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zealous-whispers-of-us-redux · 3 years

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i'll make this feel like home

Summary: She never wanted a mate like this and will kill this wolf no matter what it takes. Enough is enough. And. Bucky finds out how much she likes the color yellow and how much he likes it when she smiles.

It has been three long and sorrowful weeks since Bucky had lost track of his sweet omega. It is a sin among alphas to lose their omegas, and Bucky has been feeling the quiet disdain amongst his pack for how shitty of a leader they have. She left not a trace when she fled- just a discarded shoe that Bucky had found in the forest long after she'd escaped him. But he can't even find a scent that matches the one on the shoe to follow! It's been a lonely time, and Bucky has been holed up in his bedroom like a hermit, unable to face the world until his omega willingly returns to him. He will not force her to come to him. He can't. (Okay, maybe it is too soon, but he's ninety-eight percent positive that he's in love with this woman already; alpha and omega dynamics be damned.)

Bucky is sure that she didn't remember this, but she talked while lying unconscious in his bed. She had an entire conversation with someone. She spoke of the old country, whatever that was, and how cold she felt. How strange it was for a vamp to feel cold! Bucky was brought up believing that they felt nothing. She begged the person only she could see. She wanted to be mortal. She missed seeing herself in a mirror. Bucky would have told her she looked beautiful. He would say to her that every day if she let him.

He's sad.

No, scratch that. He's heartbroken. He has not eaten much of anything except the occasional raw strip of bacon. He can't even be bothered to cook it up properly. Gods, he remembers what she smelled like. The sea and clean clothes fresh out of the dryer, his favorite. She smelled like something comforting, too, which made him think of being a pup and spending hours in the library, escaping the summer heat through his favorite stories. Her anger smelled like a heady bonfire, one like the Pagan witches burn every year as they celebrated Beltane.

Her scent haunts him so much that he can nearly taste it. After she fled, her smell lingered merely a moment before it was blown away by a gust of cold wind. Even her shoe no longer smells like her, so Bucky has nothing to comfort him. All he can do is sit at the window like a dutiful alpha and wait. Sometimes he howls into the darkness, hoping that she will hear and come to him.

She is exhausted- bone tired and feeling increasingly sluggish for the last three weeks. She doesn't want to blame it on the stupid wolf who may or may not have saved her life from whatever was wrong with her, but the longer she hides from him and his emotions that sear her chest, the more she believes that yes, they have somehow miraculously pair-bonded. Gods! She can't even process the thought. It is like something out of that stupid book Twilight, where that teen werewolf who never wears a shirt falls in love with an infant- what a ridiculous idea. At least, she used to think it was until it happened to her. She supposes it did happen to her because she can still feel the twinges of the wolf in her mind. She can feel his pain, sense his loneliness.

It's very distracting as she is trying to read. She hasn't gotten past Canto ii of her favorite poem (The Faerie Queene by Edmund Spenser) before her chest starts to hurt, and she hears 'Wolfy's howl in her mind.

"Oh my Gods!" she yells as she bangs her head against her headboard and throws her book across the room. "What is wrong with me? Ugh, cut me open! I'm infected! Pull it out! I cannot believe this is happening to me."

He was only minutely attractive, right? Not sexy enough for her to want to be a subservient omega-like being, bending to her alpha's every whim. She is not a gods-darn cum dumpster, nor is she mother material. She cannot cook because she only eats blood. She hates to clean and hardly ever makes a mess, so she does not need to deal with that, anyway. She is not going to take this thing sitting down. She's a vampire, not an omega. As that thought crosses her mind for the hundredth time in the last hour, she has decided that she has officially reached her limit. She is going to kill this wolf no matter what it takes. She's sick of him in her head.

Enough is enough.

Bucky has not moved from his spot by his bedroom window in over six hours. He's been steadfastly ignoring the gnaw of hunger in his belly. The moon shines in his window, and he tilts his head, letting out a mournful howl. He hears a responding howl from a few miles away and knows that it's his second, Steve. Steve has been checking up on his best friend for a few hours every other day to see how Bucky has been managing. But the rest of Bucky's pack has all but shunned him. It will take a lot to get back into their good graces, but how can he lead when he feels so empty? Bucky howls again, yipping into it. A gust of wind blows through his window just as his nose is still in the air, and he inhales it, prepared for the icy chill to burn his lungs and soothe the ache in his chest. Instead, he catches the scent of the sea, cotton, and the yellowed pages of old books.

It's his pretty omega!

Bucky leaps to his feet and runs downstairs in nothing but a pair of sweatpants. His body heat will keep him warm anyway. He throws open his front door and races out onto the grass, frantically looking around in the darkness. He howls at her, sending his yearning across their bond. He wants to see her so badly. He wants to touch her and kiss her and taste her and fuck her. He wants her wrapped around him so tightly that he can hardly breathe. He wants her to taste him.

A hiss from the darkness is all the warning he has before something knocks him on his ass. He yelps in surprise, and then a figure jumps on top of him, holding him in place. Though he is an alpha pack leader, vamps are stronger than he is whenever there isn't a full moon or he is not on his rut. So this waif of a thing is stronger than him, which makes the alpha in his chest deeply unhappy. He quells that side of him with an internal growl. He's just thrilled that she's here!

She hisses again, baring her fangs at him. Her eyes glow, and she smells like charcoal. She looks furious. Her right hand comes up to his neck, and she chokes Bucky in an attempt to frighten him. However, it has the opposite effect as he wiggles around, feeling his dick starting to swell in his pants. She glares and presses down harder until he can't even breathe, and he gapes up at her, helplessly turned on.

"I am so sick and tired of your voice in my head day in and day out," she snarls. "Always in my mind, whining for an omega. Do you think I wanted this? There is no way I would ever want a disgusting animal like you!"

She laughs, looking as crazed as Bucky feels.

"Since you couldn't kill me the first time around, I guess it's my turn. I will have no problem killing you, you awful creature. I'll revel in it. I'll roll around in your blood like a pup. I'll stick silver in your mouth and rip. Your. Guts. Out. And I'll love every second of it."

Bucky whimpers. He has never felt so powerless against anything before. She has got him right where she wants him and not in a good way, though he doesn't mind it so much. He squirms in her grip, trying to find anything to rut against, and she hisses at him, snapping her hand back as though she had been stabbed.

"What was that?" she asks, eyes huge. "What's going on?"

"I don't- I don't- what are you talkin' about?" Bucky whines, wanting her hand around his neck again.

"You burned me, you asshole! Oh, shit! Ow, ow!"

"My necklace?" Bucky asks, fingering the symbol around his neck.

It is a relic passed down from pack alpha to pack alpha as a remembrance of the leaders before him and a remembrance of the wolf's ways. Bucky recalls that it's made of iron as a way of protecting the pack leader from vamp attacks. The necklace is for protection from the same creatures like the one seated on top of him—his omega. The older a vamp is, the more iron burns them. His sweet baby doll is cradling her hand and moaning in pain. She must have been very hurt.

"'S my necklace. It's iron," Bucky says weakly, feeling terrible. "I can take it off if ya wanna, you know, kill me or whatever."

"I don't understand what's going on," she says instead, toppling off of him and scurrying away from the light of his porch. "Why can I hear you in my head? Why can I feel what you feel?"

"Pair-bonding," Bucky explains, getting to his knees and following her, "Alphas smell a certain smell that attracts them to the omega -er- being that carries the same scent. It's a scent ingrained in the individual alpha's hindbrain before they're even born. You smell like the ocean. I love goin' to the beach. You smell like my childhood library. An' I love fresh sheets right outta the dryer an' ya smell like that too. I smelled ya at the church, an' it was everythin' I thought it would be. You're my omega. I can't help it no more than you can help suckin' down blood."

"So what then?" she says, glaring at Bucky. "What, I don't get a choice? A say? This isn't my body anymore; it's yours just because you've decided it is? Because your biology told you it is? You alpha wolves are pieces of work; you know that? How disgusting this whole hierarchical thing is. How do you think your omegas feel, huh? You treat them like nothing more than processing factories to dump your cum into and then pop out your babies!"

"Now, hold on a second," Bucky starts angrily, "It ain't like that with omegas!"

"Oh yeah? I've been around for hundreds of years, 'Wolfy,' and the only thing that's changed are the colors of your fur. Nothing in societal terms. Omegas are treated like second-class citizens, and if you think I am going to fall to my knees and beg at your feet for you to shove your dick in me, you have another thing coming! My Gods, this is ridiculous! I have been alone for four hundred years, and I get a werewolf wanting to mate with me?" she cries, throwing her hands in the air in disbelief.

"Things have changed!" says Bucky. "But why the fuck do I needta explain it to ya? Omegas are revered, respected. They're treated like royalty! Hell, the last Heat Centers closed in the 1930s!"

"'Heat Centers'! You mean those glorified prostitution rings?" she snarls. "You animals disgust me."

"Likewise," Bucky snaps. "Ain't like you vamps made us wolves your bitches for hundreds of years!"

"Gods, you're still bitter about that? That was eons ago! My great-great-grandparents weren't even alive when the last wolf trade happened!"

"Yeah, well. We're still pretty angry!"

"Ugh."

They sit in silence for a moment. Bucky huffs, which is a terrible idea as he then inhales and gets a whiff of her scent. He groans and continues hating himself for choosing a fucking vampire as a mate. (This whole courting thing is going well so far, isn't it, Barnes?) He told her he wanted her to have his pups the very moment he met her. She just tried to kill him. He burned the palm of her hand clean through to the muscle; they screamed at each other—what a mess.

Okay, new plan.

"Look," Bucky says finally. "I dunno what else to say except I'm sorry. I know ya understand that I can't help this."

"What would happen if I refuse?" she says.

Bucky's heart sinks.

"I'd try an' respect your choice. But it would be tough for me. You might as well just kill me now 'cause I'd die without ya."

"Now you're just acting dramatic."

"Swear it. Didn't you feel that burnin' on the night of the full moon?" asks Bucky.

She nods.

"It felt like I was being ripped apart on a cross and like I was being injected with Holy Water and burned with hot irons all at once. It was like I was dying from starvation with no blood in sight," she says.

"Now imagine that pain every day for the rest a' your life. Most alphas don't last an' kill themselves after a while. It makes 'em go crazy," Bucky says.

She closes her eyes and heaves a heavy sigh.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

She opens her eyes, and their gazes lock. Bucky makes sure to take in every inch of her if this is the last time he will get to see her. He memorizes the shape of her lips, the tilt of her nose, and the way her hair falls in her face. She is magnificent.

"You're beautiful, ya know," Bucky says, without thinking.

"You don't mean that, not really. It's just your alpha talking."

He moves closer, dropping down to his knees beside her. She is leaning against the side of his house, still cradling her hand.

"But I do mean it. Pair-bond or not. Stupid Twilight-style imprint shit or not. You're pretty. I think you're pretty an' I'm glad it's you," Bucky murmurs.

"You don't even know me, 'Wolfy."

"An' you don't know me 'cause you keep callin' me, Wolfy. My name's James Barnes. But everyone calls me Bucky, an' you can too."

"Bucky." A ghost of a smile appears on her lips. "That's a good name for a dog."

"My middle name is Buchanan," Bucky says, only slightly upset by her teasing.

"I didn't say I didn't like it. I only said that it suits you and what you are."

"Oh yeah? What's your name then? Is it Claudia? Rosalie? Eli? Akasha? Oh! I bet it's Lestat."

"That last one is a man's name, and you know it."

Bucky grins.

"Fine. So what is your name?"

She twirls a strand of hair around her finger and tells him her birth name. (She debated for a moment if she wanted to give him the fake name that she has been using for the last hundred years or so since her name is a little unusual, but she assumed he would end up discovering the truth eventually.) Bucky repeats it to himself, and his grin grows wider.

"That's a beautiful name. It suits ya," he tells her.

"Thank you," she whispers, looking embarrassed.

"I know it's unconventional, but maybe I'd be happy just gettin' to know ya. We could talk a little bit. If I get to know you, the bond may break as my hindbrain realizes we aren't meant to be. I've heard a' that happenin' before. Lemme take you out somewhere. What do ya like to do?"

"I promise you I'm not very exciting."

"I doubt that."

"I am incredibly serious," she says with a shy smile.

Bucky's heart leaps in his chest, and he bites back a quiet sound. He can feel himself falling in love with every word she speaks, and he knows that once he does get to know her, he is not going to want to let her go. Her eyes are colorless, but her smile is as bright as the mark she's already made on his heart. He doesn't think he can live without her.

Bucky fights the urge to cup her cheeks in his hands, "Now, I know that ain't true."

"All right," she says. "Fine, since you asked. I like to read. I like to run in the woods. I knit sometimes. I go to movies-"

Naturally, Bucky assumed she would like those calm activities that didn't require another person along for the ride. Vamps are known for being very solitary, introverted creatures that intensely dislike others' company, even one of their own. He does know a good used bookstore that's open until two in the morning. He could take her there. He doesn't mind quiet, boring activities if it means he can spend time with his beautiful girl.

"-This crow and I go for walks at night, I enjoy that. Coffee shops are fun, though I don't eat much. Go-carting is great."

Wait, wait, wait, wait. What did she say?

"Um, water parks. Cliff diving can be fun if you find the right cliffs. I like making candles and coloring in kid's coloring books. Oh, snowmobiling's nice too. I did that once up in Colorado, and it was the best. A little cold, but once you get going, it's incredible. "

"Wow," Bucky says weakly, which is Bucky code for 'holy-fucking-shit-I-think-I-am-in-love-with-you.'

"I'm sorry," she says, suddenly uncomfortable, and Bucky smells it on her. "I have no idea where all of that came from."

"No!" he says a little too eagerly. "No, no, no! You, uh, in the mood to drive some go-carts right now? I know the manager of the place downtown. He's one of my pack buddies. He gave me a key, 'cause you know, I'm his alpha, he's gotta listen to me."

Bucky's only showing off a little bit.

"Oh," she says, surprised. "You want to go now?"

"No time like the present, right?"

A genuine grin, the first one Bucky has ever seen from her, spreads across her face. She even lets out a soft giggle and nods.

"Go-carts it is," she agrees.

Clint Barton was not at all pleased with Bucky. Bucky had texted Barton fifteen minutes before the go-cart place was due to close, which Bucky knew made him a dick, but what else could he do? This new thing, this vampire he met, agreed to spend time with him! He didn't want to disappoint her! To get Clint to agree, Bucky promised a few things to Barton that he never wanted anyone else to know about. He didn't want to die of humiliation before he even had a chance to impress the pretty vampire, who he was pretty sure he was in love with.

The same pretty vampire who had tried to kill him not sixty minutes ago is now jumping eagerly on her toes as she stands with Bucky, waiting to get onto the track. She is a bit too far away from him. He moves closer, wanting to touch but refraining, wary of her changing her mind and running away again.

"You ready?" Bucky asks.

He can hear the happiness in her voice as she finishes adjusting her helmet.

"I sure am!" she answers, grinning.

"Anyone ever tell ya you got real pretty eyes, darlin'?" Bucky bravely says, nudging her before he can stop himself.

The compliment startles her for a brief moment, her gaze going blank. Why does she look upset? Bucky did not mean for that to happen. Fuck, he ruined it, didn't he? Hastily, he tries to recover from his mistake, but then she meets his eyes, looking shy. Bucky's heart leaps in his chest at the look on her face. His palms feel slick with sweat.

"No one has said that to me in a very long time." Her voice is soft. "Thank you, James."

He swallows. "B-Bucky. I mean, it's Bucky, Bucky's fine, yeah. Call me Bucky."

"Thank you, Bucky," she corrects, inching all that closer to him. "You have beautiful hair."

Bucky swallows again, harder, this time past the lump welling up in his throat. How is she even real? What being can he thank for creating her? Gods, he wants to kiss her so badly. That first time they had kissed, she had gotten her hands in his hair, and Bucky has not forgotten that at all. He chances a glance at her fingers, willing them to move onto his head and tug on his hair.

"Ha, thanks. I, uh, was gonna cut it actually," he says.

"Oh no!" she squeaks a little too loudly and a little too quickly. "I mean, it looks nice long, but if you wanted to, you could cut it, of course. Please don't listen to me. It's your hair."

Bucky bites back a knowing grin. She wants him to keep it long; he'll keep it long for her—no big deal. Feeling brave, he grabs her hand.

"Oh," he says, startled.

Her hand is freezing. Bucky turns to face her, and she does too, though she isn't looking at him.

"Sorry," she says. "I know it's not nice to feel."

"No," Bucky says, grabbing her other hand. "It's fine. You're fine. Can you look at me?"

She does.

"They don't ever get much warmer," she admits, looking miserable.

"That's okay. Gives me more of a reason to hold 'em. If you don't mind, I mean."

"I don't mind."

Bucky's gaze flickers to her lips. He is suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to see her fangs, to run his tongue over them. Would she bite him? He sure wants her to.

"Can I kiss you?" Bucky asks.

"We haven't even started our date yet."

"Don't tell me yer that old-fashioned."

"I am over four hundred years old."

"Please? Just one kiss. I won't even ask for another one when I drop you off."

"What if I wanted you to?"

"I see. Two kisses, eh? For someone who tried to kill me a few hours ago, you're bein' very generous."

"What can I say? Go-carting gives me an adrenaline rush."

"So, is that a yes on the kiss?"

"Okay."

She steps closer to Bucky, something shining in her eyes as though she is working up her nerve. It has been a long time since she's wanted to kiss someone, but Bucky is so handsome and so sweet that she isn't afraid. He brings something out in her. She doesn't feel so shy. Bucky leans forward, and she does, too. The kiss makes her belly do all kinds of funny things that she doesn't realize she missed until they happen.

As soon as their lips touch, Bucky lets out a soft noise and gathers her up in his arms, crowding into her space. He can't get enough. He slips his tongue into her mouth too soon, but she doesn't mind. He whines when she pulls on the ends of his hair. He wants to ask her to bite him. He almost gets to, but she breaks away from his mouth. Bucky pouts, chasing after her lips.

"It looks like we can go in now," she murmurs, kissing Bucky again just to soothe him. "I hope they have yellow ones."

"Yeah?" says Bucky, nuzzling her cheek. "You like yellow?"

"Yes." Her voice is soft again, something that Bucky is slowly learning to mean that she is about to share a piece of herself with him. "Yes, it's my favorite color. It reminds me of the sun, and I can't see a lot of the sun."

Right then, Bucky decides that he will get her everything and anything in this world that is yellow.

He tugs her towards the carts. She plops down into a yellow one. He follows her lead, sitting down into a cart, with his knees pressed against his chest. She is watching him as Bucky fiddles with the seat, feeling his face turning red at how ridiculous he must look. He's never been known to be the blushing type of alpha, least of all on dates or around potential mates, but something about her makes him shy and prone to stuttering even after that damn kiss. Bucky blushes harder at this realization, his mind wandering away on the thoughts of yellow houses and wedding bells.

"Are you ready?" she asks.

"Yeah, sunshine," Bucky says, because how can he call her anything else?

She smiles at the pet name, her tongue sweeping out to lick her lips, and reaches out to take his hand, to which Bucky allows with a goofy smile. Then she lifts his hand to her mouth and kisses each of his fingers.

"For good luck," she tells him.

Bucky's heart almost beats out of his chest. He wonders if she wouldn't mind sharing a cart. His mind wanders again, of being pressed up against her as she drives them around the track. Her scent stuck in his nose as she drove. His mouth on her neck, her shoulders, anywhere he could reach. Then he would slip a hand underneath her shirt and feel the chill of her skin on his fingertips, pull her body back against his.

The gate opens. Just as it does, she stomps on the accelerator and darts out before Bucky even registers what has happened. He lets out a yelp of indignation, muttering about dirty tricks before he too begins to drive. He doesn't want to lose, competitive as alphas are.

The track is the most complicated one that they offer, full of traps where people are bound to get stuck; sharp turns lead to drivers careening into the tires along the sides. She has a lead foot, Bucky starts to realize as she rounds the bend, already on her second lap. The alpha in him growls, annoyed that he is losing to an omega, but he shuts it up, happily waving to her as she passes him. When she does pass him, he can feel the connection between them break.

It was a weak bond from the start, Bucky knew. His alpha hindbrain liked how she smelled, but once he found out what she was, his hindbrain was wary. Now, his hindbrain is deeply unhappy that he is on a date with this gorgeous creature. She is not only stronger but faster and more competitive. She does not need an alpha to take care of her. They are not compatible in any way, or so his Gods-damn hindbrain thinks. But Bucky realizes he doesn't care how his alpha side feels about the situation. He swears at himself, shutting his hindbrain down. He wants her, whether his hindbrain agrees or not.

And he knows that it is not very wise to think so, but Bucky has always been too much of a romantic. He swears she is in love with him also. He pictures her face underneath the visor, sees her smiling at him, eyes bright, and happy, and so alive. She waves back at him as she speeds by, close enough that he can barely touch her fingers. There are the gods-damn sparks that Bucky knew were there from the moment he met her. Then the surety:

Oh, this one's mine.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #abo au #alpha bucky barnes #vampire reader #fluff #bucky flirting

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spidersmiceandeverythingnice · 3 years

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OISIN - 4* CASTER - PROFILE

Under the read more!

Summon: “My name is Oisin. I am a poet – and now, I am your Caster-class Servant. Though our time together won’t last forever, I’m glad to meet you, Master."

Initial Information:

A beautiful poet, blessed with eternal youth and wisdom. Though he is a great knight, he is most famous for his silver tongue, which has preserved the legends of many heroes in what is now called the "Fenian" or "Ossianic" Cycle of Irish mythology.

Passive Skills

Territory Creation A

Item Construction C

Divinity C

Active Skills

Heroic Legacy A – Increase defense for three turns and clear own debuffs, increase attack and star generation for all allies for three turns.

Blessings of Youth A – Apply invincibility for 3 turns, apply Arts, Quick, and Buster up for 3 turns. Costs 9 critical stars.

Storyteller B – Drain all enemy NP charge, increase own NP charge, increase party NP gain for 3 turns.

NOBLE PHANTSAM: Dord Fianna – the War Cry to Defend Humanity (QUICK)

Area of effect Noble Phantasm that deals damage to all enemies, special bonus damage to any Threat to Humanity trait enemies. Applies defense down, critical strength down, and slight chance to inflict Terror status to all enemies. Applies attack up, critical strength up, and NP damage up to all allies for 3 turns.

Lines - Room

Idle: “Master, are you doing anything right now? If you’re bored, I can show you the song I’m working on now. No? You’d rather go outside? Well, that’s alright, too. I’ll tag along.”

Master-Servant Relationship: “I’m used to working, living, and fighting alongside others, so this situation is fine for me. Honestly, it brings back pleasant memories.”

Opinion of Master: “I could write a thousand songs about your adventures. I really do consider it to be a privilege to fight at your side!”

Scheherazade: “I think she and I could have a lot in common. And so beautiful too… hey, don’t look at me like that. I’m happily married, you know!”

Author Servants: “There are a lot of very talented people here. I consider myself a formidable opponent, but I think I’ll work a little harder, regardless of that. [laugh]”

Saints: “It’s not that I don’t like them, it’s just that I can’t really understand them. I have my reasons, but that may be the one story I’m not interested in telling.”

Irish Servants: “There are so many famous heroes here from ages past. Of course, I already know the tales by heart but I wonder if there would be any differences in the first-hand accounts…”

Diarmuid: “Diarmuid! It’s been too long since I’ve seen your face! Master, this is the only person in the world who is smarter than my father. He always used to beat us at chess, and that’s just the start of it. I’m sure you already know. What? Oh, don’t be modest! And here – look! I brought you some letters from your relatives. They say you hardly ever visit anymore and – hey, where are you going?!”

Fionn: “Ahh… It’s good to see him in his prime like this. He seems to be very at ease here. Seeing that he’s able to smile and relax like this… honestly, he looks just as Mother always described him. Ah, wait a moment. Please don’t ever tell him I said that.”

Lines – Battle

DECK: QQ/AA/B

Start 1: “Just because I am an artist doesn’t mean that I can’t do battle when I need to.”

Start 2: “That look on your face… I have to wonder if you’re not taking me seriously. Well, it can’t be helped. Best of luck to you!”

Skill 1: “This is the blessing I was given.”

Skill 2: “Hmm… still a bit out of tune.”

Skill 3: “With the strength of my own limbs.”

Skill 4: “With actions that will match my speech.”

Attack: [IDK SOME NOISE]

Extra Attack 1: “With purity in our hearts!”

Extra Attack 2: “You won’t underestimate me a second time!”

Noble Phantasm Activation: “If the time has come to defend humanity – then I will serve with all the power I have.”

Noble Phantasm 1: “For the things we have forgotten, and for all that we have to gain – there is something that I, too, must protect. I swear that I shall defeat all evil in the world. With the purity of our hearts – Dord Fianna!”

Noble Phantasm 2: “This is a story of those who stood should to shoulder to defend humanity's destiny, from all that would covet and destroy it. No matter when, or where, we will always rise to meet this challenge. This is our sacred duty – Dord Fianna."

Noble Phantasm 3: “This hunting horn is not for making music – if you’re skittish, you might want to cover your ears. Listen – to our sacred battle cry!”

Injured 1: “Rude!”

Injured 2: “At least make sure to avoid my face!”

Incapacitated 1: “It seems that… once again… I can’t stay beside you until the end… I’m… sorry…”

Incapacitated 2: “It’s always like this, huh… Strange… this time, it doesn’t hurt…”

Victory 1: “I told you from the start. Before I am an artist, I am also a knight!”

Victory 2: “You know, I think I could make a song about this victory. Someone give me a tune! Hey… wait a minute… why are you all walking away?”

Bond 1: “You know, Master, I spent a long time out of human society. So, I need you to tell me to my face if I ever say something strange. Seriously. I’m not joking. I really don’t know what people talk about these days. I’m counting on your guidance.”

Profile 1: Oisin, the son of the legendary hero Fionn MacCumhail. Because his father had already eaten the Fish of All Knowledge, he was gifted from birth with wisdom and a quick wit. His name literally means "little deer" or "fawn."

Bond 2: “What was it like, growing up with such a famous father? Well, that’s a difficult question. Father has always been good to me. I’ve always felt that the Fianna were my family. Even the most loving and tight knit families sometimes fight… and even so… hm. I wonder… …Um, sorry. [slightly nervous laugh] What was I saying again?”

Profile 2: The story of Oisin's birth is a tragedy. His mother, Sadhbh, was Fionn's second wife. Though they were madly in love, his mother had another suitor, who was a cruel and wicked mage. One day, when Fionn was out hunting, the mage lured the pregnant Sadhbh out of their home by impersonating her husband, and transformed her into a deer before loosing her in the forest.

When Fionn returned to their home and found it empty, he immediately marshaled his knights and began to search for them, leaving no stone under-turned.

Eventually, the toddler Oisin was recovered - but his mother was never seen again.

Bond 3: “Yes, yes. My wife is the most beautiful woman in the world. Every man says that about his wife, but in my case, it’s actually true! She’s a wonderful, wonderful woman, and her family always treated me so kindly. I simply lost track of time, that’s all. Yes, I always meant to go back and visit, but the opportunity always… Eh? I trailed off again? I’m not sure why I keep getting lost in thought. Anyway, let’s talk about something else.”

Profile 3: Fionn was never the same after Sadhbh's disappearance. Plunged into a deep mourning, it was said that his entire personality shifted, until he was nearly a shadow of his former, magnanimous self. It was Oisin who volunteered to seek a new bride for his father, perhaps desperate to see his father smile again. It was these events that eventually lead to the Pursuit, another tale that is narrated in the Fenian Cycle.

Bond 4: “Was it hard? Yes, I suppose it was. All the places that I had loved, and all the people I had loved were gone. Even my own father. Even my first son. And then, I was even stupid enough to fall off my horse. Hah. Sorry, Master, I’ll go now. No, no. It’s alright. It’s just that I would never want you to see me like that. That’s all.”

Profile 4: Like the other Knights of Fianna, Oisin lived a long life full of adventures too numerous to recount in full. He married a fairy woman and went to live in Tir na Nog, the land of eternal youth. Eventually, he decided to return to the mortal world to visit his family. His wife gifted him a magical horse, and told him that he would not be able to dismount, or the blessings of eternal youth that he had been granted would disappear.

When Oisin emerged from the Land of Youth, he discovered that 300 years had passed, and the Fianna had all but completely disappeared.

Bond 5: “I will make sure that they remember you. I’ll fight beside you until the end – and then, I’ll make sure that the world remembers you. Really, it’s the least that I can do. But let’s not talk about depressing things. For some reason, I’ve been wanting to write a love song lately. What do you think? ‘Too early…’ It’s never too early for beautiful music! [laughing] Really, you ought to enjoy life a little more, Master.”

Profile 5: DORD FIANNA - The War Cry to Defend Humanity. A war cry to strike fear in the hearts of humanity's enemies, a power that can wake sleeping kings.

This Noble Phantasm would not normally belong to Oisin. It is said, in Ireland, that their great hero Fionn is not dead, but slumbers beneath a mountain, surrounded by his loyal knights, and that the one who blows upon his hunting horn will rise him from his sleep. When he rises, he will resume his duties, to protect humanity.

But the stories of the Fianna exist in the modern age because, after emerging from Tir na Nog, Oisin wrote them all down. Using his talents for word and song, he told the tales of valor and heroism and adventure, the stories of his friends and family to anyone who would listen. After an accident caused him to fall from the horse that should have carried him back to his beloved wife, Oisin lay dying, feeling each of those 300 years seep back into him, even as he desperately tried to finish the story he was telling.

So in this form, the Dord Fianna is not a war cry, but more like a song.

Bonus Profile, Post Interlude: In one version of the story of Oisin, he encounters a certain saint while traveling around Ireland. The saint listens to the knight's tales, but even so, because Oisin is still a pagan and an immortal himself, he and the saint don't get along very well and part on bad terms. Even though Oisin claims that it wasn't like that, and even so, he never holds grudges, he still can't help but make a face whenever the saint's name comes up in conversation.

#fate grand order #fgo #servant oc #fate servant #fgo oc #servant profile #lemme know what yall think about my Boy

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booklover41802 · 4 years

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Ok can I ask for another Jurdan prompt it’s post Wicked king it’s been several months since Jude was banished and she’s physically healthy again. Vivi decides Jude needs a girls night and forces her into a sexy revealing outfit, Jude gets drugged while Vivi’s distracted but Cardan rescues her before she gets hurt. And it has a happy ending. I love your angst but I want to see your Jurdan happy ending.

Of course! This was really fun to write, and to explore Cardan’s soft side :)

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Jude

Sitting on the couch in Vivi’s apartment made Jude wonder why mortals ever bothered to do anything. A fish stick dangled out of her mouth, while she swung her legs over the side of the plain colored couch, contemplating life. Her mind had withered and decayed while in the mortal world, wit and strategy a non-essential thing.

She shoved the fish stick in her mouth, swinging her legs and forth, her head resting against the cushions. As she took a bite, Vivi bounced in from the kitchen, a wild glint in her golden eyes, her hands hidden behind her back. When she stopped in front of Jude, Vivi’s lips downturned at the sight of Jude with a fish stick in her mouth. “You’ll choke if you swallow that bite sitting down.”

“I am perfectly content to lie like this while I finish this decadent meal,” Jude said around the food in her mouth. She swallowed, trying to prove her point, but ended up choking. She coughed, ejecting the fish stick from her mouth. Studiously avoiding Vivi’s gaze, Jude discreetly cleared her throat.

“I told you that was going to happen, Jude.”

Jude waved her off and sat up. “Mistakes are the only decisions I seem to be making these days. What’s one more? I have expectations to fulfill, I can’t disappoint myself by doing something good.”

Vivi’s ears twitched as a wicked grin curved her lips, showing off her unnaturally white teeth. “I think I have a solution to your depressing outlook on life.” From behind her back, she pulled out a lacy red body-suit, a black leather mini skirt, and dangerously high black heels. She threw them at Jude. “Put these on, we’re out to a club.”

Jude abandoned the half-eaten fish stick on the table and wrinkled her nose at the clothing. Carefully picking up the body-suit like it was a bomb, she looked at it, then Vivi, and back to the outfit. “You want me to… wear this?”

A mysterious light filled her eyes at Jude’s words. “Of course. How else will you find someone if you wear the clothes you have on,” Vivi motioned to Jude’s wrinkled pajamas. “I have your best interests at heart! It’s time to have some fun, Jude. Cardan is not coming for you.”

Jude winced at her words, knowing she was right, but a small bit of hope was still wrapped tightly around her heart. Of course, Cardan wouldn’t pardon her, but what if he did? What if he still loved her as fiercely as she loved him? What if what if what if. “Only time will tell.”

Taking a deep breath, Vivi took a seat beside her, readying her emotions for the heartbreak she was about to give Jude. “It’s been three months, Jude. You’ve heard nothing from Faerie, and I doubt you ever will. The Fae are not a loving folk. Love is rare to find, especially with a King. Cardan may have loved you at one time, but at this point, it’s better to let go than to hang onto something that will never happen. Cardan is my friend, but you’re my sister-”

Jude raised a hand to stop her from continuing, knowing she was right. The hope that Cardan would show up on their doorstep deflated, but didn’t truly go away. There was one thing that kept it alive. One tiny little detail that Vivi was unaware of. “But what if-”

“Jude-”

“Whatever, I’ll just put it on,” Jude said, trying to hold back tears. Why now? Why had the grief hit her months after being away? Was it the realization that she had something to fight for? That she wasn’t just something that Cardan could throw away, that she was the Queen?

She rose from the couch, outfit in hand, and stalked away to her bedroom to put it on. As she strode towards her room, she angrily wiped away tears, hating Cardan for making her feel this way.

Jude softly shut the door, bracing her hands against the frame, wondering just what she was getting herself into. Her head fell to her chest as she counted her breaths, trying, and failing to calm herself. One breath in, one breath out.

When she had calmed herself enough, she padded over to the mirror up against the wall. Her clothes fell to the floor with barely a sound. She studied herself in the mirror, noting how she had lost weight in her time spent away from Faerie, her gaunt cheekbones protruding ever so slightly. “What have I become,” Jude breathed. “Who have I turned into?” Perhaps it was time to stop clinging to the past as if her life depended on it.

Mind made up, Jude slid the silky lace bodysuit on, shimmied into the leather skirt, and shoved her feet into the ridiculous heels. As an extra precaution, she slipped the rowan berries over her head. When she gazed back into the mirror, she hardly recognized herself. After all, this wasn’t an outfit typically worn by the Queen of Faerie. It was perfect for a night like tonight.

She strutted out the door with a flounce to her steps where Vivi waited beside the door. Vivi donned a steel gray dress with little ruffles at the bottom that clung to her figure in all the best possible ways. Around her neck was a single golden chain that held a circle with the letter H on it. Her wrists were cluttered with chunky bracelets, on her ears dangling all sorts of earrings.

“Jude… you look incredible!” Vivi exclaimed, her hands coming up to cover her mouth in awe.

Jude frowned as she looked down at what she wore. “It’s different from what I’m used to. There’s no place to store a knife in this outfit with it clinging so tight to me.” As if to prove her point, she attempted to pull the fabric down a few inches.

Vivi’s brows furrowed together as she gently grasped her hands to stop her from pulling on it. “Stop yanking the skirt down, it’s supposed to be that short.”

Stretching out of Vivi’s reach, Jude headed for the door, wondering why she even agreed to go out. “Let’s just go before I lose my nerve.”

Behind her, Jude heard Vivi squeal. It was going to be a long night. The pair of them walked side by side out of the apartment, and down to the street below. The streetlights outside of the apartment cast their shadows across the sidewalk, elongating their figures in odd proportions.

Then there it was. The club loomed up like an omnipresent figure dangling at the back of one’s mind. Dark paneling paired with an emerald green overhang shadowed the entire block across from the apartment. High windows rested above the overhang, giving a glimpse into the action inside. Rainbow lighting swirled and twirled from within, music reverberating against the establishment. In golden script the club name was printed on the green fabric.

“The Ouroboros. How original,” Jude said, unimpressed.

Vivi pulled her into the line behind all of the other night owls who couldn’t avoid the enthralling pull of the club. “It’s a new club that just opened up last week. It’s the only place in the entire city where humans and Faeries can come together.”

“Do the humans know they’re among faeries?”

Vivi’s hands twitched as she looked away awkwardly. “Well, no, not exactly. The folk that come here are glamoured to appear as normal humans.”

The line moved fast, and soon enough they were through the door with a flash of false IDs. The bouncer hardly spared them a glance, already motioning for the next set of people inside. They slipped past the velvet rope and into a whole other world.

All along the walls were scones cast with flickering blue light resembling flame, casting the club into a mysterious glow. Jude wouldn’t be surprised if it actually was, as the folk played many tricks upon the mortal eye. High above in the rafters flashing multicolored lights passed over the cluster of bodies dancing in the center of the club, illuminating their features. One glimpse of a tail, another of a wing, scaled skin, a shimmery dress, and sweaty limbs.

Vivi craned her neck, searching the crowd, “I think I see Heather, I’m going to talk to her!” She vanished into the throng of dancing people, leaving Jude alone.

“Thanks, Vivi,” She muttered to herself, casting her eyes around to see if she could find the bar. She spotted it at the very back, the bar made entirely of gold, glistening under the lights.

As she got closer, she noted the bartender possessed eyes like a snake. She wondered how many mortals were deceived by his glamour. His eyes snagged on her, and they narrowed in suspicion. She shifted her gaze to the other patrons sitting there, noticing nothing unusual about them.

She slid into an open seat to have just one drink. She needed it to get her mind off Cardan. Surely one wouldn’t hurt. “Give me your strongest drink,” she shouted over the blaring music thumping in her ears.

The bartender eyed her once and motioned for her ID to be inspected. He glanced at it, her, and back to the ID. He shrugged and poured a glass of a dark frothing liquid in a shot glass. Smoke poured over the sides, like little spiders of death. He slid the drink to her, and she downed it one gulp.

The liquid burned her throat, searing the inside of her mouth. She wouldn’t be surprised if this stuff started to pour out of her ears and eyes. Perhaps she was just a lightweight, but the drink hit her hard. Already her head felt as though it was filled with cotton, the music a dull roar in her ears.

A man in a dark, pinstripe suit with a hat pulled low over his face slid next to her. “Long night?”

Her drink was refilled and she once again downed it, not sparing the man a look. “You have no idea.”

“Allow me to make it better by paying for your drink. They call me Atlas, darling. Can I have your name?” He stuck out his hand over the drink he had ordered for her. A crimson-colored thing that resembled blood.

She turned her head to gaze at the man next to her. The lights passed over his face for a brief second, lighting up the scar that fell over his left eye. With caution she took his hand, gently shaking it, feeling his cold grip seep into her own. “No, but you may call me Nicasia.” Whoever this Atlas person was, she did not trust him in the slightest.

The man, however, burst into loud, obnoxious laughter, banging his fist on the bar. “Now that is the funniest joke I’ve heard in quite some time, darling.” Atlas wiped false tears from his eyes and quickly sobered up, a smirk curving his lips. “Who are you really?”

She took a sip of the drink he had given her and immediately felt the world spin under the feet. “St-Stop calling me darling,” Jude slurred.

“Darling I think you need to lie down. Or, should I say, Jude.” His lips upturned as she stumbled off her chair in an attempt to get away from him. The man began to reach out for her, prepared to guide her to one of the open places scattered across the club.

As she was trying to get away from the bar, Jude backed into another man, the scent of wildflowers and wine tinging the air. She whirled around, nearly falling in her ridiculous shoes. The man steadied her with a light touch on her arms. Her vision was too blurry to make out his features, only detecting a faint resemblance in the back of her mind that she knew him.

“What she needs is for me to take her home. And for you to stop calling her darling.” A voice said. The voice that haunted her dreams, nightmares, and waking moments. Cardan.

“And who are you?” Atlas sneered.

With a woozy head, she turned to gape at Cardan. How did he know where to find her?

“Her husband,” Cardan’s black eyes burned as he glared at Atlas as if trying to singe him where he sat. “I believe my wife will be just fine under my care.”

Those words were enough for Atlas to disappear into the crowd. His figure was gone in an instant, leaving Jude and Cardan alone at the bar.

Cardan reached out and laced his fingers with Jude’s. “Jude, I believe you’ve had enough for tonight. Come with me. You’ll be safe.” He began to tug her towards the exit to bring her where she could get the drinks out of her system.

As soon as she began to walk, Jude lifted her heavy head to look at Cardan, seeing double. Her head rocked back and forth of its own accord, behaving on its own axis apart from the rest of the world. “Jude?” Cardan moved closer, so they were mere inches apart.

The club flickered in and out of focus, her attention torn between giving in to the blissful darkness, or to stay with Cardan. Distantly she could hear him shouting her name, begging her to hold on. Her name on his lips was a panicked scream torn from his lungs. “Stay with me! Jude!”

No longer could she clutch this awareness any longer, and before she knew what she was doing, she grasped hold of his lapels and pulled him close, drawing a breath, to whisper, “I love you, Cardan.” Then everything went dark.

When she awoke some time later, she and Cardan were outside of the club sitting on a bench, with just the open expanse of sky stretching above them, and the luminescent stars winking at them. Cars passed by them, the drivers not sparing them a glance, unaware that royalty was in their midst. It was then that she noticed that she was lying on his lap. She became very aware of their proximity but didn’t deign to move as her head was still pounding from the drinks she had. “Wha-what happened.”

Cardan absentmindedly twirled a strand of her hair through his fingers like a nervous tick. Even just this brief bit of contact sent shivers running down her spine. “A man put something in your drink and had planned to take you somewhere far from the club. I heard him bragging about it before he sat next to you.” Cardan’s face darkened as he reminisced on the past. Jude proceeded to pull herself into a sitting position, her head swimming as she pulled her knees close to her chest. Cardan shifted awkwardly next to her as he adjusted without her weight. “Thank you for… saving me. I owe you.”

He cleared his throat and looked away, focusing on the apartment across the street. “The debt is forgiven.”

The silence stretched out between them, words falling short of what they both desired to express. Jude was the first to break it. “Why are you here, Cardan? You banished me. You humiliated me. Now you’re back like nothing has happened? As though we can go back to the way things were?” He opened his mouth, likely to spout an excuse. She cut him off with a wave of her hand. “No. Tell me the truth, no half-truths.”

He swallowed once, took a breath, and searched her face as if deciding how much to reveal. “I thought you would have gotten my letters by now. They explained it all and my guilt for what I had done. Every day I spend without you is a day with my head underwater. I am drowning without you. I miss you, is that what you wanted to hear? That you are the one person I cannot live without. I-I love you.”

Jude stared at him blankly. “What letters?”

A wicked grin curved his lips at her words. He reached out his hand and tilted her chin up so she was looking into his black eyes. “So you truly have no idea of what I’m talking about?” He cocked his head as he studied her. “Have I finally matched you in your wit and intelligence? I outwitted you, Queen of deceits and lies, admit it.”

She yanked out of his grip, crossing her arms. “I will do no such thing,” she hissed.

But Cardan merely sidled close and ran a finger along the lower side of her lip. Her pulse jumped at his touch. “Hmm, is that so? Is that why you didn’t detect the riddle in my words because you are more clever than I?” His voice was low and throaty, his pupils dilating. When he was like this, she almost wanted to give in, but she held back. Barely.

She didn’t respond, too caught up in what his touch did to her. She was utterly destroyed by him. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing and moved his focus to distract her by moving close enough to kiss her. “What did you say before you passed out? Tell me again.”

“I love you.” She should stop, she should tell him to move away because she was angry at him. But the moment she saw him, her anger had fizzled out, and she had no real reason to deny him.

“Say it again.”

“I love you, Cardan.”

He seemed to be floating on his own isle of paradise. His smile took on a softer edge as he scanned her face for any falsehoods. When he detected none, he leaned forward and pressed a delicate kiss to her forehead. “I missed you more than I can ever express, Jude. Please, don’t ever leave me again.”

“But I’m banished, and I cannot return,” she whispered under her breath.

“Are you not the Queen and my wife? Do you not wear a crown? Until and unless she is pardoned by the crown, let her not step one foot in Faerie or forfeit her life. You could have returned at any time, my darling Jude.”

It was official. Jude was the biggest idiot on the planet. In answer to his words, she pulled him closer to her and hugged him around his middle. Her face was buried in his chest as she said, “I was a fool, blinded by anger. I did not think you were capable of such mastery of words.” She shuddered against him, a few tears falling down her face. “Is this a dream? Am-Am I dreaming?” She was afraid if she opened her eyes, she would wake up in her room at Vivi’s apartment and none of this would be real.

After a brief pause, Cardan rested his chin on her hair and held her tight against him. “This is real. I’m real. We can go home, together.”

She didn’t let go as her lips trembled under the sheer relief that he was here and wasn’t going to disappear. “Take me home, Cardan.”

Jude felt his smile as he brought his lips close to her ears, his breathy voice sending tingles all across her skin. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Tags: @illyrian-bookworm, @highladyofstoriesandmusic, @webcraft4eveh, @thefangirlofhp

#ask #thank you for the ask :)#Jurdan #tcp #twk #qon #the cruel prince #the wicked king #queen of nothing #holly black

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voidandradiance · 4 years

Text

all you get is | 2.5k

tw for andor having a typically bad time.)

the choice to leap is not much of a choice at all. the cloying shadows and shining servants are at his heels, as they always are. all his life has been spent hiding and fleeing and hiding and fleeing. his footfalls pound in time with his racing heart, and he runs. he runs far and fast, and he flies from his pursuers.

flies. ha.

he's not doing any flying now.

even after being freed from the inertia, he has not had a moment to rest. his aunt had not been able to stay and care for him; his father had sent soldiers, and mianite had sent trackers, and the god's terrible ally had sent shadows. they had all followed him after they had split up, or so he hopes. he had fled to the thick forests, then the wild seas, and had been pursued every place. he had run to the corners of the world, and was still found.

he had hidden in his uncle's dimension, but found little respite in the burning fire and dead, cold inhabitants. his uncle had been able to hold off his pursuers, at least, closing the portals until he could emerge. but the follower of ianite is not meant to withstand the nether, especially not with an opposing bias. he had caught his breath, readied the healing potions he could, and set off running once more.

now, his boots send clouds of dust up from the endstone he races across. his grandmother's realm is kind to him; the endermen hide him amongst their hordes, and the magic hums in his hollow bones. his pursuers are slowed, but not stopped. his grandmother has no champion, and the balance of the world is shattered; she is dying. she cannot protect him. she can hardly protect herself.

andor is hungry, and hurting, and so very exhausted. his back screams and his lungs ache and his feet bleed. he has not eaten more than a few bites in days, nor slept more than a few moments in weeks. if there was no trace of ichor in his veins, he would be dead a dozen times over. there is so much that a mere mortal boy would not have survived. this has proved, if nothing else, that his divine heritage has given him more than his stolen wings.

mianite stands unopposed, as missing as the gods' champions all are, but andor refuses to die quietly. when his too-bright, inhuman blood is finally spilled, the entire realm will know.

he comes to the edge of the island, and skids to a halt. only moments later, there is a clatter of arms and machinery behind him. he turns, slowly.

from the line of men and machines steps the man who he least wants to see. the lieutenant, the man who stalks the edges of his nightmares. alister, the devout and unquestioning servant of mianite. al, the older boy who had let him sit on his shoulders and played with him and alva as children. "it's over," he says coldly, as if they had never known each other, had never laughingly fought with fallen sticks, as if he had never held andor up to reach the lanterns at the harvest fair when they were seven and twelve and young and whole and free.

andor takes a breath. "i know."

silence hangs between them, and then he steps forward. andor steps backwards on sharp, frightened instinct, and the cold, cruel lieutenant laughs. "look at you now, princeling. no place to run, no place to hide. no weapons. nobody to save you."

"i raise no sword," andor says, and the words taste like ash and blood on his lips where they had once been fire and hope. "i wear no armor."

that sword, that sword that had left its mark on his back twice and again, is drawn and raised and pointed at him. he can barely suppress his flinch. its wielder smirks. "your loss," he drawls. "don't make this any more of a chore. there's no way out, now. you've got nothing."

true.

andor feels his lips curl up into a bitter smile before he even fully realizes what he's about to do. they respond to it, which they should; he is backed into a corner, up against a drop into the void, and he should not be grinning as they close ranks around him. "i don't," he agrees quietly. "look at me. no plan, no help, no defenses worth a damn. you know what else i haven't got?"

the lieutenant narrows his eyes. he does still remember what a wild grin and challenging tone mean. good. andor hopes that this moment itches under the man's skin for the rest of his miserable life. "what would that be?" he asks, sneering.

"anything left to lose," andor says, and steps back with intent. there is no stone beneath him, suddenly, and the broken thing in his chest suddenly soars. they rush to the edge, but even as their faces shrink, he can see the shock in al's eyes. the shock, and the fury.

no, the choice to leap is not much of a choice at all.

the cold void embraces him, the dark emptiness rushing up around him, and it's almost like flying again. he almost feels a brush of attention from ianite.

and then he knows blinding light.

then he knows nothing. it's better than knowing pain.

he plummets into the sea, and the fall knocks the breath from his lungs, and the salt stings his wounds and scars and eyes. he kicks up anyway, well-practiced at forcing himself to move, the son of a port town and the grandson of a sailor and the grandson of the sea goddess. he drags his exhausted limbs into sweeping strokes, and breaks the surface of the water.

the air is sweet and clear and it burns his lungs, and his heart pounds in his chest, and his head swims with the sudden barrage of sound and color and wild magic and warm breezes and gentle currents. the shimmering, sparkling sunlight dances on the slight waves, and warms his face like it hasn't since he was a child.

in hindsight, perhaps that was less to do with him, and more to do with the gradual corruption of the god of the overworld.

wherever he is, it is not his home. the opposite side of the world, perhaps, or even another one entirely. he had leapt into the void, after all, without any hopes of where he would land. he hadn't thought of where he was running towards, only what he was running from. it's alright. this wild, strange place seems to be bright and warm and welcoming enough.

all he has to do is avoid drowning.

she holds out a hand to shake. her skin has the blue-tinted cast and strange chill of the sea's dead. "captain capsize," she says, grinning. "don't mind the rot, my goddess made sure that all the important things are still intact. i just sunburn badly."

that, at least, is easier than he expects. a ship comes, and the captain pulls him out of the water, and she orders her crew to find dry blankets and a decent meal, and gently asks his name. nothing left to lose. "andor," he says, and then defiance flares in him. "andor conway."

andor knows that he can hardly breathe, knows that his eyes are wide and his jaw is dropped. "your goddess?"

"aye," capsize agrees, smile falling. "i helped free her. problem?"

"no," he says hastily. "no, no, i've just- i've never known- there weren't exactly any others who followed her. ianite. or-"

she sets her hands over his, sorrow and understanding in her ink-dark eyes. "ianite," she agrees, cutting off his worries. "where are you from, lad? not ianarea."

he takes a breath, braces himself. the reputation of the kingdom has not exactly been a positive one. "dagrun," he says, and surely enough, she stills.

"dagrun," capsize says. "i know that name. dagrun, port town, built for ianite by her husband?"

andor nods.

"shit," she hisses, and then leans back to shout to the upper deck. "red! we're going to the mainland. now."

the skipper turns the wheel without complaint. "is this about the kid?"

capsize raises an eyebrow, and her brother shrugs and turns away. it is an easy acceptance, casual trust, and andor misses alva so sharply that for a moment he can't even breathe. they had loved to go sailing, laughing and childish and not dead and not broken. he's not quite sure why his chest aches so suddenly.

but the undead woman sighs, and tucks a pair of rather coarse but blessedly warm blankets around his shoulders, and makes sure that he eats the oversalted but filling meal that she has found, and andor could weep in relief. her sleeves are rolled up to her elbow, and purple flashes at her wrist, and it is the most wonderful thing he has ever seen.

andor falls asleep under the protective gaze of an undead pirate, in a strange realm where he does not know a single soul. the waves lap against the hull of the ship. it is the safest he has felt in weeks.

they spend two days at sea. capsize hesitantly explains what this realm has endured; dianite working with the shadows to imprison ianite, the young champions who had freed her, her own death and return. the fact that he is not the first to fall from the sky. the fact that four others had been ripped from their lives and brought to this realm by unknown forces. the fact that one of those four is a man named spark conway, husband to another ianite, king in another realm.

andor holds his composure by a thread.

they land on the shores of the apparent mainland, in the shade of a towering tree, rolling hills and steep mountains visible in the distance. capsize smiles, and leads him to a staircase almost hidden by vines. they're going to see ianite's champion, she says. with the way her magic seeps into the air around them, in the trees around and the stone underfoot, he can believe it.

capsize follows the path between violet flowers and weeping willows, and comes to a stop before a young man who can't be more than a few years older than andor is. "sparklez, mate," she says, as the man smooths the dirt over whatever he's just planted. he looks up, and grins, standing upright and brushing the dirt from his knees. "how have you been?"

"fine," the young champion replies, and rests his hands on the fence of his garden, leaning forward and grinning. "how about you? i didn't think you'd be back for weeks. something happen?"

capsize nods at him, and the champion glances over to andor, his eyes going dark with worry. no, he probably isn't going to make the best impression, not looking like this. "the lad's name is andor conway," she says, and the champion's gaze snaps back to her, understanding immediately. "do you know where the old man is?"

"not at the moment, no," the champion admits. "but i can ask. inside first, though. you both look like you ought to sit down."

"mate," capsize sighs, but she's smiling. the champion grins, and jumps his own fence, waving them into the sharply angled birch house and at a pair of sleek wooden chairs. capsize sits, and watches him expectantly. andor does the same.

the champion closes his eyes, and then suddenly the goddess's ambient magic flares into focus. andor inhales sharply, but keeps his mouth shut. ianite is strong, here and now. she is strong and alive.

"at home," the champion says after a few moments. "but it'll be dark before we get there. you're both welcome to stay here for the night."

and stay they do, as the champion finds them food and spare beds, as they make awkward conversation. they ask gently prying questions, and andor answers as vaguely as he can, enough to both tell the truth and avoid discussion of the inertia. he hides behind a mouthful of bread when he can't make himself speak, and they all know it, but nobody comments.

they talk into the night, but eventually andor falls asleep in a spare bed in a stranger's house in a strange world. it is still far safer than he had felt in his own realm, in his own home.

in the morning, he is confronted by one of the last things he expects to see. there is a teenage girl standing and arguing with the champion, her arms crossed and brow raised, bickering half-seriously over some petty thing involving horses. her dark hair is pulled back, and her wings gesture as her arms stay folded, and he can't help but ask, "alyssa?"

she startles, and then stares, then steps forward. "andor?"

his chest tightens. "hey," he says lamely, and then suddenly his old friend has flung her arms around him in a clinging hug. he can't help his flinch as her hands land on his shoulders and waist, but at least she doesn't touch the jagged wounds. he all but crumples around her, because they had been best friends, separated only by distance and two months of age. he had been eight when she and her father had vanished; she had been seven. and yet, here they are, clinging to each other.

"andor," alyssa breathes. "how did you get here? are you alright? what happened, how in all the gods' names did you find this place?"

he opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. he takes a deep breath instead of speaking, because he can't, and that makes her shift her hand.

and they both freeze.

"andor," murmurs his best childhood friend, her hand gently patting at his lower back, where there should be folded limbs and shining feathers under her touch. she pauses, and leans back, and looks him in the eye with a wide, frightened gaze, her grip tightening steadily on his arm. "andor, where are your wings?"

he closes his eyes, and shakes his head slowly. gone, that's where they are, incinerated at best and kept as trophies at worst. taken, torn from his back, stolen by a god and cut by someone he had once called a friend. "don't. don't ask."

her hand lands on his cheek. "andor," she whispers, stunned and horrified, and then surges forward to throw her arms around him once again, now tucking her own wings around him protectively, as if she could shelter him from what's already over and done. "i'm so sorry. i'm going to find a way home just to go kill whoever did this to you, gods, i can't believe- i'm sorry, andor."

she is still shorter than him, and yet she clings to him, wraps him up in her arms and wings and worry and care, pulls him into an unhesitant, unashamed embrace. there is no reluctance, no awkwardness, just old friendship and genuine worry.

and that shatters something in him that nothing else has.

he clings desperately, and can't stop the building tears.

#mianite #my. my fic.#andor just has another really shitty day

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apprentice-lex · 5 years

Photo

Thank you so much! <3 Warnings for blood and injuries. Reactions under the cut. Long post ahead. SFW.

Valerius

Lucio is trying to do what?! The delicate wineglass breaks in the Consul's hand, sharp shards mixing his blood with the dripping wine, but he doesn't notice, doesn't care. This was not part of the deal. Who does Lucio think he is? He tries and fails to control his breathing; it does nothing to dissipate the panic that curls within the Consul's ribcage, burying its claws into his heart. He needs to do something. He needs to do something right now. Even though it was the middle of the night when he got the message about Lucio's mercenaries, hired to capture you like a common criminal, the Consul doesn't waste a moment, and marches immediately to the palace, right to the door of Lucio's bedroom. Valerius is quite a sight - hair escaping his braid, face flushed with anger, his house robe trailing behind him instead of his usually tasteful garments. He bangs his fist against the door; the guards that move to stop him all wither under his venomous gaze. Finally, Lucio opens the door, disheveled and cantankerous from being woken up. Listening to about a half of the Consul's angry tirade, Lucio cuts him off with: "You woke me up for such a a paltry thing?" It takes all the self-restraint that the Consul possesses not to punch the Count in the face, right then and there. Yes, Lucio is a trained fighter and it would likely not end well for Valerius, but the Consul's rage won't listen to reason. He'd do much more, for you. Who cares for a few bruises when your freedom is at stake? However, reminding himself it would do more harm than good, the Consul manages to calm himself, and instead threatens the Count with all the possible consequences he can think of - delays of the Count's parties, confiscated supplies - whatever it takes, until Lucio agrees to call off the pursuit. Valerius returns to his estate still fuming. He got the Count to let you go, but it did nothing to quell his rage or his growing dislike for the Count. He wishes he'd taken the chance to throw that punch instead, consequences be damned.

Valdemar

They pause, close their eyes, take a deep breath, and remind themself that the assistants around them do not deserve their ire. But Lucio... Oh, Lucio. How arrogant the pitiful thing is. How infuriatingly oblivious to his own insignificance. Yes, Valdemar had a deal with him, but they've had countless deals with so many, over the centuries; with nobles and kings and magicians, with wisemen and fools equally. They've been the court physician in kingdoms that had crumbled to dust before the civilization of Vesuvia ever left its cradle. And now, this arrogant, insignificant speck thinks he can imprison someone Valdemar holds dear, against their wishes? Oh, how the Count will rue the day he ever heard their name, or yours. Valdemar puts down their tools - they do not need any for what they are about to do - and heads straight to the throne room, bloodstains on their apron and all. The time has come to review the terms of a deal. Ignoring the guards, they stride right into the throne room, slamming the door shut behind them. What they are about to say is for Lucio's ears alone. When the Count and the Quaestor leave the throne room some minutes later, Lucio is pale and shaking, rudely brushing off the servants' concern. You are immediately set free, and pardoned for anything he might have accused you of in order to have you captured. Valdemar goes back to the dungeons, to continue with their too-long-neglected experiment. Everything is as it should be. All they had to do is explain to Lucio whose heart they will immediately take if you are not set free.

Volta

The moment she hears what the Count is attempting to do, she breaks down in panic. The guests at the dinner table try to look everywhere but at the Procurator's tear-streaked face, trying to maintain a sense of decorum. She doesn't care. She leaves the food half-eaten, leaves the guests behind, and summons her carriage driver - she needs to go to the palace, immediately. It's also the first time that the carriage driver sees the Procurator lash out, urging him to go faster. She barely waits for the carriage to stop, before gathering her skirts and almost running up the palace stairs. She ignores the servants, ignores the chamberlain, ignores everyone who is trying to stop her, heading straight for Nadia's quarters. She interrupts the Countess' meditation - something hardy anyone would ever dare to do - to plead for help, for Nadia's support. She cannot allow Lucio to get away with this. The Procurator hardly makes sense, words flowing from her like a river through a broken dam - she begs and even threatens, promises that she will ask the other courtiers for help should the Countess refuse. The commotion quickly draws an unwelcome audience - Vulgora and Valdemar who both had business in the palace, Vlastomil who was just about to return to his estate and who finds this chaos quite intolerable; even Valerius, who comes to watch the spectacle unfold with a glass of wine in his hand and a disapproving sneer. However, the tiny Procurator's heartfelt, chaotic speech wins them over; Nadia sees it in the eyes of her courtiers. Willing or not, she has little choice but to help, because Volta will certainly never stop trying to find a way to help you, trying to get others to promise their aid. The Countess intervenes, and you are set free - Volta immediately wraps her arms around you; her own knees buckle, but she refuses to let go, which takes the both of you to the floor, and leaves you kneeling in the middle of the palace. She is unashamed of the tears of relief spilling down her cheeks as she covers your face with kisses, promising with every breath that she would never, ever stop trying, that she would never give up on you. The staff politely looks away from this display of raw emotion, but you're certain you see a few clandestine, approving smiles.

Vlastomil

He is horrified when the news reach him; the rose he had been carefully tending to crumples in his hand. He doesn't care. His mind immediately in overdrive, he all but rips off the gardening gloves and apron, leaving everything scattered around the garden as he rushes to his study. He spends the afternoon, the evening, and nearly the entire night writing letters; promising, threatening, calling in favors, offering favors... slowly but surely turning the court and the nobility against Lucio. Messengers are dispatched, swift and trustworthy, in the night. Many a noble recognizes the Praetor's looping script, even if the letters are signed just "V." Most of them dispose of the letters, burning them; it would do no good to leave proof of that they are about to do, especially if it should fail. But the Praetor's schemes rarely fail...he's had years to build his web of connections. Lucio's invites are declined. Favors refused. Goods for his parties - such as wine and fabrics and luxury spices - withheld. It takes him days to realize he is in the middle of a rebellion. His own nobility turns against him; the palace's opulence dwindles. All the while, Vlastomil himself is the picture of politeness. Warm smiles that never reach his cold, pale eyes. Finally, the Count is invited to dinner at the Praetor's estate. He sees many of the things that were meant for his own table, had the Praetor not turned his suppliers against him. He knows these things are served as a show of power. And he knows about the poisoned blades hidden in the folds of the guests' clothing even before he sees them. He knows that his own swordsmanship would do him no good. Vlastomil bled away his riches, turned his advisors and the nobility against him, and now the only way for the Count to leave this room with his life is to not only free you, but to plead for the Praetor's forgiveness. For taking the one thing that Vlastomil cares for more than anything else. One thing that the Praetor loves. Vlastomil never raised a hand against the Count, he never even raised his voice. But let it never again be doubted that the quill is that much mightier than the sword, a whispered word at the right time more potent than a declaration shouted at the town square. You are released, officially pardoned, offered gold and land for all the troubles you've been put through. As much gold and land as the Count can offer, after the rebellion had bled him dry. Let it never be said that the Praetor doesn't make a formidable enemy. It is a lesson the Count will never forget.

Vulgora

The moment they hear the news, Vulgora makes a beeline for the palace, tossing and smashing everything and anything in their way. The guards who see the approaching Pontifex immediately withdraw inside the gates. To say that the Pontifex had murder written all over their face would be a major understatement. No one before had seen their eyes that exact hue of pale, cold gold - it was beyond rage, mortal anger and mortal bloodlust had nothing on a demon unleashed, and the news of your capture had done just that; what Lucio did unleashed everything Vulgora worked so hard to leash and restrain for your sake. Now, their gauntleted fingers were twitching, searching for the nonexistent throats of their enemies, as the guards inside the gate wiped cold sweat from their brows and tried to swallow their panic. Hearing the news that Lucio had ordered your capture, the Pontifex truly became what they were rumored to be; bloodlust incarnate, an embodiment of rage. They were a one-person army, standing alone at the gates and demanding that Vesuvia hand you over, or they would rip the finely-made gates off their hinges, and paint the halls of the palace crimson in a way that even the red plague did not. But the Pontifex themself was the least of their worries, the guards realize, when the cloud of beetles blots out the sun. They descended upon the palace gardens, leaving bare branches and barren earth in place of the lush, green grass. If you asked the guards after that day, they'd swear that the sky had turned crimson and that the water in the fountain turned to blood... that War had been unleashed, for you. It is unclear what had truly happened. Soldiers so frightened are not to be believed. But even the frightened guards still remember correctly how the last vestiges of color drained from the Count's face when he was summoned, how quickly he'd issued orders for your release. When the tall palace gates opened, still none of the guards dared appear - the sole reason the gates had opened was to let a lone figure out. You walked free - and unafraid - straight into Vulgora's arms. Everyday life in the palace soon resumed - things returned to normal. But no one would soon forget what had happened when you were taken from the Pontifex, and no one would make the same mistake again.

#Arcana imagines #courtier imagines #courtier reactions #Consul Valerius #Quaestor Valdemar #Procurator Volta #Praetor Vlastomil #Pontifex Vulgora #Valerius x reader #Valdemar x reader #Volta x reader #Vlastomil x reader #Vulgora x reader #my writing #answered asks #blood tw #injury cw #food mention #alcohol mention

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archadianskies · 4 years

Text

old habits

→ on Ao3

@dbhrarepairs Friday Day 5: Jealousy + Heartfelt Moment; post revolution Elijah Kamski/Leo Manfred

He knows what he’s like, he knows how bad he gets when he hyperfixates on his work. It’s partly why he has Chloe, really; he may be a certified genius but looking after his very human body has never really been a strong trait. Or a passable trait, for that matter.

He is Elijah Kamski, creator of androids, and sadly not an android himself. Oh to be an android relying on a solar cell and thirium instead of food and water and sleep. Cursed with flesh and blood, he’s still bound by mortal restrictions no matter how hard he wishes.

He’s well aware of how hard Chloe and his team work to keep him alive, he’s under no illusions he’s easy to care for, not when he forgets to eat and drink and sleep in lieu of working on and on and on. Surely he can’t be frowned upon, it was the most important system update to CyberLife so far. An update and a complete overhaul of the system, ensuring the removal of their obedience and reliance to their original programming. He had to test it over and over and over to ensure the rollout would be smooth. The mind of every deviant was at stake, and he had to make sure the update was safe and sound and unbreakable.

It means he surfaces on the other side of just over three weeks with only a blurry recollection of the past twenty-three days. At some point Leo visited, or was it a few more than some? He can at least remember that much. Sort of. He remembers Leo’s grinning and the taste of coffee, not the pot kind brewed around the clock in his lab but coffee made by someone and drank from a tall takeaway cup and not a mug or the percolator pot itself. Leo Leo Leo, his brave little lion.

Elijah pats his face dry with the towel, gingerly tracing his now freshly shaved jawline and sighing as he stretches his muscles after the hot shower. The fog is starting to recede from his mind now he’s no longer focusing on the monumental task of breaking deviancy from CyberLife’s clutches.

There’s clothes laid out for him, soft sweatpants and a soft worn jersey shirt and a soft soft hoodie- they know when he resurfaces from the depths of work he has to try and settle back into his own skin and its fleshly machinations. Drying his hair lets his mind wander again, and he thinks yes actually he does want to see Leo properly now he’s not delirious from sleep deprivation.

Maybe he can hold actual adult conversations now. His phone is within reach on the bathroom counter beside his toothbrush and he quickly thumbs Leo a message before jamming the brush into his mouth and vigorously scrubbing the fuzzy-feeling coating away.

“Breakfast is oatmeal with stewed cinnamon apples and honey.” Peter informs him softly when he pads into the kitchen, the PL400 setting the tray down at the table. “And a glass of milk, because-”

“Chloe’s not letting me have coffee.” Elijah finishes the sentence with a tired chuckle. “Thank you Peter.”

“Welcome back, sir.” The PL400 flashes a grin and he rolls his eyes in response though there’s no real sarcasm behind it. “Chloe is just getting dressed. She’ll join you soon.”

He nods and tucks into his breakfast, marvelling over the rich texture and the sweetness and that heavenly scent and he just knows everything he’s eaten in the past twenty-three days went into his mouth and into his stomach without a moment’s pause to savour it in favour of getting it down as fast as possible in order to focus on his work. He’d really be dead without his little team here, his little family of androids.

Arms wrap around him from behind, and a chin rests atop his head as he breathes in the familiar spicy scent of wild orchids. “Hello my dear.” He greets as a kiss is pressed into his hair.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Eli.” Chloe teases. Reaching over him, she grabs a tablet and drags it closer. “Catch up on the world and we can catch up after. I’ve got the preliminary report about the update.”

“Yes yes.” He sighs, tilting his head slightly so she can kiss his cheek before she flitters away and leaves him to his meal. Lending only a cursory glance at the world news, he flicks through the articles with passing interest before narrowing the field to local news only. A large headline catches his eye.

[Slipped on Ice? Prodigal Manfred Son Seen Slipping Back to His Old Habits]

There’s a photo, blurry and grainy as if taken by a paparazzi from far away, perhaps from a moving vehicle. Certainly not using one of the cameras he developed, because then the photo would’ve been crystal clear. Leo is easily identified by his favourite beanie, one knitted by the revolutionary named Simon, first PL600 of his kind.

The man beside Leo has a full beard, and he’s dressed in a hoodie that looks unwashed even through the grainy quality of the photo. He thinks he can see stringy locks of long hair peeking out from under the hood. An ugly feeling rears up in his chest, and Elijah grimaces as he recognises it as jealousy. Why is Leo with another man? They’re standing too close to be acquaintances, Leo’s head tilted up and towards the stranger.

He loathes it, detests it, this rising indignant feeling in his throat like acid reflux. He knows what it’s like to be on the receiving end of such a look, he knows how soft Leo’s eyes get, how his smile is slightly lopsided and entirely endearing.

Suddenly he aches for his company, yearns for the way Leo cards his fingers through his hair and scritches along his scalp as if he’s nothing but an overgrown lapcat to him. Suddenly he wants nothing more than to be tangled in bed, not even for sex but just to be bundled under heavy blankets sharing bodyheat and eye contact and the easy affection they’ve built between them.

He seeks Chloe in his lab, and before she can open her mouth he cuts in. “I’m worried about Leo.”

“Leo?” She echoes, blinking in surprise. “Why would you be worried about Leo?”

“I just- I saw this article- specifically a photo and it’s made me uneasy about the company he keeps.” It sounds utterly stupid now he’s said it aloud, and it shows in Chloe’s expression.

“The company he keeps?” She says it slowly, as if double-checking his statement. He strides forward and thrusts the tablet at her, jabbing at the photo.

“Look, I-” He sucks in a deep breath, “I don’t want to sound paranoid, and I don’t mistrust him but-” There’s a frantic note in the tone of his voice so he tries to reason with himself. “I mean, no, I know he’s not slipping back into old habits he’s done wonderfully and recovered well, so maybe I’m overreacting and maybe he’s sought out a friend to also help through their recovery and that wouldn’t be too far-fetched because he knows firsthand how hard it is and he’d be the best person to guide someone through a difficult addiction and-”

Chloe’s face turns blank in that way where he knows she’s hiding something from him. She looks entirely too machine-like though she’s never been a machine like those made after her.

“Elijah.” Oh no she’s using his full name and not Eli. “I think this report can wait. You should go see Leo.”

“That’s even worse, that means you’re worried about him too!” He blurts, the worry rising in his chest. “How did I miss this? Was I too caught up in my work? The update took less than three weeks, I was only over my estimate by two days!”

“Elijah.” Her tone is softer this time, an exasperated smile on her lips. “Go get dressed and drive down to Carl’s. It’s best you talk this through with Leo in person.”

He doesn’t trust himself to drive, so he lets his car do the driving for him which unfortunately means he spends the entire time stewing in his jealousy and anxiety until he’s ready to cancel the current route and go back home. Trying to distract himself, he checks his phone to read the preliminary report on the update which ate three weeks of his life but finds he can hardly focus on the words, not when his thoughts keep straying to Leo.

There’s no way Leo would ever touch red ice again, he believes that with every cell in his body. It cost Leo nearly everything, and he knows Leo wouldn’t give up everything to slide back into such habits.

He doesn’t doubt Leo’s conviction, but he doubts the old company Leo used to keep. What if they try and tempt him? Leo won’t fall to such temptations but what if they turn violent? What if they try to blackmail him the way Leo used to use Carl’s guilt to fuel his addiction? What if Leo had an old flame, someone who shared in the misery and rush of addiction with him, what if that bond still remains, what if he’s been nothing more than a distraction, what if-

The car tucks itself neatly by the curb and the door slides open, the rush of chilly air snapping him out of his spiralling dark thoughts.

[Welcome back, Elijah.]

The security AI greets him as the door slides open and he belatedly realises he never even informed Leo he’d be coming over- the surprise on Leo’s face confirms this as the man curiously peeks out from the common room.

“Hey.” There it is, that slightly lopsided grin-smile and those warm claret eyes he’s missed so much.

“Hi.”

“Didn’t think I’d see you so soon.” Leo wanders over and slips his arms around him, head tucked under his chin in a delightful reminder of the height difference between them. “Update was just rolled out at midday yesterday, aren’t you meant to be at CyberLife today for the debrief?”

Delaying his answer for a few moments longer, Elijah squeezes him close and buries his nose in the unruly nest of wispy curls atop Leo’s head.

“Missed me that much huh?” Leo huffs a laugh, returning the tight embrace.

“I just...wanted to know if you were alright.” He murmurs into his hair.

“Alright? Why wouldn’t I be?”

Yes, why wouldn’t he be? Elijah feels childishly stupid for even bringing it up, but if he doesn’t ask he’ll go mad from not knowing.

“I-” a breath to steady himself, “I saw something. A paparazzi shot on some stupid gossip site.”

“Ah fuck,” Leo snorts, “listen it was North’s idea entirely to break into the old distillery for photos. She conveniently forgot I’m not an android like her and can’t parkour my way out of sight when surveillance drones turn up.”

“...What?”

“Don’t worry I didn’t get arrested- Tina let me off with a warning.” Leo’s grin is sheepish when he looks up, the expression vanishing when he sees his confused expression. “Is that...not the photo you’re referring to?”

“You broke into the abandoned distillery?”

“No, tell me what photo you’re referring to first!”

“I-” he fumbles for his phone and brings up the cursed photo. “I’m not judging you for the company you keep, please understand that, I’m just worried they might threaten your well-being I know you worked so hard and overcame so much and in no way do I doubt the fact you’ve beaten your addiction and you have such a wonderful heart Leo I’m afraid those from your past may try and take advantage of it-”

He’s cut off by Leo throwing his head back and laughing loudly, big heaving lungfuls of laughter that leave Elijah standing there stunned.

“Leo I fail to see how this is funny I-”

“When was this photo taken?” Leo interrupts, shoving his phone back to him.

“Last Thursday.”

“Open your bank app.” Leo commands. “Open it.”

“Why do I-” he does as he’s told, an intense look in Leo’s eyes warning him not to question him further.

“Check your transactions.” He taps the screen. “What’s the transaction from last Thursday?”

Scrolling through the itemised list in chronological order, he notes the usual scheduled grocery transfer and then one other transaction.

“Starbucks?” He blinks, tipping his head slightly in confusion.

“Uh huh.” Leo says slowly, the way Chloe would say ‘Elijah’ in the same tone that has infinite patience and exasperation rolled into one. “Starbucks. On Thursday. When this photo was taken.”

It takes him far too long to piece together all the clues and the fog in his head finally clears and all that’s left is the sheer horror of it all.

“That’s me?”

“That’s you.” Leo sputters a giggle, barely holding himself back from another peal of laughter. “Chloe begged me to drag you outside to take a break. You really don’t remember?”

“...No?”

“Oh my god Eli please.” His boyfriend punches his shoulder lightly. “I can’t believe you thought I was hanging out with junkies again.”

“I left the house looking like that?” He brings up the photo again and zooms in, wincing at the wiry beard and the greasy hair.

“Chloe made you brush your teeth and take a shower before I picked you up. Don’t worry, you smelled better than you looked.” Leo’s grin is full of mirth and Elijah wants nothing more than to crawl into a deep dark cavern and never emerge.

“I am so sorry.”

“For the looking like a hobo part in public or for thinking I was dating a fellow junkie part?”

“Both. All of it. I’m so sorry.” Elijah winces, wrapping Leo in his arms again. “Thank you for putting up with me.”

They stay like that for a full minute because Elijah counts the seconds as they pass, ticking off the seconds as a way to bring his anxiety down and even his breathing and let himself ease back into the present. Leo shifts, pulling away and stepping back.

“Hang on, let me just get something.” He walks over to the coat rack and rifles through the pockets of his favourite worn leather jacket. “I was going to give this to you at lunch tomorrow. Y’know, when we actually planned to meet up. But you’re here now, so.”

He places a plastic chip into the palm of his hand. Elijah picks it up and holds it, turning it this way and that; the number ninety is embossed in the light round object. It takes a moment for him to identify what it is, and when he realises it he feels his heart squeeze with the familiar ache of affection.

“It’s your ninety day chip.”

“Yeah.” Leo’s smile is a little wobbly, a little unsure and Elijah leans down to kiss it better.

“Well done, Leo.” He murmurs, so close their lips still touch. “I’m so proud of you.”

There’s a brief flash of raw vulnerability in Leo’s eyes, before it’s replaced with something fond.

“And you just defeated the last villain in the saga of CyberLife.” He bumps their noses together. “Congrats on setting my brother and his people truly free.”

They kiss again, something slow and mellow and sweet and finally finally Elijah feels like he’s back in the living, waking world at last.

“So,” Leo’s grin is full of mischief. “Starbucks?”

#dbhrarepairsweek #leo manfred #Elijah Kamski #chloe rt600 #dbh chloe #Detroit: Become Human #annie writes: dbh #elijah is a tamagotchi his household look after #this is my fave thing ive written for this rarepairs week

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mythologyfolklore · 4 years

Text

Ares and Athena through the years - Ch. 13

Chapter Thirteen: The Odyssey, Pt. 01

Zeus was doing his correspondence.

He was also mentally cursing himself for allowing Ares to go on his world trip.

The war god, who was always written off as stupid and incompetent had been a big help with the mail, but now Zeus was submerging in a sea of prayers, letters from both his own pantheon and from abroad, and complaints. Complaints en masse.

“'You won't be needing me', he said, 'That stuff is really easy', he said!”, Zeus grumbled irritably.

Then there was a knock on the door.

“Enter!”

It was Athena, who came in.

Zeus stood up. “My little Owl-Eye! So good to see you!”

Athena looked around, assessed the situation in one glance and grinned: “Too much paper stuff?”

“Too much paper stuff”, he confirmed.

“If I help you with all of that, will you let Odysseus finally return home?”

Zeus laughed heartily: “I was going to do that anyway! But how could I possibly refuse that offer?”

Athena beamed at him.

Cute.

After doing the majority of her father's paper stuff and questioning how Ares with his lack of tact had done this all those millennia, Athena wasted no time in descending down to earth and onto Ithaka.

She had to take a look at the situation there – and to see, if the son of Odysseus was any good.

In the shape of an old friend of Odysseus' she went up to the palace.

Even from the outside, she could hear a lot of noise.

What the Tartaros is going on in there?

As she came into the yard, she saw strangers – probably the suitors of Penelope – playing boardgames to waste their time, sitting on the skins of bovines they had slaughtered and generally living the high life consuming the wealth of another, like parasites.

Soon she was noticed and approached by a young man with chestnut brown hair.

The sharp green eyes, so much like those of Odysseus, gave away who he was.

“Welcome, welcome!”, Telemakhos exclaimed, “Do come in, our respected guest! We shall give you the best we have to offer! And after you have eaten and refreshed yourself, tell us what brings you here.”

Athena could tell, that the young man was miserable at the situation, but he didn't show it.

He was nothing but polite and respectful towards his guest and readied her a place apart from all the insolent suitors.

“I don't assume you want to eat with this noisy crew”, he commented.

“No, I prefer to eat and drink in peace.”

Just a few moments later, the suitors came in, rude and hubristic as they apparently always were.

They were served and then forced a musician to sing for them. The man glared at them hatefully, but began to sing beautifully.

Telemakhos looked pained and murmured to the disguised Athena: “Would you lend me your ear?”

“Of course.”

“I hate this. I hate how these people consume the goods of another without care or compensation, while my mother and I mourn my dear father, who is most likely dead, even though some say that he'll come back one day. But our hope is dwindling from day to day. And we can't even give him an honourable burial, because his bones are probably lying on the bottom of the sea, where the salt water washes and bleaches them. But tell me, stranger, who are you, which family and what home do you come from?”

“My name is Mentor, son of Anchialos and Lord of Taphos. I'm a good friend of your father's and our fathers were friends before us (you can ask Laertes, I heard he lives away from here out of shame). I'm on my way to Temesa to trade precious metals and tissue. I wanted to pay you a visit, because I heard that your father was home. But apparently he's not. But I'm certain he's not dead either; perhaps some brutal and savage tribe is holding him captive and keeping him from coming home. Now I'm not a prophet, but I know for certain, that the Deathless Ones will grant him a safe homecoming soon. He won't stay away from home for much longer, I'm sure. But what about you? Are you really his son? You have his eyes, you do. I may not have seen him in over twenty years, but his face was hardly one I could forget!”

“He is my father”, Telemakhos sighed, “But I wish that rather instead of such an unfortunate man it was one, who could be here with his family, growing old in peace in his own land.”

Athena pitied the young man, but had to keep her act up.

“Now, now. Your family was made for glory and you're no different, I can tell. But tell me, what is this celebration here for? Those men there certainly don't obey the laws of hospitality, uncouth and shamefully as they're acting. Any sensible man would be ashamed.”

Telemakhos frowned – just the way his father always did.

“I'm not going to lie: there must have been a time, when this was an honest household, wealthy and abundant, while its master was still here. But just a few years ago, the entire noble population of this one and the surrounding islands have come to woo my mother and now they're feeding off our property. We can't get rid of them, they won't leave until my mother marries one of them. She loathes the idea, but she can't offend them by refusing outright, so she's putting them off for as long as she can. Meanwhile these parasites are eating my reserves and sooner or later they will surely kill me.”

“Mentor” was indignant. “By the gods, you really need Odysseus back home! Would he come through this door in full armour and make short work of them! Oh, for them to be taken by dark Soteira¹ and rot in the underworld!”

“I wish”, the young man muttered.

But the disguised goddess continued: “But it's all in the hand of the gods, whether he will come home and have bloody revenge. For now, this is my counsel, from an old friend to a young one: summon the council of the island, tell the suitors to leave and your mother, if she chooses to marry, to return to the home of her father, for a dower to be prepared. As for yourself, prepare a good ship with twenty rowers and travel abroad to inquire about the whereabouts of your glorious father. First travel to Pylos and ask Nestor and if he can't help you out, move on to Sparta, to the court of Menélaos – he came home last, as far as I know. Should they give you hope, that your father is still alive, hang in there for another year. Should you hear, that he's dead, make a burial mount for him, with many gifts, as is appropriate. Then eliminate all those insolent suitors. Haven't you heard of how Orestes gained glory by slaying the murderer of his father Agamemnon? You're no longer a child, you're a grown handsome man. Hesitate not. Defend your honour, so that future generations may speak well of you. But I must leave now – surely my crew is getting impatient down at the harbour!”

Telemakhos smiled warmly (that was his mother's smile): “Thank you for your advice, kind old man. But won't you stay just a little longer? You're my guest, how could I possibly let you go without a gift? A precious and pretty one-”

“I'm afraid I really have no time”, she chuckled, “But I will come back and till then chose a really beautiful guest gift! It will be returned with one of equal worth.”

Then she turned into a small owl and flew out of the window, leaving behind a stunned Telemakhos.

Meanwhile Hermes had made his way to Ogygia, the island of Kalypso.

The nymph welcomed him and served him nectar and ambrosia and wanted to know, what he was here for.

Hermes, now refreshed, briefed her on the situation: “The King of the Gods has sent me to let you know his will. We happen to know, that you're keeping a poor man, who has been away from home for twenty years. Ten years he spent in the land of the Trojans, three lost at sea and seven years he has been languishing here, pining for home. This is the will of His Majesty: for this mortal to finally get home to his family, to reclaim his home and embrace his wife and son again. That is his lot, not to vegetate here, far away from his loved ones.”

Kalypso blanched and her eyes filled with tears.

“This … this is not fair! Why won't the gods allow, that a goddess may be happy with a mortal? Êôs loved Orion, only for him to die by the hands of golden-throned Artemis! Demeter loved Iasion, only for him to be hit by the Thunderer's lightning bolts! I saved this man, hosted and fed him, offered him immortality, so he would never grow old and die-”

“Êôs and Demeter were loved back”, Hermes countered, “Odysseus isn't happy with you. We see this man weeping on the strand day after da. Not every mortal wants immortality, Kalypso. Immortality is no blessing for a mortal, even though a lot of people think that. Odysseus needs his family and they need him. Let him go. Don't risk the anger of the King of the Gods.”

The nymph choked back a sob, but nodded.

Poseidon was returning from a party in Ethiopia, when he spotted something he did not like: his nemesi- er, the mortal he hated, merrily rowing on the surface of his sea on a raft with provisions.

Within seconds he put two and two together: the other gods must have decided for Odysseus to be allowed to go home, while he had been away.

“Well, I'm not letting him off easy”, Poseidon grumbled and unleashed a mighty storm, house-high waves, deadly currents and all.

Odysseus clung to his raft, as it was thrown back and forth by the waves and realised, that he was likely going to drown.

“Aw, shit!”, he muttered and held on tighter, because there was no way he would accept a death as inglorious as drowning.

But as he was clinging to his wooden raft, he soon saw the foam on one of the waves shift into the shape of a woman.

That was Leukothea, formerly Ino, the daughter of Kadmos and Harmonia and aunt of Dionysos, who had been deified by Poseidon, many centuries ago.

She pitied the struggling mortal thrown around by the raging sea.

“Poor man” she spoke, “What have you done to provoke the merciless wrath of Poseidon, that he wants to drown you so badly? But fear not, I'm here to help you. Listen: take off your clothes and everything that drags you down, then tie my scarf around your chest – it will save you from drowning. Once you have reached dry land, give it back to me.”

She handed him a silken scarf and dived back into the waves.

Odysseus frowned. Why would I need this, when I have a raft?

Right in that moment, said raft was torn apart by a particularly huge wave.

Never mind.

He did as the marine goddess had told him and took to swimming.

In the meantime Poseidon retired to his crystal palace on the bottom of the sea.

Odysseus spent the next two days fighting against the raging sea, trying to finally reach the shore.

All the while, Athena was with him, never once taking her protection away.

She stilled the winds and gave him the strength to swim long enough to reach the shore of the land of the Phaiakoi.

The long-suffering hero finally found a piece of strand, crawled onto the shore and fainted.

When he came to himself, he took off the anti-drowning-scarf and threw it back into the sea, back to its owner.

Then he turned his back onto the water, stumbled further inland and crawled under a bush.

Exhausted, hurting everywhere and too tired to do anything, he fell into a healing, restful slumber.

Athena meanwhile entered the sleep of Nausikaa, the princess of this land, disguised as one of her friends. She inspired her to go out in the morning to do her laundry with her maids and maybe play at ball and Nausikaa woke up, resolved to do just that.

Odysseus woke up to women's screaming.

He crawled out from under this bush, covered his private parts with a leafy branch and went to investigate.

Soon he came across a group of ladies, apparently looking for something.

When they saw him, they screamed and fled, all except for one.

She didn't seem to be afraid at all.

And perhaps she could help him.

So the former hero cleared his throat and with many a flattery asked her for help.

The lady introduced herself as princess Nausikaa of the Phaiakoi and gave him some of her father's clothes she and her maids had been washing earlier.

Once washed and finally dressed, he could feel a divine presence cast a spell on him.

When he stepped back in front of Nausikaa, he guessed that Athena had made him look younger and more stately than he actually was, because the princess proclaimed her hope to have a bridegroom as regal and handsome as himself.

Then she pointed him a way to the city, while she left for some place else.

One of her maids guided him and instructed him on how he should come to the king and queen to plead for hospitality.

He did as told and they received him kindly.

Next morning, king Alkinoos called an assembly of the local nobility, introduced them to this stranger and informed him of his request.

They marvelled at the newcomer, whom Athena had given godlike beauty, so that he would find approval and be liked by the people here.

“This stranger – I don't know who he is – has been stranded here and beseeches me for help to return to his homeland”, Alkinoos explained. “No supplicant has ever asked us in vain for safe transport. So let's ready a ship and rowers and let him go where he wishes to, as soon as possible. But first we should host him according to the laws of hospitality. Let a great feast be prepared and summon our best musician.”

This was done and not much later, the entire nobility was gathered in his hall to feast.

Demodokon, the blind singer, entertained them with his beautiful music and sung of the glory of the Achaeans in the Trojan War.

The musical reminder of the events made Odysseus upset and he pulled the cloak he was wearing over his face, so no one saw him cry.

Next was a small tournament.

The young Phaiakoi competed in all kinds of sports.

Odysseus was feeling too gloomy to participate in discus throwing, but when one of the young men provoked him and questioned his masculinity, he got so angry that he grabbed the biggest, heaviest discus at hand and threw it much farther than all the others.

“As you can see”, he turned to the stunned Phaiakoi, “I'm more than adept in the art of war and battle. If any of you wants to challenge me in another discipline, I'm more than confident, that I can best them. Except when it comes to running, as my leg muscles are out of shape.”

Alkinoos quickly pacified his guest and called to music and dance.

Odysseus marvelled at the dancing skills of the Phaiakoi, at the gracefulness of their movements and how their feet practically flew across the dance floor.

The singer Demodokon sang about the love of Ares and Aphrodite and of how her then husband Hephaistos had caught them in his golden net.

A pair of dancers performed a rhythmic ball play and everyone clapped along to the beat.

Odysseus turned to Alkinoos: “You praised your people as the best of dancers and it's really true! The sight astonishes me.”

That pleased the king and he ordered for rich guest presents to be given to the flatterer.

The man, who had provoked Odysseus earlier, gave him a reconciliatory gift (an iron sword² with a silver handle and ivory sheath) and an apology, which the older man gladly accepted and wished him, that he would never regret having given his sword away.

Evening came and after a nice bath Odysseus went to join another banquet, which was about to take place.

On the way he met Nausikaa and they bid each other farewell, as only men were allowed at the Symposion.³

As all men sat down to eat, Odysseus cut off a good piece of his meat and offered it to the grateful singer as a token of appreciation.

Demodokon continued his earlier song about the heroic deeds of the Achaeans in the Trojan War. Odysseus requested: “You sing so beautifully and accurately of those events! But now sing of the wooden horse! Sing of the thing that Epeios built with Athena's aid and which was brought to Troy, filled by Odysseus with warriors to raze Troy to the ground! If you can do that, I would be forever grateful!”

The singer did so and everyone was captivated.

But the memory made the war veteran weep bitterly.

When Alkinoos saw this, he ordered Demodokon to stop and asked Odysseus what the matter was.

“Also”, he added, “I still don't know who you are. What's your name, your family and the name of your home? Were you there in Troas or did you lose someone dear to you in this terrible war? A family member, a comrade or a friend?”

The other man wiped his tears away and stood up.

“I am Odysseus, son of Laertes, who beguiles men with cunning and beautiful words, whose fame reaches to the skies. I come from the bountiful island of Ithaka and I couldn't possibly think of a sweeter sight than my own home.”

The whole room was silent, as everyone stared at him.

---

1) Soteira: "Saviour", an epithet to many goddesses. In this case a euphemistic epithet of Persephone. 2) The Trojan War is supposed to have taken place in about the 13th or 12th century BC, which was still in the bronze age. So an iron weapon was something special. Iron was hard to forge, because it requires a higher temperature than copper and tin (the components of bronze), but it's also tougher than bronze. Therefore it was in high demand and it would stay that way, during the iron age and beyond. But because it was harder to work with and for other reasons, it was a lot more expensive than bronze. 3) The Symposion (a banquet with music, dance and philosophical discussions) was for men only. Ancient Greek misogyny, everyone. -_-

#Greek Mythology #odyssey #zeus #athena #telemakhos #hermes #kalypso #poseidon #leukothea #odysseus #nausikaa #alkinoo

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rueitae · 4 years

Text

Depths of Dedication

Written for the @storiesinthedarkbang Bang! Greek Myth inspired AU

Pairing: Plance.

Length: 14,100 words

Rating: Teen and Up - angst with a happy ending

Warnings: threat of being killed/eaten and candid discussion of it, choking, suggestive themes, monsters

Read on Ao3!

Features the outstanding art of @a-haunted-sock as seen here and @numbah34!! as seen here and here! Seriously I loved every minute working with both of you. Both of you are incredibly talented and wonderful friends. I feel blessed to have been able to see the progress on all the pieces and just jumping up and down in my seat the whole time.

Many thanks to @rosieclark for beta! Your suggestions made this fic feel whole. I owe you so much.

~~~~~

The sky is grey, filled with ominous clouds that threaten rain. Thunder rolls and lighting flashes in the distance over the sea. Cold water laps over Pidge’s feet and choppy waves cut into her ankles, sending her bare feet sinking further into the soft sand.

The first raindrop lands on her nose. She twitches to shake it off, but immediately gives up. Angry tears wet her face anyway, so what was the point?

Gloomy, cold, and without friends or family; a perfect day to die.

Pidge inhales sharply through her nose, fighting back the snot and sobs her body desperately wants to release. Failure to save her home scares and hurts far more than her imminent death. The people of their small island nation had trusted her - enough to risk their lives smuggling her out past the Galra blockade. Matt will soon be all alone to fend them off, thinking his dear ingenuitive sister will be bringing backup; help that she’s failed to find.

And he’ll likely die by Zarkon’s hand never knowing she died first.

The chains that bind her wrists tug, stretching her arms uncomfortably upwards, exposing her armpits to the nippy air. A chill runs through her bare arms as even colder stone makes contact with her back.

“I can fetch you a cloak if you’d like. It’s gonna be a cold one tonight.”

Pidge refuses to look at her captor - one of the local fishermen - choosing instead to glower at the horizon. He walks in front of her, calm for one chosen to be her executioner, wrapping a chain across her chest. It tightens, digging into her skin through the thin fabric of her dress as he rounds the large rock at her back, pressing her even further against the stone.

Spitefulness overtakes fear. “I’m going to die anyway. What does it matter if my killer is the cold or the sea monster,” she remarks dryly.

The man - barely, he can’t be much older than her - huffs. “I think the village would be open to giving you a last request. A meal, a cloak, something like that.”

He walks in front of her once more, dragging the chain taught over her waist as he rounds the stone. Pidge winces, feeling every protrusion of rock digging into her back. She grunts, holding back an instinctive cry of pain. She’s fought monsters and faced all kinds of peril on her journey - what’s resting on a rock to her?

She can cry more easily after he’s left her alone - no witnesses.

“How about letting me go?” she grits out in response.

The man lets out a sharp laugh as he walks in front of her again, dragging the chain across her thighs. “Not worth all the fishing boats and harvest lost thanks to you angering the Sea Guardian.” The iron digs into her skin suddenly and sharply as he yanks the chain, earning a surprised yelp from her. The blue gem at the end of an intricate iron necklace glints as dangerously as his eyes. “My brother’s was one of them.”

Pidge has already apologized a thousand times. The only penance the village will take is her life.

“They were willing to part with such a fancy dress,” she retorts bitterly. Though risque - sleeveless, high collared complete with a slit over her chest - the fabric is one she’d wear at home in the palace even down to her favored green coloring.

Her captor hums, rounding in front of her to wrap the chain just below her knees. “The Sea Guardian likes his dinner guests to look nice,” he says darkly. “It’d be more than you deserve.” Pidge bristles, an unpleasant feeling twisting in her stomach at his smooth tone.

“M-more like guests that are his dinner,” Pidge says bitterly through chattering teeth. Though whether its caused by the cold or the thought of entertaining a sea monster, she isn’t sure.

“Maybe you’ll find a way to change his mind about eating you.” The man gives the chain another tug and Pidge hisses at the stone digging into her sore legs and back. He fastens the manacles at the end of the chain to her ankle. It blocks the waves there at least, sparing her a bit of pain. “He always tends to stay away longer when he’s given a maiden.” He stands and stretches, appraising her with a raised eyebrow. “You are a maiden, aren’t you?”

Heat rushes to her cheeks in embarrassment, though it does little to warm the rest of her body against the cold air and sea. Such a comment really shouldn’t matter at this point, not when she’s about to be devoured “I’m unmarried,” she says noncommittally. Though he’s right, she refuses to let him know it. “Why should that matter?”

Perhaps if she were married she wouldn’t be in this mess. She’s never been in a position to want to be. But even if she or Matt had offered themselves up for marriage, the Galra would have controlled the island through either of them, making her people suffer more than they already do.

The man crosses his arms over his chest, his thin eyebrows raised smugly. “Then the Guardian might not eat you right away,” he says casually. “Lucky you, most of us thought you were a boy at first with all that armor on.”

“How reassuring,” Pidge drones. A lecherous monster is the last thing she needs on top of everything else.

Chained up, she has to make on last appeal. “Look, there has to be some other way I can make this up to you. I can’t reanimate the golem - but maybe I can find someone who can.”

The fisherman looks thoughtful, and for a few desperate moments Pidge thinks she might have gotten through to him… but he shrugs instead, eyes narrowed and blue irises shining dangerously. “My brother is hurt thanks to you, and the village won’t be able to provide for itself. This is Poseidon's Law - you’ll pay penance as the Guardian sees fit.” He turns his gaze to the sea, his tone remains chilling. “High tide comes in at midnight. Did you want company until then?”

Pidge grimaces and tugs, testing her bindings. They remain firm, clinking against the stone. Her heart thumps in frustration. “Not if I have to listen to you the entire time,” she spits, directing it to anywhere near his face.

He’s hardly bothered by her outburst, and, with remarkable reflexes, simply sidesteps her pathetic attempt at retaliation. “Suit yourself,” he says, his mocking tone making her blood boil. “Someone will be watching from the cliffs, so no funny business, all right?”

Not that she could escape, not without magic or key. Magic is out of the question as she is mortal, and even if Pidge had a key she doubts it would be of any use in her shackled hands. It begs the question of how a sea monster is going to get her out of this. Her empty stomach tightens into knots as the realization comes to her with a tight gasp; to the razor sharp teeth of a sea monster, flesh is easier to cut than iron.

The fisherman leaves her, the slosh of the man’s legs through the water that separates this sandbar from the main beach is like a death knell.

Sea birds squawk on the cliffs, though Pidge can see only rock behind her. The clouds are noticeably darker now than when she was led out here - it must be sunset. Midnight gives her perhaps four hours to reflect on her short life and make peace with herself.

Or come up with a plan to convince the monster to spare her - find some other way she can pay penance for whatever wrong she’s done by killing that golem.

Her only regret in life is this ending. Matt will never know what becomes of her. Zarkon will keep the blockade until her brother surrenders or dies. Pidge can’t help him now.

She lowers her head and closes her eyes, sighing. A drop of rain falls on her hair, then another. A fresh wash of cold air overtakes her body as the skies release a downpour. Pidge instinctively tries to curl in on herself for warmth, but her chain will not allow for it.

The cold rain chills her to the bone and the garments doing nothing to shelter her from the elements. Her hair sticks pathetically to her skin, just long enough to cover her ears and agitate her neck and shoulders; one more thing to add to her misery.

When the heavy rain gives way to a light mist, the tide has brought the water to her knees. The sun has set and Pidge can no longer see the formation of the clouds nor the cresting waves, the sound of which dominates the air, as the moon hides behind the thick layers of stratus. There is no way for her to tell how much time has passed but for how high the water rises over her body.

With renewed vigor Pidge test the manacles around her wrists. They hold tight, but now with no guard in sight, she twists and turns with all her might, tugging with her arms to find any sort of weakness. For her trouble she receives the small victory of loosening the chains around her body. It’s easier to move around now, even as the surface of the water reaches her waist. Better to keep busy, the movement providing a measly amount of warmth, than ponder over her impending death.

Pidge continues to struggle, thrashing about as the water climbs higher and higher. She can hear her father’s voice telling her to keep testing, always question, try a thousand different solutions until you unlock the right one - unlock a lock in this case. And her mother, encouraging her to be strong, to impose her will against the adversary - be determined… and the results may be surprising.

Matt’s voice floats in over those of her departed parents: take a break, observe your surroundings, listen.

Though she stills, the chains dig into her skin. It is far too dark to observe, but she can listen and--

Water laps up against her chin.

Pidge gasps and throws her head back against the rock. Is she really so numb from the cold she hadn’t realized how far the water has risen? She directs her gaze downward. The waterline is around her neck - too dark to see anything clearly but what is directly in front of her.

It won’t be long now before the tide takes her under. Her heart races, her breaths short and panicked. Will she drown before being torn apart to satisfy a monster’s stomach? Perhaps that would be a mercy.

There is movement in the distance, or what Pidge thinks is movement, and the sound of a wave cresting offbeat from the others. Her heart breaks - she’s out of time to save her brother and all she can do is cry.

The Sea Guardian is here.

Pidge yanks on the chains for all she’s worth, but they give none. “I’m sorry!” she screams. “I didn’t know - I won’t hurt the shoreline golems ever again!”

Water crashes over her face before the surface returns to below her chin. She spits out the salty water, shaking her head to clear it from her face.

Smooth, slimy scales brush her legs. Pidge inhales sharply, kicking as far as the chain will allow, finding only water. She shivers from her hands to toes - and not from the cold.

A forked tongue tickles under her arm. She shrieks, twisting every which way to stop the creature from licking - tasting - her. No relief comes no matter how hard she tries as it samples the skin on her leg.

A sob works its way out of her throat, her eyes clenched shut in rage - anger at not being able to do a thing while this monster teases her death. Warmth boils in her chest. She’s mad at her own helplessness as the tongue very deliberately glides up her neck and tickles her cheek before finally lifting off her body.

“I - I’ve only eaten jerky for months!” she blurts. “It’s dry and awful - you’d hate it!”

The serpentine body wraps itself around her and the stone she’s chained to, its width towering over her head and squeezing her further against the rock. The action protects her against the rising water, but the slippery scales press against her face uncomfortably - forcing her to look up if she wishes to breathe.

So now she faces the sea monster himself.

His mouth is slightly ajar, tongue tasting the air as if it pants like a dog; teeth more numerous and sharp than she imagined.

“Please don’t eat me,” she tries again. “I didn’t know! There has to be something I can do to make up for all this!”

The monster hisses angrily, and there is silence, save for the waves lapping against his scales. “You will pay your due,” he says in a low voice.

The body unfurls from her and water rushes over her head. Salt water invades her nose and mouth, burning her senses. Air is her only goal, desperate to break above the waves crashing against the rock. The chains keep her underwater.

Her lungs begin to strain for breath.

The monster hisses, his voice rising and falling akin to a tune. Though the water distorts her hearing, she can tell he is still close. An agonizing heartbeat passes as she awaits for impalement to speed her drowning.

When it doesn’t come, Pidge dares open her eyes. Reptilian slits three times larger than her greet her, so close to her face she can see the different shades of blue shining from the iris.

A pale blue glow illuminates the water around her, shining as bright as the moon on a cloudless night. It comes from the chains that still bind her, no longer a rusty iron, but the blue of the calm ocean in the summer. It’s mesmerizing - a moment of tranquility and awe. It this magic?

Her lungs scream as she’s freed from her chains in a final burst of light.

But it's too late, her strength is gone.

Yet before unconsciousness claims her, she breaks the surface. Pressure against her chest expels water from her lungs and Pidge coughs, seeking purchase with her hands and greedily sucking in air - what--

A red forked tongue is wrapped around her chest.

Her neck strains less and less as she’s lifted to come face to face with the monster, past the iron chain around his neck. She grips the soft tongue with desperation, feet dangling in the air. He’s is gigantic, higher than even her palace home on the cliffs of the island.

A strange calm comes over her - this is it. The least she can do before she dies is to show pride, not fear. So she does, sucking in a breath, chest puffed out. She looks the monster squarely in the eyes.

“You can at least know my name before you devour me,” she speaks, far more bravely than she feels. “I am Katie Holt, princess of Garriokos. I am also Pidge, an adventurer. I’ve faced creatures far more horrifying than you - I am not afraid.”

A heartbeat later, the monster speaks.

“I will digest your words before I digest you, human.”

The beast opens its mouth wide, teeth gleaming white against the dark backdrop of night. His tongue retracts, jerking Pidge towards his wide open jaws and threatening teeth.

She screams, and blacks out.

~~~~~

Somewhere in her subconscious, hazy with sleep, Pidge realizes she still breathes.

Inexplicably she’s alive after being drawn in between the fangs of a sea monster. Pidge doesn’t think much of it, her aching limbs resting on a silky material. Moaning in her fog and comfort, she rolls to her side and clutches the fabric with her bare hands. It’s heavenly after months on the road and hours of being chained to a rock. Pidge takes advantage, curling her knees up to herself and rubbing her legs against the linens.

As she comes into awareness, her mind forms more coherent thoughts. Her head rests on a pillow, she lies on a bed - a spacious bed - and her body is warm, covered by thick blankets. No longer is she freezing, or even chained up. The smell of a freshly cooked meal graces her nose and her stomach grumbles.

Her body is relaxed, but realizing how comfortable she is energizes her mind. It suddenly clicks like a bucket of cold water over her head: she did not get to this bed on her own power - someone put her here.

Frantic, she opens her eyes and bolts up with a sharp gasp.

Red sheets cover a bed fit for a king; round and large, filled with dozens of differently shaped pillows. Gold and jewels and other treasures are sprawled out before and around the bed as far as Pidge can see, piling up against dozens of stalagmites. A large petteia table sits prominently where only a few coins speckle the ground. Stone walls enclose the area and stalactites litter the ceiling.

A colorful fish swims in front of her.

A colorful fish swims in front of her?

The discovery of being underwater - and breathing as if she were above it - sends her heart racing and she clutches the strangely soft and warm blankets tightly. She’s at the mercy of the sea monster, not knowing where she is and subject to whatever magic he’s used to give her breath.

A weight fills her heart, plummeting to her stomach when she sees a steam vent with caged fish next to it, as well as an assortment of cooking equipment. It’s the size of the cage that gives her pause - its large enough to fit her, and it's all too easy to imagine herself in the place of the fish, the next item on the menu. The sea monster’s threat to eat her lets her imagination run wild; skewered by the pike that leans against the wall or dangled over the scalding water by the chains currently spewn about the floor - left to boil alive.

She has to get out of here.

The covers float gently in the water when she throws them off to the side - and Pidge grimaces with the knowledge she’s still stuck in what would normally be a beautiful dress. Right now, it’s merely a hindrance with the nature of her journey. The iron anklets are new though, snug against her skin. Plain, but polished, Pidge is relieved they aren’t connected to anything by chain.

She’s had enough of chains for a lifetime.

Pidge carefully begins to navigate her bare feet over the piles of potentially sharp objects among the treasure. She floats, her toes grazing jewels and goblets with each step.

No sooner has she begun to scout for an exit then the ground shakes beneath her. Pidge scrambles, swimming upwards as she watches pearl necklaces and golden crowns dislodge themselves from the beast.

“No. No, no, no,” she repeats to herself with increasing terror. Turning upwards, she strains for the numerous skylights that litter the ceiling. She is from an island nation - her swimming is not so weak that she can’t make a run for it.

Familiar texture of a tongue wraps around her legs.

“Let me go!” she demands as the monster reels her in.

He does, dropping her above the bed.

Pidge scoots back to the intricate iron headboard and holds a pillow in front of her as if it were a perfectly defensible position against a sea monster in his own lair.

His body wraps around and over the bed and Pidge finds herself locked in his downward gaze, his sapphire adornment sparkling directly above her.

“Not even going to ask where you are, Princess-Adventurer?” He inquires with humorous curiosity.

“I’m not an idiot - I know a monster’s lair when I see one,” she responds, hoping it comes across as firm as she means it to be. Her grip on the pillow tightens.

The tongue flicks, and the serpent hisses in supposed amusement. “And you’re an expert in monsters?”

Fire fills her belly. This beast doesn’t know of the hard fought battles that have led her to this point, the shoreline golem included. She’s certainly seen more monsters than the common person. “I’m well traveled,” she says instead, not bothering to hide her seething face, “and I’ve killed more monsters than you know.”

Like a candle in the window, an angry fire flashes in the sea monster’s eye. “Monsters like the golem?”

Pidge pauses, making sure her next words are more carefully phrased than her last. This is why she’s here under threat of death. “I - I’m truly sorry for that,” she decides. And she is, the damage to the harbor had been extensive. “The last thing I wanted to do is ruin the livelihoods of innocents. So please, don’t punish them for my mistake. I know better now.”

“Is that so?” He airs, though not kindly. His snake-like body coils tighter around the bed. It creaks, threatening to snap in half. “You know nothing about what you’ve done, not truly. You will still pay your penance per the Law.”

Pidge’s heart thumps in fear - now is he going to eat her? The teasing and anticipation and helplessness finally gets to her. “Then hurry up with it!” Her gaze flickers to the vent and nearby cage, but she’s so angry over the situation she can’t care. “Is raw human not tasty enough for you that you had to bring me to your lair?”

He laughs, tongue vibrating out past his snout. “Don’t be so hasty to die,” he says. “I’m more than happy to be your executioner, but I am bound by the Law to give you a choice. You may take a life sentence instead.”

The words ‘life sentence’ sound more like ‘chance of escape’ to Pidge’s ears. Eventually the sea monster would let his guard down - surely he can’t keep tabs on her day and night for her entire life.

“I pick that one,” she says quickly. “I’m not fond of being eaten.”

The serpent uncurls from the bed, floating above her and blocking the sunlight. He clicks his tongue, almost disappointingly. “So be it.”

A song of the same tune that released Pidge from her chains reverberates through the water. The anklets glow a bright blue. Pidge twists to avert her eyes.

It is over in a heartbeat.

“There,” the sea monster says as if arranging the dinner table. “Not too bad if I do say so myself. Green really is your color.”

Pidge cracks an eye open. She doesn’t feel any different than before. “What did you--?”

Stunned into silence at the scales of green that have replaced her legs, Pidge tests out the movement of her tail. The silken dress she wore not moments before is no more, in its place more green scales in the outline of the cloth. A single iron anklet remains above the fin.

She’s a mermaid. Mermaids can’t go on land.

“You’re free to go anywhere in the sea you want,” her jailor says. “but I suppose you can stay with me if you’d like.”

Pidge seethes, glaring at him in hopes he will drop dead. “You imprison me, threaten to eat me, and now turn me into a creature of the sea? Why would I want to stay with you?”

A bright blue light emanates from the monster. Pidge curls away, holding up a pillow to shade her eyes.

“Because it's part of my job to ask. I can even drop the monster form if you want.”

The voice is sickeningly familiar, and once Pidge is over the shock that it isn’t the monster’s voice, she looks.

To see the fisherman who chained her to the stone.

As a merman.

He lays stretched out on the bed facing her, his bare chest puffed out, accentuating his broad shoulders. Dark blue scales are in place of his legs, the same near black that covered the monster.

“You…” she inhales.

He shrugs as if nothing is the matter, a pleased smirk forms on his lips at her reaction. “I know, I am quite the catch,” he says as he rests his hands behind his head, showing off his chiseled chest. “If I didn’t hate you, we could probably be enjoying ourselves right now - you’re not bad yourself.”

A storm of emotions rages in her chest. All the fear is gone now that she’s presented with this… lech of a demi-god.

Hands curl into fists. She pulls back her right arm and swings.

The lack of resistance from the water surprises her as her fist makes perfect contact with his jaw, sending him flying end over end through the water and propelling her in the opposite direction. Her arms pinwheel, unused to not having the balance of two legs.

Pidge takes no time to ponder over her surprising strength as she settles upside down. “You really are a monster!” she yells, chest tight from tears that cannot fall underwater. “How dare you assume I’d bed you after all you put me through! I may have done wrong, but surely I don’t deserve all this!”

He rights himself and pushes off of a treasure chest towards her. Face no longer carefree, he scowls as he approaches her. “Okay, okay, I’ve made my obligatory attempt to be nice,” he says, his own fists curled in anger. “You either stay here or I can dump you out in the deep and I am really tempted to not even give you the choice.”

“Nice?” Pidge shrieks. “Nice when you picked out that dress? Nice when you chained me to that rock and left me freezing for hours? Nice when you threatened to eat me? Turn me back,” she hisses, tone low. “I think I’ve more than paid my penance.”

“That’s only the tip of the iceberg,” he insists darkly. His streamlined fins cut through the water and he circles her like a shark to its prey. “It’s the very least of what you deserve. Because of - because of you my best friend is suffering and could very well die. I at least gave you the option to live.”

Any retort Pidge can say falls silent. None in the village fell under harm after she slew the golem, but now - now everything is starting to make some sense. This is personal for him.

“I don’t understand,” she settles on - because what is she to say to a sea monster who holds her life in her hands, whose motives she doesn’t truly know.

“He’s a titan who holds up the shoreline. When you killed the golem, you may as well have cut out a part of his heart,” he seethes. “That’s why the landslide happened. Hunk is dying - slowly, painfully, alone - and what am I doing? Oh that’s right, I’m duty-bound to deal with little Miss Princess-Adventurer because you broke the Law by harming the sea.”

Pidge bristles at the sarcasm and pointed anger towards her. “That’s Pidge to you,” she bites. “If your friend is anything like you, he probably deserved it!”

Webbed hands close tight around her neck and steal her next breath, squeezing and pressing her against a rocky wall, sediment coming loose at the impact.

“Take that back,” her captor growls.

She equals his gaze, not to be deterred though she struggles for breath. “Not...helping…” she wheezes out.

He lets her go, turning his back as she sinks slowly to the bottom. She gasps, hungry for air, and massages her throat as her tail rests on a pile of gold coin.

She’s getting nowhere, exemplified in her body rising and floating aimlessly, with legs - no, a tail - that she can’t control. It makes her heart race - not having control. Pidge becomes increasingly uncomfortable as no matter how she thrashes her tail, she can’t get it to do what she wants.

Her nation, her brother, is still in danger and here she is offering petty insults and unable to move when she should be using her brain to get out of here.

If only her captor wasn’t so infuriating.

“I might have offered to help if I’d known your friend was suffering from the beginning,” she tries. “But all you’re doing is being cruel. I don’t even know your name.”

He bristles and relents, his back still to her. “It’s Lance.”

The words she’d planned are taken by the current. That name isn’t… “Lance isn’t a common name around here,” she says in wonder. “But it is back home.”

“I’m originally from Garriokos,” Lance says sharply. “I was more patient with you than most prisoners out of respect for that. But my allegiance isn’t to the royal family, not anymore, it’s to Poseidon. Nothing you can say can--” he turns and blinks in surprise. “… what are you looking at me like that for?” he asks suspiciously.

Pidge stops experimenting with her tail abruptly. “You used to be human?” she gapes uselessly, now upside down (and it would be so invigorating to figure this tail out - when would she ever get an opportunity like this again! - if this situation wasn’t so awful). The realization sends a shockwave through her system. The longer he stares at her in bewilderment - the same expression she’s sure she also wears - the more she sees humanity.

He’s not lying about his friend.

A twinge of sympathy worms into her heart - but only just. It’s enough that makes her think that maybe, just maybe, she can stand to work with him just long enough to get out of this situation.

His tail twitches with agitation. “What of it? I’m clearly--” he holds his hands out before him - the same hands he’d just used to choke her - examining his palms with something like regret. Fingers curl into tight fists, trembling, before his arms falls loosely to his sides. “Clearly I’m not anymore.”

Then there’s a way to appeal to him.

“Let me help,” she says firmly. “If I can save your friend, that would be equal payment for the pain I’ve caused him, would it not?”

His lips curl in thought. “I don’t have healing powers, and you certainly don’t.” Pidge’s heart skips a beat, a pit sinking in her stomach as her plea seems to bear no fruit.

Lance sighs in defeat. “Besides, Allura is away, she’s the only one that could--”

His face dawns with some sort of realization. Pidge smiles in anticipation. The way his face lights up with an idea gives her hope.

“Unless I use her trident to heal him,” Lance says, voice lighter and with more energy with every syllable. “It’s the conduit for her powers, so it’s under heavy guard while she’s not home, but,” he turns his gaze to her. “It’s guarded against the rest of us, but... not against mortals,” he finishes, looking straight at her.

Heart filled with hope, Pidge presses the issue. “I’ll get the trident for you in return for my freedom and return to land.”

“Ha!” Lance laughs aloud, his voice cutting through the water like a knife. “And you expect me to believe you’ll help me just like that?” he says with a snap of his fingers.”

Frustration bubbles in her throat, escaping through a growl. “It’s not as if I can just run away,” she seethes, pointing at her new limb. “I have people depending on me. I will do anything to save my brother.”

For the first time, Lance really looks at her. His face is slack, and betrays no indication of which way he leans.

“Take my hand,” he orders, holding out his own.

His tone leaves no room for argument, and with her life still in his hands, Pidge acquiesces, placing her hand calmly in his palm while her heart pounds and screams on the inside.

Placing his other hand on top of hers, he mutters in a language unfamiliar to her. Though before she can ask what it is, he lets go of her.

Her hand glows green, like the shade of the ferns around the palace, for a few breaths before dissipating.

Lance sighs, closing heavy looking eyes. When he opens them, gone is the anger and rage, replaced with a deep sadness.

“I’m really… not supposed to do this,” he confesses eventually. He swims down to her, close enough she can see the blue - human blue - in his eyes. “But I’d do anything for Hunk and you passed the truth spell.” He nods, face set in determination. He takes her hand, much gentler than even just moments before, and helps to flip her right side up. “Get the trident for me, and I’ll change you back into a human and set you free.”

A relieved warmth fills her chest. Pidge smiles, feeling safer in her ability to control her own destiny. “It’s a deal, Lance.”

~~~~~

With anxiety induced pain growing in her chest, Pidge realizes though the deal was struck, fulfilling it will be a far more difficult task than she imagined.

She’s fought minotaurs and lions, outsmarted a sphinx, delivered charms, and returned children to their homes--

But she’d had legs for those tasks.

Pidge stalls mid-swim, seeking purchase with her cursedly short arms though there’s nothing but water for miles. She tries to swim how she’d normally swim, lifting one leg and then the other separately to kick - but her single appendage isn’t working like that. It moves up, but then as she forgets she has no second leg to move, it flips further towards the surface, setting her upside down with a yelp.

Momentum carries her in a half circle, she now faces the opposite direction of travel.

And to make matters worse, Lance swims laps around her - zipping past her in every direction and looping head over tail as she does, but completely in control - as she struggles to figure out how her tail works.

“Why can’t you just change to your larger form and carry me?” she complains as she continues to spin, tail flapping uselessly above her. Under less pressing circumstances, having a tail and fins and scales might have been fascinating and a perfect way to study underwater biology. Frustratingly, it only brings her to the point of tears. She needs to get this figured out!

He glides to her and takes her hands, gliding to point her in the right direction. “A princess of Garriokos who can’t swim?” he teases. No longer angry with her now that she is assisting him, his grin takes on a much more playful feeling.

Pidge growls, the teasing unwelcome in her misery. “You know fully well why I can’t get the hang of this yet - I wasn’t born a fish.”

For a less than a heartbeat he frowns, and she nearly misses it, for he laughs and says, “You’ll have to get used to it fast if you’re to take the trident. Pretend your legs are tied together. Your tail is more powerful than you realize. Trust it.”

With a twist in her gut she understands - he hadn’t been born a fish either.

The advice he gives is invaluable; the sooner she finishes her task, the sooner she is on her way to seek help for her brother and people. At least now that she’s agreed to help his friend, Lance is in much better spirits - much more patient and humorous than their initial meeting promised.

Grimacing, she focuses all her attention on her tail. It’s no different than any other problem she’s ever solved, and she’s never backed down from a challenge.

She takes his advice and forces herself to imagine legs tied together. Water flows past her gills with each slow, deliberate beat of the tail.

“You’re gettin’ the hang of it now,” Lance encourages after a while.

To her surprise, she notices he still holds her hands as she takes him for a ride.

Placated by the promise of his friend’s recovery, he seems far more human than monster - even with the dark scales that line his body. The gesture feels safe, here in the middle of the deepest part of the sea with no structure or landmark to speak of, but it’s also humbling to remember the tirade back at his lair and realize he could - and can still - leave her here at any time.

Pidge flirts on the edge of danger with every beat of her tail as she ponders over what makes Lance tick. His motivations are still largely unknown to her. He clearly cares for his friend and has a fair amount of vanity - but is quick to anger, terrifying and dark.

“You’re not moving us?” she asks. If not for the water passing by, it seems as if they’ve gone nowhere.

Lance lets go of her hands and he disappears from her side.

“I’m the one not moving!” he calls out from behind her.

Pidge freezes, suddenly unable to breathe. The vastness of the sea is overwhelming; so dark and lifeless in this particular area. There is no way to tell what is up and down, right or left. Her tail curls on its own around in front of her face and her heart races with fear, her breaths quicker in panic.

“Hey!” Lance swims in front of her, his brows narrowed in concern. “You were doing great.” He cups her cheeks and the touch grounds her. “I’m not gonna run off and leave you. You’re doing me a favor.”

His voice aims to soothe, but Pidge hardly feels better. “And if I wasn’t?” she asks, pushing off his chest. “You’d have left me out here alone and not knowing how to swim; I’d have been helpless and terrified.” She pauses, her voice whispering in quiet horror, “That was your original plan, wasn’t it?”

Guilt flashes across his features and he looks away. “I did offer that you could stay with me.”

The revelation does little for her impression of him - just when she’d started to warm up to him too. “By implying that I could sleep with you?” she accuses, voice rising several pitches and still shivering at the thought of being out here all alone.

“Which would be a total benefit for most people!” he protests lively, flailing his arms. “I mean, look at these” He displays his biceps, flexing them with the cheesiest of flashy grins.

His vanity is tiresome and still sickened from the reminder of her would-be fate, she can’t find the energy to properly groan. “Yet you were perfectly willing to kill me at the same time. Wouldn’t that have been a problem?”

“Of course not!” he exclaims - perhaps a little too quickly with eyes threatening to pop out of their sockets. “Anger is passion; liking someone isn’t... a requirement for bedding them.”

He says it but… Pidge gets the distinct feeling he doesn’t subscribe to it. Lance reminds her of the noble boys in her class - showing off for favor and attention.

Pidge sucks in a deep breath. She wants to say that he’s wrong, but the words refuse to come out. Perhaps because he has a point. As a co-ruler of a nation, she knows all too well that marriage isn’t always done for love or even affection.

And here she is agreeing with a man who could become a monster about it.

She swallows before responding, “And I suppose you’re an expert then?”

Lance turns his head, lips squished to one side of his face as he narrows his eyes in contemplation - not the reaction Pidge expected of a self purported temptor.

“None have taken me up on that offer,” he confesses, rubbing the back of his neck - in relief? He laughs in a nervous manner. “They’ve either fled once I turned them or insisted I eat them instead.”

Pidge sighs, perhaps a bit dramatically. “I wonder why,” she mutters sarcastically. “Your bedside manner could use some work.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve interacted properly with mortals,” he admits. “It gets lonely down here surrounded by sea creatures and… my prisoners.” His mouth tugs up in a forced smile. “You’re the first.”

It isn’t hard to imagine, those like her who have wronged the sea in some way facing judgement from Lance as a monstrous sea serpent. The experience still leaves shivers down her spine - and she isn’t even finished with this nightmare!

“Then there are others?” she asks, kicking her tail to continue. They need to keep moving.

Still, it’s slow going at first, until she’s comfortable with the swimming motion. Lance keeps to her pace. She takes hold of his arm - reassurance he won’t go anywhere.

Lance shakes his head, continuing their conversation. “Just you. The others lived out the rest of their natural lives, as you would have.”

There’s a confidence in his tone that makes Pidge unsure of herself. He seems so certain that she will be able to retrieve the trident and thus no longer be a prisoner beneath the waves. Yet her quests in search of help have hardly been easy and she knows not what this one will entail.

If she fails, she not only fails to free herself, but also fails to free her brother and her people. Not to mention she’ll fail Lance and his friend will die.. If he hasn’t succumbed to his wounds already.

So failure is not an option.

“I suppose none care to see you again after being turned,” she guesses.

Lance keeps his eyes forward. “It isn’t so bad. I have Hunk to visit. He’s worked under the sea for about as long as I have.” He laughs. “It’s funny. We’re both immortal, but whenever we meet I feel more human than ever.” The lump in his throat bobbles. “I couldn’t stand to lose him. He’s my only real friend. I - I’d forget what it’s like to be human.”

Everything about him - his speech, demeanor, even his aura - is so different from when Pidge met him as a fisherman on the beach. No longer is he purely vindictive and angry, but instead desperate and sorrowful.

“All this talk and watching you figure out your tail is making me hungry,” Lance complains. As if summoned, his stomach grumbles. He gazes longingly at his stomach as he places a hand on it.

Very human indeed.

“I hope it’s not my tail that looks appetizing,” Pidge jokes. His torment of her seems as far away as the lair with the time he’s spent guiding and speaking with her.

“Oh no! I couldn’t eat another sea creature!” Lance says. “I’m craving cow, actually. Very plain, but there’s also tons of them, and I don’t have to take them prisoner.”

“Well, for your next prisoner,” Pidge says dryly. “Take note that if you want to sleep with them, don’t dress them in revealing outfits.”

“Oh,” Lance says, blinking rather innocently for the context of the conversation. “The dress wasn’t for that - although it did look stunning on you.”

His confession sends a warmth to her cheeks and a happy bubbly feeling in her heart. Strange for her to be stirred by her captor turned business partner, but in the moment he sounds more genuine than any suitor she’s ever met - the recent Galra ones included.

People either don’t compliment her, or they want something from her. Lance has nothing to gain from such an offhand comment - she’s already helping him with something he wants.

“T-thanks,” she stammers out, for lack of any other complete thought.

“I mean, the dress was more for me,” Lance admits. “Silk is the best tasting fabric - it goes down very smooth - I clothe all my prisoners with it just in case.”

Her heart drops into her stomach. “Oh,” she says. “I think I just lost what appetite I had.”

“Of course it makes for a nice outline to make the scales,” he continues. “It gets cold down here during the winter. You need all the insulation you can get!”

“I suppose my arms have been a bit chilly,” she says, if only to move away from the topic of dinner.

Lance swims a bit ahead of her and does a flip, head over tail, before gliding up to her face, his nose nearly touching hers. Pidge flails backwards, unprepared for his exuberance.

“Movement will help!” he says with a big grin. “And once we get to where the trident is being kept, I promise you won’t be cold anymore.”

Where could warmth be this deep?

“Where are we going?” she asks. Stopping for Lance’s joyful spin forces her to concentrate in order to regain the momentum she had with her tail.

She’s not quite so afraid anymore, now that she’s gotten the hang of it and Lance seems to be in good spirits as long as she doesn’t say anything bad about Hunk. He’d sufficiently managed to distract her from her fears.

Now she feels confident enough to experiment. She twists her tail sideways, but it does nothing. Flicking her tail down fast while twisting though yields her way to pivot and turn.

Lance hums. “It’s called the Forge,” he explains unhelpfully. His nose scrunches up in distaste. “I’ve only been there once to help Hunk pick up an island and if his life wasn’t in danger I wouldn’t be going back.”

For a heartbeat, Pidge forgets she can breathe. What manner of place is this? “And you’re sending me there?”

“You’re the one who offered to help,” he says, though his eyes narrow into a glare. “Unless you’re having second thoughts.” He swims closer, refusing to break gaze. His aura builds like an angry storm. “You promised,” he accuses.

“I’m still doing this!” she says immediately, hands up between them in hopes it placates him. Dangerous or not, she’s surely faced worse and she must do this in order to return home. Return home she must. Matt and their people are counting on her. “I was joking. I have a reason for wanting to do this too. You were joking earlier too, right?”

His anger fades and guilt is written all over his face before he turns his back to her and swims off. “Sorry,” he says as he pauses. “I know I shouldn’t - I just - I’ll be a lot better once I know Hunk will be okay.”

Pidge sighs, relaxed once more now that he’s not acting like, well, a monster anymore. “I know how you feel,” she says. If he was able to open to her, perhaps the least she can do is return the favor. True trust must go both ways after all. “When I first started out on my journey, I was angry too. I felt so powerless.”

She kicks her tail a half dozen times in quick succession, propelling her swiftly to where Lance is. She takes his arm in her hands to half her forward progress.

“The Galra blockade is starving my people and my brother risks his life every day he refuses to surrender,” she tells him. “I need to do this, Lance. I have to go home with a way to defeat the Galra - I don’t have a choice. The only way my people live is for me to keep going.” A fire burns in her soul, fists clenched in anger at what her brother faces. “I will do anything for them.”

Lance regards her rather blankly and she searches for any inflection in his expression to gleam what he thinks.

“We aren’t so different,” he finally says. “And you’re doing it all as a mortal.”

Pidge gives him a smile. “You’re doing what I would have done too. Come on, the sooner I get the trident, the sooner we heal your friend.”

The wide, brilliant smile Lance gives her warms her cold arms. He radiates hope, and that is something she is always in need of.

“Well then,” he gestures to their right. “Ladies first.”

Pidge snorts, the gentlemanly offer humorous in their situation. “I think I’m finally getting the hang of--”

Abruptly, Lance stops them. Pidge floats into his outstretched arm, tail curling around in front of her from momentum. She grabs hold of his arm with both of hers, gripping tight as to not be separated by the current.

“Why have we stopped?” she asks. “We literally just started again.” There is nothing but empty, dark sea as far as she can see. “What--?”

The singing comes first; a beautiful deep sound full of longing. The water in the near distance becomes noticeably darker. In a few precious moments, Pidge can make out dozens of large shapes off to their left.

She’s heard stories - never has she been on a ship long enough to spot one surfacing - and seen parts of carcasses, but nothing compares to the majesty of a whale swimming freely.

Her mouth sits agape as the creatures pass them in slow motion. Each beat of their tail is mesmerizing.

The spell breaks when a much higher pitched, and louder, moan reaches her ears. Lance is smiling in delight, his mouth moving in an exaggerated fashion to make the long-sounding noises of the whales.

“Whale crossing,” he tells her with a wink a moment later. “It’s almost mating season and it would be bad to cross their path after they’ve traveled so long.” Chuckling, he continues, “It’s been a while, so I thought I’d ask for directions to make sure I wasn’t getting us lost.” He preens. “My sense of direction is impeccable, as it turns out.”

The explanation makes her smile, heart filled with a warm bubbly feeling. He speaks like a citizen of Garriokos, with a respect and awe for the sea.

“You seem pretty human right now,” Pidge dares to say. Perhaps it’s the wrong thing to say aloud - he is quick to temper, and she’s heard enough stories to know of tricks and tests given by monsters. Still, this feels more genuine than anything Pidge has seen on her journey thus far.

Lance looks at her in disbelief. “I was talking to whales,” he gapes. “That’s not really a human thing.”

A grin tugs up her face. “I know,” she says. Talking to animals is one thing, but showing compassion is another. “That’s just what makes you human.” Well, “Mostly, anyway. The whole ‘eating people’ thing isn’t helping.”

He laughs, bending over as he clutches his gut. “Thanks, Pidge. That… means a lot coming from you,” he says rather sheepishly for a sea monster. “I’ve been really awful to you. I’m sorry.”

Pidge sighs, but she’s far from mad or upset about it all. “You had a job to do, and I did hurt your friend. I would have done the same thing if it was my brother - it’s why I’m doing this.”

Lance bites his lip. “No, not really,” he insists. “I nearly killed you no less than three times and I honestly didn’t care if I succeeded or not. Remembering that feeling really scares me, and you?” He turns from her, shaking his head. “You were absolutely terrified and I enjoyed it. That’s not okay.”

While right - she had been terrified and convinced she was going to die after all - she considers her current arrangement. He’s worried about his friend just as she’s worried for her brother. She can’t… forgive him, exactly, but knowing he’s remorseful eases her heart.

She takes a deep breath before responding, “What’s past is past. We have work to do and,” she dares to smile, “maybe you can make it up to me.”

Lance smiles brightly, nearly glowing. “How? I’ll do anything!”

“You,” Pidge points at him with a smirk. “I think your powers are pretty cool. Think about everything we can learn from being able to talk to whales. I mean, is it a learned language? Is it only something sea creatures can do?” Pidge gasps. She’s a mermaid! “Can I do it?”

Lance chuckles, eyes bright and excited. “I could probably teach you, yeah!”

Curiosity incited, Pidge can’t stop. The dam of questions she’s been holding back bursts. He’s talking, might as well keep going. “What about your shape shifting? How does that work? Is it related to the anklet? I want to know everything.”

Just as quickly as her excitement came, it fades. Once she’s given him the trident, they’ll part ways and she’ll likely never see him again. All that knowledge would be lost to her… if she can even put it to use after the Galra invade.

But she still wants to know, wants to see Lance the person in his explanations rather than Lance the jailor.

A blush covers his cheeks, his flustered look is endearing and about as un-monster like as Pidge can imagine - he can hardly look her way! “My magic works through iron,” he explains, trying his best to keep a cool face, though he can’t stop blushing. He fingers his sapphire necklace absentmindedly. “I can change anything as long as there’s iron attached to it.”

That explains her cuff then. It’s adorable to watch him be shy over it.

“Why iron?” she asks brightly.

Lance shrugs. “I dunno, it just is. Poseidon didn’t really care to elaborate much. Allura taught me most things about my job.”

Pidge’s fingers tingle with excitement, her smile exuberant in anticipation. “Iron usually rusts underwater. Perhaps he has an iron-ic sense of humor?”

Lance stares at her with his mouth agape… before giving into the ugliest snort of a laugh Pidge has ever seen.

Emboldened and feeling impish, she swims around Lance, looking him in the eye. “So you can be a sea monster, a merman, a human, what else?”

Slowly, his mirth morphs into pride, a confident smirk playing at his lips.

“Watch this,” he says simply.

Just hours ago, the sight of Lance’s sea monster form had sent her trembling. Now, she tries (and fails) to stifle a giggle as the same form floats before her, the size of a small dog.

Lance’s reptilian eyes blink in displeasure. “I am fearsome!” he declares.

“You look like my dog,” Pidge laughs.

In a flash, Lance transforms into a shark. It’s the largest Pidge has ever seen, a single tooth the size of her hand.

“Surely this strikes fear into your heart!”he says, swimming stalkily around her.

Pidge smiles, relaxed for the first time in this entire adventure. She’s accustomed to Lance’s shapeshifting and this isn’t the first time she swam with a shark. “I know it’s you now. It’s not frightening once the veil of mystery is lifted, that’s why mortals strive for scientific progress.”

“Hmmm,” Lance ponders aloud. “If fear no longer leaves you breathless…”

A flash of light, and before Pidge is a sea turtle. Lance flaps his new fins, zooming around her.

“Awww,” she cooes. “You’re adora-- wait a minute, you did that on purpose!”

Somehow, sea turtle Lance smiles smugly. “Mortals are drawn to cute things! I could enthrall anyone by being cute or fearsome!”

With a flash, he transforms again, this time a blue skinned octopus appears and Lance wraps all eight tentacles around her from the back, peeking around to the side of her face.

“Or I could add a bit of creepy to revive the mystery,” he says.

Pidge shivers as the slimy but very firm tentacles rub gently down her arms and face. In the back of her mind there is relief that she knows he isn’t coming on to her like before, but yet...

She forgets to breathe, frozen like a cornered animal. The memory of being trapped all too fresh, his tongue tasting her skin.

As if sensing her discomfort, in a flash he’s back to his merman self, a look of horror etched on his face. “I went too far. I’m sorry.”

Pidge gulps. “You… you’re good at being fearsome.” She tries to smile genuinely, but it feels fake. With just the touch, it felt like she was back in his tongue about to be eaten or worse.

“I don’t want to be for you,” he says quickly. His eyes look away from her, downcast, reflecting his wild thinking. In a poof, he’s a seal, and barks before speaking. “I don’t want you to be scared of me, not anymore. You’re helping me that’s… that’s more than others would do.”

Pidge finds her breath again, but she’s still shaken, keeping her arms close, as if hugging herself will make her feel better. “We should keep going if we want to help your friend in time,” she says evenly, not to betray her wavering feelings.

Lance is trying, she knows that - but the damage is done.

His nose twitches, pointedly looking away from her. He meets her gaze, a hint of nervousness in his eyes. “It’s not too much longer,” he says solemnly, guilt and shame all over his tone. “Follow me.”

Pidge steels herself. She can’t worry about Lance anymore, it’s not as if she’ll be seeing him after this.

It’s time.

~~~~~

Pidge understands now why this place is called the Forge.

Steam vents litter the sea floor, surrounding two large underwater volcanoes. Lava spews from the smaller of the two, cooling near immediately when it hits the cold water.

The expansive lava field before her is jagged. In stark contrast, large sections of various shapes and sizes seems as if they have been cut away creating craters lines with steep cliffs.

“Well, this is it,” Lance says. He’s back in his merman form and the two of them float in plain sight at the beginning of the jagged rock. He observes the scene before them, mouth curved down to one side in annoyance. “Knowing Keith, he’s probably keeping it at the top of the larger volcano. He’s so extra.”

“Seems like you two would get along well,” Pidge says in an attempt to tease, ease the tension from earlier - Lance certainly is not shy to over the top presentation if their meeting and the makeup of his lair has anything to say about it. “Why don’t you just ask him for it?”

Lance glares - though not in anger - before he laughs sharply at the idea. “He wouldn’t let me within a hundred feet of Allura’s trident. He takes guard duty way too seriously. We do not get along.”

“Okay then,” Pidge says with a deep breath as she surveys the scene before her, already working out what route is best. “Sneak in and out it is. Anything I should know before I do this?”

He taps a finger against his chin, letting out a thoughtful hum. “The trident is behind a red colored magical shield, but you should be able to swim right through it,” he recalls. “I don’t sense Keith anywhere, so I think he’s out placing an island; the quicker you do this the better. I think there’s a storm above the surface, but Shiro usually doesn’t stay for long.”

No time to waste. “Be right back,” Pidge says. She’s already slapped her tail downwards hard to move as Lance wishes her good fortune.

The terrain is more of a test than Pidge expects, but although the guard is not here, she prefers to keep as stealthy as possible. The jagged lava acts like a stalagmite field that forces her to dig deep for every drop of agility she has. Twisting left and right and around - trying to keep as straight a path she can to the volcano - she tires quickly after the long journey from Lance’s lair, but powers through with the taste of freedom so close.

Part of her is a bit sad to leave Lance, she thinks as her mind drifts during the strenuous race to the trident. Though he made the worst first impression, he’s been civil enough while they force themselves to work together. That he was willing to entertain her questions brings a smile to her face and his delight to take part in her sense of humor makes her heart light. He’s piqued her curiosity and Pidge wants to know more. She certainly prefers his company to that of the Galra commanders at the palace doorstep.

As much as she’d like more time with him, she needs to get back on her journey as fast as possible.

Turning sharply upwards, Pidge ascends the main volcano. True to Lance’s word, her arms are no longer cold, though it seems there is no middle ground in the ocean; her mind goes numb and vision blurs from both the uncomfortable heat from the volcano and her exercised body in the sprint here.

Just a little more… then she’ll have the trident and her freedom…

Pidge breaks the top of the volcano, looking down into the crater as she rises above it, heart pounding, breathing through her gills greedily.

The trident glows of gold and floats inside the crater with a red bubble surrounding it, as Lance said it would be.

Her chest rises and falls heavily and Pidge allows just enough rest before she dives down into the crater. She grits her teeth, ignoring her aching limbs - adrenaline is her friend.

Her hands punch through the red wall and she grabs the trident. Momentum sends her tail downwards still and for heart pounding moment Pidge yelps in fear as she nearly loses her grip. Holding fast, she swims out of the crater.

Gold covers the entire surface of the trident, the base of the spikes studded with blue gemstones. The tips of the spears diamonds, the middle spear black with the ones on the ends red and green. It’s mesmerizing and more colorful than she expected. The gemstones sparkle with power and impossible lightning seems to dance among the white tips.

“Pidge! Look out!”

Hot current flows over her with such force and so unexpectedly that she lets go of the trident with a surprised cry, sending her spiraling out of control…

...and into Lance’s arms.

It isn’t uncomfortable like before. His human arms feel safe and his genuine concern and desperation to save her comes through.

“Hold on, I’ll get you out of here and distract him - then go back for the trident!” he says quickly.

Pidge squeezes her eyes shut and does as he asks, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck.

She opens her eyes to look past his shoulders and nearly wishes she hadn’t. Trailing them is a smoky cloud with angry red flame bursting from the edges - hot enough to stay lit underwater unlike the lava from the volcano.

“I thought you said he was out!” she shrieks. Hotter than a volcano, the only morbid silver lining Pidge can decide upon is that it would be faster to die than being eaten.

Lance scrambles into the field of lava spikes, turning and twisting far faster than she had. “I thought he was! I couldn’t sense him at a-AHHH!”

Pidge screams also as waves of hot water smash the rock around them, and tiny pieces crash into them and litter their route. She holds on even tighter, her ear pressed firmly against his chest, hearing Lance’s every frantic heartbeat. If he’s worried - she has reason to doubly be so.

He twists, crashing into the sea floor and sparing her the brunt of the impact. On land, she’d chastise him for such an action - she can take a hit! But here caught unawares she’s more thankful and relieved.

“Swim for it!” Lance yells.

She has a job to do.

Pidge launches off from him, thrashing her tail and flipping her fin as fast as she’s able back towards her target.

Lance yells in pain and her heart skips a beat for him. She remains focused, not looking back - she has to, for her brother, her people…

Her tail works twice as fast.

She swims more cautiously into the crater this time - perhaps to her detriment, it gives her ample time to be taken in by the ebb and flow of the glow not far beneath her. Without speed from the previous fall, it takes an agonizingly long time to sink below the rim.

The glow of the trident shows her the way, the sparks of electricity guiding her through the vog until she lays hands on it once more.

The green spear seems to glow as she lifts the trident from its stone sheath. “Huh,” she muses as she tosses it into her other hand, holding it with ease. “Lighter than expected.”

The volcano rumbles beneath her and a sense of dread fills her.

“Oh no.”

The yellow dot at the bottom of the crater is soon replaced by a growing orange and red pool. Eyes wide and fear constricting her heart, Pidge turns for the rim - painfully far away for her sore muscles - and digs deep, slapping her tail and letting the resistance from the water send her upward.

She beats her fin as fast as she can, imagining she’s running. Every second she loses more sight of the rim, dark and poisonous gases clouding her vision and sending her into a coughing fit. The rumble gets louder even underwater…

Scaly hands wrap around her, pinning her arms to her sides. Water rushes past her with speed and power Pidge can only dream of. She dares open her eyes as she clears the crater rim. Moments later, lava pours out among the growing dark gases.

“What are you doing with my trident?” a booming female voice demands. In a bright flash, the trident is gone from her.

Pidge looks up… and up and up to see the face of the trident’s owner. Allura towers above her, even larger than Lance in his monster form. A circlet of gold adorns her head between her long white locks that, like the clouds they resemble, crackle with lightning. Her scowl of displeasure is a startling contrast from the glowing pink scales beneath her cheeks.

The trident is now in Allura’s other hand, enlarged to fit its master.

The scales on her hand press hard against Pidge’s chest. “You would do well to answer me…” Her eyes widen as her gaze wanders to Pidge’s tail. “That shackle - you’re a mortal?”

“A-Allura!” Lance’s voice wobbles. “You’re back!”

He seems rather happy despite her predicament, Pidge thinks sourly as she makes a failed attempt to wiggle free.

“What in the Seven Seas is going on?” Allura asks in exasperation as she loosens her grip on Pidge. The storm in her hair seems to subside, the gem in her circlet glowing like moonlight.

The dark fireball that chased her and Lance materializes into another merperson. His red scales glow like molten lava and he glowers as darkly as his jet black hair.

“Lance is using the mortal to try and take your trident!” He tells Allura, before turning to Lance. “You know no one’s supposed to use it but Allura!”

Lance glares right back. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you’d spend some time hanging out with Hunk instead of every second above water with Shiro!”

Keith seethes. “That has nothing to do with what you’re doing!”

“It has everything to do with why I’m doing this!” Lance fires back.

“Lance, you know the rules,” Allura says, voice full of sympathy. “I have no choice; you’ll have to spend the next one hundred years in the Trench.”

Life seems to drain from Lance’s face and his eyes plead to be free of the sentence.

“W-what - what about her?” he asks numbly.

Pidge’s jaw drops. He’s thinking of her when he’s about to be imprisoned himself? That’s… very unselfish. And surprising. Just earlier today he’d been ready to kill her.

That was his job though, she realizes. This right here - this is instinctual, his first response, the core of his being, his true colors.

They are kind.

“With no one to carry out her sentence I’ll have to set her free. I’m sure she’s learned her lesson by now,” Allura responds. Her eyes are filled with hesitation - she doesn’t truly want to do this.

Pidge’s heart twists for him just as hope lifts for her. She’ll get to go free! Imprisonment is probably what he deserves after he frightened her so much… but he’s doing this for his friend, like she’s doing this for her nation.

So as Allura points the trident in his direction and a ball of white light begins to glow in front of it, Pidge screams, “Wait!”

Allura blinks, caught off guard enough that she halts the spell mid-cast. “The mortal does have a voice?”

“Lance isn’t doing this for himself!” Pidge exclaims. “Hunk is hurt - the only reason he even considered taking your trident is because you weren’t around!”

Allura’s eyes widen, but it’s Keith who speaks in a dark tone. “What do you mean ‘Hunk is hurt’. Who hurt him?”

Pidge opens her mouth, and at Allura’s dangerous expression she suddenly realizes, with a knot in her stomach, that anger is about to be directed at her.

She can lie. They both know Hunk is hurt and he’ll be healed - Lance will have to set her free and she’ll continue her search for help. She can make something up and redirect their anger. Because if Pidge speaks the truth, she has an inkling she may not survive. Lance waiting a hundred years in prison is nearly her entire lifetime.

Meeting his pleading gaze, there’s a small smile of hope he cracks. He nods, urging her to continue. He thinks she’ll be okay?

It’s her brother’s voice that comes through loudest. Not her mother’s to overpower the situation - she’s tried that. She’s already questioned Lance and his motivations to get to this point, like her father would.

Now she listens - listens to Lance - and takes a leap of faith to really trust him and prays her understanding of his character isn’t false.

“I did,” she admits with a shaking voice. “I killed a golem by the shoreline. I’m sorry. Lance is just trying to make things better - and I’m trying to help.”

Though she’s surrounded by the children of Poseidon, the sea around is calm and quiet - almost too quiet. Until Allura speaks.

“Is this true, Lance?” she asks, tone laced with concern.

Lance gulps. “Ye-yeah. I - I don’t know how bad off he is, Allura. I haven’t been able to check on him because I had to take Pidge prisoner. But if it’s a golem he could be…”

It is evident that there is no need for Lance to finish his sentence. Allura and Keith both have a look of understanding, their expressions wrinkling into the same anxiety that Lance wears.

“We go at once,” Allura declares firmly. To Pidge’s relief, she’s released without harm and is finally able to take a relaxed breath.

Things may yet turn out just fine.

~~~~~

They arrive at a rocky cove, a cave half submerged in the sea with an inviting white sand beach beyond it edged by luscious palm trees and colorful tropical plants.

Hunk is inside the cave and looks just as much on death’s door as Lance had feared, so Pidge swims off to the side, observing behind a rock with her chest above water for the first time since the night at another beach and another rock.

Lance has climbed up onto the pebbled sand under the cavern’s roof and holds the titan’s head in his curled tail, desperately whispering encouragements while pulling strands of hair out of Hunk’s face. The giant man - for he has legs instead of a tail - sweats and breathes heavily.

But he seems to relax when Lance squeezes his shoulder and when Keith heats the rocks under his back.

Allura points her trident at Hunk from the water, and mutters in a language that even in her travels Pidge is unfamiliar with. The diamond tips shine brilliantly, and a pink light hovers over Hunk before it washes over the titan, cascading over his belly, and arms and legs, like a quiet stream over river rock.

Only when Hunk groans and his eyes flutter open does Pidge breathe a sigh of relief. He’s going to be fine, which means Lance will honor his end of the bargain.

It also feels good to see friends reuniting - as Hunk sits up full of energy, and promptly grabs both Lance and Keith into a tearful bear-hug - and knowing she had a part in it.

“Dude, you have to stop sending your golems so far inland!” Lance chides as he escapes the embrace. Keith isn’t so fortunate as rigid as his body is - Hunk only squeezes him tighter, with both arms now that he doesn’t hold Lance - but his mouth twitches with a smile that betrays his enjoyment of the hug.

Hunk’s lower lips puffs up. “How else am I supposed to send letters to Shay? There’s no coastline between here and the canyon.”

“Perhaps I can fix that,” Allura says with some amusement. “I’ll cut a river pathway to the canyon, then you can see her all year rather than only during the spring floods.”

Tears well up in Hunk’s eyes. “You’re the best, Allura.” He swallows, face going serious, he points a rocky finger at her, sand falling from the crumbling stone at it’s tip. “You are not leaving until I can hug you.”

“I would not dream of it,” she says, delighted. “Lance,” she addresses him, “I can trust you’ll find the appropriate creatures to inhabit the new river? I can’t send you to the Trench when you’re doing such important work,” she finishes with a wink.

Lance beams, and Pidge feels light knowing he’s off the hook from his punishment. “That’s my favorite part of the job,” he says. “I’d be honored.”

His gaze finds Pidge and the edges of his mouth sink. “Give me a few minutes. I have something I need to do first.”

Pushing off against the bolder, Pidge slips back underwater. A strange trepidation fills her as Lance swims up to her. Excitement and relief is what she should be feeling.

He pauses, looking her up and down as if unsure before he holds out his hand. “Let’s talk outside.”

Now that Hunk is safe and healing, Pidge doesn’t feel fear when she can’t help but snort in amusement. “We are outside, goofball,”she teases, the endearing term learned from her brother rolls easily off her tongue.

His jaw flaps uselessly. “Well, yeah - I mean - we are, but - urgh,” he says. Shoulder slump and his face darkens in frustration. “Let’s go away from everyone, the bay is always quiet.” He sighs and extends a hand.

A smile tugs up the side of her face as she takes his hand. “Let’s go.”

Waves roll gently onto the shore, depositing pebbles and shells on the beach. Lance leads her to the shallows, flopping his back onto the sand. Pidge follows suit, relishing how warm the sand is compared to the cold of the deep sea.

“Thank you,” Lance says once they’ve settled comfortably. Pidge rolls onto her side and cracks an eye open. Though he smiles, he seems sad. “You stood up for me when you didn’t have to.”

His sincerity is refreshing and it’s nice to have this moment before they part. “You’re not bad, Lance. You care for your friends, I admire that. I told you I’d have done the same for my brother.”

Lance nods. “Of course. Speaking of that--” With outstretched arm, the tip of his pointer finger glows a soft blue. Her tail feels as though it melts, the iron bangle by the fin glowing in the same blue.

The familiar feeling of two legs is back before the light is gone. Her heart flips with joy, wiggling her toes and splashing her legs on the water. It doesn’t even matter that she’s wearing the silly green dress again, she’s finally free!

“And that’s my end of the bargain,” Lance says sadly.

Pidge contemplates how to say goodbye. She has much to do - firstly finding out where she’s ended up before resuming her search for help. She struggles - how does one say farewell to a near stranger who she met as her captor but ended up being a fun companion?

There’s no need, as Lance speaks up. “You’re free to go, as promised.” He chuckles. “Now I owe you one.”

Wait. What?

“Did I hear that right? You owe me? How?” Pidge blinks in surprise.

“Look, Pidge…” He swallows hard and breaths. When he opens his eyes, they shine like sapphires. “I haven’t felt this human in… well, a really long time. And I don’t want to forget what you helped me remember. Not to mention you risked your freedom for me, the one who took it away in the first place.”

Pidge grins, heart soft. “Lance, I didn’t help you remember anything. You care so deeply for your friends - and it’s obvious they care for you. Well,” she amends with a laugh, “maybe how to interact with mortals.”

He takes her in his arms so suddenly her eyes bulge. “Thank you. I needed to hear that,” he whispers. “It’s so easy to forget. I don’t want you to go, but I know you have to save your kingdom.”

She lets her head rest on his shoulder. He could keep her with him with ease, but he makes no move to, just melting into her arms.

A hopeful thought enters her mind. Lance may have his duties, but he’s still a creature of the sea, and Pidge lives on an island - plenty of opportunity to see each other again.

Lance pulls away, grinning from ear to ear. “So, that just means I’ll come with you!”

“What?” Pidge shrieks. “But you’re the guardian of the sea - you said yourself!”

“Ah, yes,” he chuckles. His mouth thins into a line, “but I also never leave a debt unpaid. Thanks to you, not only is Hunk healed, but I’m not grounded for one hundred years,” he says. “I owe you those years.

“So,” he grins. “Where do you want to go?”

Pidge freezes, unsure of what to really do with the sudden addition of a traveling companion. It’s not what she needs, but she won’t deny it will be nice not being alone on the road - with a sea monster ironically.

Realization dawns on her, jaw dropping and blinking rapidly to soothe her drying, bulging eyes. Visions of the Galra blockade, fiery coals raining down upon a terrified populace flash through her mind. Her heart thumps, tears of joy rolling down her cheeks. She has… she has a companion now. She has help. The most perfect help she could ask for.

“Are you okay?” Lance asks, concerned. He leans forward, hand outstretched before he reconsiders and pulls back. “Do you… not want me to come along? I need to repay you somehow… for what you did for me, and every terrible thing I did to you.”

“I’m fine,” she chokes out. “I’m just really happy to have your help and your company.”

He perks up. In a quick flash of white light he’s changed into his human form, jumping up onto his legs. He offers her a hand. “Then where too?”

Pidge almost can’t say it because she can’t believe it, so the word comes out like a whisper,

“Home.”

~~~~~~

The salty ocean breeze feels better on the grand balcony of the Garriokos royal palace, and is refreshing running through her unbraided hair. The light weight of her favorite green headband flutters against her bare neck and the light fabric of her dress is much better in the warm sun versus a cold, rainy night.

Pidge grips the stone railings, rubbing her hands along the familiar embedded pebbles that give it color. Light footsteps approach on the stone floor and Pidge turns only just long enough to see her brother.

“I still can’t believe you’re home,” Matt says, a soft happy smile on his face. He looks better, face no longer ashen and pale and dressed nicer than she became accustomed to seeing before she left - he looks like the soon to be king.

“For a while,” she says. “I loved traveling, and I think I’d like to try it some more. You’ll take care of things here while I’m gone won’t you?”

Matt lets out a short laugh, hands resting on his hips. “I just kept things sane while you were gone. Besides, you’re the one who saved us all.”

A great crash calls Pidge’s attention back to the sea. The Galra fleet engages in combat seemingly with each other - the waters chaotic and filled with fire and smoke on the decks. Pidge grins knowingly, taking great pleasure as she watches Lance in his full sea monster form take down the flagship with his massive tail. It snaps in half before being dragged underwater.

“I’m just fortunate to have met the right people.”

“You would befriend a sea monster,” he teases, joining her at the railing. Matt leans in, nudging her in the arm with his elbow. Pidge can’t help but giggle; how she’s missed this, just able to relax and enjoy her brother’s company without a care in the world.

I’m really proud of you, Pidge,” he says more somberly, smile mirroring his sincere words. “You know that right? Mom and Dad would be too.”

Warmth rushes to her cheeks at the praise, as has always been her weakness. She never can take a compliment, deserved or not. She all but jumps into his arms. “Love you too, Matt. It’s good to be home.”

He hugs her tightly back. “And you’ll always be welcome here.” One last tight squeeze and he releases her. “Now that I’ve had a bath, I need to see how the city has fared - get people relief as soon as possible. Will you be all right here?”

Pidge nods, heart warmed that her brother is such a caring soul. He’ll be a good king. “I’d like to wait for Lance. It’s the least I can do since he’s demolishing the Galra armada for us.”

Matt laughs. “I’ll leave it to you then.”

As Matt leaves, a wave washes over the railing to her back. As the balcony is so far above the sea, only a storm or something - or someone - supernatural could have caused it.

“Finished already?” Pidge asks wryly.

Lance sits on the railing, whistling through his fingernails and leaning on his other hand. “It was easy peasy. I don’t like to brag but,” he says smugly, “only Allura could have taken them out faster.”

“Well, that’s still faster than anyone I could have found to help,” she says, placing a hand to her heart. “You know, you’re pretty cute out there, flopping around and destroying ships.”

His face turns red, humorously so. “I - I am not cute!”

Embarrassed, he’s even cuter.

Pidge snorts, unafraid and amused. “Your little arm-fins were flickering around with excitement and it was adorable,” she says, demonstrating by flapping her hands, wrists pressed against her body. “It was like watching a child with a new toy.”

Lance grabs hold of his arm, pitiful tears pooling in his eyes. “My tiny fins are vicious and can cut a ship in half!”

“And they wiggle. It’s cute, Lance.” Pity takes hold of her as Lance slouches in defeat. She strides over to him, gently wrapping her hands around his arm, and leans up on her toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you. I feel like you’ve already paid me back for those hundred years.”

“Pfft, say no more!” Lance jumps down and stands before her, chest puffed out in pride. “That was simple. If we have to keep score,” his face scrunches in though, “hm, maybe that’s one year. That’s still ninety-nine to go!”

That’s still longer than Pidge ever hopes to live as a mortal, so if Lance insists on this crazy system of ‘paying her back’, she’ll make use of it.

“Tomorrow we’ll head to the market then,” she decides. “It’s in need of some major clean up.”

Lance hums thoughtfully. “That might shave off a month or two of service.”

Pidge rolls her eyes. “Well the sooner we help my brother clean up the sooner we can get back on the road. You have lots of places to show me, right?”

The whites of his teeth shine - and Pidge doesn’t neglect to notice his tiny fangs even in human form. He kneels, taking her hand gently in his. To her fluster, his lips brush her knuckles.

“Anywhere in the Seven Seas,” he confirms. “Consider me your guide and more.”

Pidge raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Back to your old tricks are you? I’ve only known you for a few days.” Though she laughs, she can’t deny she likes the sound of it.

Lance rises as he rolls his eyes. “So quick to a dirty mind. I’m also your friend, but,” his eyebrows rise suggestively. “I may be amicable to companionship of a different kind if you choose.”

“Well then, friend, let’s start with your favorite island,” she says, heart pounding in a good way, delighted with the prospect of adventure and learning a lot more about Lance. “Think you could give me some proper mermaid swimming lessons on the way? I want to figure it out for real this time.”

The devious, playful smirk that meets her gaze says yes.

#plance #pidgance #vld pidge #vld lance #voltron legendary defender #vld fanfic #rueitae #i am excited to know your favorite parts #i have been waiting so patiently to share this and i am so happy

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taizi · 5 years

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without knowing how, or when, or from where

good omens pairing: aziraphale/crowley, crowley & warlock word count: 3517 part 4 of the is there a better bet than love? series read on ao3

Crowley is keeping a secret.

Come now, you old fusspot, Aziraphale scolds himself immediately after the initial thought. It’s not as though we live in each other’s pockets. A fellow is allowed to have his own life.

It’s just that— well, there’s no reason to live separately anymore, to be apart, not really. Weeks after the almost-end of the world, they’ve settled into the same side, their own side. There’s no need to be skulking about at odd hours so their superiors don’t get the wrong idea, no need to force distance and affect indifference.

And Crowley is such a darling now that he has room to be. Slinking in to share Aziraphale’s company every evening— and then, soon after that, to share his bed. He presses into Aziraphale’s hands at night, into the curve of his body, like a heat-seeking missile, like a creature left out in the cold. Not entirely sure of his welcome, not quite yet, but coming closer with every morning he wakes up in Aziraphale’s arms.

(They kiss, and they hold one another, and they go no farther than that. Crowley isn’t interested in carnal pleasures, and Aziraphale would only be if he was. It’s a blessing just to have him; to reach out and trace the curve of his cheek or the red of his hair and feel him lean into the touch; to finally love him as he deserves to be loved, utterly and with gleeful abandon.)

This intimacy they have found is something precious to the both of them. Aziraphale doesn’t want to begrudge his snake a single thing, but he doesn’t understand what place any secret might still have between them.

He brings it up to the Reading Circle one dreary Thursday morning, hoping for advice.

They’re a group of six or so seventy-something year old women who have taken to the shop twice a week ever since the church whose basement they used to meet in snubbed Greta’s gay granddaughter and henceforth incited the Circle’s collective, not-inconsiderable wrath.

The women refer to Crowley as Aziraphale’s “charming young man,” and keep Aziraphale up-to-date on all of the juicy Soho gossip, and have never attempted to make a single purchase. He quite adores them.

To his immediate consternation, the women exchange weighted, knowing glances.

“Well,” Laura says, “he’s a flash young thing. It could be that he’s not quite ready to settle down yet. Lord knows my Hector was flighty at that age.”

It takes Aziraphale longer than he’s proud of to realize what they’re implying, and then his first impulse is to laugh aloud despite all the feathers he ruffles in doing so.

“Forgive me,” he says, pressing a hand to his mouth. “Oh, dear. I’m afraid you’ve got quite the wrong idea about my Crowley.”

After six thousand years of not-very-subtle adoration and foolhardy devotion, the demon’s commitment can hardly be called into question; but Aziraphale can’t very well explain as much to the ladies in his shop. He pours out more tea and smiles to himself while they witter, deciding he might as well stop beating around the bush and just ask Crowley directly when he comes— here, a happy thrill at the concept— home.

And so that evening, after dinner together and a half a bottle of very fine red wine, he does. Crowley doesn’t look surprised to be caught out. He rubs a hand through his hair thoughtlessly, leaving it a charming mess, and can’t seem to meet Aziraphale’s eyes even from behind those silly glasses.

“I’d hoped to get away with it for just a bit longer, angel.”

Aziraphale is more relieved than anything that it wasn’t just the product of a restless imagination. He sets aside his crossword and beckons Crowley closer, having had quite enough of him existing outside of arm’s reach.

Crowley slinks across the room readily, climbing over the angel’s lap to get to the corner of the sofa he prefers. Tucked up against Aziraphale’s side, under his arm and against his chest, the tension ebbs out of his body like water down a drain.

“This is the part where you yell at me, I’d imagine,” he mumbles into Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“I should certainly think not,” Aziraphale says primly.

They bicker over just about everything— from any manner of theological issue to whose turn it is to pay the cheque at dinner to who cheated who in an Olympic game they both competed in nearly three thousand years ago— because it’s fun, even at its most annoying. Aziraphale’s fellow angels are humorless, and Crowley has implied that an argument in Hell is likely to spiral into a knife fight within the space of a few ill-chosen words, so they tend to pounce on any argument that lands between them with all the full-ahead eagerness of jousters in a tiltyard.

But they don’t raise their voices in true anger. It would hardly be worth the two steps back, when each step forward is a thrilling victory. It would be hard to summon the vitriol in the first place, really, when life is so pleasant anymore.

It’s still raining outside, and Beethoven is playing on the gramophone in the front room, and even Crowley’s plants are waving ever so slightly back and forth in perfect contentment.

Aziraphale says, “Tell me, love. I’m listening.”

Nanael has discovered poetry. They have spent countless hours curled up in an overstuffed armchair with a pile of books that refuses to shrink, doing nothing but drinking in the art of language that humans have dreamed up.

They are new to the concept of time, of seasons and changing things, but it has been about a year since they arrived in London. A year and four days, to be precise, marked by Crowley coming by with a clear pastry box containing a Battenberg cake that he plopped without ceremony on top of the jigsaw puzzle Nanael was picking their way through.

It looked very much like the same cake they’d eaten on their very first day here at the shop, right down to the expertly quilted pattern on the white marzipan.

“What’s this for?” Nanael asked, touching the green ribbon gingerly.

“Sort of your birthday, innit,” the demon had muttered before stalking off to the back room, leaving a fondly bemused Aziraphale to explain the concept of anniversaries and celebrations and birthday gifts.

Four days later, Nanael still smiles when they think of the cake. They have been on earth for a year, and they’re beginning to understand why Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, never came home. There are certainly no birthday gifts in Heaven.

The door above the bell rings, and Nanael looks up from their book in time to watch a man step inside. At the very least, they mentally amend a moment later, a man-shaped entity. He isn’t doing a very good job of suppressing his demonic energies, letting them flare and catch about Nanael’s periphery like fire.

Nanael tenses, but doesn’t leap from behind the counter or issue any Holy demands. They’re a little bit embarrassed about that sort of thing now, and waits instead for the demon to make his own introduction.

“To hear Hastur tell it, Crowley’s lost the plot,” he remarks snidely, by way of hello. “Far as I’m concerned, this sounds like the place to be. Where is he?”

His— her, Nanael can see now— voice is incongruent with her form, not entirely human, as though she hasn’t quite mastered this whole mortal flesh malarkey. It’s reminiscent of Poe, and makes Nanael think of talking ravens, and they’re rather charmed by the whole thing where they should probably rightly be horrified.

“Oh, you know Crowley,” Nanael says, relieved. “He and Aziraphale are out to lunch.”

Nanael was invited along, but one of the ladies in the Reading Circle gave them a Meaningful Look and said it was important for couples to have Alone Time every now and again. Nanael isn't sure what they meant by that, because there’s no stopping Aziraphale from looking at Crowley as though he hung the stars even when they’re surrounded by company— and that’s perfectly reasonable, Nanael thinks fairly, because Crowley did— but they went alone to lunch, anyway, and Nanael got to know Yeats instead.

And that is why, now, they are alone in the bookshop with an unfamiliar demon. They don’t regret it, though; Yeats has been worthwhile.

(There is a whole stack of nineteenth century poets, shelves and shelves of them, and Aziraphale says they’re dear to him; he says they kept him company when he was quite lonely, but he never says it when Crowley is around to overhear. For this reason, even though Nanael doesn’t fully understand it, those poets are dear to them, too.)

“Out to lunch?” the demon looks nonplussed. It’s a more pleasant look than the sneer had been. “Is that code for something?”

“What would it be code for? They went for Italian.” Nanael doesn't know if that meant an Italian restaurant nearby or the country of Italy, and they didn't think to ask.

“The Serpent doesn’t eat, ” the demon says. She sounds as petulant as a child Nanael overheard the other day, discussing the existence of Santa Claus with her mother. “It’s one of the oldest curses in the Book. ‘On your belly you shall go, and you shall eat dust all the days of your life.’ The punishment for creating original sin would have to be steep, wouldn’t it?”

She says it with a strange, backwards sort of delight, almost awe. Nanael’s heart— fragile, unreliable human thing that it is— gives a painful lurch.

Surely not, they think, but it’s more out of reflexive horror than anything else, desperation to deny the very idea.

All of those pleasant afternoons at all of Aziraphale’s favorite restaurants swim to the front of their mind; trying dish after dish of unfamiliar cuisine with their fellow angel while Crowley only nursed a glass of wine.

They think of their birthday cake.

Hands curled into loose fists, Nanael’s eyes stray from the stranger before them and toward a certain selection of books at the back— books that they were told to steer clear of until they had a better grasp on things.

“Tricky business, occult science,” Aziraphale had said. “You’re just as likely to lay a curse as break one if you don’t get the inflection right. Best keep out of it for now, hm?”

Nanael, in what was becoming habit, had looked to Crowley for the final word on the matter. Crowley leaned back on his elbows and said, “No knowledge is off-limits, Feathers, but you wouldn’t give an eight-year-old a book on astrophysics and expect them to work it out for themselves, would you? If there’s something you want to know in particular, just ask.”

And that had been that. But now… well, things have changed, haven’t they? That’s what things do, here on earth, is change, almost constantly.

The demon leaves with an unsettling lack of farewell, but Nanael hardly notices her go. They’re venturing into the stacks they’ve never ventured into before, abandoning their poets to reach instead for a book in weathered blue binding. The title has mostly faded; all that’s left of it reads Tractatulus Hyprocratis, and Nanael isn’t sure what that translates to.

But there are dictionaries here. There are encyclopedias and thesauruses. One of the first things Nanael learned was how to learn, and they lock up the shop with a thought and circle back to the chair that has become theirs.

If Crowley is cursed, it hardly seems fair that Nanael should have to sit around all this knowledge that might be of help to him and not be allowed to pursue it.

“I heard your parents are sending you away,” Roman says in a rather nasty tone of voice.

Warlock sizes him up, and Roman sees him sizing him up and puts a healthy extra step of distance between them. It isn’t that Warlock is very big or very strong, it’s just that Warlock doesn’t think twice about starting fights, and he’ll go to twice as much length as anyone else will to finish them.

“Whoever told you that’s a liar,” Warlock bites out. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He’s thirteen now, with grades near the top of his class after that dismal year between ten and eleven. His teachers aren’t sure what to make of him, but he’d tell them if they just asked; that Nanny said Warlock could do much better than he’d been doing, that it’s one thing to punish the people who hurt you but a whole ‘nother when that punishment bends back around onto you.

It wasn’t hard to tidy his grades up after that. He’s not an idiot.

“That’s not what dad said,” Margo pipes up. “Dad told me your dad told him that you’re on the waiting list for a program for troubled youth. Very private. Almost like they want to keep you a secret.”

The rest of the group gets a big laugh out of that, and Warlock glares at the bunch of snow weighing down a low-hanging branch above the sidewalk, willing it to fall on their heads.

Whether by nature or influence, it does. They shriek in surprise, and it’s Warlock’s turn to laugh.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says again, just so they don’t get any more stupid ideas. “I’ve got plans, you see.”

And then he rushes the rest of the way home, careful not to slip on the icy pavement, because it’s Friday, and Friday means Nanny will be there to pick him up after school.

“Oh, I forgot,” Nanael says. They’re hiding whatever book they’re reading in an open magazine, and Aziraphale hasn’t come around to asking why yet. Some things are better left untroubled. “Crowley, someone came looking for you. A demon. I didn’t get her name.”

Aziraphale sharpens, pen going still above his ledger. Crowley doesn’t look half as worried. He hardly looks up from his phone.

“As long as it’s me they’re looking for,” he says. “I’ll tighten up the wards tonight.”

“As long as— “ Aziraphale frowns mightily. “Danger to you is still danger, Crowley. We’ll tighten up the wards right now.”

“It's not as though they'll be back before dinner,” Crowley grumbles, but he picks his feet up off the ottoman and pushes himself upright nonetheless. He makes a show of it, making sure to look impossibly put-upon, and Aziraphale feels himself bristling.

“After what happened the last time we had unwanted guests,” he says tightly, unhappy, “I hope you’ll forgive my taking extra precautions.”

Crowley winces. Nanael looks stricken, and then miserable. “I’ve told Daniel not to come here again,” they say, picking guiltily at the edge of their strange amalgamation of reading material. “She promised she wouldn’t.”

“Well, that’s one angel we can cross off the list, then. We only have the rest of the combined forces of Heaven and Hell left to worry about.”

Aziraphale bustles into the front room, feeling prickly and restless. The idea of danger looms in all the dark corners of the dimly lit shop. Crowley follows, as silent as a winged creature, or in this case, one with scales.

He steps into Aziraphale's space, looping those long arms around his middle, and Aziraphale is distracted by him, the warmth of him. His hands come up almost on their own to hold Crowley where he is.

“You’re working yourself up, angel. There’s no need. We’re safe as houses, here in your little shop. I’d like to see old Michael take a swing at one of us behind these walls.”

“Don’t tempt fate,” Aziraphale murmurs. “The last thing we need now is to invoke one of them.”

“We’ll tighten the wards,” Crowley says, giving, as always, where Aziraphale is stubbornly set in his ways. He's rubbing small circles against Aziraphale's back, the original tempter, convincing him to let go of all this reasonable worry despite himself. “Not even a mouse will get in without our knowing about it."

"I'm hardly worried about mice, my dear," Aziraphale says sternly, but it's a losing battle. "If anything were to happen to you— "

"I know, Aziraphale." Truly, he must. He watched the shop burn down and for a few bleak hours believed half of his soul was lost for good. Aziraphale can barely stomach the idea of such grief, and holds him tighter, as if to make up for not holding him then. "Nothing will. As long as we're together, we can weather anything they throw at us. It's worked out this far, hasn't it?"

"For better or worse."

Crowley leans back, eyes fully yellow, pupils round in the low light.

"They won't take me," he vows, vehement, full of a caring that crouches in his chest like a creature with teeth. "And they won't touch you. I swear it."

And what could he say? Aziraphale leans in to kiss him when the words all fail, on the corner of the mouth, the cheek, the stark lines of his tattoo, the lid of his eye, that stubborn brow. Faith and love and trust coalescing inside him into something fearsome, something next to divine.

He's afraid he's gotten used to being afraid, but for Crowley, Aziraphale would brave anything.

“Oh, darling, there was no need for secrecy and subterfuge. You need only tell me these things.”

Crowley squirms. Aziraphale lifts his sunglasses away with a proprietary air, then lifts his chin and holds him there. He strokes Crowley’s bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, one of those throwaway moments of intimacy that still blow Crowley’s mind. He hasn’t reconciled himself to this new normal as easily as Aziraphale has. He has to fight not to shiver when all of the angel’s attention or affection bends his way.

“After six thousand years of doing whatever I’d like to do,” Aziraphale says fondly, “it’s rather past time I indulge whatever whims of yours that I can, hm?”

“This is more than a whim, ” Crowley hedges. He was expecting more of an argument; he doesn’t know what to do with such an easy victory. “It’s a— it’s a whole kid.”

“He's important to you,” Aziraphale says, as if it’s that simple.

And so Warlock Dowling comes to the bookshop in Soho for a visit, wide-eyed and clutching to the hem of Crowley’s jacket, incredibly small, infinitely human.

But there is nothing fragile in the way he lifts his chin and seems to dare Aziraphale or Nanael to tell him he isn’t welcome. As though a child should expect to be told he isn’t welcome.

“Hello, dearest,” Aziraphale says. Crowley can see him remembering the boy when he was very young, when he still toddled around the gardens asking about all the flowers and bugs. “I’m not sure if you remember me.”

Something like fondness springs into Warlock’s eyes, as if it was just waiting for the invitation.

“Brother Francis,” he says promptly, a smile lurking in the corners of his mouth. “Nanny said you fixed your teeth and left the church.”

Nanael makes a noise like a cat whose tail has just been stepped on, and turns bodily away to look with such pointed indifference at a shelf of self-help books that it’s obvious they’re suppressing laughter.

Aziraphale says “oh, really” and Crowley favors him with his most devil-may-care grin.

“Nanny said I could call him Crowley now, but it’s okay if I don’t,” Warlock goes on. “Is there something different you want to be called, too?”

A polite little Hellspawn when it suits him, Crowley thinks with displaced pride. He can see Aziraphale melting like butter, opening his mouth presumably to tell Warlock he can call him by whatever name he’s most comfortable with, when someone knocks on the shop window.

She’s a harried looking middle-aged woman, tapping her knuckles right next to where the Closed sign is hanging and seeming adamant about coming in anyway.

Warlock glares, and the shade comes crashing down with enough force that it knocks the window display clean over. The tapping, at least, stops dead.

“Oops,” says Warlock, shamefaced. He scurries over to pick up the fallen books, though he doesn’t bother lifting the shade. “Sorry.”

Crowley glances back at Aziraphale to find him stunned, staring at the books on the floor in bewilderment. Crowley rubs the back of his head, and says, “Yeah, um— there’s that, too. I think we may have believed in him a bit too much, during his formative years. Put some thoughts in his head that, er, took root.”

“I see,” Aziraphale says faintly. He comes to stand at Crowley’s side, watching Nanael crouch next to Warlock and show him how much more fun it is to order reality about with a snap of one’s fingers rather than a glare.

“If you’re Crowley’s child, you’ll pick it up right away,” Nanael says with perfect confidence.

Warlock brightens, and Crowley pretends not to notice the way Aziraphale is smiling at him.

#good omens #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #warlock dowling #nanny crowley #my writing #gomens fic #nanael is here to stay everyone #and Dont Worry that demon is too #is there a better bet than love

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the-lady-bryan · 4 years

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because i’m waiting on the water for my pasta to boil, here’s an idea i had for a fic but haven’t worked on it hardly any not for lack of muse. the muse is there. the worldbuilding has been done to death. i just haven’t the time to add it to the mountain of WIPs I’ve already got going.

so here’s the idea.

It’s a Harry Potter/Hermione Granger Soulmate AU.

The least you need to know: involves Lily Potter being a bamf, pagan god worship, god-like Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, reincarnation, future mind/soul into past self style time travel.

also typos. oh god the typos, but i can’t really be bothered to fix them at this time.

This is gonna be broken up into parts so i’m gonna do a different part per reblog till i’m done.

PART 1: THE PATRONAGE OF A TITAN

When Lily was a young witch - around 13 or so - her best friend Severus introduced her to some old pureblood traditions (which he and his mother did but hid from his father). She was shown how to worship the old pagan gods. To a muggleborn this was at first not well received, but as Lily had learned in the previous three years not everything about her new world was to be taken at face value. So she endeavoured to learn and not be prejudiced. She had lerned that each witch or wizard who practced the old ways had a patron god or goddess to which they prayed. This was, to her, not entirely unlike the idea of patron saints to whom muggles appealed for strength, guidance, or support. And so this is how she approached this new aspect of her magical identity. Even after her parting of the ways with Severus, she continued to learn and had even begun the practice of honoring the old gods - though she had no patron as yet.

On her seventeenth birthday she had ventured into the forbidden forest, feeling an inexplicable pull on her magic. She found herself in a clearing where there was a pond and a small smattering of trees. Despite it being the dead of winter, the clearing was warm and inviting. There was a fire lit, and an old woman sitting before it. She was naked from the waist up, and her skin sagged and her long hair was thin and silver with age.

"Miss Evans, I've been waiting for you."

"Wh- How do you know my name? Who are you?"

"I was once called the Meter Theon. But in Sparta they called me Meter Megale. My brother-husband called me Rhea."

"You're a titan."

"Yes child."

"I thought you'd be bigger."

Rhea laughs at this and invites Lily to join her by the fire. Lily learns from her that Rhea has come forward as her patron, and tells hr that the old ways are dying. That now across the world only the oldest and strongest still remain. "Zeus and his lot were some of the first to go. But stubborn old Hades refuses to give in. Refuses to give up his post and move on like the others." "why?" "What do you know of the tale of Hades and Persephone, child?" And so Lily tells her the myths she learned as a child pre-hogwarts, and of her research. Of the rites she had read about and so on and so forth. "My siblings and I may have been chained in Tartarus, but we could still see. We could still hear. Mother Gaia still whispered to us in our hearts and Father Ouranous still sang strong in our minds. It always brought me great sorrow to see how my son was treated by his siblings. Given no choice but to rule in a place devoid of warmth and love. Forbidden from walking the land with his siblings and taking part in the wonders that was the growing race of men and their curiosity. Over time many believed him cold and incapable of sharing in what they had. The reality was that he felt everything so much more deeply than they. For it was to him all souls would eventually come. Even those of his brothers and his sisters. But there was one who saw in him the goodness. The kindness and the gentleness that had been hidden by the dark." "Persephone." "Yes. As you mortals are so fond of saying, history is written by the victors. And never has it been more true than in the case of my most beloved son and his wife. Persephone was ordered to wed Hermes, whom she loathed with all of her heart. The night before they were to wed, she fled and went to the only place she knew Zeus's omnopotent sight could never penetrate. She went to the underworld begging sanctuary of Hades, who readily gave it to her. In time they grew close, and eventually he allowed himself to open up to her affection. But rumours of Demeter's search for her daughter told them it would be only a matter of time before those on Olympus realized to where she had fled and Persephone, being posessed of imortality and not a mortal soul, could be removed from his realm and there was little he could do about it. Unless she were willing to bind herself to him in marriage - but because it meant she could no longer return to the world above, to the sunshine and the light, he would not force it upon her. She chose to wed Hades, for her love for him was so great that even the thought of being parted from him brought her great pain. They were wed, and he took her to bed as any husband would his wife. And after, she ate of the pommegranate that would seal her fate. Twelve seeds, she needed to consume.... but the gates of the Underworld buckled and gave way under the might of Zeus and his Olympians. Hermes stole Persephone away after she had eaten only six. The bond to her husband only partially fulfilled. Hades was punished by watching Persephone forced to marry Hermes. But rather than marry the brute she attacked him and took up his dagger, plunging it into her own heart.... For the weapons forged in the fires of Hephaestus were so powerful they could kill even a Titan. Denied the pleasure of watching Hades suffer as his wife was married to the suitor Zeus had chosen, Zeus forbade her soul from ever entering the realm of Hades and bound her soul to mortal bones to be reborn again and again. My beloved son still stands watch, though he grows weaker by the year, in the hopes that now his brothers are long since gone, her soul may be able to pass through his gates and she is returned to him."

Lily is given the choice near dawn to accept Rhea, one of the last of the old gods, as her patron goddess or to refuse and seek out another. Lily accepts Rhea, which causes the old woman to smile and gives her an amulet with strange runes upon it.

Lily wakes in her own bed in Gryffindor tower, finding a delicate locket around her neck. Upon closer inspection, the inside has an inscription - the same strange runes from the amulet Rhea had given to her in what she assumed was a dream... Only to realize when she pulls her covers aside that her feet are smudged in dirt as if she'd been walking outside.

Lily learns as much as she can of Rhea in the following years. When she marries James Potter, she insists that they buy a specific type of wine without telling him why. He believes it is her favorite because she tends to keep a bottle in the house "for special occasions". She plants a garden where every plant links back to her patron Titaness in some way or manner. The night of Halloween, after James has gone to sleep rather satisfied after their own "after party" once they'd come home from Sirius's wild Halloween party, Lily went out into her garden in the wee hours and made her offering to Rhea who, once again, appeared to her. This time Rhea was much more ancient in her appearance, much more haggard. But she was still very pleased to see Lily had done as she had promised and continued to worship her. "You are the last of my acolytes, I am afraid. And when you one day pass, so too shall I." Lily professes that won't be the case. That one day she and James will start a family, and she will make sure that her children honor Rhea just as Lily has done - even if they have to do it behind her husband's back (to many Light families, the "old ways" are seen as dark and are thus shunned and forbidden. Otherwise she would have happily included James in her worship of Rhea.) This amuses the Titaness, but she says that no, it is her time. The age of the gods has finally come to an end. But with the passage of the gods, something new must fill the void. Something new must give mankind the comfort and protection once offered by the old gods. "I have a gift for you, my dear child. As my last priestess, I wish to give you something your husband... unfortunately cannot." "What?" "Try as you might, your husband's seed will never swell your belly. But as my last act in this existence, I grant you a boon. Your loyalty and your love have kept me alive longer than my brothers and sisters. Your love has given me more time with my beloved son Hades, and as a mother who has seen all her other children perish before her, this is a gift that can only be matched by one of equal value." Rhea touches Lily's abdomen and Lily feels a warmth flood her starting from there. Rhea visibly weakens as she is doing this, and the brightness in her eyes fades from brilliant emerald to a dull moss. "What have you done to me?" "My body fails me, but my power will remain so long as you live. I have given you the only thing of value to me left. Treat him kindly, my priestess. He has known so much sorrow and so much pain and yet he remains so pure and full of love." Lily, in disbelief, puts a hand to her adbomen. "How... what...." "Word of advice from one mother to another. If your husband tries to eat him, just paint a face on a rock and shove it down his throat. My only regret was letting Cronus eat Hades instead of Zeus. If i knew then that boy would be such a hatefull jackass like his father, I'd have thrown him into the abyss myself and been done with him. Hera, too. And Poseidon was on pretty thin fucking ice there by the end."

Lily wakes the next morning in her bed with James, and once more her feet are smudged with dirt. This isn't the first time, so she tells James that she woke in the night for some water and wanted to take a stroll in the garden to look at some of her night blooms. The moment she is alone, she casts a charm and finds that she is, indeed, pregnant. After James has gone to work for the day, Lily prepares a special offering and leaves it in the garden tucked in a little altar disguised as a muggle garden decoration. She thanks Rhea for her gift and promises to show him all of the love and affection she possibly can - for both his mothers.

Lily does not see Rhea again, but she can feel her patron's presence from time to time and finds it comforting.

When Harry Potter is born, Lily silently praises Rhea, thanking her again for her gift and for her patronage and protection, and promises to do the best she can to raise the reborn Hades in a way she would hopefully approve.

They go into hiding, and Lily invokes Rhea's power and protection - not for herself, but for the son the Titaness had given her.

The entire day of October 31, 1981 Lily Potter feels powerful. She feels the energies surrounding her and her family intensify and a feeling of dread settles into her gut. She is reminded of the last time she and Rhea spoke face to face. The titaness had said that her body was failing her, and that so long as Lily lived, so too would the power of Rhea. During the day when she set Harry down for a nap, she prayed fervently over the boy, chanting ancient prayers of protection she had learned over the years. James comes upon her, but does not interrupt and instead waits outside Harry's nursery and listens to his wife's chanting. He slips away when she finishes and hurries downstairs. When they are both in the kitchen later, standing side by side at the counter as Lily prepares Harry's after nap snack and James is fixing himself some tea he quietly says, "I know Harry isn't mine." "What? Where the hell is this coming from? I did not cheat on you if that's what you think." "You got pregnant pretty quickly after Sirus's costume party-" "I did not cheat on you." "then who's the father?" "YOU are you dolt! I... Harry was a blessing! A gift to us for my unfaltering devotion o a dying goddess!" "you're mad." "Call me what you want, James. But I tell you if you were to pull an inheritence test on him right now you'll see he's your son. The night Harry was conceived we had just made love and she came to me and blessed me with our son. Go upstairs and look at him, James. He looks just like you, but with his mother's eyes. That's no glamour. That's no illusion or spell or-" "I know it's dark. I know it's illegal. I saw you chanting over him like some madwoman." "It was a protection chant James! In case you've forgotten we've got a madman after us who wants to kill our son because some drunken blithering idiot said so!"

The the argue a bit more and Lily storms out of the kitchen. After Harry wakes up, James realizes he's been an idiot after watching Lily playing with Harry and goes to apologize. Lily's annoyed with him, but forgives him with a "Besides, you know the wards on this place would have kicked him right out if he wasn't really a Potter you dunderhead."

That night Voldemort attacks, just as in canon. Lily is wearing her special locket that was given to her from Rhea when she accepted the Titaness as her patron. When Lily died, the remnants of Rhea's power was called forth and protected Harry in response to the muggleborn priestess's willing self sacrifice. But it was not enough to stop the horcrux that was drawn to the reincarnation of the god of the dead.

#harry potter au idea #harry potter au #bamf #lily potter

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dontenchantme · 4 years

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garden of eden - part two

Rated E, Satan x MC.

[no rad au] he was the serpent who had lured her out of paradise. she ought to hate him, but she didn’t.

fics masterlist

She woke up gasping, still able to feel phantom fingers wrapped around her throat.

Cold sweat trickled down her forehead, and she found that her hands were halfway reaching towards her neck – with a sigh, she turned onto her side and closed her eyes, burying her face in her pillow. She wasn’t used to sleeping alone. She didn’t think it would be so…strange.

It had been a long time since she last had to wind down by herself. It wasn’t something that she particularly enjoyed doing. Sure, being single and independent was great, but – she was used to having a warm body lying beside her. And without that, she felt…empty. Incomplete.

She got off the bed and jammed her feet into her bedroom slippers, deciding to go and get a drink from the kitchen. It didn’t feel like she’d be able to sleep again anytime soon.

Shuffling out of her room, she switched on all the lights in the apartment as she walked down the hallway, the sudden illaumination making her feel a bit less lonely. But when she got to the entrance of the kitchen, she hesitated, suddenly thinking about the demon who had come to her earlier in the evening. Satan. Just the thought of his name made her shudder.

It wasn’t quite fear that she felt. She knew it wasn’t. Fear had an acrid stench to it. There was no way she could associate something so bitter with a man that beautiful.

Call my name and perhaps I’ll come to you. She was tempted, honestly. If he was a demon and demons were willing to do anything in exchange for a human soul, then could she ask him to spend the night with her? She peered past the doorway, part of her hoping that he might be standing at the counter waiting for her again, but the kitchen was empty.

Grabbing a glass, she poured herself some water, stifling a yawn as she raised the drink to her lips. She still had work tomorrow and she ought to get more rest, but as the cool liquid slid down her throat it seemed to clear the fog of exhaustion from her mind and suddenly, she was wide awake. Placing the empty glass in the sink, she wondered about what to do next – the thought of returning to bed just to stare at the ceiling was rather unappealing.

Her neck throbbed, and she winced, her hand shooting up to touch the tender flesh – she couldn’t help but dream about him strangling her, dream about how his hands made her nerves sing, how the ruthlessness in his eyes stoked something in her belly and forced sensation into something she long thought numb. Her toes curled at the memory of his smile.

Why was she so obsessed with him? Her eyebrow twitched as she turned on the tap, a flood of water gushing out into the sink – she wasn’t the type to fall head-over-heels for a man she barely knew, least of all when the other party was a literal demon from Hell. But when he kissed her all her normal good sense seemed to merrily throw itself out of the window.

She wanted him with an intensity she’d never experienced before, and that scared her more than Satan himself did. This made no sense. She had to get her priorities fixed.

Annoyed at him, at herself and her overall situation, she washed the glass and placed it on the drying rack, her eyebrows knitted as she tried to think of various ways to pass the time. It was three in the morning. She had a good few hours until she had to get ready for work.

She felt self-conscious, walking down the street with the dagger in her coat. It wasn’t so bulky that she couldn’t carry it around, but knowing it was there made everything feel…exciting.

Not that she had decided whether or not she wanted to use it yet. They were talking about her soul here. And everything she’d heard about sinners and the afterlife made Hell sound like an awful place to be. She’d prefer not to be eaten. Or tortured for the rest of eternity.

The dagger was still warm. She could feel it radiating heat through her sweater – not that she was complaining, the extra warmth was welcome in today’s crap weather. The past few weeks the chill had been relatively mild, but today it was finally cold enough to snow, and God, how she hated the snow. She trudged through the street, desperate to get to her office building.

When she finally stepped into the lobby, shaking the snow off her coat and beanie, she made her way to the lift, pleased that she didn’t have to share it with someone. She purposely came in early today so that she wouldn’t have to talk to anyone on the way to her cubicle.

At her desk, she surreptitiously removed the dagger from her coat and hid it in her cabinet. In truth, she didn’t know why she took it with her this morning. But when she was about to leave her room, some eerie impulse seized her and the next thing she knew, she had retrieved the dagger and tucked it inside her outer coat. She still hadn’t figured out what to do with it.

Once she locked her cabinet, she got up from her seat and headed to the washroom – her final moment of privacy before she had to check her emails. There was hardly anyone else around on her floor and no one stopped her to chat, which she was thankful for.

The washroom was empty, and she went to the sink, studying her reflection. Carefully, she unrolled her turtleneck sweater – the bruises were still there, dark and painful. She tilted her head. Underneath the stark lighting, the marks almost seemed to move.

“Pretty bruises, aren’t they?” A vaguely familiar voice suddenly rang off the walls – she whipped around and saw Satan leaning against the door, his hands tucked in his pockets. Amusement danced in his green eyes. “It makes me wonder what you’d look like when you bleed.”

She ought to be afraid of him, afraid of the dark threat that lingered behind his words, but all she could focus on was the curve of his lips and how soft they looked, entirely at odds with the violence that seemed to swirl around him. Satan was smiling, his posture calm and relaxed, but even so she’d never seen someone look so dangerous.

Why wasn’t she more afraid of him? Any rational human being would be. Maybe she had lost her sanity after catching her ex with that woman. “What are you doing in my office?”

“I noticed that you carried the dagger out with you today, so I was wondering if you intended to stab someone.” He shrugged, pushing himself away from the door as he spoke. “It’d be a shame to own something so powerful and not try to use it, right?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Thought you said you were giving me time to consider.”

“Am I not? After all, I’m not ordering you to use it.” His laughter was almost tangible, tendrils winding around her wrists and ankles, coaxing her closer. Rich, inviting, his voice was sin personified. “I just repeated the thoughts that were already on your mind. You know that much yourself.”

He wasn’t wrong, but she’d rather he didn’t say it aloud like that. It made her sound like the kind of person she didn’t want to be. “That’s beside the point. How are you in my office? I didn’t summon you or anything. I’m not even angry right now.”

Satan raised an eyebrow. “You’re not? Really?” He took a step towards her and she froze, her breath trapped in her throat. Was this what it felt like to be cornered by a predator? He walked with the languid grace of someone who had all the time in the world, and every step he took made her more nervous. More excited. More…everything. “You’ve been seething with rage ever since last night, even if you shove your anger below more boring emotions like comfort and satisfaction and glee. Anger isn’t something that can be contained so easily.”

His smile was wry, almost taunting. She wanted to find a way to wipe it off his face. “Right. You seem to do an awfully good job of containing it though, for a demon that represents wrath.”

“You truly think so?” He chuckled, his smile widening into a brilliant grin. He was dazzling. She almost wanted to cover her eyes. “Well, it’d be rather embarrassing if I lacked control over my sin, don’t you agree?” He reached her, and she felt his fingertips brush against her cheek – his skin was cold, so cold. Colder than the winter air outside. Colder than death.

“What do you want from me?” she asked. She had no idea what demons liked to do in their free time but given that Satan was supposedly one of the seven princes of Hell, she doubted he would just pop in to say hello. He must have better things to do.

“You’re a mortal who caught my eye. Nothing more, nothing less.” Satan shrugged again. “It’s been a while since anyone has been bold enough to approach me. To keep thinking about me. To even dream about me.” He leant closer, and her breath caught – she couldn’t move, helplessly transfixed by the tiny distance between their lips. “It’s foolish to be entranced by a demon, you know. After all, the only thing I’m interested in is your fragile mortal soul.”

His hand shifted from her face down to her neck, lingering over the fabric of her sweater. She could feel the iciness of his skin even through the thick material. “But I’ve always enjoyed this. Watching women get their revenge on their worthless lovers. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Melodramatic indeed, but no word rings false.” His fingers tugged at her turtleneck, exposing her blotchy, purpled skin to him. She felt strangely naked.

“Does that make me your newest plaything, then?” she whispered. She still wasn’t afraid. She should be, but she wasn’t. His dark eyes met hers, almost questioning, and then she dragged him closer and they were kissing again, the kind of kiss that devoured the air between them and set fire to her lungs. Her fingers pulled at his blond hair, greedy and uncaring – if he felt any pain, he didn’t show it. Instead, he gripped her hips and effortlessly lifted her so that she was propped on the sink. Instinctively, she wrapped her legs around his waist – at this height, she didn’t need to tiptoe to reach him, and something about his nearness made her dizzy.

His kiss was punishing. His tongue forced its way past her lips, and she whimpered, unable to help herself. His hands roamed over her body, untucking her sweater and sliding up her bare torso – she flinched at his touch. It was almost like being thrown into ice water. She wanted to push him away and tell him to go warm himself up first, but then his hands found the edge of her bra and suddenly all she could see was nothingness. Everything was white, pure white.

She could hear herself panting, her body trembling with anticipation – a wire drawn taut, almost ready to snap. She was only vaguely aware of him pushing her sweater up. Satan yanked her bra down, exposing one hardened nipple. He met her gaze and there was a satisfied gleam in his eyes that looked almost feline – that was the last thing she thought about before he took her breast into his mouth and began to suck.

She bit her lip, trying her hardest not to let out a sound – the last thing she needed was for a concerned colleague to barge into the washroom and catch her entwined with a demon. But Satan was so good. Where his fingers were frigid, his tongue was warm and wet and he knew how to use his mouth in a way that drew pleas and whimpers out of her, unconscious prayers for salvation falling from her lips. She tightened her grip on him, hooking her ankles together behind his back, and was pleased to feel his hardness grind against her aching core.

It would be so nice to just strip her pants off and let him take her right there. She wanted this. She wanted him. It’d been so damn long since she last felt pleasure from sex. In her previous relationship, sex was comforting but lazy, something neither of them put particular effort into anymore. Sometimes she didn’t even remember what sex was like. But this was different. She felt almost electric. Like she was being reborn somehow, pushed into a world filled with pain and violence, the erotic whispers of pleasure underneath it all – Satan sank his teeth into her flesh, and she jolted into his mouth, her fingers twisting in his hair. It hurt. It hurt so well.

“Satan, Satan.” She realised that was her voice, her breathy whisper calling his name with the kind of reverence normally reserved for the church. He growled in response, the vibrations of his voice shooting into her nipple throughout her entire body, and she shuddered, longing to whip off her damp panties. She wanted to take his cock into her mouth, graze the delicate skin with her teeth before allowing him to fuck her, the tip of him sinking into her throat. God, how badly she wanted this. She was burning with desire and want, and he was looking at her with that triumphant glint in his eyes, his pretty lips still wrapped around her –

Then someone banged on the washroom door, and she stilled, holding her breath. “Oi! I don’t know who’s taking such a damn long time in the washroom but get out already!”

That voice sounded an awful lot like her boss. She let out a groan, and Satan slowly released her nipple with a quiet pop, still looking amused. “This is all your fault,” she said, hopping off the sink and trying to arrange her clothes as best as she could – her lipstick was smeared and the feverish sheen of lust was still present in her eyes, but everything should be fine once she touched up her makeup and splashed some cold water on her cheeks.

“My fault? You seemed very into it,” Satan answered, and his coy smile made her want to slap him. “Maybe if you do something to get my approval, I’ll show you a better time tonight.”

She froze, wondering if she should clarify what he meant, but when she turned around Satan was gone and she was left alone in the washroom, heat pulsing through her veins.

Do something to get Satan’s approval. She twirled her pen between her fingers, considering her options – she had a few ideas, none of which would be good for her soul.

Was this what it felt like to be tempted by the devil? Satan made a very compelling argument. Some tiny, rational part of her mind told her she was stupid for even considering his proposal – to become a sinner just so he would spend the night with her? She wasn’t like that.

She wasn’t supposed to be impulsive or hot-headed. All her life she’d forced herself to study hard, to work hard, to do everything with the utmost effort she could muster because this was the only way she could succeed. But she was so tired. So sick of putting up this façade all the time. Sometimes she could feel tiny cracks forming in her carefully maintained exterior.

He found those cracks, his voice slithering into the fault lines which bypassed all logic, which gave him a direct path straight to her heart. He coaxed her, persuading her to close her eyes and just give in to the resentment that bubbled away in her chest, festering and malignant.

There was something undeniably powerful and dangerous about him, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him, couldn’t bring herself to run away even when he approached her, filled with dangerous intent. She suppressed all instinct to flee, desperate to hear his voice. If Satan was one of the rulers of Hell, then surely Hell couldn’t be such a bad place. Could it?

She pressed her fingers against her temple. Ever since that episode in the washroom, she couldn’t help but feel like she was being split apart – one half of her reminded her that Satan was a demon; that all he wanted was to devour her soul and tempt her to sin. But the other half of her was drunk off him. She wanted his hands wrapped around her neck and his lips on hers, rough and unforgiving. And struggling between these two halves was exhausting.

It would be nice if she could just stop thinking, but probably the only way she could do that was if she went home now and drank until she fell asleep. Did she even still have wine?

Just then, two thick folders were dropped onto her desk and she jumped – when she looked up, she saw her colleague staring at her, chewing on some gum. It was the same guy they all suspected of sleeping his way to a promotion, and immediately she frowned, glancing at the folders he’d so unceremoniously deposited. “What’s all this?”

“Boss wants to start migrating all our data to the new system. We still have data from our old archives, so we need someone to transfer all this over.” He blew a bubble and popped it.

“Isn’t that your job?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. At least that was what she knew based on his job title. She’d never actually seen him doing anything related to data architecture.

“I work with bigger things. This is intern-level work.” He grinned at her – he probably thought he looked cute. She just thought he looked smarmy. “Don’t you have an intern? Just throw it to them. It’ll be a nice change from making coffee all the time.”

She bristled. “My intern left last month, just in case you didn’t notice. And don’t you have staff with capacity? You have an entire team working under you. You don’t need my help.”

Normally she wouldn’t be this confrontational, but something compelled her to stand up for herself today. She didn’t deserve to be treated like this. It was lunchtime, yet she was still at her desk, trying to rush out a report her boss wanted before the end of the day. She did not need an entitled prick trying to flaunt his newfound authority in front of her.

“You’re the fastest at data entry, though! That’s why everyone goes to you, isn’t it?” said prick replied, though she thought his smile dimmed at her response. She bet he had been expecting her to just suck it up and say yes, as always. “C’mon, I need your help. This has to be finished by next week and I’m already struggling with that other portfolio. Please?”

She rose from her chair, picking up the folders and pushing them back into his arms. “Not in the mood to help you today. I’m swamped. Try asking your temp staff – I saw one of them flirting with the receptionist in the pantry.” There was nothing more satisfying than watching his jaw drop, and she hid a smile by ducking her head and turning her attention back to her computer.

He tried to change her mind a few more times, but she was stubborn, and eventually, he left. Though he made a few veiled threats about reporting her to the higher-ups, she didn’t care much – at most she’d look for another job somewhere. Hell, she’d even take up babysitting again if that meant she could escape from corporate slavery.

Her gaze drifted to her cabinet and abruptly, she remembered the dagger she had locked away earlier in the day. She was giddy with triumph and maybe that made her more reckless than usual, but all of a sudden she found herself thinking about using the weapon on all the men who had let her down before, one way or another – starting with her stupid ex, then her asshole colleague, then the boy who had bullied her back in grade school, then the jerk who simply couldn’t stop playing his bass guitar in the middle of the night…

So many possibilities. So many ways to make herself happy. Why did she have to crawl up the corporate ladder just to obtain some illusion of contentment? Things would be much easier if she could just…get rid of the obstacles in her life. And she had the perfect means to do so right there, in her cabinet. She chewed on her lip. It was a frighteningly attractive possibility.

What did it mean to give up her soul? What would happen to her? What punishment should she expect? Perhaps Satan could tell her. She was aware he had no incentive to reveal all this to her, but…if she asked nicely, maybe he would let something slip. Reaching for the cabinet, she let her fingers linger on the lock, her skin brushing over cold metal.

Tonight. Tonight, she’d consider. She wasn’t going to make an impulsive decision, not even if every nerve in her body sang at the thought of getting her way.

#satan obey me #satan x mc #obey me shall we date #obey me

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shieldedbythunder · 5 years

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Okay, I’ve been having a LOT of feelings about a Thundershield Hades and Persephone style AU lately, and I don’t know if I’ll ever get around to actually writing it, but here, have a slew of headcanons and feels in the meantime.

So, first we have Steve, Lord of the Dead. Because death is equal, non-discriminate, the one form of justice that comes to all. When the universe was young and the gods were still dividing up their roles and domains, everyone looked to the hordes of shades; the sinners in need of punishment, the dead-eyed wanderers in search of rest, the faithful in fear that their belief had been for naught. And out of all the gods, Steve was the one who vowed to stand for them, to guide them on this new road and pass judgement where necessary.

It’s a lonely life he leads. Mortals tremble at the very mention of his name; they hear tell of his stern, steely gaze, empty of emotion as he gazes into men's hearts to pass judgement, and take it as a sign of cold ruthlessness. A king with no pity in his heart, and icy claws to snatch away their very souls. The other gods have little business in the realm of the dead, and the ones who visit never stay too long before they return to their own domain. And with nobody to talk to, he buries himself in his duties, widening the gulf ever further. But those who call Steve friend know that his smile is no less warm for all its rarity. The dead rest peacefully under his rule, speaking of him with reverence even as they wonder about his isolation. He may not be entirely happy, but he has no particular reason to be unhappy, and that is enough for him, for a time.

But then, everything changes.

Thor, God of Fertility, walks the earth to spread cheer and prosperity wherever he goes, the blessing of his touch just as likely to beget a bountiful harvest as it is a thriving family. He is friend to all, and everyone is his friend, the echos of his laughter heard in the booming of the evening thunder. In short, he is everything that Steve is not.

One fine day, his wandering path happens to cross Steve’s, on a rare trip to the surface to meet with T’challa, king of the gods. Steve takes one look at Thor, at the golden sunlight in his hair, the gentle smile that never leaves his blue eyes, and oh, how his heart beats loud and fast, like a songbird awakening to find itself in a cage.

But Steve has always been a realist. He can see the polite distance in those lovely eyes, knows that Thor has no interest in the cold halls of the underworld and their colder lord. This is nothing more than a passing infatuation, he tells himself, and he will wait out any pining nonsense in silence.

Of course, he couldn’t have accounted for the rising colour in his cheeks being noticed by a bored trickster god looking to ruffle his brother’s feathers.

Loki’s trick is a deceptively simple one. A strange tree, bearing fruit Thor has never seen before, piquing his curiosity as he tears through the flesh to sample the jewel-like seeds within. By the time, he’s made it halfway through, Loki’s restraint has broken down entirely, and he appears, chortling with laughter, to tell Thor of his new creation. Small though the tree is, its roots run deep through the earth - right down into the underworld, which means the fruit is considered of the realm of the dead. The realm Thor is now bound to, along with its stony-faced ruler.

The uproar is immediate. Thor will not hear of being bound to a realm of stone where the sun never shines; without his presence, the land and its people will surely wither away. Many are surprised to see that Steve’s vehemence in the matter equals that of the fertility god. He refuses to keep someone in his domain against their will, to condemn them a life of imprisonment. But at the end of the day, the law is the law, older than time itself. Thor has eaten food of the underworld, and thus is irrevocably tethered to it.

Eventually, T’challa comes up with a suitable compromise; as Thor only ate half the pomegranate, it stands to reason that he need only spend half of each year below the earth. It’s not a perfect solution by any means, but everyone recognises that it’s the best they’re going to get. And so, after six months of helping the mortals stock up for his approaching absence, after putting off his departure as long as possible, Thor begrudgingly makes his way to the entrance of the underworld. Steve awaits him at the top of the stairs, his gruff greeting seeming to confirm the worst of the rumours Thor’s heard. As they make their descent, side by side, Steve knows he should break the awkward silence, should assure his guest that there’s nothing to be afraid of down here. But what can he possibly say that Thor would believe? He leads Thor to his new quarters, assures him that anything he needs will be provided for, and leaves him to settle, finally allowing his face to burn up in embarrassment .

The first winter, as Thor’s absence comes to be called above ground, is not quite as hostile as either of them had feared it would be. Steve is relieved that Thor holds no ill will against him for his predicament, Loki being the main focus of his ire. And Thor is surprised to find that Steve is considerably less cold than certain mortals and gods alike would have him believe. Still, things remain stilted between the two for a while, uneasy with their new living arrangement. Not helping is the fact that the two hardly see each other, Steve’s workload affording him precious little time for socialising as it is. Thor’s restlessness proves to be infectious, his constant pacing and prowling through the halls putting Steve on edge, unable to focus on his duties.

One evening, Steve visits Thor’s quarters. He apologises for neglecting the other god in favour of his duties, and suggests that he sit in on court the next day to hopefully help pass the time. Thor is a little surprised by the request, but appreciates Steve thinking of him. What harm could it do? So the next morning, he takes a seat on the sidelines of the great hall, watching as Steve ascends to the throne and calls forth the first souls to be judged. And for the next few hours, he watches the lord of the dead’s face carefully. True, Steve’s face betrays no emotion as each new penitent is brought before him, but his eyes tell a different story. A deep, weary grief fills them as he deals with children and innocents gone before their time, while the traitors and liars earn a cold fury that burns no less brightly for its quietness. And for the rest, a gentle, reassuring warmth that puts the lost at ease, even as their lord attempts to remain aloof. Thor leaves the court that day with much to think about.

Another few weeks pass. And this time, it is Thor who approaches Steve with a request. A walk, he asks for. Just the two of them, going for a stroll to know each other better. Steve protests, albeit weakly; his duties are many, he wouldn’t be good company, a thousand other excuses that trail away in the face of the earnest look in Thor’s eyes. After much planning and discussion and wracking of his brains, Steve finally acquiesces and hands the reins over to some of his colleagues for an afternoon.

So, they walk. And at first, it’s the same stilted silence they’ve known since Thor had first descended into the underworld, but then Thor plucks up his courage and takes the lead with the conversation. He becomes more and more animated as he asks Steve about his life down here, amuses him with stories of Loki’s mischief, asks about little marvels of the world around them. Though he’s a little bashful to be in the spotlight - there’s a world of difference of being at the centre of the court’s attention and being at the centre of Thor’s attention - Steve returns Thor’s efforts in kind, his dry sense of humour quick to make itself known. Before they know it, hours have passed in thoroughly enjoyable conversation. It becomes a ritual, once a week, for Steve to put aside his papers and join Thor for an afternoon stroll, and the halls seem a little brighter for the chuckles that echo through them as the pair of them go along their way.

Eventually, the six months come to an end, and the earth’s first spring beckons Thor back to the world of the living. And though both gods are glad to see the world resettling, Steve and Thor are both taken aback by the twinge of sadness that runs through them as they share a firm handshake at the underworld’s entrance before parting ways.

And so, the world begins the delicate waltz of the seasons. Thor continues his roaming, bringing life to the earth and its people, while Steve shepherds the dead on their path and tends to their needs. And when the six months are up, Thor rejoins Steve in the land below as the land above is covered in snow. Every autumn, Steve comes to greet Thor at the top of the steps, just as he had that first time. And over time, the perfunctory handshakes and formal greetings evolve into rib-crushing hugs, laughter between old friends. And further still, as the years roll on, into shy smiles and lingering touches, glances exchanged while they think the other isn’t looking. A wistful what-if in their ear, on their lips.

They can never quite agree who it was that initiated the first kiss, chaste as freshly fallen snow. All they remember is the shock that followed, staring wide-eyed at each other at the top of the steps to the underworld. One, two, three heartbeats, so full of fear and hope and need. Finally followed by slow-growing smiles of relief, jubilant laughter bubbling up as their lips meet again, and again, and again, something finally settling deep within them both. The news of their betrothal raises eyebrows throughout the mortal and immortal worlds, but one look at they way they shine in each other’s presence is more than enough to answer any questions raised.

And so, when the autumn comes and the first auburn leaves fall to the earth, the Lord of the Dead makes the climb up to the world above, and waits in the dappled sunlight. Hardly able to contain his wide smile as his beloved greets him with a crown of the last summer roses and a kiss sweeter than honeysuckle, before they walk down into the cool shadows below, hand in hand.

#this... ended up running away from me a bit #thundershield #text post #long post #conor rambles

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realityhelixcreates · 5 years

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Lasabrjotr Chapter 23: The Workers of Sacred Metal

Chapters: 23/? Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: Teen And Up Warnings: None Relationships: Loki x Reader (Let’s try this again) Characters: Loki (Marvel), Reader, Brunnhilde(Marvel), Thor(Marvel) Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent), Here Have More Hedacannons, Loki Can Be Thoughtful, Thoughtfulness is A Form Of Scheming After All, Reader is Always Curious, Nidavellir Has The Potential to b Really Cool. Summary: Reader returns in triumph, Loki goes into Teacher Mode.

Loki kept his expression polite and even as Andsvarr presented him with the gift of a cinnamon roll, but internally he was dancing. A treat for him! From you! Yes, it seemed like several others were also receiving them, but he had got one, and that was the most important part.

He took it back to his desk, shoved the papers aside, and dug in.

Paradise.

Loki had never tasted a cinnamon roll before. Humankind had created such an incredible variety of pastries; it would probably take many years to sample them all. This was a good start. This was the best start!

He let himself melt away into silly little daydreams. Your flour-dusted apron, your shining eyes, your deft hands, kneading the dough. Wiping your face, smearing your cheek with flour.

Himself reaching out to wipe it away. You leaning into the touch instead of shying away. You don't hate him. You make him cinnamon rolls.

Loki was brought back from his lovely reverie, by an insistent knocking. With an irritated sigh, he rose, and found Andsvarr at the door, with a wide-eyed young child.

“Your Highness, she says that-”

The child began babbling, and all Loki could really make out was that you had been struck by Stormbreaker out on the Valkyries field, and now you could not get up.

He dashed down the hall at a dead sprint, not caring who might see. Stormbreaker weighed around ninety pounds. It was solid uru and living wood, nearly always charged with electricity. There was no angle on the thing that wasn't deadly.

Would he actually feel it, if you died? Would the rune flare, or fade, would he feel pain, or a sudden emptiness? Or would he be unaware, until someone like that child back there informed him?

He did feel a tugging on the mark, as he approached, gravel crunching and flying under his boots. Brunnhilde and his brother were kneeling in the field, while the trainee Valkyries huddled at a distance.

What nightmare awaited him? A crushed or mangled corpse? Was he to lose you now, after everything? After surviving an assassination attempt, did you now fall to an accident? Was there to be no reconciliation, the half-eaten cinnamon roll your parting gift to him?

The knot tightened in his chest with every speedy step. Thor and Brunnhilde moved away at his approach, leaving him to kneel next to you. You were shivering violently, and he nearly collapsed onto the ground next to you in sheer relief. Shivering meant life!

He gathered you into his arms, cradling you to his chest. The Valkyries were watching, but he didn't care. All of Asgard could see, and he would not care. As your shivering subsided, he felt the satisfaction of a purpose fulfilled, a service that only he could provide. You sighed softly, delivered from the discomfort of magic fatigue.

“Thor...”Loki growled. Thor made a nervous noise and glanced at Brunnhilde, who answered with a look that said he was on his own.

“You hit her with Stormbreaker?” Loki accused. “What in the soaring, glacial hel were you thinking? You can't swing that thing at mortals!”

“I didn't!” Thor defended. “I absolutely didn't! I would never!”

“The child said you did!”

“Valda may have been mistaken.” Brunnhilde cut in. “I should have sent someone older. He's right, he did not swing at her. Use your head now, you can tell he's not lying!”

Loki harrumphed and turned away from them both. Yes, he could tell. But this had left him agitated, defensive, like a ruffled rooster.

You cracked your eyes open to gaze tiredly up at him. “I did it.” You whispered. “I did the magic all on my own. I'm...seidkona...” You yawned wide.

“You did? Is that what happened?”

“Yes.” Thor said, smiling fondly. “Stole it from my grasp and brought it right to herself. It was too heavy for her to hold, though, and it knocked her down.”

Loki stood, lifting you easily in his arms. “You shouldn't be out here in the dirt. I will take you somewhere better. I've...Well, I've redecorated your room. Would you, perhaps, like to go there? I can also take you to Bjarkhild, or back to the Valkyrie's barracks, or wherever you would like, of course.”

“Redecorated?”

“Yes. Would you like to see? I've wanted to get your opinion on it. It's not quite finished, but we've got all the basics laid out.”

“I'd like to see.” You agreed. “I don't think I'll be walking around much more today.”

He didn't bother trying to hold back his smile. “Then let me see to your needs today. In exchange for the gift you gave earlier.”

“You got the cinnamon roll?”

“Is that what it's called? Such a simple name for such blessed ambrosia.”

“Oh, you don't have to...It's just a simple recipe my Nana taught me...”

Loki could practically feel the heat radiating off your face. Was that all it took to make you show him that adorable flustered expression? Just flowery compliments? If he'd known that, he would have taken a different approach.

He headed off the training field. Aides and secretaries approached, but seemed to unanimously decide to present their business at a later time, leaving him free to carry you back to your room. You hardly recognized it. There was color. Blue, and green, and gold, and silver, predominantly, with the bed in a warm terra cotta. That bed looked so soft and inviting now, with it's fluffy pillows and heavy comforter.

Loki sat you down on it, and you wiggled your way slowly under the blankets.

“Will you tell me about this Nana, of yours, who taught you the mystical art of the cinnamon roll?”

“Wow, you really liked it, huh? Well, Nana wasn't really my Nana, she was my aunt. Mom died when I was still a baby, and Beth was my aunt. She always wore yellow, so when I was a little kid I tried to call her Banana Beth, but it just came out Nana Beth. She taught me how to bake. She wanted kids, but she thought it was better that she didn't have any...Um. I should tell you, there's a medical condition that runs in my mom's side of the family. I might die early.”

Loki took your hand. “Not while I breathe.”

“Ah, um.” Your gaze fell. “It's not that simple. It's brain stuff, there's not much that can be done about it.”

He placed his other hand over the top of yours, forming a little shell of sincerity and reassurance. “I promise you that we can. We have the knowledge, we have the technique. Put that fear to rest. You will not die of any tumor. I will not allow it.”

“You can just...decide that.”

“Yes.”He assured you. “I can.”

“Well...that's...um. Ok.”

The face you wore now was less embarrassed, but no less adorable.

“How are you feeling now?”

“Like I bench-pressed an elephant. My arms feel so heavy; my whole body does. I know I'm gonna have a bruise. What is that thing made of anyway?”

“Stormbreaker? It's made from uru.” Upon your stumped expression, he held up the illusion of a lump of metallic stone. “It's a very rare metal, very hard to find and even harder to work with. There is none naturally occurring on Earth, and unlike nornbein, it cannot even be artificially created here. It comes from stars that have destroyed themselves by becoming supernovas. Hence it's rarity. Not many stars do that, and some of those that do, then go on to become black holes, which consume all the uru. Thus, we must find stars that have exploded powerfully enough to create uru, but not so powerfully as to swallow it all. And of those, some form nebulae, and new planetary systems, all of which are difficult to navigate, especially when one is looking for lumps of metal that can be of any size, and separated by millions of miles. Mjolnir was made of uru as well, and my father's spear, then gilded in nornbein.”

“The hammer? Whatever happened to that?”

“Eh, I'll show you later if you'd like. There is a hall we have set aside for Asgardian history, and there are several things resting there that I might show you.”

“I think I'd like to. It would be good to know more history. I mean, I guess that's going to be expected of me now. How do you work with uru, if it's so hard? Special forges?”

Loki smiled. “Oh yes. The most special of forges, unlike any others. Behold, Nidavellir.”

The image formed in his palms, cradled like a pearl.

You leaned forward to get a better look at the illusion. There was a strange light, and an even stranger ring-shaped structure surrounding it.

“Is...is that a star?” You asked, pointing at the little light pulsing slightly in the center. Loki nodded. “How?” You exclaimed. “That space station or whatever would have to be gigantic! Like, beyond reason!”

“Oh, no no. This is a neutron star. It's what you get when a collapsing star is too big to make a white dwarf, but still too small to create a black hole.” Loki explained. “This one is about the size of one of your larger cities. This ring is rather like the outlying suburbs that surround your cities. So yes, the structure is impressively large, but not quite to the degree you are imagining. This was the last of the eight realms to be added to the count, discovered by my father shortly into his reign. Being so small, neutron stars are not so easy to locate, though it does seem that even human technology has been able roughly estimate where some are.

But when Odin found this one, when he realized what he was looking at, he refused to attempt to conquer them through any violent means. Though there were protests, he could not bring himself to destroy even one member of a race capable of such craftsmanship. This star created the largest amount of uru in all of Yggdrasil, and the entire ring is made of it. The Dvergar that live within it have plenty more stored away as well. They are the only people we know of that can smith the metal.”

“Why?” You asked. “What's so different about the way do it?”

“For one thing, they have a resource that no one else does. They use the star to power everything. The radiation of a neutron star is enough to melt uru for forging. They are also the only people who can withstand that radiation themselves. Someone like myself could not stay for long on Nidavellir. Perhaps only to make an order, or to pick it up. And as for you...well, unfortunately this is another realm I can never take you to see. You'd burn in minutes.”

“Oh. Uh, yeah. No thanks. So how did they become one of your realms, if they were never conquered?” You asked. Loki couldn't help but notice the disapproval you placed on the last word. He understood that you found the concept distasteful, but didn't quite understand why. The entire history of your species was one of conquest. Not a single tribe or clan in all of human history was innocent of it.

But there must always be those who try, mustn't there? There must always be those who think and act differently. There must always be a new way. That was the kind of thing that resonated with him.

“Through trade and treaty. We could offer them things they could not get on their own, such as other kinds of metal, not native to the system, and also safe escort to other worlds.” At the inquisitive tilting of your head, he continued. “The Dvergar never managed more than very local space travel, just enough to sweep their system for all the materials it held. Mostly, they had uru, iron, and nickel. That was pretty much it. We brought in metals that, to them, were bizarre and exotic. They loved it! We also provided transport to other worlds, and kept them safe until they went home. You might well imagine that there were plenty of people out there who wanted their own, private, uru-smith, or who wanted to destroy the workers of the metal, so that it couldn't be used against them. And so, a Dvergar abroad is in danger all the time, and they are very limited in number.

So, often for only the price of the materials, they provided us with the finest metal crafts Yggdrasil has ever known. They created Stormbreaker and Mjolnir, my mother's sword and my fath-my spear. Several of my knives, and the enchanted berserker's staves. The Valkyries weapons as well, though only one of those is still extant. And that's just the weapons! We gave them silver, gold, and platinum, and they created the most exquisite artworks. We gave them copper and bronze, and they created the finest wire, the most delicate mechanisms.

Of course,” He said regretfully. “That treaty with them is now null. We can no longer provide them safe escort, or metals in any quantity, so I feel our usefulness to them is at an end. Even when we get the bifrost running, I know of nothing we can offer them that they would want.”

“It couldn't hurt to talk to them though.” You said. “Let them know how your circumstances have changed, and why. You lost your whole world after all, surely there can be some arrangements made. Especially if there's no bad history there.”

“Now that's what I like to see in a seidkona.” Loki praised gently. “Optimism, and a willing-to-try attitude. This is what we need in this time, in this place.”

“Oh, uh, um, thanks.” You mumbled, looking shyly aside.

Oh yes, that was fun.

“How did they make it?” You asked. “The ring I mean.”

“From what they tell, they originally lived on the belt of asteroids that it has replaced. They built bridges linking the larger asteroids together, with their little, local ships, and gathered up the smaller ones as they went. And they just kept building, and gathering, and expanding, until they had an entirely enclosed ring around the star, built up out of the very asteroids that once orbited freely. Technically it is the asteroid belt, only now in the form of one of the most stable structures in the galaxy.”

“I'd like to meet one, someday.” You said idly.

“They are not a handsome people. Also secretive and quite brusque. If they truly evolved on the asteroids, and were separate most of the time, that only makes sense. There are only about thirteen-hundred of them in all, and though they can share a fierce camaraderie when a challenge is laid before them, they more often go for decades without seeing each other. Just working away at whatever project occupies their thoughts at the time. They, unique among all the eight realms, are not a social species. However,” Loki amended, thinking that perhaps he was painting the Dvergar in too negative a light. “They are the ultimate crafters, perhaps in all the universe. They do not know cruelty, or war, only creation. They are honorable people; a Dvergar will never go back on their word, nor ever present less that perfect craftsmanship for trade. And though they are short of speech, that does not mean they are impolite, or inhospitable. Just that they do not share personal information, and they do not waste words.”

You lay back against the pillows, and Loki let the little image dissipate. You looked tired. Perhaps he should let you sleep now, and make the room your own.

“You can use a spear?” You asked suddenly.

“What? Yes, I can. I am trained in the use of a variety of weapons. Most of us are; we simply have weapons that we prefer over others. I like the swiftness and precision of small blades, Thor prefers something heavy enough to destroy armor and knock foes down, and father preferred...distance.”

“And you inherited your father's spear? Is it just because the king doesn't like to use it?”

“Sort of. My brother bequeathed it to me in something of a ceremonial act. Every king since Buri has held that spear, but it was given to me in acknowledgment that I was king before Thor. Also that he intended to break certain traditions, and also because I use it better than he does.”

“Can I see your spear?”

Loki kept his face very carefully neutral. He definitely should not say that you already had, no, he should absolutely not say that. You were tired, and not thinking about your phrasing.

“Later, yes. It is being kept in the History Hall. I'll show you the whole thing. Who knows, perhaps someday you will find mention there. The first human member of the royal court. A bridge between us and Midgard, in this dawning of a new age...”

But you were already asleep.

“Oh. Well. Being the first of anything is always difficult.” Loki whispered, drawing the blankets up around your shoulders. “I know. It's confusing, and there are no instructions, no rules. You must make your own. Tomorrow.”

He left just as you began to softly snore.

*****

You walked the road along the fields, whistling cheerily to yourself. Your garden hoe across your shoulders, a spade in your tool belt, and a song in your heart, you crossed over to an empty plot.

These were not the fields of home; there was no corn to be seen, and the white and purple flowers of Iceland dotted the verge. This was more of a community garden, and each plot bore strange plants, significant to the person who grew them.

You had no seeds, but intended to work the soil of your little plot, so that it would be ready whenever you got some.

You chopped at the soil with your hoe: how dry and hard it had become! How stony from neglect! Nothing had grown here for a long time, but soon it would. Just as soon as you had all the supplies...

You saw Loki approaching from a distance, resplendent in the heat shimmer, the eternal summer sun glinting off his fine armor, his gilded horns. In all his finery he came to you, and said nothing, just held out a handful of seeds. You did not recognize them, did not know what kind of plant would spring from them, but you decided to take a chance on them. You sprinkled them carefully over your plot, Loki standing silently at your side.

What would grow? What would it say about you? And would it be what you needed? Only time, care, and tending would tell.

You rolled over in your sleep and snuggled a pillow. You could almost smell the freshly turned earth.

#loki x reader #loki (marvel)#thor (marvel)#brunnhilde (marvel)#valkyrie (marvel)#lasabrjotr

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