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essencering · 2 years

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↳ summary: “Master if you think of it as a way for me to share information with you then would you see it as beneficial for your goals?” you laugh, closing your eyes not wanting to see the way Gojo’s lips would go from an angry grit of his teeth to a disappointed thin line.

The sound of the Omiai hitting the floor is followed by one of Gojo’s hands on your shoulder while the other grips your chin. The unspoken command for you to look at him goes unsaid, and upon opening your eyes to be met with the radiance of Gojo’s own gaze is heartbreakingly beautiful.

“No, absolutely not."

↳ Tags: Gender Neutral Reader, Gojo Satoru, Servant Reader, Reader Is Also A Jujutsu Sorcerer, These Two Are In Love Your Honor But They're Not Saying It :/

writer's blurp: i love bullying gojo and the reader. what better way to do it than the classic of matchmaking, but also going `ah wouldn't this be good to further your goals?' and bam feelings.

If you had to consider something your weakness it would have to be none other than your Master Gojo Satoru. Your time is perfectly balanced between playing the role of his servant acting as his right hand when he is unable to do so himself while standing at his side. Perfect, composed, expressionless in giving nothing away to those so foolish to try and play mind games or ferret out information from your Master's lips.

Gojo the Strongest Jujutsu Sorcerer a man who tipped the scale of power in the Jujutsu Word-- seen as a God by himself and others. The only man who dared to be so bold as to point at both the earth and heaven when standing in front of a man who most sane sorcerers would fear.

“Throughout heaven and earth, I alone am the honored one.”

You are a dutiful servant, doing what is expected of you and going even above your duty to see that those important to your Master are alright for his peace of mind even if he laughs it off while patting you on the head. Your name tinged in that soft fondness Gojo has for you before ruffling your hair with a laugh and walking away.

The past weighs heavily on your Master, showing itself in small ways from how he’s always fiddling with something, to how he can never seem to shut his mouth and to what he is now. A teacher, protecting the one thing he absolutely hated the most-- weaker people. Showing how he uses his power to protect his students, hiding his fondness for them and wanting for each one to live a happy and long life as they possibly can while still young.

Something he himself was unable to do spending time with those closest to him, the friends who he had unintentionally without realizing it had let in so close to his heart, that the emotional sting of betrayal hurt more than being stabbed.

You watch over Gojo, the past that haunts him in his dreams, the hands that are always clinging to your own. Heavy breathing, sweat-soaked hair, and his voice mingle together in a kaleidoscope of emotions and a wish for you to never, ever leave him.

Do not leave his side, if you are not near him then he cannot protect you with Infinity. Do not go where he cannot see you. Reject all missions that take you outside of Tokyo his sphere of control. Here in Tokyo, he can protect you better than he could if you are sent to the outside fringes or to another location.

Both of you know that was an impossible request, but you acquiesce. The time for snide comments at Jujutsu Society isn’t needed right now.

Always have your phone on your person, always answer his calls or text messages (you argued against the lucrative request of answering him within five seconds, squeezing his nose so that his voice sounds nasally) in a timely manner if you absolutely could not stay by his side the entire day.

His list of requests continues throughout the night, and even you are tired when the first few rays of light start to peek their way into your Master’s room. The final one is that you never, ever doubt his affection and fondness for you. The one who's been by his side since the day that you were assigned to him, the first sincere smile tugged at his lips in many, many months.

You couldn’t find it in your heart to take away the hand that he held onto so tightly throughout the night while making his requests-- so you allow him to continue holding your hand.

The seasons change, time continues to move and you continue to follow your Master two steps behind him. Each year you pull him into celebrating things that he would otherwise see as pointless, varying from holidays, and silly little occasions to his own birthday.

Your Master’s requests are easy to follow, though the list is long you are able to manage each one in due time. You are left wondering if Gojo’s long list of requests for you to follow was done to annoy you while he was at his weakest, but you brushed the thought away.

Gojo schemes, plots, and moves about freely due to his status in society, but toying with you as he does with the elders is not in the books.

It isn’t until you receive an Omiai, the beautiful leather-bound folder with gold writing with the family name pressed into it. An arranged marriage between you and another household that unsurprisingly has butted heads with your Master in the past.

You feel an oncoming headache, in all of your time with your Master, it was normally he who received these and with a wave of his hand, you disposed of them after calling to inform the other party that your Master held no interest in them or their offers, stating that if they truly wished to climb the social ladder of the society is to do so on their own. You hang up before the indignant screeching could start.

Whatever you can deal with whatever it might be later, but for now you want to eat, relax in a nice warm bath while maybe drinking something before going to bed. In hindsight leaving the omiai on the kitchen counter may not have been the best of ideas, especially not with how Gojo seems to zero in on it after calling you sunshine.

“Oh? It’s a bit late, so you’ll have to call tomorrow to reject this for me, but who is the family in question?” Gojo is opening the leather-bound folder before you can stop him, the silly little upturn of his lips is replaced with an expression of absolute irritation that speaks volumes to just how annoyed he is. “Ah, forget waiting to call I’ll just go and deliver my message in person~”

“Master.”

“After all, why would this annoying bunch send an Omiai to someone so clearly out of their league and reach? As if you haven’t been seen right at my side for how long now? Anyone can infer just from that alone you’ll be by my side till the day you die.” the tone of Gojo’s voice betrays the smile that he’s keeping on his face.

“Master if you think of it as a way for me to share information with you then would you see it as beneficial for your goals?” you laugh, closing your eyes not wanting to see the way Gojo’s lips would go from an angry grit of his teeth to a disappointed thin line.

“No, absolutely not,” Gojo’s thin veil of infinity that he keeps between himself and the world fades away when he claims your lips in a kiss. Gentle, then bruising and most of all pleading with you in a way that Gojo couldn’t find the words for you at this moment.

“Not when I--” you place your hand against his lips, shaking your head no before the two of you simply lean close to one another. Gojo holds you in an almost crushing embrace, and you return it.

You love each other, but never would you give voice to it. The feelings between the two of you still remain unspoken, for speaking them would result in a curse greater than anything and that’s one you wouldn’t allow to befall Gojo Satoru once again.

#jjk memories #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #satoru gojo x reader #jjk x reader #your honor please -- get the reader to let gojo and themself admit verbally that they love one another

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autumnslance · 3 years

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Was it just me or is corran’s dragon for rathian looking?? Also how did you design Avengret in game?? Cause I see a bunch of people make screenshots for their stuff and I’m here going ‘???? How???’

Short answer: Patience and a little Crime.

Longer Answer: Go under the cut for explanations, like Avengret's body double, Corran's transformed model, and How Lyn (subjects you all to her) Screenshots.

The model I used for Avengret is simply a red dragon at Anyx Trine named Nehsk Fan, using careful Gpose angles, camera zoom, filters, lighting, time of day, and the same Gshade filter I've been using for these headers for consistency (Teddy Gpose for the curious). So actually fairly simple in the manner of "anyone can actually do this and get similar results" (aside from the Gshade).

Image is Aeryn at Anyx Trine with Nehsk Fan, using my simple default gameplay filter in Gshade.

For Corran's look in "Scale" I used CMTools, which takes in game assets and allows one to manipulate them, as well as time and weather. It's how one can use carbuncles, chocobos, and/or most housing retainers to take the form of NPCs, and create custom poses while dressing up in whatever existing clothing items one wants.

Which is how I got this shot with all 4 of my OCs in one room; one I am actually playing, another is a carbuncle, and 2 others are Dark's housing servants, after saving each of my ladies' appearances in the tool. This is also how I get so many shippy shots of Aeryn with Thancred; she's just hanging out somewhere with a carbuncle (while I curse how various joints work as I mess with sliders).

For "Scale" I actually went with the monster menu and stood Dark Autumn somewhere while overwriting her appearance with Rathalos. Anyone else wandering by just saw my femroe idling on a hill, as the change is only visible on my own screen. Then back to the game's Gpose, using zoom, angles, drop lighting, filters, to take multiple shots until I found one I was happy with; I have 7 others in this case that I took and edited but didn't use.

For post-work, I mostly use Picasa 3, a simple photo editor discontinued about 10 years ago but still can be found in places online. I don't do Photoshop, so a simple tool that lets me one click color corrections, lighting balance, and various filters and minor adjustments, as well as cropping, lettering, angling/straightening the pic, works for me.

Image below are just the examples of options I can play with in Picasa 3, many of them adjustable in various ways:

I mostly use Crop, Straighten, I'm Feeling Lucky, Auto Contrast, Auto Color, the Fill Lights/Highlights/Shadows/Color Temp menu, and play around with what filters seem to work for the shot I want. I use "Tint" with the default light blue to "cool down" many of Aeryn's screenshots so she's not super red, depending on what other lighting and colors are happening in the picture. Saturation is good for upping or lowering saturation, especially when using the Bright 4 filter in Gpose.

Knowing how to compose a picture using camera angles, lighting, color, etc, with the in game tools is the most important part; all the extra tools won't do a darn thing to make a good screenshot if you don't learn the basics. Basic photography/art rules apply! The extra tools just make some things easier. I don't think I'm that good at it (I have little sense of composition, lighting, or color; all my best stuff is happy accident!) and I still have a lot to learn, and it does take time and practice. As well as lots of patience and taking dozens of shots to only then end up posting 1 or 2.

My dear friend @healerstail is fantastic at taking screenshots (and photography in general) and has mostly only used basic Gpose and Gshade, only the occasional mod and just recently picked up CMTools. Mostly it's just knowing how to set up the default emotes, timing, and good angles. His composition is amazing. Likewise, @gunbun is very good at lighting and composition, and has been using the new posing tool, Anamnesis (CMT's successor) to excellent affect. She'll tell you to mind your drop lights and camera angles, too

Extra tools only work on PC, so console users have to use only Gpose and defaults, though some do post-work in Photoshop. An excellent example of detailed post-work is @kukurubean's edits.

NOTE: Remember that while Gshade is fine as it's just a filter overlay (and one can get the same results from most graphic card interfaces these days), mods are against the SquareEnix TOS so use your extra tools responsibly; remove the default watermark from screenshots, do not tag official accounts, do not talk about mods in game, put any lewds on locked/private/behind cuts. Do not tease or harass other players with either cosmetic or combat mods.

The FFXIV devs are willing to turn a blind eye and allow player creativity so long as extra tools are used responsibly, not to affect gameplay or bother other players. Yoshida flat out hates DPS meters as people don't tend to use them for personal growth; we have Sky Sea Stone and the metric is "did the boss die and everyone have fun?" Also he has gone on a PLL before and told people to stop lewding younger characters using game assets for legal reasons--right after talking about changing code to break a combat mod used during the TEA world first race (as well as changing how combat markers work in general), making the implications clear.

#Lyn Prompts #Gpose #Gshade #Picasa 3 #Screenshots #Blogging #about me

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thefallendivine · 3 years

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Ma’an-riss Q’iras: Bittersweet

NOTE: This is the short for the second Guardian. If you don’t want to be spoiled about the character, then you are free to skip this post.

---

An ear-splitting screech pierces the air as Tien stabs the wyvern right at the inflicted wound in its chest, bypassing its shell to tear right through its muscle straight into its heart. The wyvern’s last breath blasts her right in the face, smelling like a Dwarven coal mine: sulfuric, earthy, and comes with a burning sting that clings to the back of the throat. Even with the winged lizard’s lashing tongue and bared fangs, Tien is not at all fazed, having grown used to the sights and smells of these Draconic descendants.

Pressing one foot on the wyvern’s chest, Tien establishes footing as she twists her blade around its heart until the wyvern’s thrashing stops and it slumps lifelessly, just like all the others.

“That should be the last of them,” calls a familiar voice from behind Tien. Pulling out her curved sword before turning to face the approaching Human man. With a big grin on his face, Kimber looks around, “We hit the jackpot, didn’t we, boss?”

Tien casts her gaze all over the ruins, so does her companion, a Dragon Hunter just like her who has worked for the hunting party she leads for many years now. Someone she considers her brother.

It is the strangest feeling, having been raised to view Humans with indifference at best, Tien now considers several of them as family. Fifty years ago she would have shuddered at the mere thought of entrusting her unguarded back to an incompetent race, but she has seen past that. Most times she wonders if the Elves are the problem, rather than the Humans.

But that in itself is the beauty of being a Dragon Hunter. No matter what shape or size a person is, they are welcomed with open arms in the quest of slaying terrorizing monsters. Most of them are already disowned by their respective nations, that is why they find no more reason to begin quarrels with one another. It may be a difficult job, but not any more difficult than any other job for a warrior.

“The only problem is: how are we going to transport all these guys?”

The question has Tien looking back to Kimber. “We don’t. Not yet.” Tien turns to the others, her voice then rings deep and loud as she instructs her party, “Wrap them up with the cloth we brought. Be thorough. When you’re done, load up half of the wagons with wyverns. Bury what’s left in the sand with the drakes and the wurms. Those of you whose mind and blade are still sharp, gather around.”

As their party moves to fulfill their leader’s orders, Kimber turns to Tien. “Those weird cloth that took up half the space in our storage. Don’t tell me they’re from ‘nishil-norey’.”

Tien stifles a smile after Kimber butchered the name of the Elven city. But from the proud undercurrent of Kimber’s expression, presumably from displaying his knowledge of the overlooked origin of an uncommon product in front of an Elf, Tien lets the Human have his moment of triumph. “Yes, they are.”

Nyshlenorreian fabric are used by Dragon Hunters to preserve their kills so the value does not depreciate as they are transported through changing humidity and temperature. Elves use them for preservation of harvests, especially those reserved for offerings, and are mostly used within Elven territories. Smuggling these fabrics out of the woodlands is a difficult undertaking and always costs a fortune.

“Holy shit, boss. You’re really serious about this haul, aren’t you?”

Tien raises a brow. “When am I never serious?”

Kimber nods. “Fair point. But why would we load up only half of the wagons?”

Tien turns to the center point of the ruins: an abandoned graystone fortress, its walls still standing strong despite the thousands of years of history that shows on its surface. “Because I need to somehow make up the investment I made. By, perhaps, about ten times?”

Following Tien’s gaze, Kimber whistles. “You mean to say there’s gold inside?”

Tien shrugs. “Gold, ancient relics, unhatched eggs, they always guard something. And that something is always worth a whole lot than a weyr of freshly killed Dragonkins.”

The response Tien is expecting does not come, and she looks to Kimber who now has faraway look on his face. “So you really were serious when you said that this might be the last hunt we’ll ever have. Our kills alone are enough to drown ourselves in fine wine for the next twenty years. But if you’re right about the treasures inside, then we don’t have to do all this anymore.”

Like Kimber, Tien does not reply, having mixed emotions about it all.

Thankfully for the Elf, the Human breaks the moment. “It’s bittersweet… but mostly sweet.”

Tien nods, a soft smile gracing her lips. “Mostly.”

Kimber smiles back before facing the other hunters who have now gathered, raising his sword as he shouts, “You hear that, fellas? One more dive into some musty ruins and we can finally pay back the boss with all the thousand year cognac she wants! No more of that filthy ale she forces down her throat to make us happy!”

The other hunters shout back their own cheer, inducing a fond shake of the head from Tien.

The raucous elation is then disturbed by a shriek echoing from inside the ruins. As the cheers come to a halt, a wyvern shoots out of the fortress’ cracked surface.

The laughter comes a moment later.

“Look at the little guy cheering with us,” Kimber says along with the jeers of the others.

Tien ignores her party in favor of watching the wyvern fly up high towards the sky. Wyverns are hostile on sight even if they are outnumbered, but the one that came out is not. And the shriek it let out is not one of fear; hunters are well aware of how a scared wyvern sounds. Tien has never heard that kind of emotion from a wyvern’s call.

How strange, she thinks to herself.

Just as Tien’s gaze settles back on the fortress, the ground they are standing on begins to shake. A clap of thunder that is usually heard from above reaches the hunters ears. It reverberates below their feet, and aside from just hearing it, they feel it as well. The tremors creep up from the earth onto their feet, quivering its way up their bodies until their balance breaks, pulling them down to the ground on their hands and knees.

Now kneeling and unable to regain stability, the hunters as one welcome the great Dragonkin that bursts out of the fortress with forced reverence.

Tien watches in both horror and awe as the fortress that withstood time is now shattered like glass to make way for what appears to be a giant wyvern— using the leading edge of its wings as a forearm, it lands on the solid ground of the desert.

Assessing the monster, Tien’s gaze moves over its golden carapace up to the crown of horns on its head. Just like any other Dragonkin, penetrating the scales would be difficult, which only leaves the underside. It will be the same as any other wyvern, except the one in front of them is ten times larger than the ones they fought in the area, which only means that it would be impossible for such a wyvern to fly. While it can still move around with leaps and bounds, it still is a wyvern on the ground. And as far as Tien’s experience goes, a grounded wyvern is a dead wyvern.

Tien nods to herself.

“Stand your ground!” She shouts as she gets back to her feet, sword placed in front of her. ”We cannot outrun a wyvern this large! So we kill it, like all the others!”

Just as Tien says the words, the “wyvern’s” wings detach from its front legs, before spreading outward in a glorious display— Tien has never seen a wyvern do such a thing. But before she can think further on it, the monster roars, and along with it, the earth quakes in perfect harmony.

Tien frowns, hearing something beyond the sonorous cry. An unrecognizable pattern of sound yet with distinct and clear succession of structured noise, one with an undertone of expression.

Tien’s eyes widen. Did it speak?

The Elf almost cannot believe the conclusion she came up with, but once more, the wyvern roars.

“Orrtid irayagnan onna...”

Tien’s breath catches. “Impossible...” she breathes out.

“Hey, boss! Are we gonna do this or not?”

To Kimber’s question, Tien can only respond with a vacant look.

Unfocused, her quiet words do not quite reach her companions, “Is this what the Dragonkin are guarding? A real Dragon…”

The golden titan roars again, louder and angrier, “Orrtid irayagnan onna!”

This time, Tien does reply. Not to the Dragon, but to her party. “Run! Run for your lives!”

Confusion spread throughout the Dragon Hunters at the sudden change of instruction. But seeing the frantic look on their leader’s face, they all follow with infected horror.

Ma’an watches as the mortal Humans, ordinary and odd, scatter across the sandy terrain, weaving their way through her dead Dragonkin servants. Anger surges from inside her, hot and pulsing like the world’s core. She takes to the skies, looking down on the mortals who dared disturb her slumber on top of murdering her servants.

She lets her wrath free, spewing out the heat that comes from her own core onto the fleeing mortals.

Once they were the masters Ma’an served, but no Human can ever make her bow down again. Setting herself down on the ground, she shouts a vicious cry: a proclamation of her awakening in the present age.

#main companions #guardians

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foulserpent · 4 years

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The Palace of Kings was near unrecognizable from the last time Delphine had stepped foot within.

For a start, it no longer had doors. Its occupant was far too large for that.

The throne had been converted into one gigantic dais, lined with furs and pillows and white feathers. It was ringed by guards sporting a unique scaled armor, and a scattering of servants and attendants. They moved amongst a pile of offerings to the king that lined the platform. Furs, worn war axes, armor and gold collected into piles. Lain in reverence, or perhaps fear fear. Atop it lounged the reigning high king of skyrim. Ysmir, Dragon of the North.

She was gigantic. She was barely recognizable as having ever been anything but a dragon, instead long necked and longer-tailed, and far too top-heavy to stand on two legs. Her feathers had lost their tan mottling, and now shone bone white in the firelight. She wore no crown but her horns, and a pillar of flame over her head that burned a royal blue.

Delphine had known her by a different name, and different title. There was a time in her life where she was sworn to her, fought alongside her. There was a time that she even loved her. This all had long since passed with the years, as the world around her transformed out of recognition, with this dragonborn emperor-pretender being the weight at the very center of it.

The Blades were dead. Esbern had been taken by age three years before. Sky Haven had been taken by some dragon as a roost, and may as well have been destroyed. He had smashed the outside relics of Akaviri architecture with his voice and his tail, and now his sheep grazed among the mountain scrub that grew in its place.

Whether she lived or died, she was already merely a relic of a world that was long dead. And so she approached the throne.

Ysmir turned to look at the visitor.

Delphine froze under the weight of those fiery eyes. The gaze was hollow, mere pinpricks under the towering blue flame. No, not hollow. Far too full.

She felt the same sensation she had experienced all those years ago, as the shadow of the World-Eater blocked out the sun over Kynesgrove. He had, ever so briefly, looked upon her- and in that moment she was tiny and naked and frail under the talons of his mere glance. He had seen her and acknowledged her, and in the same moment had written her off as something far too tiny and trifling to be bothered with.

This was much the same.

"Greetings, Ysmir." she said, and she cursed her wavering voice.

The dragon did not blink. Her tail- and by Talos, it was the size of an oak tree - twitched its tip in a feline languor.

"I take it you did not just come to stare?" She said. This voice was familiar. Strangely soft, deep, and sporting the thick-tongued accent sported by only the northernmost Nords. This familiar voice now shook the stone with each flick of the tongue, more like the distant rumble of thunder than anything that would come out of a living creature.

Delphine's grip on the sword tightened, and Ysmir seemed not to care. She steadied herself, and met her steady gaze.

"We have unfinished business, don't we? Solvej?"

Ysmir lifted her barbed chin in irritation.

"I doubt it." She rumbled. "And it is quite presumptuous on your part to think I would be interested in resolving anything with your little group of spies.”

“It’s not about that.” Delphine said. “I just wanted to ask you something, before I lose my chance.”

Ysmir raised her head even higher than before, looming pillarlike above the woman.

“Speak.”

"Could you just tell me why you've done this? All of it. Everything since we last spoke."

Ysmir gazed down unblinking for a moment, then leaned in until the tip of her snout was inches from Delphine’s face. Her hot breath singed the air between them.

"The gods are dead, or being killed as we speak, or turned to stone." She said softly. "Do you understand?"

Delphine raised an eyebrow.

Ysmir lifted a massive hand. Its terminal digits had stretched and warped outwards into the bud of a wing, complete with the delicate barbs that were yet to be flight feathers. Delphine allowed herself a moment of amusement; it was naked and gray, not unlike a baby bird's wing.

"Everything lies on a knife's-edge of destruction." She brought two hooked talons together, showing the tiny void between to the woman before her. "The Thalmor of course. You know the Empire has been too thoroughly declawed to stand a chance. But this is more than just the trifling wars of mortals. That will only be a means to an end.”

Ysmir now looked into the distance, ignoring Delphine entirely. “I can save us all. I have done it before, and now I will do it again. Is it so wrong that I try to hold balance in place?"

Delphine shook her head in disbelief.

"What in the goddamn hell are you talking about?" She threw her arms out. "No- Do you realize how insane this all is? What you've done to yourself? How the fuck is this god-king nonsense helping anyone?!"

There was passing moment where something resembling indignation breezed across Ysmir's face. It quickly passed, returning to a distant placidity.

"Unfortunate." Ysmir said, pulling away from the woman to lay back on her throne. "I am not unaccustomed to mortals being ungrateful. And I suppose I should expect that much from you. But it's still quite unfortunate."

Delphine deflated. Her hand returned to her sword. She had lost her touch for subtlety with age, it seemed.

"May I at least pay homage?" She asked through gritted teeth.

"Do as you will. I have nothing more to say to you." Ysmir huffed, and lay back down, baring her massive breast to the woman before her.

Delphine approached the dais, white down feathers kicking up around her feet with each step. She had heard of those loyal to Ysmir doing as such. They would be allowed to approach, lay hands on their king, prove to themselves that she is as physical as she is divine.

Delphine now did as such, lifting a lithe hand and placing it amid the feathers. She was as warm as she had ever been, skin a wrinkled velvet under the soft down. Delphine felt the heart beating between the ribs. It must have been the size of her torso, the way it thundered slowly against her palm. It made what was to come far easier.

Delphine swore a quiet oath on the grave of her order.

The dragon did not react as Delphine drew the sword. She thought she saw the slightest ruffling of brow-feathers, a raised eyebrow over eyes that had already long-since lost interest in what the little human had to say or do, but there was nothing more.

The dragon did not react as Delphine took aim in one fluid motion, praying her age not betray her, that the strength in her now wiry arms would not fail her. A guard shouted something.

The dragon did not even stir as the blade slid through her thick hide and slicked its way between her ribs. Several people around her cried out in shock. Delphine gritted her teeth, and pushed until the hilt met flesh and blood welled up to kiss her trembling hands.

The chest heaved in a massive gasp.

Ysmir let out a strangled roar. Delphine stumbled backwards, leaving her blade behind as the dragon began to thrash against the pain. Two braziers were snuffed with a swing of her tail. One attendant was crushed as the great dragon crashed off of the dais, and the rest scattered away from the dying king.

Garbled words tore from her massive throat, and they begged fire and death into the uncaring air, then pleaded everlasting life and healing against a rapidly collapsing body. Delphine had stood transfixed for too long, and one of the Words caught the edge of her and sent her reeling against a stone brazier. Something in her body made an awful crunching noise, and she crumpled to the ground.

Ysmir's flailing had now quieted, and now she lay sprawled across the hall. Her legs twitched pitifully. Heavy slabs of muscle were caught in spasm underneath feathers that seemed to bristle and flatten outside of her control. Her head flopped to the stone with a thud, bare of its flame.

Her eyes fell towards Delphine, but they were distant, wide and so very Mortal with terror. Delphine held them where she lay, body broken against the hard stone and fighting with consciousness herself. The guards and attendants and stewards were now crowding in on their king, some fruitlessly casting healing magic, some just staring in awe. Delphine stared as well, face taut with pain and a grim satisfaction. Whether she was taken dead or alive, whether this was the right thing to do or not, this was the end.

There was an irony to it all. The last of the Blades and the Last Dragonborn. Delphine was too tired to worry about what it all meant. Whatever would be, would be.

Ysmir took in a shuddering gasp through a foaming mouth. She looked somewhere far away yet, eternally transfixed and small under something only she could see. It looked back at her across all that distance, and she was gone.

Delphine took a breath, and let her own eyes slide shut.

#this was written in one go so its noyt fantastic but w/e #also AUTHORS NOTE: ysmir is solvej its just the name shes taken at that point and names are important in the elder scrolssb #authors note 2: yes solvej pretty much just goes 'heres my vital organs please stab me'. she doesnt think she can die at that point #my writing #solvej

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octalove · 4 years

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VI: The Dotted Line

(Batgirl/Red Hood)

Description: Jason extends an offer. Part one, two, three, four, and five.

Note: someone said Batgirl and Jason mission, and i am but a humble servant of the people. also, i almost named this chapter “Carolyn Crawford”. Hope you like❤️

TW: Decription of sex work (barely), very light gore

Being back at Batman’s side was a peculiar thing these days. Soothing and suffocating all at once; like returning home after a long, liberating trip. It felt easy, and safe. I was reminded of the first time he brought me up to a towering building top. I clung to Nightwing like a life preserver.

Once I found my footing, the building tops were the only place I felt safe. The taller the skyscraper, the higher and farther from the grim city that raised me. I wondered what would happen when I outgrew the skyscrapers, too.

November was settling like an icy blanket over Gotham. My breath wreathed around me as my chest heaved from scaling the office building I was settled on, hoping to catch a glimpse of the gray dawn as 2am turned to 3am. I could see Robin’s breath too, as he crouched like a gargoyle on the balls of his feet. Even when I pushed his arm lightly, he glared, but didn’t move. The kid had incredible balance.

“I was beginning to enjoy your absence.” He muttered.

I smiled at him. “Are you kidding? Patrol is boring without me.”

“Patrol is boring without brainless plebeians to subdue. I can make due without you.”

“So you’re saying you don’t consider me a brainless plebeian?” I replied.

His lip twitched. He liked this game. It was the birthplace of many of his preferred insults.

“Closer to a bumbling fawn.”

“I like that one.”

Damian’s disinterest in all things regarding my thoughts and feelings was a good distraction. I’d been using him for the past week since my latest brush with Red Hood. Well, Jason. It was still hard to wrap my mind around.

I knew him. He knew me. I shouldn’t have been worried; he knew nothing about me. Nothing other than who I was, anyway. I wanted to ignore whatever residual feeling was left from fighting him on the docks, and I really wanted to say I hadn’t thought about the last thing he said to me. But in truth, I’d thought of little else. The large gaps of time between our meetings left time for that.

We were looking for him tonight. More specifically, Batman and Nightwing were. Robin and I were sent to the quiet apartment rows of Crest Hill, watching over nothing in particular. Sent to keep us away from the fray. Even Robin knew it. When Batman said we’d be patrolling here, he looked like he could rip the head off a puppy.

“Movement in Coventry.”

“On it. Thanks, Oracle.”

One of the better quirks of Damian Wayne was that in the case he was spurned by his favored allies (Bruce, Dick), he quickly formed new alliances (me, Tim). Bumbling fawn comment aside, I could tell I was in his good graces tonight by utter happenstance and Batman’s shortcomings. I was nothing if not opportunistic.

“We can get to Coventry before they can.” I said quickly, keeping the nervous excitement in my voice to a minimum. He eyed me cautiously.

“Batman may be trying not to take risks, but we can handle a couple of goons. Besides,” I added. “Red Hood will probably be gone by then. He always is.” I was overselling it; Robin was already standing, eyes roving over the city scape in search of the best route to Coventry. I stood with him, then let the free-fall adrenaline send exciting jolts through my stomach as we grappled toward our destination.

I could see him, in my mind. His face on the docks, bathed with the flame of his lighter. Hear his voice, full of purpose and noble fury as he promised revenge. I understood his cause, but didn’t understand him, and that was the mystery that poisoned my mind and stole my ability to sleep. Not Red Hood. Jason Todd.

Robin and I perched over a factory compound on the water’s edge, Sprang River’s lower fork rushing by at the end of the factory court. A handful of men moved like ants in the flooding white lights that lit the exterior. The wind distorted the sounds of their voices. Robin must have had the same thought because he moved soundlessly to a lower roof panel, advancing on the building. I followed. One man began shouting.

“I’m going to the Northern pylon.” Robin whispered. Divide and conquer. I wasn’t going to argue. I kept my eyes on his silhouetted form to ensure he didn’t encounter any resistance on his way, then worked by way around the court, hoping I could get a good idea of the place before he reached his vantage point. The sky was lightening, and we were losing time.

Just as I was about to check the lot on the opposite side of the factory, a metal door swung open, scraping against the metal parapet. Red Hood walked out, accompanied by a man in a factory jumpsuit. I couldn’t make out their conversation.

I crept along the high factory railing as they meandered across the court, deep in conversation. I kept it up for around six minutes before his companion departed, heading for the lot.

“Robin,” I whispered into my comms. “There’s a man heading toward the parking lot. Trail him.”

“I see him.”

With Robin in the Southern parking lot a safe distance away, I watched Red Hood slowly pull away from the lights and people, heading toward the darker exhaust plants East of the court. It became a struggle to keep and eye on him and my footing at the same time, but I did it. He stopped at a motorcycle parked behind an electric turbine about a klick from the factory. The sky was a pale gray now, ever-lightening with the dawn, and the shadows were burning away with it. I lowered by self behind an electrical box attached to one of the turbines.

“We’re en route- wait, Robin-“ The comms rang in my ear.

“I gave you a direct order.” Batman growled.

“It was a stupid order.” Robin clipped.

“Where’s Batgirl?”

Red was about to replace his red helm with a motorcycle helmet, but paused. He seemed to stall for a moment, before calling out.

“Come here, little bird.”

I was more annoyed than anything. I was ready to be a step ahead of him for once. But then, I couldn’t resent him for giving me what I wanted. I stood, and took in his empty hands before approaching. He’d leaned against the metal turbine, arms crossed as he regarded me with an unreadable expression.

“They’re here, you know.” I warned.

“Call ‘em, then. I won’t move. I know I’m good, but I’d be outnumbered. Bad odds.”

I scowled. “I’m not gonna do that.” I said it because he already knew it. We both did. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms.

“You thought about what I said.”

“Of course I did.”

He glanced around, then pulled himself up straight and moved toward me. I took a few steps back, prompting him to flash me his empty hands, raised in surrender.

“Relax, darlin’.” He said. “You don’t need to be afraid of me. I don’t want you to be. I want you to understand.”

“How? How do I understand?” I’d been trying for a month. He pulled a small piece of paper from his jacket pocket, holding it out and letting me take it, keeping a safe, considerate distance. Inside, was a number.

“Come with me. One job. Nice and easy.” He said.

“I’m not killing anyone.” I said sternly, voice dropping.

“I’m not askin’ you to.”

“And I’m not standing by and letting you kill anyone.”

“You drive a hard bargain. Fine. We’ll do it clean.” I didn’t even know if I believed him. But I was tired of trying to understand him from a safe, considerate distance.

“We’re almost at location. Four minutes.” Nightwing’s voice almost made me jump. I lifted my eyes.

“You need to go.”

He was already turning on his heel.

It was two days before I texted him. I got a glorious three hours of sleep over the course of them, and I kept running down either respective fork in my road before turning around and running back. In the end, I subsided to the fact that I was raised by two business-women, and Jason’s offer was at worst an opportunity. If it all went to shit, and he tried to kill me, I’d at least have some information to present to Bruce, notwithstanding the lifetime of punishment that would get me.

Our rendezvous point was in Lower Gotham Proper. By the time I got there, it was midnight, and a rolling mist had blown in from the harbor, mixing with the smog that hugged the streets and making it nearly unsafe to drive. I silently hoped Batman and Robin were okay.

As I worked my way down a narrow street, the moisture in the air was choking; causing the fabric of my pants and jacket to cling to my skin. I’d almost prefer rain to the way the mist stood still, forcing me to muddle through it. It was dark. The lights and signs on surrounding buildings didn’t seem to be able to preserve through the fog.

I saw a figure pressed against a building that looked tall enough to be Jason. As I approached, we regarded each other’s forms apprehensively. When he tilted his head, I knew it was him. I drew close.

“Jesus.” I mumbled. “Could you have picked a spookier place?”

“Don’t tell me you scare easy.” He said through a cigarette. His helmet was in his hand, but it could’ve easily been mistaken for a motorcycle helmet. The whole get-up was kind of biker-esque. I didn’t answer. Just glanced around.

“Come on.” He said. “It’s not far.”

As we began walking, it struck me how much more relieved I felt to hear his footsteps alongside my own. I was capable; willing and able to fight just about anyone Gotham could conjure up. But still, walking with him was comforting. Like I had someone to watch my back.

We even eased into a bit of conversation. Small things- things we agreed upon. Rich society, and Gotham’s war on the poor. Politicians we wouldn’t mind going missing. If you had showed me his picture next his crime scenes, I wouldn’t have pinned him.

Jason wasn’t unpleasant; it was just that his disposition was highly aloof and somewhat irritable. He had rich bronze skin, and full lips that I was sure made for a charming smile when he decided to do so (not a grin, a smile). The composition of his face was very sharp and neatly symmetrical, but still held some gaunt exhaustion, revealed by the constant tense of his jaw. His attentive dark eyes were almost always narrowed in some fashion of distaste. He never once looked at peace.

It seemed to me that he was disinterested in most anything having to do with my life, other than that he wanted me with him. His entire being was an oxymoron; a juxtaposition of unexpectedly soft and startlingly sharp and there wasn’t a way to tell which it would be.

Finally, we approached a small, industrial building with a neon sign of red, blue, and green.

The Lion’s Den

Burlesque and Drag

I raised my eyebrows. A bit on the nose if you asked me. If the name didn’t give it away, the posters and marquees adorning the brick exterior did.

“We need to talk to someone here before we go.” Jason said, pulling on his helmet, and unzipping his brown leather jacket to showcase the bat.

“Lead on.” I said, pulling up my own mask.

The music was so loud, I could barely hear myself think. The led lights lining the ceiling were cycling warm colors; red, pink, orange, yellow, the glow burning through the smokescreen that was nearly as thick as the mist outside.

Women were dancing, in lace or topless, spinning on poles and otherwise moving gracefully to the heartbeat of the place. But that wasn’t the main event- a stage lit with marquee lights, the centerpiece of which was a table, where three women sat. Their outfits were something out of Marie Antoinette’s personal wardrobe. And that’s where Red Hood was headed.

We walked up onto the stage, and while it all sort of mingled with the dim neon in the rest of the building, I still felt oddly seen. I placed myself behind Red Hood, inserted between him and one of the women. They appeared to be playing cards.

“Well, well.” Said one of the queens, with blonde hair curled and blown out like something out of the 70’s. Her exaggerated, colorful makeup was a work of art- Picasso, perhaps. “Gonna stick around for the show this time, sugar?”

Red sat down, leaning so that his arm rested along the back of the chair, lights glinting off his helm. His relaxed composure made me nervous- but perhaps it was the lack of information.

“Not this time, Trixy.” He answered.

“Pity,” Said the broad redhead beside me, her voice a low, soothing timber. “You neva’ do.”

“Don’t be rude, Sasha.” The third woman scolded, throwing down an Ace of Spades, to the visible dismay of the others. “He’s a busy man.”

“Who’s your friend?” Trixy asked.

I glanced at Red Hood before answering. “Just a little bird.”

“How delightful. Let’s get down to the nitty gritty, shall we?” Trixy said. “Did Dominique get the message to ya?”

“Refresh my memory.” Red Hood said- for my sake, I’m sure.

“Bout a week ago, a bunch of girls from the Row went missin’. Ain’t unusual,” Trixy said darkly, “Most don’t got no family or nothin’. Just us lookin’ out for ‘em. When we run outta beds here, that’s when they go missin’. But it’s different this time. Buncha girls all at once- including one ‘a the queens.”

“Tiffany Spice.” Sasha said, a solemn look on her face. “She was just comin’ into herself. Lord, I’d be devastated if somethin’ happened.”

“Some a’ the row girls been talkin’ about this real shifty fella- Baron Haus. New guy. Used to pimp out girls from the Narrows.”

“And the girls disappeared when he showed up.” I said quietly.

“Bingo.”

“How many?” Red asked.

“About eight, Tiffany included.”

“And you know where he was working from?” I inquired.

“Sha’ do. China Town. Club there called the Moonlight.”

Red Hood nodded. “Anything else me and my little bird should know?”

Trixy thought for a moment. “Baron’s got some friends in GCPD. Had some uncles in the force, or somethin’ of that nature. He’ll be missed. More dead.” She spit the term bitterly.

“They always are.” He responded, getting up from his chair.

“And Hoodie, sugar!” She called after us. “You’re a doll for this.” He didn’t reply. As we worked our way back toward the front, he spoke quietly.

“I thought it’d be better if you met ‘em yourself. Always makes it more personal.”

Batman never did that.

“Do you always make it personal?” I asked.

“It’s not fun if it isn’t.”

The freezing moisture in the air bit fiercely as we pushed open the metal screen door.

“Right.” I said. “So, the Moonlight. How are we getting there?”

“How do you think?” He said, stopping short of a rusted yellow fire escape on the side of the building. He surveyed it, then looked at me.

“Race ya.”

With surprising speed and grace, he scaled the fire escape, no sound in his wake.

“Oh, it’s on.” I fired, rushing to the bars and climbing like they were monkey bars. He disappeared over the edge of the roof, and as I made my way up, I saw him several years away, already conquering another building. I raced toward him, leaping over exhaust pipes until we were high above the fog. The city below looked like an illuminated ocean, twinkling lights just below a pillowy white surface.

I felt like a child again, overwhelmed, nearly brought to giddiness with excitement. Was this how Bruce felt, scaling rooftops with Catwoman? The small, but sure thrill of consorting with the bad guy- knowing that they were consorting with you in return?

I wasn’t a sidekick. There was no line to fall into. No predecessors, no successors, no beginning and no end. I moved like Batgirl across the shingles and concrete and metal scaffolding, but I was weightless without the Bat legacy on my chest. There was something deeply, shamefully freeing about that.

We were greeted differently in the Moonlight; a stark contrast to the warm welcome by the queens in the Lion’s Den. It was set up more like a smoky, refined gentlemen’s club. We drew attention from every walk of life inhabiting the bar- men in suits, women in silk, and slimy looking characters that grated offensively against the debonair theme.

Most leered for a moment, then cast their eyes away, like they’d seen something they shouldn’t have. Maybe you could consider Red Hood one of those such things.

“Mr. Hood!” There came a voice, cutting above the orchestral music- Nessun Dorma, if my musical sensibilities were still honed from my piano lesson days. “Welcome, welcome. I can only hope,” The man gave gritting smile, wound tight with visible anxiety. “That you’re here on peaceful business tonight.” He cast his nervous, monolid eyes to me. He was handsome, no older than thirty and wore a tight black vest. I didn’t let my body language give anything away; frankly, I was as in the dark as he was.

“Oh, you know me, Baron Jun,” Red Hood drawled, slowing to a halt at the bar, and leaning on it. “I don’t decide whether things stay peaceful or not. That depends on you.” I stayed standing, near his back, studying the security. Two lumbering men at the entrance, one behind Baron Jun. I wouldn’t put it past curvaceous bartender in red to have a gun, too.

“Lookin’ for Baron Haus. I heard a little rumor he works outta this quaint establishment now.”

When I’d considered the Red Hood’s contacts before, I pictured something like Batman’s relationship with Commissioner Gordon- figuring he had to have some corrupt cops or lowlife sleuths packing him with all his vast information. I never would have guessed it would be three drag queens playing cards.

A conflict passed over Baron Jun’s face, seconds long. “You… heard correctly. Word does seem to travel fast.”

“I need to pay him a visit. Remind him about some of my rules.” He admonished. It was a dripping warning, like the salivating jaws of an animal, teeth bared and pointed.

Baron Jun swallowed. “I see. Well, he um- he’s not actually here, at the moment. Maybe I can tell him you dropped b-“

“You know, Jun,” Red continued, ignoring him. “I got this really funny feeling you know what rules I’m talkin’ about.”

The look on his face was something to behold. I’d seen fear, briefly, on the faces of criminals before I subdued them and went on my way. But this was different. Fear induced by nothing but a conversation. Call it hive-mind, a power trip perhaps, but I felt this pesky sense of camaraderie that prompted me to take a few steps forward, shoulder to shoulder with Red Hood. Who was this vile little shitstain who made his living off men getting laid to play games with us? I thought about eight women, scared and abused. It was Baron Jun’s fault. Baron Haus’ fault. Everyone in this stupid bar, decorated to the taste of the men who abused them.

Baron Jun’s eyes dashed back and forth. Deny or ask forgiveness? I could see him running down those cross roads.

“He… he’s been running some shit I didn’t know about until last night. I swear I didn’t fuckin’ know.” He broke at last.

“Where are they?” I piped up.

“Who the fuck are-“ He was cut off with a bang and a scream as Red shot his knee. I was startled by the noise, but no one seemed to notice. It rang in my ear.

Give a girl a warning next time.

“Be. Fucking. Polite.” Red snapped, now advancing on the Baron. Only one of the three security guards decided it was worth the risk and stepped forward. Electric with the building energy of the whole night, I bolted forward and swung my fist into his throat. He made a choked noise and stumbled to the ground.

“Answer the question, Jun.” Red continued, this time in a taunting, sing-song tone.

“Oh, fuck,” Jun whimpered, cradling his knee. “Jesus- you- you shot me.”

“Always were a sharp one. I got a couple more bullets, and you’ve got another knee. So why don’t you sing before I get really impatient.”

“Christ.. they- they’re in the back. R-room fourteen.” His breath was labored with pain. I didn’t feel bad. Trusting that Red would handle the front and keep his promise of not killing anyone, I went to the back hallway, counting the doorways before reaching room 14. I made short work of the lock.

Some scuffling noises could be heard from the front room- but no further gunfire. I opened the door to reveal a velvet lounge, with red settees and satin curtains, along with fearful eyes looking back at me. I counted eight heads, including Tiffany Spice, who’d since abandoned his wig and gaudy attire. His make-up was streaked with long-dried tears.

“Tiffany Spice?” I asked, subservient to standard protocol despite my evening of rebellion.

“What’s going on out there?”

“Trixy sent us. You’re safe now.”

“Are the Barons gone?”

“They’re being dealt with.” I answered.

After finding them, the rest fell into place quickly. Red had indulged in some property destruction, and Baron Jun now reckoned with what appeared to be a shattered hand and some extra facial bruising.

I nodded briskly to Red and he, in turn, nodded to the bartender, who ushered the girls around.

Before departure, he knelt down in front of the Baron.

“You’re alive,” He said lowly. “Cause I’m doin’ someone a favor. If someone breaks the rules again,” He reached over and patted Jun’s pained face. “You be a good boy and come right to me. Okay?” Jun didn’t respond, nor take his bloodshot eyes off of his mangled hand, but Red straightened anyway and ushered me to the door.

Outside, we withdrew safely and quietly to a rooftop.

“Why did we leave them?” I asked.

“Trixy’s not my only contact. The bartender’s mine. She’ll get ‘em where they need to be.”

A beat.

“You knew Baron Haus wasn’t gonna be there.” I said quietly.

“Yeah.”

“That’s the only reason you promised me you wouldn’t kill anyone.”

Hesitation. “Yeah, it is.”

“Are you gonna track him down?” I asked. He didn’t answer. “Seriously.” I tried again. He sighed, then looked at me. I was seeing his eyes clearly for maybe the first time all night. It was sobering, and he held my gaze.

“Yes. Yes, I’m going to kill him.” He said firmly. I looked away.

“He’s got a track record.” He explained. “Does shit like this, gets caught, and then uses his friends in blue to get a lighter sentence. Three months, maybe. Then, he’s back. I’m not the first one to catch him. But I promise you, I’ll be the fuckin’ last.” His vitriol was oil on concrete, and I decided it was better not to light any matches. The rest of the walk was quiet, neither of us making the catalytic initiative to part ways, coming down from the adrenaline the way we’d built it; in each other’s uncertain company.

We settled on top of St. Luke’s Hospital, towering defiantly amidst the smaller, crowded inner city neighborhoods below. It was 4am, but I wasn’t tired. Quite the opposite; I was awash with energy, by grace of the night’s feat and the biting cold. Jason had pulled his helmet off, and was leaning against the steel exhaust pipe, myself nestled at his side.

“I have another place I need to go. Three days- Mafia business in Little Italy.” He said.

“And you want me to come?” I asked. He tipped his head.

“What can I say, doll? You’re good at this.”

I looked over the city, brow furrowing.

“Unless,” He added in a low voice, wry and challenging. “You think it’s wrong. I am the bad guy, aren’t I?”

I didn’t look at him, because I knew he was wearing a darkly arrogant expression, and I didn’t want to see it. No, there was nothing wrong about what we did tonight. Even if there was; I’d do it all again for the relief on Tiffany’s tear-streaked face.

“I’ll go.” I said. “But you have to tell me something. Honestly.” I said firmly, bringing my eyes to meet his. He cocked an eyebrow.

“Ask away.”

“Why me? Why don’t you hate me like you hate them?” Them. My family. Our family. Hate seemed a harsh word, but only after I supplied it, was I reminded of its truth. Jason studied me for a few agonizing moments, allowing only the sound of wind and distant, crying sirens.

“Carolyn Crawford.” He finally said.

“What?”

Carolyn Crawford.

I’d forgotten all about her. My life was sort of divided by this giant, barbed wire fence between before adoption and after adoption. Evidently, my brain decided that anything before adoption would be better of folded up, sealed with wax, and filed away. Traumatic memory suppression, the shrink Bruce sent me to called it- even though the only traumatic thing was the night my parents died, not everything that came before.

Nonetheless, Carolyn Crawford was somebody I hadn’t given any particular thought to in a long time. She was a woman of forty (at the time I was thirteen), and she had that snooty, Diamond District disposition that you only find in women who marry into wealth, but aren’t born with it. She was beautiful; pale skin, thin, with an air of 1950’s suave, accentuated by the auburn bob of artificial curls she always wore. Her husband was an investor in Wayne Enterprises, and she was sleeping with Bruce.

I had no reason to know, or care about this. But Jason did. When he found out, he was uncharacteristically devastated. I could imagine, in retrospect, that when you’re a boy of fifteen and you find out the man who adopted you- a man who was a holyfigure in your eyes, the good guy- was sleeping with a married woman ten years his senior, you may experience a bit of devastation. He had something, some virtuous perception of Bruce, ripped away from him, and he was given a concept that his father, too, had vices. His one vice; women.

Jason was angry. He wanted the world’s perception of Bruce to crumble alongside his own, and so he took all the valor in his teenage body and enacted his own justice.

An anonymous email was sent to just about every company partner or investor, including Carolyn’s husband, and my parents, disclosing a picture of Bruce in some secluded room at a gala, with his arm around Carolyn’s waist, leaning intimately into her ear. She had a wry smile on her face. Above the photo was a single tag line.

“Carolyn Crawford is fucking Bruce Wayne.”

My parents gossiped about the email, of course, when they thought I wasn’t leaning against the office door. But that was all I ever knew about it. Apparently Carolyn’s husband didn’t divorce her, but he did cut her off financially, which may as well have been the same loss.

That was all I heard of it, up until a charity event on a particularly cold January night. The January before Jason’s death. I was waltzing around as per usual, a cup of punch in my hand. Waiting for the clock to tick its way to eleven o’clock- when I knew my mothers would want to depart so they could get up for work the next morning. The music was lovely; fluttering strings.

“You!” It was a harsh sound, like a shrieking banshee, or the whining note of a violin when all the bow hairs are frayed.

Carolyn Crawford was marching right toward Jason, fury on her beautiful face. I didn’t catch the beginning of the conversation as I tried to make my way through the bodies, of which a few were also alarmed by the sound.

“...you’re the only one who could’ve done it, you little- don’t lie to me!”

Jason was defiant there, with his arms crossed and his lip slightly raised, but I could tell by the nervous look in his eye that she was pointing her bony finger at the right suspect. I’m certain it was Bruce who figured it out.

“What the hell are you talking about, lady?” He said.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. I know you sent that email. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“You’re outta your mind.”

“You’re going to regret this, I promise. I’m going to make sure that this follows you-“

“He didn’t send the email!” I said, pushing past a man who was eagerly watching, like it was the best thing he’d seen all night. I’m not even sure what possessed me to offer up the statement- maybe the way she was throwing her venom in his face and jabbing her finger at his chest.

“I did it.” I said. I didn’t look at Jason, but from the corner of my eye, I could see his mouth fall open. Carolyn Crawford turned on me.

“What?”

“I sent the email.” I said. We’d drawn more observers now, a small, hushed crowd of people too polite to intervene, but too curious to look away.

“Who the hell are you? And why would you do that?” Up close, I could see that she looked like she hadn’t slept. Other little things too; a pearl out place, stray hairs. She’d probably been through hell since Jason sent that email.

I leveled my gaze on her. “You really need to ask? What kind of wife-“

Slap.

Her open palm swung across my cheek so hard that I nearly stumbled into a donation table. There was a pressure in my ear, and then a stinging sensation. I put my hand to my cheek, and when I looked back up at her, she was eyeing the shocked crowd. Then, she turned, and walked briskly toward the exit, heels clicking on the marble.

Everyone stood there, looking at me. I flushed, shrinking under the weight of their eyes, feeling like an animal in a zoo. My mothers were nowhere to be found, and neither was Bruce.

In a swift movement, Jason grabbed my hand, shooting angry glares like daggers toward anyone who was looking, and ushered me into a secluded corner.

“Why did you do that? What the hell is wrong with you?” He whispered frantically, obviously battling whether he should touch my face or not. He decided not.

I gave him an insulted look. “I was helping you, jackass!”

“Well, you didn’t help!” He said, before adding, more exasperatedly. “You just got hurt.”

I shrugged, taking my hand off my cheek, probably to show him some modicum of strength, or defiance. “It’s not that bad.”

It was that bad. It was the first time I had ever been hit, by anybody. I actually wanted to cry. But I was dedicated to my tough girl role, so I didn’t.

“I’m sorry.” He said, surprising me with the fearful apologeticism in his voice. “I’m really sorry- you shouldn’t have done that. I should’ve said something. I just fuckin’ stood there like-“

“Hey! It’s okay. I did it because I wanted to. Besides, it really doesn’t matter who did what. She’s just mad she ruined her own marriage.”

He shook his head and slunk down beside me on the cold marble. The AC was offensively imposing for the middle of January, and I hugged my knees to my chest as we watched the guests disperse, dragging back the events of the night to gossip about later, like foxes carry prized rabbits.

“Carolyn Crawford?” I repeated. “That’s what this is about?”

Jason gave me a wiry look, a lopsided smile, then threw his head back and laughed, contagiously so. I let out a disbelieving chuckle.

“I mean,” He added, “Not all of it. A little.” There was residual laughter in his tone, and it made me want to lean into him.

“A ‘little’. Okay. Should I be getting in touch with Carolyn Crawford and thanking her for rekindling this little partnership?”

“Yeah.” He said. “Send her an email.”

I laughed again. “Seriously, Jason, what the fuck are you talking about?”

His grin lingered, and his eyes fell over the city. I could see the gears turning as he considered his response. Then he just shrugged.

“You covered for me.”

“Yeah.”

“And...” He leaned back, not taking his eyes from the sprawling lights. “Somethin’ tells me you still are.”

I looked at him for a while, trying to wait him out and make him elaborate. But he didn’t. I resigned with a sigh.

“Yeah, well.” I mumbled. “Carolyn Crawford was a giant bitch.” His lips fought a losing battle against another smile.

“Personally, I’m still a little impressed she had the gall to slap you.”

“Haha. Hey- did you actually take that picture?”

He shook his head, hesitating before adding. “Dick did.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious.” He chuckled.

“So I took the fall for both of you.”

“Yeah, you did, Princess.”

He had this familiar, juvenile grin stuck to his face. And for the first time in a long, long time, he was Jason Todd.

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sun-summoning · 4 years

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"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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rosethornewrites · 3 years

Text

Fic: the thread may stretch or tangle but it will never break, ch. 15

Additional Tags: Pre-Slash, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Secrets, Crying, Masks, Soulmates, Truth, Self-Esteem Issues, Regret, It was supposed to be a one-shot, Fix-It, Eventual Relationships, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, wwx needs a hug, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Filial Piety, Handfasting, Phobias, Sleeping Together, Fear, Panic Attacks, Love Confessions, Getting Together, First Kiss, Kissing, Boys Kissing, Family, and they were married, Bathing/Washing, Hair Braiding, Hair Brushing, Feels, Sex Education, Implied Sexual Content, First Time, Aftercare, Morning After, Afterglow, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Torture, Scars, Eventual Happy Ending, Hand Jobs, Chronic Pain, Biting, Conversations

Summary: The conversation continues, and the Jiang siblings react.

Notes: This chapter was hard to write, but I finally got there! Lots of dialog, which had to be balanced. Updates are slow. Life is busy. Lots of responsibilities, and non-productive insomnia. Honestly, the most research I did for this chapter was on family and martial family names.

AO3 link

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14

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Wei Ying’s words only seem to echo in the courtyard, their gravity giving them weight that feeds the illusion. The Jiang siblings stare at him, looking concerned but puzzled.

“But you found her,” Jiang Wanyin says slowly. “She restored my core.”

“I never found her,” Wei Ying says, looking at his bowl on the table rather than his brother. “I didn’t know what to do, A-Cheng—you wanted to die!”

The words are said in a rush, with remembered grief. For once, Jiang Wanyin seems struck dumb, and Lan Wangji is glad of it—Wei Ying needs no interruptions. Already his posture is defensive.

“I looked for a way. Went through Wen Qing’s whole library. And I found a theory.”

His voice breaks at the last word, and Lan Wangji squeezes his hand, letting Wei Ying know he is here for him. He knows this reminds his husband of the decision he made, to what for most would seem like an impossible choice.

“A-Xian, what theory?”

Jiang Yanli, despite her makeup, looks wan and afraid.

“In her papers. Treatments she’d theorized,” Wei Ying clarifies. “It was the only place I found any options. And I didn’t know what else to do.”

He’s stalling, but inadvertently drawing out the pain. Lan Wangji squeezes his hand again, unable to resist the urge to comfort him.

Zidian sparks and Jiang Wanyin glares, his patience spent.

“What did you do?” he hisses.

Lan Wangji is fairly certain they’ve already realized and are hoping they’re wrong. He rubs the back of Wei Ying’s hand with his thumb.

“It was a theory about core transplants,” Wei Ying says.

The shifting of emotions on Jiang Wanyin’s face makes his understanding clear. Jiang Yanli’s brows furrow, her expression one of confusion.

“Tell me you didn’t,” he hissed. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

Wei Ying flinches—he can tell him no such thing, at least not without lying, because he did. Instead he silently holds his free wrist out to Jiang Wanyin, as he had only days before with Xichen, inviting him to see the truth himself.

The Jiang sect leader recoils, physically leaving his seat and backing from the table, his face a mask of horror.

“No,” he whispers, his voice hoarse.

And so it is Jiang Yanli who reaches forward, sends her qi through Wei Ying’s meridians, and finds the emptiness where his core once sat. Lan Wangji can tell the moment she realizes, as tears spill over, cutting furrows in her makeup.

Wei Ying immediately panics, pulling his hand from Lan Wangji’s grip, dabbing at her face with his sleeves.

“Shijie, you’ll ruin your dress. It’s okay, don’t cry.”

“It’s just a dress,” she says, her voice hitching. “And it’s not okay, Xianxian. Why didn’t you tell us? Why didn’t you let us help you? You’ve been suffering for so long and…”

She lets out a sob so deep it seems like it comes from her soul. Wei Ying lets out a little distressed noise, his hands fluttering helplessly, as though he wants to hug her but fears sullying her wedding dress.

“Wei Wuxian, why?” Jiang Wanyin asks, his chest heaving as he fights his emotions. “I didn’t ask you to do that!”

He’s still standing backed away from the table, unwilling or unable to come closer.

“You wanted to die,” Wei Ying says helplessly. “You said if you couldn’t avenge Lotus Pier alive or dead you’d rather be dead. You’re my brother—what else could I have done?”

Lan Wangji knows there is more, implied—after losing so much, how could Wei Ying stand to lose his brother? How much family could he stand to lose, losing his parents young, and then his entire martial family with the fall of Lotus Pier?

“I’d rather lose my golden core than that,” he finally whispers. “You could rebuild the sect with my core.”

“You could’ve rebuilt the sect with your core,” Jiang Wanyin retorts with a scowl.

Wei Ying smiles, but it’s a twisted, broken thing.

“No. I’ve always been whatever the gentry decides I am: the worthless son of a servant overreaching, sect leader’s secret bastard, weapon of war, and now Yiling Laozu. No one would accept me rebuilding the Jiang sect, even without the demonic cultivation, A-Cheng. I’d be a usurper at best, never taken seriously.”

“You would’ve proved them all wrong!” Jiang Wanyin protests.

Wei Ying shakes his head.

“Nothing will ever be enough. I’d never be able to restore the Jiang sect to its full glory. Only you could do that, A-Cheng.”

“He is correct,” Lan Wangji interjects when it looks like Jiang Wanyin might argue over it. “They have never accepted him, even after he helped win the war. Wei Ying has never been thanked or shown respect, only belittled and vilified. He would never have been permitted to be sect leader.”

Jiang Wanyin frowns at that but doesn’t try to argue. He cannot deny the truth.

“If they knew I took you to Wen Qing and you had died in her care, they’d say I killed you myself for power, that I worked with the Wens to destroy Lotus Pier, even. I’d have been executed, and shijie would be all alone and without a sect.”

There’s a touch of bitterness in his husband’s voice, and Lan Wangji touches his elbow, just to remind him he is there for him.

“Lotus Pier was my fault, so I guess they’d be part right,” Wei Ying mutters, the naked grief in his voice heart-wrenching.

Lan Wangji wonders if perhaps Wei Ying’s difficulty after the war was being in a place filled, at least metaphorically, with the ghosts of those for whose deaths he felt responsible. He had, by his own admission to Xichen, spent much of the time following the war drunk, until he liberated the work camp, using it as a way of coping with his trauma—from the fall of Lotus Pier, from the surgery, from Burial Mounds, from the resentful energy, from the war… All of it.

Perhaps rescuing these people has been his way of trying to even the scales on a debt that isn’t truly his.

“A-Xian, it wasn’t your fault. They were always going to attack Lotus Pier,” Jiang Yanli protests. “A-Niang would never have tolerated a supervisory office in our home.”

She’s still crying, and Wei Ying mops at her face so her tears won’t ruin her dress. Her eyes seem to search his face, desperate for a sign he believes her.

“It was never your fault,” she insists.

Wei Ying swallows hard.

“Madam Yu said—”

“A-Niang was wrong,” Jiang Wanyin snarls.

“And I know a-die told you to protect us, but who was going to protect you?” Jiang Yanli asks.

When he avoids her gaze, she reaches forward to cup his cheek.

“We didn’t protect you. You’d been whipped with zidian and lost your home, too, but you’re the one who took care of us. No one took care of you, but you’re our brother, my sweet didi.”

Wei Ying’s breath hitches, and instinctively Lan Wangji pulls him close, holds him from behind gently, hopes he can take strength from the embrace. It’s not a full embrace, the position awkward, more of a press of chest against back, his hand a light pressure on his hip, but it seems to help, regardless. It takes a few moments for Wei Ying to compose himself enough that he is willing to release him, and during that time Lan Wangji avoids looking at his siblings, not wishing to see their reactions.

A-Yuan is abruptly tugging on Wei Ying’s robes.

“A-Die sad? A-Die need a hug?”

Somehow Wei Ying manages a smile for the boy and pulls him up on his lap.

“Ah, my sweet son. That’s exactly what a-die needs.”

The child is happy to oblige, and then he lets Wen Ning take him back.

“You told him to call me guma, not shigu,” Jiang Yanli points out softly. “A-Cheng called him zhizi, not shizhi. And you told him to call A-Cheng shushu, not shishu. You know you’re our brother.”

She sounds almost forlorn, a sharp contrast from her fire when she claimed him as her didi on Phoenix Mountain to Jin Zixun.

Jiang Wanyin takes a step toward the table.

“Lotus Pier is rebuilt, and so is the Jiang sect,” he interjects. “You’re coming back. I’m giving it back. We’ll undo it.”

The offer is startling, something Lan Wangji didn’t expect from him, and the soft gasp from Wei Ying tells him it is a surprise to him as well. Wei Ying shakes his head.

“I don’t think it’s possible,” he says tiredly.

“Why the hell not?!”

He seems almost affronted by the rejection. Lan Wangji can feel Wei Ying shiver, knows he’s struggling. His husband has had to have so many difficult conversations in quick succession, and this one is the hardest so far. And the offer to return the golden core seems to have thrown him.

“Scarring,” Lan Wangji answers for him, remembering Wen Qing’s words.

Silence reigns for a moment, the Jiang siblings looking upset, clearly wanting more detail.

Wei Ying speaks haltingly, tells the tale he hasn’t told Lan Wangji, of being caught in the tea house in Yiling, of trying to escape, of Wen Zhuliu punching him right in the lower dantian, his stitches tearing at the impact. Of being beaten by Wen Chao’s men and burned by Wang Lingjiao.

“I had to get them to leave Yiling,” he said. “If they caught you coming down the mountain, it would’ve all been for nothing. I thought they’d toss me in a cell in Qishan. I didn’t expect Burial Mounds.”

Much of the rest of the story is the same as he told Xichen, this part having been omitted before likely to avoid having to talk about the Core-Melting Hand. This time, though, he also talks about the sword from the Xuanwu cave, the one filled with resentful energy, how it helped him survive Burial Mounds, that he crafted the seal from it during the war to help win it. Not, as the rumors suggested, from Xue Yang’s still-missing piece.

Much of this is new information to Lan Wangji, painting an even clearer picture of how incredibly impossible the odds were against Wei Ying’s survival.

Wei Ying continues to dab at his sister’s face with his sleeve as he talks, keeping her makeup from running onto her dress as she cries. In the quiet that follows, her soft crying seems to echo in the courtyard.

A-Yuan vocalizes that she needs a hug, and Wen Ning murmurs softly about her special dress that needs to be kept clean.

“Later,” Wen Ning says, and A-Yuan is assuaged.

Jiang Wanyin has, during the course of the telling, returned to the table to sit heavily. The customary pinched expression normally on his face is gone, his anger drained away for the moment.

“All those times I harassed you about your sword, about carrying it and polishing it,” Jiang Wanyin whispers, his voice choked.

“It’s too heavy for me to wield for more than a minute or so,” Wei Ying says hollowly. “Even to polish it.”

He had taken joy in his cultivation and even having given it up willingly, Lan Wangji knows it’s still something that hurts him deeply. He himself remembers the joy of crossing swords with him on the rooftop, what feels like a lifetime ago now. Bittersweet, never to happen again.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jiang Wanyin finally asks. “You convinced me to expel you from the sect, dammit. Why would you tell Lan Wangji and not us? After he wanted to take you back to Gusu for punishment!”

“He did not tell me until I discovered his golden core was missing,” Lan Wangji says.

Wei Ying is guiltless in that, and he will not let him be blamed.

“I wished to take him to Gusu for protection and healing, not punishment,” he adds.

Lan Wangji could see, throughout the war, that Wei Ying was suffering, that something was wrong, had wanted desperately to help him. He wonders if Jiang Wanyin is partly behind Wei Ying’s misconceptions about that, and tries not to be peeved—how much heartache could have been prevented?

“Wei-g-gongzi did not intend to t-tell anyone,” Wen Ning contributes.

His voice is sad, with a hint of disapproval for Wei Ying’s decision to withhold it. A-Yuan seems to decide he, too, needs a hug, throwing his arms around the fierce corpse’s neck.

“Then how do you know?” Jiang Wanyin demands.

“Wen Ning assisted Wen Qing with the core transplant,” Wei Ying says before Wen Ning can answer. “They were the only people who knew, until Lan Zhan found out.”

He does not, Lan Wangji notes, tell how, clearly sparing Wen Ning more ill-placed ire from Jiang Wanyin. It feels odd to be grateful his husband was injured, but without it, he might have walked away, down the mountain, ignorant of Wei Ying’s suffering.

“Is that why you stayed, Lan-er-gongzi?”

Jiang Yanli’s gaze is level despite her tears, her eyes sharp, and Lan Wangji feels as though she is weighing him still.

“En,” he answers simply. “I could only help him if I stayed.”

He had known for some time that his uncle was unlikely to help Wei Ying heal, that hiding him in Gusu would stifle him and destroy him just as it had destroyed his mother. Lan Wangji could continue to walk away, or he could stay.

“And the marriage?”

Lan Wangji isn’t quite certain what she is asking—perhaps the reason he told Wei Ying of the handfasting?

“It could protect him, even if it was simply political.”

She smiles, but it’s tight.

“No, I mean would you have told him, if you hadn’t learned?”

He doesn’t need time to consider the question; he assumed Wei Ying would reject him, as he had rejected the prospect of coming with him to Gusu. He had miscommunicated and misunderstood.

“No,” he says, welcoming her judgment, as he judges himself. “I expected it would be a burden to him, unwelcome.”

Wei Ying startles at the admission, glancing at him. Lan Wangji hates that he sees guilt in his expression over the misunderstanding, runs his hand across his shoulder to comfort him.

And realizes when his husband’s eyes go a little glassy that he’s run his hand over the hidden bite mark.

How could he have thought this would be unwelcome?

Jiang Wanyin snorts, and Lan Wangji’s ears burn at the sense of being seen doing something illicit.

“The way he mooned over you? Talked about you all the time.”

He sounds long-suffering, as though Lan Wangji should have been aware of Wei Ying’s regard. Now, of course, he can see nothing else. But before...

“And then after the war, he didn’t,” Jiang Yanli murmurs.

After Wei Ying had survived Burial Mounds and come out scarred and afraid.

“When I told him, Wei Ying tried to convince me he was unworthy,” Lan Wangji says. “I disagreed.”

Wei Ying tried to push him away before, when they were reunited after his disappearance, and Lan Wangji now knows it was out of a belief that he would somehow taint him.

“He feels himself unworthy of protection and love,” he adds.

A troubled look passes over Jiang Wanyin’s face, and Jiang Yanli just looks sad.

“That would be a-niang’s influence again,” she says softly. “A-Xian, we should have protected you better.”

Wei Ying shakes his head as though to deny their culpability, and she takes his hands.

“No, A-Xian. She was wrong about your worth, and I hate that she cut you and A-Cheng down so much.”

Jiang Wanyin looks uncomfortable, and Lan Wangji doubts it’s because of his sister’s lack of filial piety.

“She always compared me to you,” he grates after a moment. “I was never good enough, because you were better. And now you’ll always be better.”

Lan Wangji bristles on Wei Ying’s behalf, but his husband speaks first.

“I didn’t do it to compete with you, A-Cheng,” Wei Ying says tiredly. “What the fuck was the point of competing when you were dying? I just wanted you to live.”

“And what about you?” Jiang Wanyin retorts. “What about your life? You think I want it to be a competition, you asshole? You told me to abandon you, but you wouldn’t tell me the truth! You keep trying to throw yourself away!”

Wei Ying cringes, and Lan Wangji returns to holding him, his own anger fizzling out as he recognizes the feelings behind Jiang Wanyin’s.

“You didn’t expect to live this long, did you?”

The Jiang sect leader’s tone implies it’s not really a question but a realization, and Wei Ying’s flinch implies he’s right. Lan Wangji can’t stop his hold from tightening on Wei Ying, Jiang Wanyin’s words making him feel ill.

He has known his zhiji didn’t expect to live as long as he has, but neither of them has spoken of it. Wei Ying managed to survive Indoctrination and the Xuanwu, the fall of Lotus Pier and massacre of most of his adopted clan, the removal of his golden core, the fall and entrapment in Burial Mounds, the war… Lan Wangji hates that Jiang Wanyin is right in this, and hates even more that Wei Ying has faced so many situations that could have killed him.

“You keep protecting other people, but you won’t let anyone protect you!”

Jiang Wanyin is practically panting in anger.

“You always need to be the hero, Wei Wuxian! But all the heroes die!”

He sounds dangerously close to tears, and his words send a jolt of dread through Lan Wangji—just the idea of Wei Ying dying sends his stomach plummeting. He can feel Wei Ying shiver against him.

Jiang Yanli lets out a long breath, trying to compose herself. She gives Jiang Wanyin a warning look, and he scowls, looking away but clearly making an effort to calm down.

“We can only move forward,�� she says. “A-Xian will just need to learn to let us protect him.”

“He is learning,” Lan Wangji tells her.

She manages a watery smile.

“When you’re hurt, it hurts us, Xianxian. Please let us help you.”

Wei Ying seems beyond words, and just nods. A tremor runs through him, and Lan Wangji knows he’s exhausted what energy he had left for the day with this conversation. His sister seems to sense this.

“A-Xian, you look tired.”

Again, Wei Ying only nods, but Lan Wangji is of the opinion there should be no more secrets.

“He was nearly possessed by a resentful spirit a few days ago,” he supplies.

Jiang Yanli gasps, and he tries not to be pleased that she will want to fix this, too. It will strengthen her resolve.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying protests, but it seems more of a token protest.

“Fortunately, xiongzhang was visiting. He calmed it with Liebing. There are now talismans where we sleep.”

“It tried while he was sleeping?” Jiang Cheng almost demands. “Is it still so dangerous there?!”

“I fought her,” Wei Ying murmurs, almost petulant. “She was liberated in the end.”

“Not the point, Wei Wuxian!”

“A-Cheng,” Jiang Yanli scolds. “We can talk about this later. I need to change so we can go with him and talk to Wen Qing. I expect she will have more to say about it, as well.”

“J-jiejie needs some items from the market, so we need to b-buy them before we go back,” Wen Ning offers.

Jiang Yanli nods firmly.

“Then we’ll meet you in the market. And then I’ll be finally able to get a hug from my zhizi.”

A-Yuan beams at her, already recognizing himself as her nephew, and she stands and shakes out her cloak to don it. Jiang Wanyin packs the tureen back in the basket.

“Get this idiot to eat the rest of his bowl,” he says gruffly. “He’s too fucking skinny.”

“A-Cheng, language,” Wei Ying says almost automatically.

“Jiang-shushu said a bad word?” A-Yuan asks.

Jiang Wanyin looks almost panicked for a moment, then frowns.

“Yeah, yeah, Jiang-shushu said a bad word. Don’t be like Jiang-shushu.”

He gestures to the boy, who immediately climbs off Wen Ning’s lap and runs over, latching onto his leg, and he reaches down and rubs A-Yuan’s head affectionately.

“Get your a-die to eat the rest of his soup before he goes shopping, okay?”

A-Yuan nods emphatically, happy to be given such a task, then rushes to his a-die’s side, climbing up onto the seat Jiang Yanli vacated.

Jiang Wanyin stares at Wei Ying for a long while.

“We’ll fix this. We’ll figure something out,” he says heavily. “I owe you.”

Wei Ying shakes his head, obstinate.

“You don’t. I owed the Jiang sect everything.”

That proclamation doesn’t seem to sit well with his brother, who scowls.

“No. No debts between family. It’s not a debt I owe, and you didn’t owe me your Golden Core. It’s what you deserve as my brother. I let Jin Guangshan’s stupid mind games get to me.”

Jiang Yanli, back in her cloak, her wedding robes and headdress hidden, approaches him and touches his elbow, murmurs his name. Jiang Wanyin glances at her, and nods, taking the basket from her.

“We’re the Twin Heroes of Yunmeng, Wei Wuxian, and our sect motto is to attempt the impossible. We’ll find a way.”

Jiang Wanyin sweeps out of the courtyard with Jiang Yanli, and Lan Wangji can’t help but wonder if he spends his free time planning dramatic exits.

Wei Ying releases a long breath, sagging against him the moment they’re gone.

“Always needs to have the last word,” he murmurs.

It’s almost a mirror of what Lan Wangji is thinking, and he can’t help a huff of amusement. Wei Ying turns to him with a tired smile.

“Aiya, all that was missing was a cape for him to swish dramatically.”

Lan Wangji has seen some of those capes, and can easily imagine such a thing.

“Wei Ying also has a flair for the dramatic,” he comments.

“Yeah, but I have style,” he retorts with a snort.

He turns to the soup, thankfully not needing prompting. Lan Wangji had expected it would have gone cold by now, but it’s still steaming. Likely the scent aroused Wei Ying’s hunger. He suspects the bowl has a talisman affixed to or carved onto the bottom, meant to keep the contents warm. Somewhat extravagant, but it allows his husband to enjoy hot soup even after all the arguing, so he is grateful for the forethought.

They will have some time, he knows. Jiang Yanli’s robes are intricate and will need to be removed with care to avoid damage, and the headdress will also be complex to remove. She will need to wash the makeup from her face as well.

Time enough for Wei Ying to finish eating, to dawdle a little while shopping to account for the exhaustion he undoubtedly feels, to take a breath before more difficult conversation.

They have time, a gift Wei Ying apparently didn’t expect to have, and Lan Wangji will work to ensure he has much more.

The Twin Prides, after all, now have the support of the Twin Jades.

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emerald-amidst-gold · 3 years

Note

For the OTP ask: 8, 9, 16, 53, and 91 (for this one, it could just be a song you have for them, too) :D

*rubs palms together and giggles* Oooo, I'm loving these questions! I get to show how much of a nerd am I for these two nerds! >:3

8. Who tends to worry the most?

I was going to answer this with 'both equally', but the more I think, the more I realize that Solas is the one who worries the most. XD

I mean, come on. We all know Solas is a natural worry wart. It's in the man's blood, and Fane has a tendency to make his dear wolf's blood pressure rise to fatal heights with the shit he does. PFFT!

Fane is a literal battering ram when it comes to battles (this is based on how I've specced him in-game), and he just charges in without caring if he'll get sliced, diced, or scorched. Fane's illness with magic makes it incredibly difficult for Solas to erect barriers on him, so he has to devise other ways to keep Fane in one piece (nitpicking about his armor, constantly asking, 'Are you certain you are ready?', and begging, 'Please control yourself this time, ma'isenatha.') All of that worry comes from the fact that Solas has seen Fane die, has had to guide him to it, even. Fane doesn't mean to brush off that concern and worry, but when he's embroiled in battle he...loses his senses a bit. Dragons aren't meant to fight, and fighting is what Fane does best in his new life, so he has a hard time balancing bloodlust with merciful restraint.

If Fane gets injured (which he does, but only grazes and the occasional gash), Solas won't let anyone else attend to him, fear gripping his mind, memories of blood soaked crystal and decaying scales cracking his mask and rendering him tortured. When Fane sees that, instead of just seeing the nagging, he'll go docile, go remorseful and will say, 'I'm sorry, my sky. I never meant to-- I only--hn.' Once they talk and wind down though, things get right back on track, but Solas is constantly worrying over his dragon--constantly.

Solas worries about everything with Fane--his scars, his nightmares, his battle with his identity--but battle is where he's the least reserved in it. He doesn't want Fane to have to fight, but he knows they both don't have a choice in the matter.

9. Who is more inclined to be jealous or possessive?

Dragons--naturally possessive, i.e. hoards.

Wolves--naturally protective of those within their pack, i.e. touch member of pack, you get snapped at or even bitten.

Fane and Solas are both highly protective of one another. They just go about it in different ways. Fane's more likely to snap and glower at an infringing form, making it known where they can take their 'affections'. Solas is more reserved, but most can attest that his gaze leaves them shivering and near stone with how cold it is if Fane is randomly touched by an unwanted suitor or harassed by a fawning noble. Obviously, Fane and Solas try to keep the respective beasts at bay, worried the other will think less of them for such childish behavior, but sometimes--sometimes--it's extremely hard to keep a polite mask in place due to memories of harshness and filth.

For example!

---

"You're...jealous?", Fane asked, blinking and attempting to piece together what he was feeling now. And he couldn’t. “Of who?”

Solas' eyes fell shut with a rueful chuckle. "Most here. Is that hard to believe? It is petty, I know, but eyes have been upon you since your entrance; each pair a set of daggers. You carried yourself with confidence, with pride, and every single noble within the ballroom responded to your very presence. They whispered, they sought, they undressed." The final word a mixture between a hiss and a growl that was accompanied by a small sneer of disdain before it all relaxed. "My heart knows where your own lies, my dragon, but my mind, too, is being a thorn in my side."

Fane stared down at Solas, shocked and...mesmerized. His sky had been jealous of the looks of fops and prisses? Those who had no chance of ever reaching through to his heart? To his emotions? Those who played with lives as a puppeteer did with strings?

This was...oddly amusing, but only because they were both fools.

Here they were, in the lion’s den, hunting an assassin that threatened to topple an empire, seeking answers to questions they didn’t even know yet, playing a game of macabre chess and deciding who would rise and who would fall, and they were both jealous from nattering nobles who killed for sport or an inconsequential servant girl that would be forgotten in the morn. The ridiculousness nearly made Fane cackle. Was this what court intrigue encompassed? He didn’t see the appeal.

Fane huffed out amusedly. "I love you.", he said, point blank with no room to be denied. “Ar lath ma, ma tarasyl.”, he repeated in Elvhen, lifting a hand to rub at his face and shook his head in disbelief at himself.

Solas’ eyes snapped open at his declaration, a blush stretching across his face and was apparent even in the shadows that embraced them. That swath of delicate pink nearly had Fane cracking, breathing out a steadying sigh through his nose instead. Damn anything that was holy, if poison didn’t kill him, this endearing, foolish elf would. How could he be so blind when responses like that reaffirmed where his sky’s heart lay?

“Sorry, it’s just..”, Fane started before letting out a tiny laugh, massaging his cheekbones in slow circles. “You looked so ashamed by how you felt, even though I just said I felt the same way. If anything, I should feel ashamed because I’m jealous of someone far more innocent than these Orlesian pricks.”

Solas tilted his head, raising an eyebrow. “May I know who you were jealous of?”, he inquired.

Fane let out an airy laugh, kneading his brow with two fingers. “The servant girl that just left not even five minutes ago.”, he admitted, face growing hot with shame and embarrassment. He was such a fool. A pathetic, blind fool.

“The servant--?”, Solas began before letting out a quiet, breathless laugh of his own. “Ma’isenatha, you are aware that we are at court, at the heart of Orlais, yes? Appearing gentile and cordial is but a step in a very specific dance. My reactions to her were equal parts genuine and fluid, and I felt nothing beyond that.”

Fane huffed, letting his hand fall to his side. “I know, but it’s like you said, just the sight of another making reaches for someone you fought for, someone you adore and respect is infuriating. I just got you back and to have it taken away again is--”, he tried to explain, lifting his hand back up to rub at his face again. “Fenhedis lasa. A fucking smile sent my mind spiraling. Ridiculous..”

---

Halamshiral was fun! :D

16. Do they enjoy dancing?

Fane is the guy who stands in a dark corner at parties, and glares at everyone who tries to get too close, soooo...no. PFFFT!

However, if it were just he and Solas in their quarters, a light of levity possessing them, then he might be willing to let the other teach him steps that weren't able to be done by massive claws. The Winter Palace is the one time Fane takes the initiative and actively offers Solas his hand for a dance--all grace and poise unlike that of a dragon.

...The finery didn't fall fast enough that night for Solas. *is SLAPPED*

And I like to think Solas secretly yearns for such simple pleasures as a waltz or ginger circle, swaying to the music, time seeming endless once more. He misses what was before, and maybe just a tiny step can make him feel a little less lost. :3

53. Who is the better dancer?

Solas. 100%.

Fane is graceful in battle, able to shift his weight and glide with the flow of blood and chaos. But the more delicate arts--that of dancing? Yeah, no. My boy's prone to step on someone's toes and curse for them because 'A dragon? Dancing at court? Void take me..' Vivienne and Josephine had to let Solas teach Fane how to dance because he was so against the idea that he would lock himself in their quarters and refuse to entertain the two women. Solas has a hard time, but with Leliana's help, they manage to get Fane to see he does have a certain knack for the finer things. *winks*

Honestly, Solas is shocked at the Winter Palace when he sees Fane dancing with the Duchess because...he moved as if from memory, and not the one's of stumbling, cursing, and heavy sighing as legs tripped up and toes were stomped on.

Fane moved like an Evanuris--those attuned to the ancient courts with a charming smile in place to match. *sips my tea* Exquisite~

91. What is their song?

So, if I do like the implications that 'Once We Were' gives, and Solas and Fane like more gentle songs like that.

But me, personally? I adore 'Red Like Roses' from RWBY for these two. It just hits a lot of key points for me about them, but I seriously have to get a playlist together since so many songs make me thing of these two. 'Bad Habits' by Ed Sheeran is one that makes me think of them, too. Mainly Fane, but some parts fit for them together. *urge to compose a playlist intensifies*

Thank you so much for the ask, my friend! These were a lot of fun ones! But then again, all of them are! X3

#asks #ask #oc: fane lavellan #solas #solavellan #dragon age #ngl i'm getting antsy to divulge EVERYTHING with fane #fanfic or no! XD #but i must be STRONG *shakes fist*#*starts to hum 'once we were'*#i love the tavern songs so much ;3;#solas aka mr. old man worry X'D #thank you so much again! <3

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aristocraticvision · 3 years

Text

Chapter 130: Hillningham House

Having never been to Hillningham, Elizabeth was charmed from the moment they approached up the long drive.

“It’s beautiful,” she said getting out of the car. “And so different from what I expected. It’s almost like a castle, isn’t it?”

Stephen smiled.

“Yes. It was built in 1694 by Leopold II, who was the first Westonian prince to be educated in England. He fell in love with some of the medieval castles there there and wanted to capture the same feel here at Hillningham.”

“I didn’t realize it was so old,” Elizabeth said, as they walked toward the door and the servants gathered in front to welcome them.

“Well, a lot of it was destroyed in a fire sometime in the late 1700s, so much of the house was rebuilt then. But they did their best to preserve the original design as much as possible.”

“Welcome back, your royal highness,” the butler said. Turning to Elizabeth, he added, “I’m Latham, your highness. Please let me know if there is anything you need.”

“Of course, Latham,” Elizabeth said, “and thank you all for the gracious welcome.”

They walked into the wood-paneled entry hall, and Elizabeth smiled.

“For being so large, it feels very … I don’t know … cozy?” she said.

“It was always father’s favorite place to spend the holidays,” Stephen said.

“I can see why he enjoyed it,” Elizabeth said. “I can just imagine it at Christmas, with all the snow and decorations.”

Crossing into the main reception room, Elizabeth could feel the delicate balance the rooms struck between formal and casual. While the furnishings and artwork in this room alone were likely worth a fortune, the rich, gilt paneling and wood accents added a warmth that was somehow absent in the royal palace.

“I think I could get used to this,” she said, grinning.

“I know,” Stephen said. “I remember asking my dad why we couldn’t live at Hilningham all the time.”

“What did he say?” Elizabeth asked.

“That he wished we could,” Stephen laughed. “But that every crown estate had a purpose. The palace is designed to receive – and in many cases, intimidate – foreign guests and dignitaries. Hilningham, on the other hand, is designed for comfort and relaxation. Even though it’s still distinctly royal, it’s smaller scale and warmer feel is designed as a get-away for the royal family. Everything to its purpose, so to speak.”

“That sounds like something your father would say,” Elizabeth said. “I know you said that King Henry wanted to keep his stay private, but do you think we should plan on any kind of formal event? A dinner, or at least a reception? It just doesn’t feel right to not observe some formalities, given it’s a state visit.”

“My instinct is to avoid it, given recent events,” Stephen replied. “Whatever it is King Henry wants to discuss, it must be pretty important. I can’t imagine him wanting to visit Weston right now.”

“I have to admit I’m a little nervous about meeting him face-to-face,” Elizabeth said, crossing to the seating area, then turning to face her husband.

“Why?” Stephen asked.

“Let’s face it, it was our relationship that started this entire chain of events!” Elizabeth said. “If it hadn’t been for me, you might very well have ended up with Caroline, and Queen Anne would still be on the throne. It would be very easy for King Henry to blame me for all of his troubles.”

Stephen shrugged.

“Maybe,” he said. “But I’ve known the king since we were both teenagers, and I just can’t imagine he would hold a grudge. I have no doubt that, once he meets you, he’ll be as enchanted with you as I am.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

“Be that as it may, I’m still nervous,” Elizabeth said. “Especially not knowing what his goals are for coming here.”

“Don’t be,” Stephen said, taking her in his arms. “I don’t want to let King Henry ruin our holiday.”

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Continent of Oceana | History of Weston | History of Corwyn | History of Torenth

#TS4 #ts4 story #ts4 royal family #ts4 royal legacy #ts4 royalty #ts4 royal simblr #ts4 royal story #Principality of Weston #HRH Prince Stephen III #HRH Princess Elizabeth #Holiday at Hilningham House #Oceana Stories

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loveafterthefact · 4 years

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Love After the Fact Chapter 6: Behind the Scenes Part 1

Sometimes, our favorite morally dubious attendant needs a little help.

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Adam sighs. What an exhausting, troublesome day. He cautiously knocks on the door, balancing the covered tray in one hand. If this guy kills him, he's going to strangle the crown prince.

It opens, and there’s the captain, a good two dashes taller than Adam himself, irises a winter gray.

“Ah. Adam, right?” Adam nods. “Can I help you?”

“Um. Crown Prince Lancel asked me to ensure you ate something. I understand he told you not to eat at the banquet.”

“More like he gave me permission not to.” The captain steps aside, smiling, ears forward. Adam swallows and enters the room with small steps. He opens the tray and sets a large plate of food on the small table by the couch in front of the fireplace.

Adam can’t resist. “Captain Sh-”

“Shiro. Please.” Shiro smiles again. That’s all he ever seems to do. Despite being about ten dashes tall and three dashes wide at the shoulders. It’s somewhat jarring, to say the least.

“Shiro. If I may... Why do you and Prince Yorak hate the food so much?”

“My species cannot taste what you refer to as ‘sweet.’ When we eat Altean food, all we get are the hints and undertones, which on their own…” the captain trails off, smiling good-naturedly. Adam notices how wide, how genuine his eyes seemed to shine.

“I imagine it’s horrible.”

“It is. No offense of course. I’m sure if ‘sweet’ meant anything to me, I’d quite like it.” Shiro chuckles. “But to me, it means nothing, and is nothing.”

“How odd,” Adam muses. “I can’t quite wrap my head around it. Sweet is to me what sour is. Or salt. Or savory. Or air. It is like saying you cannot see the color blue.”

“We see color as you do. Though our night vision is far better, I should think.”

“Does it make it hard to sleep?”

“No. Why?”

“I can’t sleep if it isn’t dark.”

“It’s a different kind of ‘light,’” Shiro says with a shrug. “It’s not like daylight is. It’s... different. I don’t know how I’d explain it.” He plucks a piece of whatever Hunk made for him and takes a bite. He must like it, because he takes another. Adam shifts, guilty. The man must be hungry. “You’re a curious one.”

“Sorry!” Adam jumps. “I didn’t meant to offend-” His panicked apology is cut off by a laugh.

“Don’t! Please, ask whatever you like. It makes a nice change after what I endured at the banquet. I just wish Crown Prince Lancel could have rescued me too. Though I’m sure Prince Yorak was grateful.”

Adam relaxes, relieved. He’s not about to be ripped to shreds. “I’m Crown Prince Lancel’s attendant. If I am to keep up with him, I must know everything I can about everything I know of. When it comes to knowledge of your kind, I am woefully uninformed. He was not at all surprised when Lord Lanval made a comment about Prince Yorak’s gender... I was.”

“There are three genders. Binary, like yourself. And then there is a third, like Prince Yorak. They tend to have mixed characteristics which facilitate multiple or no facets of child-giving and -rearing. Prince Yorak is a gift.”

“A gift?” Adam frowns, pushing his glasses up his nose.

Shiro nods. “Prince Yorak is capable of both siring and bearing children. He is a blessing. On Daibazaal, he would be revered, were it not for his size.” Shiro hesitates, then continues. “You say you make it your mission to assist Crown Prince Lancel in his day-to-day life and well-being?”

“Yes. That mission now extends to Prince Yorak as well.”

“Then also make note: Prince Yorak may require a trip to Daibazaal during his final growth spurt. He has a disease that can cause stunted growth. His growth plates are defective. It’s why he’s so small. During the war, he lacked access to medical treatment, so missed several growth spurts all together. It’s important that he does not miss this one, as it could cause fertility issues. Regardless of what Altea requires of him, he deserves to have a family if he wants one.”

“I will keep that in mind. I’ll keep an eye on him.” Adam pulled out his datapad, typing away. “I don’t believe the Crown Prince knows of this... I’d rather not tell him.”

“Why not?” Shiro cocks his head to the side, ears perked. Those ears have followed Adam’s every move. The Altean finds it unnerving. It makes his scales itch.

And yet... Something about the giant intrigues him. He carefully discards his caution.

“Lance is... He’s undyingly loyal. He does not love Keith, to be sure. But he will care for him, and be faithful to him, and most importantly, he will worry about him.

“He will worry about Keith being here. About him eating, sleeping, wandering around alone. Everything. I do my best to ease his worry. It’s why I try to stay one step ahead of him. I want to be good at my job, and my job is to ease his burdens.”

The Galra’s head shifts a little, ears and eyes still focused solely on him. Adam decides he finds it refreshing. He’s so rarely the center of someone’s attention.

“You say Lance is loyal.” Adam nods. He is. As loyal and dedicated as they come. “Interesting... You are quite loyal yourself, aren’t you? You believe in your prince. Genuinely.” Shiro takes a step closer, and this time Adam stands his ground, staring down that fascinated gaze. Or rather, up.

“Yes. I do.” Adam stands tall as Shiro’s stare refuses waver. The Galra looms over him. “I was born a noble. I chose to serve him. I believe in his love for his people, and in his ability to maintain peace.”

“Is it really a choice to serve him if he is your crown prince?” Shiro asks softly.

“The people of Altea have the right to refuse the rule of their kings. We have the right to rebel, to demand action or inaction. And I have the right to forsake Lance and my duties. Yet I stay, because I wish to see what he will become. And you? Why do you serve your masters?”

“I love my people. The Captain of the Guard is a servant not only to Emperor Zarkon and Empress Honerva, but to the people. I am the serving protector of my race.”

“Then we are the same,” Adam murmurs. Shiro’s left ear twitches, and Adam wonders if he struck a nerve. Those gray eyes narrow slightly, slanted pupils dilating as they zero in on his own.

“It would seem so,” Shiro murmurs, taking a step back. When had he gotten so close? He’d been less than a dash away. “I thank you for the meal. Please, if you haven't already, bring something to Keith as well. He ate even less than I did.” Adam nods. “And send Lance my thanks. He has my undying gratitude.”

“Of course.” Whether Shiro’s grateful for the food or the care Lance will bestow upon Keith, Adam isn’t sure.

Those eyes and ears follow Adam out of the room.

He’s ever so slightly shaken. Ever so slightly intrigued.

#LoveAftertheFact #LAtF #klance #galtean au #altean lance #galra keith #adashi #altean adam #galra shiro #voltron legendary defender #vld

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aweebwrites · 4 years

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Allies Ch10

Garmadon chuckled as the Horns of Destruction blared loudly the sound able to be heard from miles and miles away, the golden beam of energy from the clock reaching across distances to create his Ultimate Weapon. Yes… Yes! This age of war was fastly coming to an end! He lifted his head once he heard the familiar sound of wing beats. Dragon wing beats. He grinned triumphantly once he saw five dragons, one of which was radiating with green energy similar to their scales. The dragons landed one by one in the courtyard, his generals sliding off of their backs as Garmadon headed directly for his son.

“Lloyd.” Garmadon says with palpable relief, seeing his son unharmed.

“Dad…” Lloyd smiled, accepting the hug his father offered him. “We got them dad.” He told his father, pulling back so he could reach for the weapons and Garmadon looked over them in awe.

It’s been millennia since he had last seen these weapons. He took them as Lloyd handed them over then chuckled.

“Finally. After thousands of years. The end of the war is in sight!” Garmadon yelled, holding up the four Golden Weapons and the gathering of Soldiers and Servants cheered. “You did well, my son.” He told Lloyd as they cheered around them still.

“I do what I can. For my Kingdom and for you.” Lloyd says with a smile, unable to hold back a grin as he hugged his father again.

He couldn’t wait for this all to be over at last.

_____

“I sense a shift in the balance.” Wu whispered, looking out at the balcony from his throne room. “The Knights have failed… Our greatest fear…” He says solemnly before he turned away to prepare for the last battle.

_____

“I can’t believe the Green Knight is nothing but Umbrian scum!” Kai growled as they raced their horses back to Fulgor to deliver news of their failure.

Luckily, the Forest of Tranquility was not very far away from the Castle.

“Race isn’t what matters here.” Zane says as he gripped his horse’s reins tightly, his face plate still off and tucked into his bag. “Garmadon must have convinced them that we were the bad guys. They must not know we’re actually fighting for the good of Ninjago.” He told the others.

“That’s gotta be it.” Jay says with a frown, eyes on the path ahead. “The Prophecies are never wrong!” He yelled, urging his horse to jump across a small but deep stream.

“But how do we even convince him before Garmadon gets to the Golden Peak?” Nya asked as she held on to Kai tight.

“That’s the hard part. We’ll have to figure something out and fast. He can level all of us on his own but this time no doubt he and the Generals will come with the rest of Garmadon’s army.” Cole says as they broke through the forest, dashing across the plain before them, the tip of the castle visible on the horizon.

“Let’s just hope we get there before they do.” Zane whispers, hoping they really could stop them.

_____

“Why are we here? Shouldn’t we be leaving for the Golden Peak?” Lloyd asked his father as he closed the double doors to the throne room behind them.

“We first have to wait for the Ultimate Weapon, the Garmatron, to arrive.” Garmadon told his son, guiding him to his throne and Lloyd frowned.

“The Ultimate Weapon? Why would we be using Dark Matter as a weapon? I thought you said you wanted this to be a fair war, to not stoop to their level?” Lloyd asked him, confused.

“I don’t intend on firing it.” Garmadon told his son, resting the golden weapons on his throne then walking behind it. “I prefer to use it as an intimidation factor.” He explained but Lloyd still looked unsure.

“After thousands of years, we’re finally arriving at the end of this war Lloyd. The people of Penumbra are starved of peace, of not fearing for their lives, of not fighting every day. I have to do whatever I can to make sure we succeed at doing so. I myself, am not comfortable with firing that cannon but I will if I must.” Garmadon says firmly and Lloyd looked up at his father then frowned but he understood.

They had to do what they must. And it wasn’t as if he was killing even more people by using Dark Matter. It was a means of safety, for those infected and for those who used it. Like Ultra Violet and the Earth Dragon. Lloyd looked at his hands at that. Yes. He could cure Dark Matter infection, so it was fine.

“There is also another reason why I brought you here, son.” Garmadon told him lightly, standing before the stained glass portrait of three people, one clearly being outcast.

Lloyd looked at his father curiously.

“It’s time for you to hear a story about the family the First Spinjitzu Master made for himself.” Garmadon says, his voice barely above a whisper as he kept his eyes on the portrait.

Thousands of years ago, when the war was young, there lived one who held the power to create an entire realm. He had no true name able to be said with Ninjagan tongue. Instead, he was known as the First Spinjitzu Master. And what was Spinjitzu you asked? An ancient fighting technique developed by the First Spinjitzu Master himself to be used as a means of fighting the Overlord and his Indestructible Stone Army only passed onto his sons as a means of protecting themselves. But this story is not about the fighting art. Rather, It was about the First Spinjitzu Master and his two very special sons. The eldest was Garmadon. He was a cautious yet peculiar child who would do whatever it took to not earn his father’s anger. It was a trait that made him seem cold, heartless even.

Then there was Wu. He was more adventurous than his brother and held a far bigger heart than he. Together, they would naturally get into all sorts of trouble but they were brothers who loved each other and who loved their father. They grew together, fought together, laughed together. There was no Garmadon without Wu and no Wu without Garmadon. The friends they had made of the children of servants in the castle knew and expected that of the princes. All was well throughout their childhood… But as both brothers began to mature, they began noticing some… Changes in Garmadon.

“Have your teeth always been that pointy?” Wu asked his older brother after noticing him yawn the canines he held much more visible and pointier.

“Huh? What do you mean?” Garmadon asked, reaching a hand inside his own mouth- only to yelp and pull his hand back.

His own tooth had cut his thumb…

That made Garmadon so much more aware of his own body. He was getting paler with each passing day. He could see it. He wore as much clothes as he could to hide it, withdrawing from his brother and friends out of fear.

“Did I do something to make my brother mad?” Wu asked, looking up at the back of his father.

“Why would you think so?” The First Spinjitzu Master asked as he turned to the blond that was his younger son.

“He moved into his own room and he hardly comes out to play or talk anymore…” Wu says with a pout, the preteen fiddling with one of his father’s blank scrolls.

“Hmm. It may be that Garmadon is growing older. He might want independence, to appear more mature. But I will talk with him, just in case.” He reassured, placing a comforting hand on his younger son’s shoulder.

“Really? Thank you father!” Wu grinned wide.

The First Spinjitzu Master did visit Garmadon’s room later that day… But it wasn’t to talk.

Garmadon stared at the closed door in confusion and trepidation as he pulled his hood closer. His father had walked in, taken one look at his very pale skin and had walked out with an expression on his face he’s never seen before. It made him… Worry...

The incident had Garmadon venturing outside again, to talk with his brother- but he had started to keep his distance- and so did their friends. He was now the one being isolated. He didn’t understand. He hated whenever they got quiet the second he walked in, hated that his own father refused to look at him anymore, hated that his brother looked fearful whenever he so much as glances at him. He didn’t understand at all. Was he becoming a monster? He missed his family. He missed his friends! Even the Elemental Masters stopped smiling at him and greeting him. No, they had started walking with their hands on their weapons, gripping them tighter still whenever he was nearby. Things finally boiled over on his 20th birthday he spent almost all of being ignored.

“I’ve had it!” Garmadon yelled in his father’s throne room after he had came for so little as a happy birthday, only to have them look away from him. “I’m sick and tired of being ignored!” He yelled, dark energies gathering unknowingly in his fists as his eyes glowed red, putting everyone on the alert.

“All I wanted was to have my family back but you two treat me like I’m some kind of monster waiting to happen!” He growled, fangs lengthening as his hair began to sway and blacken. “I don’t even know if I did something because neither of you won’t even so much as look at me! I don’t know what’s happening to me and it’s scary!” Garmadon’s voice broke as his skin started to darken, his claws lengthening as he began to grow taller.

“Talk to me! Yell at me! Do something other than pretending I don’t exist! Give me some kind of sign that I still mean something to this family!” He yelled, fire bubbling up in his eyes. “I just… I just…” The First Spinjitzu Master placed a protective hand before his youngest son who watched with wide fearful eyes as his brother became the monster his father warned him of.

“What did I do wrong?” He asked them quietly, flamed tears falling down his cheeks as he dug his nails into his palms- only to wince at the pain that flared in his hands.

He looked down at them- and felt his whole world grind to a halt. His… His hands… Why did they look like this? He looked up his dark arms, seeing white markings on them.

“If I had known you would turn out like this…” Garmadon looked to his father once he spoke over the silence filling the throne room. “A creature of darkness and destruction… An Oni, cannot take the throne…” The First Spinjitzu Master, his father says firmly and Garmadon’s eyes widened.

An Oni? He was… He looked down at his hands again, seeing them shaking from the revelation as his breathing picked up from his increasing panic.

“... Or be my son.” That had Garmadon’s head snapping upwards.

“... W… What?” He whispered breathlessly, not sure, not wanting to believe that he heard what he had.

“I left your kind behind once and for all in the First Realm. The Overlord already is a constant reminder of that place, even though he is Ninjago born. You will only strive to bring about nothing but destruction and chaos in this place I have made my home and I will not stand for it.” The First Spinjitzu Master spoke with cold, gold eyes, pulling a familiar crystal from his robe that had Garmadon’s eyes widening further. “You will return to where you came from.” He says, holding up the Realm Crystal, opening a portal on the ground.

Garmadon stared down at it, hearing the sound of dragons from it, feeling his blood running colder and colder. He… He…

“Fa… ther…” He whispered in his disbelief.

This couldn’t be happening. This must be a dream… This can’t be real… And yet, his palms still throbbed in pain from where he had stabbed his claws into them. This was no dream.

“You are no longer my son.” The First Spinjitzu Master says without a hint of emotion and that was like a physical blow at Garmadon.

He looked at his father, then at his brother with his downcast, slitted, golden eyes, looking just like their father… He… Garmadon, slouched. Was this really how he lost his family. All for… All because… Garmadon gritted his teeth, anger returning in an inferno. All because of genetics he never asked for! All for genes he got from him! A dark purple aura billowed around Garmadon and the First Spinjitzu Master gathered Golden Power in his other hand, prepared to strike him down if necessary.

“No! No!” Garmadon yelled, all out sneering at his father with bared fangs. “This isn’t fair! I never asked to be an Oni! I’m not like them! I deserve to stay just as much as Wu! We both got our blood from you, father! The blood that runs through my veins is a result of you!” He all but roared, the polished white marble floor cracking beneath his feet.

“That may be so and for that, I am sorry. But your faith is already decided. You cannot stay.” The First Spinjitzu Master says with narrowed eyes. “Leave on your own or I will be forced to make you. This realm already has enough darkness and destruction.” He warned, gold eyes glowing brighter and Garmadon sneered.

“Ninjago is the only home I’ve ever known! I won’t leave it just for your fragile sense of security!” He snapped at his father.

“... Then you leave me no choice.” The First Spinjitzu Master says quietly, taking a step forward.

“Father, please wait!” Wu says, running before his father. “Let me talk to him.” He pleaded and the First Spinjitzu Master looked him over before nodding once.

“Do not go near it.” He warned and Garmadon growled.

“I am not an animal or creature! I live and breathe and think as you do, father!” Garmadon spat the word with bitter resentment, his eyes fully opened to the true person his father was.

He was not the kind, peaceful man the Kingdom of Fulgor saw. No, he was no better than the Overlord himself! He was a hypocritical, fiendish man who would rather let others tackle his problems for him than facing them himself!

“Garmadon-”

“What? I no longer deserve the title of your brother? Is that it, Wu? Did the years we spent growing up together mean nothing for you to throw them away so quickly? Have the memories we’ve had together meant nothing to you?!” Garmadon yelled, cutting Wu off.

Wu pressed his lips together in a thin line as he looked at him.

“Say something!” Garmadon snapped at him.

“You’re an Oni bent on destruction! You always have been!” Wu snapped back. “You always did and say things I always questioned but they all made sense once father realised you were Oni! A monster! You’ve shown us your true colours now Garmadon! There’s no going back from this! It’s better you leave before you hurt someone!” He yelled and Garmadon took a step back, eyes wide at his brother- his own brother called him a monster.

He wondered for a moment, if things would have been better if he had kept his mouth shut and endured their ignorance. Garmadon straightened his back. No. He would not be a mat for them to only remember existed when they have mud on their feet.

“A monster, huh?” Garmadon says to his bro- to Wu, his voice eerily calm, lacking the panic, desperation and fury he had just moments ago.

He then walked forward, coming to a stop before the portal, glaring down at it from the bridge of his nose then at them.

“You want me gone? Fine.” He says and the First Spinjitzu Master vanished his Golden Power though he never took his narrowed eyes off of him. “But.” Garmadon spoke again and they tensed as he gathered his destructive powers in his palms, eyes overcasted with red as he floated off the ground.

“He’s unlocking his true potential!” The First Spinjitzu Master yelled, gathering his Golden Power.

“I’ll decide where I go!” Garmadon yelled and before his father could attack, a huge wave of destructive energy escaped him, destroying everything in its path, breaking apart the ceilings of the throne room and throwing both the First Spinjitzu Master and Wu back, the Realm Crystal shattering into fine dust like pieces as they were.

Garmadon landed on his feet after the sudden surge of power, looking down at his hands emitting smoky purple energy before he clenched them tight, ignoring the sting of pain. He then looked around at the chaos around him, spotting his brother as he pushed the rubble off of him with a golden wing, half transformed into a dragon. He hadn’t even known he could do so. He narrowed his eyes.

“I’ll show you a monster.” He promised him before he turned away to leave the palace, using his new found powers to throw aside those who stood in his way.

There was only one place he would be accepted now and it was a place he was looking forward to go to. Ninjago was being fought over by two sinister beings. It was doomed from the start. He hadn’t known that until today. But since his so called father and brother insisted on treating him like an Oni, a monster… He’ll be just that.

And he had been. The Overlord was more than happy to take him in under his wing, nurturing the darkness inside him and encouraging him to grow. Garmadon felt twisted pleasure as he struck down the First Spinjitzu Master’s soldiers before his brother’s eyes once news of his presence on the wrong side of the battlefield caught his ears. Just for him, just for them, he had become the destructive, heartless monster they made him out to be. There were days when the weight of what he had done, of what he had become weighed him down but those days were far in-between. That was until he met her. Misako. The Umbrian that had stolen his black heart. She made him want to change, made him want to do the right thing. He had even started planning on taking her and running away from this place, perhaps to a whole nother realm if he could, even more so when she was bearing his child… But then her betrayal had brought that part of him, ugly, bloodthirsty and hateful. He didn’t regret taking her life. But he did swear hers would be the last he took out of spite. He had a son who would depend on him now. And once the Overlord had left Penumbra to him, he knew he had a chance to fix this. To truly end this war and to give his son a place worthy of being called home. He may not be able to change the past but he could make a better future for everyone.

And his brother, who ruled Fulgor in their father’s leave could not be the one to do so. He was so faithful to the facade their father had shown him that he could not see that good intentions didn’t make a wrong action right. He didn’t know better, but Garmadon does and it is his duty, as Emperor and his older brother, to bring the peace Ninjago is starved of.

Lloyd… He didn’t know what to say. He never imagined that there was ever a time his father wasn’t the man he knew today. Never thought his father was outcasted from his own family for something like that. For having Oni blood, something he couldn’t control. If he was in his father’s position back then…. He didn’t know what he’d do. He couldn’t even imagine his father throwing him out. Not after a childhood filled with his father's utmost love. He looked up at his father, seeing calm, seeing wistfulness, seeing pain and regret all present on his face. Lloyd walked before his father then and he looked down at him, red eyes meeting red. He gave his father a look filled with several emotions, empathy, pain, anger… He pushed forward, hugging his father tight as he squeezed his eye shut, willing all the love he held for him to reach him. His father changed, that’s what really matters. He was still proud to call him father, regardless of his past.

Garmadon’s breath caught at his son’s tight embrace. He then hugged him back, giving a small sigh but that sigh held years of intense emotions, always flickering in the back of his mind like the flames of his tears. The burden of his past was lighter at least. His son, his reason to keep going down the right path and he had not rejected him because of his past wrongs. It gave him even more strength to keep fighting. For him.

______________ (Garmadon's past revealed! Next on the list is Lloyd's but before that, a moment of calm before the final fight to decide the fate of all of Ninjago! Thanks for reading!) ______________ Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 | Ch4 | Ch5 | Ch6 | Ch7 | Ch8 | Ch9

#ninjago #lloyd ninjago #kai ninjago #cole ninjago #jay ninjago #zane ninjago #nya ninjago #Sensei Wu #Lord Garmadon #first spinjitzu master ninjago #aweebwrites' work

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kindness-ricochets · 4 years

Text

Grishaverse Secret Santa

@sevenofcrowss - happy Kerchmas! I hope you like your fic <3 & @beautifxl-things thank you for beta-reading!

“If you’re going to take me on holiday, take me somewhere exciting,” Jesper complained. “Take me to Caryeva in the summer.”

“Okay,” Wylan chirped, turning to give Jesper a grin. He didn’t grin like that enough—despite Jesper’s best efforts. But he looked so pleased now, blue eyes sparkling and his red-gold curls bouncing, that Jesper didn’t have the heart to grouch at him. His grin slipping a notch, Wylan stepped closer to Jesper and straightened his coat. “Are you warm enough?”

Jesper swatted Wylan’s hands away. “Stop fussing! I’m fine.”

“If you say so,” Wylan pouted. He stood on tiptoe to kiss Jesper’s cheek, then wrapped his mitten-clad hand around Jesper’s and tugged him onward. With a deeply put-upon sigh, Jesper allowed this.

The streets of the Geldin District were larger and tidier than the Barrel, less crowded, and Jesper noted the care Wylan took that the two mercher boys should make space for others. Mostly it was servants on errands. Jesper and Wylan were being irresponsible. Or rather, Wylan was. Jesper was just following his boyfriend’s lead, at the moment literally!

“Here we are!” Wylan announced. He held the door open for Jesper.

It was their first winter together and Wylan had been startled to learn that not only did Jesper not own ice skates, he had never been skating. What Jesper failed to mention was that he did not want to go skating. He assumed that since Ketterdam’s canals did not freeze, that would be the end of it.

He hadn’t anticipated how much Wylan loved skating. He hadn’t anticipated the energy, the enthusiasm, the need Wylan had to share this simple joy with Jesper, and within five minutes of hearing that Jesper had never been ice skating, Wylan was planning a holiday. And Jesper… well, Jesper didn’t have the heart to deny him when he was so excited for something. Wylan fretted and worked and worried; it was his way. They could be having a perfectly fun conversation, but if it lapsed into silence for more than five seconds, Wylan got that look in his eyes that said he was worrying again.

Jesper was less than eager to scoot around on ice with knives on his feet—it was perhaps the only activity his daredevil heart deemed too ridiculous. Yet here he was, picking up a new pair of skates because it would make Wylan smile.

“What do you think?” asked the… cobbler? Skate-maker? Jesper wasn’t sure what one called a man who made ice skates.

“Are they comfortable, Jes?” Wylan asked.

“They’re tight.”

“They’re meant to be tight.”

“Then they’re perfect,” Jesper said.

Wylan grinned, reminding Jesper why he was doing this.

“Just like you,” Jesper added. The resulting half-laugh and full blush was more than he could have asked for.

He eased the too-tight knife-shoes off his feet. As they were taken by a clerk to be packed into a box, Jesper asked, “Are you sure I shouldn’t wear them out?”

“You might yet.”

Hah! Unlikely.

“We’ll see,” Jesper said, with a grin at Wylan.

————

The Hendriks lake house was an altogether different place when one was not sneaking in under the guise of the Komedie Brute. In fact, Jesper much preferred the place when he could sweep in through the front door. He felt like himself here. He still liked cities, but in Geldin District, wearing revolvers was seen as eccentric at best, unacceptable at worst. Now his pearl-handled revolvers were at his hips where they belonged.

Yesterday after they arrived, Jesper had been curious about the place and gone to look around while Wylan settled in his mother. She was doing so much better, but Marya was still on shaky ground at times. So Jesper had taken the measure of the place, seen the outbuildings, the old graveyard, the frozen lake. He had even used his powers while he was out. There was nothing to make or shoot, so he settled for borrowing the color from a patch of bark. Not impressive, but it soothed an itch. When he swept back into the house, revolvers at his hips and coat flaring perfectly, knowing he had that zowa glow about him, Wylan's eyes nearly fell out of his head.

Today, however... today Jesper felt less enthusiastic. He felt an uncomfortable nervousness. Give him a firefight any day. A good brawl. Give him a house to scale (and a Wraith to help him, preferably). Following Wylan to the pond, Jesper felt distinctly not-brave and he did not care for it. He felt cold, too, a different sort of cold. Ketterdam had a wet, heavy cold. The cold out here was sharp without the buildings of Ketterdam to shield against the wind.

Wylan paused. There was a stone bench at the water's edge, likely a nice place to sit in spring or summer, if one were the type for sitting still. He set the bags containing their skates on the bench and turned to Jesper.

"You don't have to do this if you don't want to," Wylan said.

Jesper laughed. "That's good. I was worried you wouldn't love me," he teased.

"Don't even joke about that!" Wylan wrapped his mitten-clad hands around Jesper's and squeezed gently. "I know you're nervous."

"I am not," Jesper lied. When Wylan's only response was a solemn, steady look, Jesper amended, "I'm a little nervous. Go on, show me you're any good. It'll make me feel better."

After a moment's hesitation, Wylan sat on the bench and traded his boots for ice skates. Unlike Jesper's shiny new skates, Wylan's were older, scuffed but still clearly well-made. He tugged hard at the laces. Once they were sufficiently strangle-tight, Wylan made his careful way to the pond. Jesper half-expected him to fall. This was Wylan. Jesper adored his merchling, but he was clear on his limitations. Things at which Wylan excelled included drawing, music, and having proper merch manners. Things at which he usually failed included... anything requiring coordination.

So Jesper watched, already prepared to step forward and scoop Wylan off the ice when he fell.

Wylan did not fall. If anything, he swooshed. He took a few unsteady scoots onto the ice, then picked up speed until he had circled twice around the lake, leaving thin scores in the otherwise smooth ice. Usually quiet, now he laughed, maybe louder than usual, maybe the sound just carried on the ice, but he laughed.

Jesper stifled a sigh. Now there was no way he was keeping off that ice. Wylan was doing that annoying thing he did again, being happy, making Jesper want to join him. Watching him move so fluidly was a surprise. He was awkward usually; of course the Kerch boy was at home on knife-shoes. What a strange culture it was.

Wylan jumped from one foot to the other, his legs stretching out. He did it again, then skated backwards towards Jesper.

"Show-off!" Jesper called.

"You know you love it," Wylan retorted.

He did, actually. Wylan's display was enough to make Jesper sit down and remove one of his boots. Cold immediately clamped onto his foot. Saints, why had he agreed to this?!

Oh. Right. Wylan was approaching with his wobbly ice-skates-on-dry-land steps, flushed and grinning. "I'll help," he said. He knelt and tightened Jesper's laces for him, wrapped the laces around his skates, and tied them tight.

"Ready?"

How could Jesper say no to that smile?

He stood... and immediately decided he was not ready. It felt just as fundamentally wrong as he expected and then some, his usually broad and solid feet balance atop something so unsteady. Jesper liked adventure, but this was a challenge he did not appreciate. Certain things ought to remain true. His feet ought to be his old reliable feet.

"I've got you!" Wylan promised, reaching out and taking Jesper's hands. "It's okay." He held on as they approached the lake. Jesper did not appreciate his wobbly steps, but he could try. For Wylan, he could try this completely unreasonable activity that only a mad Kerch could enjoy!

Wylan skated out onto the ice, completed a small circle and came back, offering his hands. Jesper tucked his mittens into Wylan's and set one skate on the frozen lake. Saints, this was not an improvement! Now he was wobbly on one foot and slippery on the other. This entire business was... unnatural.

"You're fine," Wylan told him.

Jesper moved his second foot to the ice. For one ridiculous moment, he was suspended, all his weight and balance on a knife on ice and every ounce of trust in that crazy, rosy-faced Kerch boy with that stupid beautiful smile that Jesper couldn't resist. Then he set his foot down on the ice.

"Ready?" Wylan asked.

Saints, no!

"Always."

Wylan began to skate backwards, his hands still wrapped around Jesper's, drawing him onto the frozen surface of the lake. With nothing to worry about but his balance, Jesper could admit it was a little enjoyable, the way he felt like he was gliding out over the ice. He was gliding over the ice! He heard as much as felt his skates swiping new scrapes onto the previously barely-marked surface.

Then they hit a bump and Jesper wobbled.

"I've got you," Wylan said. "You're doing great."

"I'm distracted by your pretty face," Jesper retorted.

Wylan rolled his eyes. Prettily. Distractingly.

He drew Jesper around the lake, warning before any big turns, even though Jesper was the one facing forward. His attention was more on his wobbly feet than anything else! As Wylan covered more and more frozen ground for them, though, Jesper started to enjoy this the slightest bit. He started to appreciate how it felt when the ice was smooth under his feet. Then he was gliding across the surface, gliding through the air that slid cold and clear across his face. Jesper felt a smile growing on his face and he could have fallen into the responding smile Wylan gave him.

After a second time around the lake, Wylan asked, "Are you ready for me to let go?"

Jesper wanted to scoff. It was still his instinct to say he was absolutely fine on his own, to make it a punchline that he would seem otherwise. The sweet, sparkling eyes looking up at him, though, made the promise Wylan always made. It was okay. The truth, Jesper, everything was okay.

Jesper swallowed.

"Stay close to me, Wy."

"Always."

Wylan released Jesper's hands, but he stayed in front of Jesper, his hands hovering just a few inches below Jesper's.

Jesper made it about three meters on inertia alone. Then he wobbled. A jolt of adrenaline shot through him--he was on knife-shoes, on ice, he was about to fall. Normally Jesper liked adrenaline. Normally he could do something! This time, powerless, he felt like something inside him was dropping fast.

At once Wylan's hands were back on Jesper's, steadying him again.

The only sounds were the whistling wind and the edged shush of their skates against the ice. Then Jesper nodded and Wylan lowered his hands again.

He was surprised by how his legs were starting to ache. He expected it to feel like a swift walk, but found different parts of his calves and thighs were already feeling the strain.

"Let me go on my own now," he said.

Wylan nodded and took a few quick skate-steps back, then fell into place beside Jesper.

"I'm fine," Jesper insisted. "Go show off."

"Is that what you want?" Wylan asked. "I'd hate to distract you."

Jesper laughed. "I'll manage."

"Okay."

Wylan skated off.

Jesper did manage. He wobbled and moved slowly, his hands held out from his sides for balance, but he managed. He took turns awkwardly and widely, but... he was getting this!

He risked a glance at Wylan, who was zipping across the frozen surface, continuing to surprise Jesper with his skill. This was a side to his Wylan that Jesper had never seen before. His physical confidence, that carefree smile... he was so beautiful this way. Jesper watched him glide along. He liked watching Wylan, always did, but this was something special, the way he seemed so right, the way he just knew how to move...

Jesper barely knew what was happening before the snow was rushing at him and he landed on the ground. The snow was enough to cushion the fall, though the chill did nip at his face and where it slipped between his mittens and the cuffs of his coat.

"Jesper?"

He heard Wylan skating to a halt as he picked himself up.

"I'm fine," Jesper reported. He had got himself into a seating position and held out his hands to Wylan, who helped him not so much to his feet, but to his skates.

"Do you want to go inside?"

He did a bit, but Jesper didn't want to admit it.

"One more time around the lake," he suggested.

"Only if you'll skate with me," Wylan retorted.

Jesper gave him a look. "You don't need to do that."

"I didn't think I needed to. I like skating better with you."

Jesper wasn't sure he entirely believed that, but he took Wylan's hand. They took one more round of the lake. With Wylan to steady him, Jesper risked an increased pace. He didn't take his eyes off the ice this time, following his path carefully, and he felt quite accomplished when Wylan brought them to a halt near the bench.

They traded their skates for boots. Jesper noticed Wylan wiping the blades of his skates. Wylan held out a hand for Jesper's skates and cleaned his blades, too.

"We'll carry them back out of the bags, let the leather breathe before we put them away."

Jesper nodded. He had never owned ice skates before, so he would gladly follow Wylan's advice on caring for them.

"So?" Wylan prompted.

"So," Jesper retorted. "So... skating isn't too bad."

Wylan broke into a dazzling grin, and Jesper just knew he would be skating again soon.

"You never told me you were good at a sport," Jesper only halfway teased.

Wylan nudged him with an elbow. "Oh, hush." But he was still grinning and flushed, his curls sweat-damp.

“We’ll come back tomorrow,” Jesper promised.

He was surprised to note how late it was, the sun already approaching the horizon and the air taking a more savage chill. Time really flew when you were wobbling around on your knife-shoes! It was the perfect time to head back inside, the right time of day for hot chocolate and a warm fire.

“You don’t have to do that,” Wylan objected. “Come on,” he added, standing. He offered his hand, but Jesper opted instead to put an arm around Wylan’s shoulders. Wylan settled close with his arm around Jesper’s waist.

As they headed back to the house, Jesper clarified: “I don’t know if I’ll be skating, but I’ll watch you show off.”

#grishaverse secret santa #six of crows #six of crows fanfic #jesper fahey #wylan van eck #my writing

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