’m still manly right?” Zuko asks.

“Sure?”

They resume dinner and Sokka regales them with all that he’s learned about dragons. When they’re done, Aang reminds everyone that he still didn’t get a chance to hold the dragon egg.

Zuko says he can have his turn after dessert.

iii.

On rare occasions, Zuko is told that he cannot bring his egg into particular meetings. His advisors are generally accepting of this minor eccentricity, but he knows when to pick his battles, and relents. After all, some other attendees might not take him seriously with a sling strapped across his abdomen. During those moments, Zuko entrusts his egg with Katara.

Katara looks significantly less weird with the egg held against her body. She’s still too young to be a mother, but she certainly looks like one like that. And it doesn’t help that she’s flanked by Aang and Toph who are both touching the egg and commenting on how the scales feel.

When he’s done for the day, he heads their way. Toph notices him first, turning her head in his general direction. Aang and Katara see him next, the former waving excitedly while the latter smiles in that way that makes Zuko’s heart skip a beat.

“Thanks,” Zuko says when he’s in front of them, “for, um, watching my egg.”

“That sounded weird.” Katara makes a face. “I hated that entire sentence.”

“Well how else am I supposed to say it, Katara?”

Her lips twitch in amusement and Zuko can’t help but smile back. He wracks his brain for something clever or maybe even flirtatious. Naturally, he comes up short.

Aang breaks the silence and eye contact though by tugging Zuko’s sleeve. “Hey Zuko, next time you need to look like a super serious Fire Lord--”

“I am a super serious Fire Lord.”

“--can I eggsit? I’ll be super responsible, I promise! And I can actually firebend, so I can be warm for the egg too!”

Zuko considers Aang’s hopeful grin while also considering that he and Toph thought it’d be a great idea to airbend a pair of ostrich-horses onto the roof for a race. There was nothing responsible about that. Toph couldn’t even see! Aang could be trusted with restoring balance and taking bending away from bad people, sure, but eggsitting Zuko’s future dragon? No way.

“Aang, yesterday you made a mini cyclone in the garden.”

“Yeah, but that’s because Sokka wanted to see what it’d look like on a smaller scale than the ocean.”

“That...no. No, you don’t get to eggsit.”

“Boo!” Aang crosses his arms and pouts. “Fine. I guess only Katara gets to hold your egg.”

Zuko frowns. “Yeah, I hated that entire sentence.”

iv.

Every few weeks, Toph confirms that the dragon is indeed a healthy thing. With the egg on the ground and her hands holding it in place, she tells Zuko that it has a regular, steady heartbeat. Of course, she doesn’t really know how a dragon’s heart should beat. For all she knew, it wasn’t actually beating at the proper rate and the dragon was doomed.

“Nah,” Sokka says. He begins tapping the floor. “It should be like this.”

Katara raises an eyebrow. “How would you even know that?”

“I read about it.”

“You read about dragon heartbeats?” Katara frowns. “I don’t think that’s a thing.”

“It’s absolutely a thing!”

Zuko drowns them out as he picks the egg up from where it sits before Toph and carefully tucks it back into his sling. His hands rest upon it while Aang leans in close to marvel at it too.

“Man, this is so awesome, Zuko!” he exclaims.

“Yeah.”

“A dragon. For the new Fire Lord.”

“Yeah.”

“And--” Aang pauses. He rises to get a better look at Zuko’s face. “Are you...crying?”

“Of course not!” Zuko bites out. “There’s just something in my eyes!”

Toph snorts. “Yeah, alright.”

She makes a joke about how Zuko does this every time she checks the heartbeat, while Aang suggests maybe using waterbending to see if it’ll be a boy dragon or a girl dragon. Toph laughs and says Zuko won’t be able to hide his crying if that happens. Zuko carefully blinks back tears before he snaps back at them for being right.

Zuko joins his uncle for tea in the afternoon. His uncle has been busy with the efforts to reestablish peace, and they certainly still have more work ahead of them, but Zuko is happy to have him home again.

“I’ve heard rumours, nephew, that you have...secured your legacy.”

Zuko nods. He will never share the legacy of the Fire Lords before him, conquerors and tyrants alike. No, Zuko will be the bringer of peace and its champion too. He will teach kindness and compassion. He will restore culture, reform education, and continue to reinvent to match his people’s needs.

“Yes, uncle.”

“That’s good to hear.” Iroh pauses. “However, you are not married.”

“I...am not, uncle.”

“Perhaps--”

“There you are!”

Zuko looks up to find Katara entering the room. In her arms is the dragon egg that he’d dropped off to her that morning because of some commitments.

“Hey,” Zuko says, letting Katara’s settle the egg in his lap.

Katara then ignores him and decorum by rushing over to his uncle’s side.

“Iroh!” she greets. “It’s so good to see you!”

“It is good to see you as well, Master Katara.” When she draws away, Iroh examines her up and down and then frowns. He quickly covers that up with a smile though. “Please, won’t you join us for tea?”

“I’d love to, but I promised I’d help Aang with some stuff. Are you free tomorrow morning?”

“For you, Master Katara, I will be.”

Katara laughs and sets a time before making her way out again. When she’s gone, Iroh looks at Zuko and stays silent.

“What?” Zuko asks.

“It’s nothing.”

“Clearly it’s something.”

Iroh purses his lips, as if unsure if he should say what’s on his mind.

Zuko doesn’t understand why he suddenly seemed so disappointed. Zuko had just confirmed that he would no longer carry on their family’s legacy of destruction. Shouldn’t that make his uncle happy? But instead he saw Katara and looked sad. This was obviously Katara’s fault then. Katara’s fault for being--

Zuko stills. He looks down at his tea and then back up at his uncle’s solemn face. He exhales and finds angry steam coming out of his nostrils.

“Uncle,” he begins slowly, because he is a kind Fire Lord and kind Fire Lords don’t lose their temper with people, even gossiping uncles. “Were you under the impression that I...and Katara...” Zuko’s features contort into a scowl. He refuses to even say the words. “Uncle!”

“Now, now. You must forgive an old man for chatting with old friends over pai sho, nephew.”

“About my love life?!”

“But of course.” Iroh grins. “It is a very popular topic all over the world.”

“Uncle, please!”

vi.

As an ambassador for the Southern Water Tribe, Katara’s stays in the Fire Nation are long, but not permanent. She spends her last evening there with Zuko and the dragon egg.

“Based on everything we’ve read, the egg shouldn’t hatch for another three months.”

“That’s right.”

“I’ll only be gone for two months.”

“Correct.”

“I’m going to be back on time for the birth.”

“I know you will.”

“I’m going to be so upset if I miss it...”

“Don’t worry,” Zuko reassures. “Druk will wait for you.”

Katara grins. She likes the name he picked. She knows he spent a lot of time poring over a list of names of the dragons that used to be partnered with members of the royal family. The original Druk belonged to a Fire Lord from centuries ago whose reign was one of peace and prosperity. He was a huge patron of the arts and Love amongst the Dragons was written in his time.

“Take care of yourself while I’m gone, okay?”

“Obviously.”

“Make sure you eat three meals a day.”

“I already do that!”

“Because I make you!”

“I missed a meal one time--”

“Yeah, per day!” She pokes his shoulder. “And make sure you sleep.”

“I will.”

“I mean it. I’ll know if you don’t.”

“Yeah? How will you manage that, waterbender?”

The question comes out more coyly than he ever would have intended. And calling her anything other than her name has always seemed more flirtatious than intended. Granted, maybe he did intend it. Zuko smirks for effect, hoping he seems as cool to her as he wants to be.

Katara narrows her eyes, lifting her chin a fraction and crossing her arms and--

Agni, it was happening.

They were officially flirting.

Zuko willed his beating heart to be still.

“I have my ways,” she drawls with a little grin of her own. But that soon fades into sadness. “I’m going to miss you, Zuko.”

Zuko nods. He’s going to miss her too. Katara has been around since he defeated Azula. He got used to her presence when they were still fighting in the war and he became at home with it during their stay in the Fire Nation.

“Zuko...”

Katara leans forward and Zuko’s heart begins to race. Actually, it was already racing. Now it’s just beating ridiculously fast. This might actually be a health hazard, Zuko realizes. Perhaps Katara wasn’t good for him after all if she was going to make his heart go crazy and make his stomach hurt in that weird, stupid fluttering way all the time. Her lips twitch, puling into a pucker, and Zuko knows this is it.

This is it.

He closes his eyes, ready as if he hasn’t been ready for months now, and then--

Nothing.

He blinks, confused, and catches the back of Katara’s head as she stands back up and grins sheepishly. She pats the dragon egg strapped to his chest.

“I had to give Druk a kiss goodbye,” she explains.

“Right,” Zuko mumbles. “Druk.”

He tries not to pout. Really, he does. But apparently he doesn’t try hard enough because soon Katara is giggling. She reaches up, one hand cupping his cheek as her thumb brushes his skin.

“I’m going to miss you,” she tells him.

“I’m going to miss you too.”

Her gaze flickers to his lips and he watches the way she swallows nervously. Deciding it’s now or never, Zuko leans in, and is pleased when Katara meets his lips half way. It’s a bit of an awkward lean considering the dragon egg between them, but Zuko wouldn’t change a thing. He kisses her softly, unwilling to rush what he knows is going to be a good thing.

Eventually they draw apart and Katara smiles shyly. “Will you see me off in the morning? Well, Ninja Zuko, not Fire Lord Zuko.”

Zuko nods, still a bit breathless. “Of course.”

vii.

Fire Lord Zuko’s less than standard choice of outfit is expected at this point. Gone is the initial sash Sokka made when they first realized the egg needed to be held at all times. He has new ones in a variety of colours. Some have even been gifted to him by other dignitaries on their visits, so Zuko has half a dozen shades of green. Today he wears the yellow one that Aang so eagerly gave him the other month.

He looks ridiculous, therefore he stands out. And because he stands out, it makes an attempt on his life that much easier.

Of course, Zuko has the best guards in the entire world, and his attackers are dealt with swiftly.

Panicking, Zuko unwraps the yellow silk and carefully inspects the dragon egg. He frets until he finishes.

“He’s okay,” Zuko breathes in relief.

“Good,” Suki says, “because I don’t think you were the target.”

“What do you mean?”

Suki nods to the egg. “They were aiming for that.”

“Druk?”

“Great.” Mai sighs as she looks up at the ceiling. “He already named it.”

“Of course I did!”

“I think Druk is a great name, Zuko!” Ty Lee says.

Suki continues searching the room with her two new recruits. “Why would someone want to assassinate a dragon?”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Mai turns to Zuko and finds him rewrapping the yellow silk around his body to cradle his dragon egg close. “A new Fire Lord supported not only by the Avatar, but by a dragon. No propaganda can beat that in the Fire Nation, especially when you started walking around with the real thing. They probably think you’ve been chosen by the spirits.”

“But dragons are extinct, Mai,” Ty Lee points out.

“So, what, that’s a toucan puffin then?”

“If someone wants Zuko out of the way,” Suki muses, “they know they need to get rid of that dragon before it’s born.”

“Exactly.”

Zuko rises, scowling in his Fire Lord regalia and the sling wrapped around him. Fire shoots out out of Zuko’s clenched fists. He might look absurd, but his expression is fearsome as he all but growls, “They can try.”

viii.

Katara returns a few days earlier than expected. Maybe the tides had been kind to her ship. Maybe there was a master waterbender on board. Who knew. Fire Lord Zuko requests the Southern Water Tribe Ambassador join him for dinner, which she arrives to after a long day of napping.

Zuko feels a weight lifted off his shoulders when he sees her again. She’s safe, she’s healthy, and if that smile is anything to go by, she’s happy too.

She tells him all about how much they’ve done to restore things to how they were back when she was a girl, along with all the other innovations Sokka’s bringing about. She talks about her grandmother’s cooking, her father’s leadership, and her brother’s antics. Tomorrow will include more official topics about the Tribe’s needs, but tonight is for catching up.

“I guess you enjoyed your stay,” Zuko mumbles, happy for her.

“Definitely. But if I’m being honest, towards the end I...” She meets his eyes for a moment, something akin to longing in her gaze, before she looks down at her plate. She shrugs. “I started to miss it here towards the end.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I really like swimming. And surfing. And...stuff.”

Zuko clears his throat. “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you want, you know. Permanently, even!”

“That’s not really how ambassadors work, Zuko.”

“Yeah. I know. Maybe in, um, a different capacity?”

“What do you mean?”

“Uh...”

A voice that sounds suspiciously like his uncle’s says Fire Lady, but Zuko will never ever say that to her face. Yeah, he’s probably in love with her. Oh, how he’s in love with her. And he’s vaguely positive Katara has feelings for him too. And they kissed before! But Zuko could never ask that of her right now.

“I don’t know,” he says to save himself. He doesn’t do a good job, but Katara doesn’t push the topic.

“There’s still a lot of work to do,” Katara eventually replies.

Zuko manages not to groan at the understatement.

“Here in the Fire Nation, but around the world too. These past few years have taught me that the world is wide and that I’m in a unique position to be helpful. If I don’t use what I’ve learned to help people in need...that just seems irresponsible.” She grins. “But I’ll come back. I’m always going to come back.”

“Wouldn’t you want to go...home?”

“Of course I’ll visit the South Pole, but...” She shrugs. “Home is very spread out now,” she explains with a small laugh. “Aang and Toph are going back to the Earth Kingdom after Druk is born, Sokka is already back with the Tribe, Suki is going back to Kyoshi when she’s done here, and, well, you’re here, Zuko.”

“I’m...home?”

Katara blinks, taken aback. “Did you think you weren’t?”

Zuko doesn’t say anything, too rattled by the admission, too overwhelmed by its meaning. Katara considered him home. Katara held him at the same esteem as people as precious to her as her family. Katara wanted to come back to him. Katara considered him someone worth coming back to.

“And now home is this guy too.” She rests her palm upon the dragon egg, dangerously close to his pounding heart.

Zuko’s hand rises on its own, settling gently over Katara’s. She looks up at him, startled, and he takes a breath.

“Katara, this is my home. It kind of has to be. But it’s, um, better when you’re here.”

“O--oh.”

Katara’s hand shakes. Or maybe it’s his hand shaking and he’s affecting her too. It doesn’t matter though, because Katara turns hers over and laces her fingers through his. She holds his hand and she smiles.

Agni, he loved her smile. Agni, he loved her.

His hand begins to grow sweaty. “Uh,” he self-consciously coughs. “Do you want to hold Druk?” Zuko pulls his hand away and rubs the back of his neck. “It’s been a while for you.”

Katara opens her arms to him and his dragon baby. “I’d love to.”

ix.

The first crack comes some time after midnight when Zuko is reading a report from the ever-growing stack in his office, with the egg nestled in his crossed legs. Zuko looks down, but doesn’t really see anything strange, so he keeps reading. But a moment later, the egg begins to shake. Eyes wide, Zuko finds himself frozen.

The egg wobbles as the single fracture on the side begins to grow like a web.

“Katara!” he hisses. “Katara!”

In this moment, he’s grateful she deigned to linger in his office and read those trashy romance scrolls Ty Lee shared with her.

“What is it--oh!” Katara sucks in a sharp breath when she notices the way the egg moves. She rushes to his side and kneels down. “Is it--”

“It is!” Zuko, unable to move with the leg in his lag, grabs her hand. “What am I supposed to do?”

“I--I don’t know! I’ve only delivered babies!”

“This is a baby!”

“A dragon baby, Zuko!”

They both yelp when a clawed, red appendage breaks through the cracks.

“It’s...” Zuko reaches out for Katara’s hand, squeezing it as the little dragon inside continues to push his way out. “That’s it, buddy,” Zuko encourages. “You’re doing great.” He feels Katara place her free hand on his shoulder. She tells him to breath because at some point he stopped. He doesn’t do a good job listening though, so she begins to loudly inhale and exhale so that he can follow.

Soon another arm comes through, and one moment later, a little head pops through the top of the egg.

Zuko makes a noise that might be a sob and lets go of Katara to help peel away the bits of shell stuck of the little dragon’s head. He blinks at Zuko with dazed golden eyes before his mouth opens into something that can only be deemed a yawn.

“Hi Druk,” Zuko whispers, holding his hand out to the little dragon.

Druk slithers out of what’s left of his shell and sniffs Zuko’s hand. He’s just a bit bigger than a newborn turtle duck, so it’s not a problem when he settles on Zuko’s awaiting palm.

Amazed, Zuko turns to Katara with the widest smile she’s ever seen on his face. “He likes me!” He begins to laugh as Druk crawls up his arm and over his head to the other shoulder. He presses his head against Zuko’s cheek and nuzzles him.

Katara rolls her eyes fondly. “Of course he does. I’m sure he recognizes that you’re the one who kept his egg warm for nine--”

She yelps when Druk takes advantage of Katara’s hand still on Zuko’s back, using that arm as a bridge to climb on her shoulder. His claws are tugging at her hair, albeit only lightly, and soon he’s rubbing his little head against her chin.

“He likes you too!”

Reminded of Zuko, Druk’s golden eyes snap back open and he leaps off of Katara and into Zuko’s lap. Fortunately, he’d had the sense to push the empty shell away when Druk was climbing around. Druk circles the space of his lap before finally curling up and settling down.

Utterly amazed, Zuko gathers his resting son into his arms and stands. He’ll need to prepare a place for Druk, but Katara says she’ll take care of that for now.

“Spend time with your newborn, Fire Lord.”

At the window, Zuko considers showing Druk all that the light touches, but realizes it’s night and so he should wait until tomorrow. He laughs, still utterly astonished by this turn of events, and silently thanks the man who gifted him with the egg at his coronation. Druk twitches and resettles in his arms. He yawns and then he huffs with a little burst of fire escaping his mouth.

Zuko looks down at Druk with adoration and excitement in his eyes.

“I have a dragon.”

#fic #zutara #and general gaang shenanigans #should've been zuko centric lol #but nah

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