#cruel altea

[bjdavis5]

Bayonetta 3 - weapons

[imhereformysciencefriends]

Day 5: Historical Period

Tags: @loturaweek2024 Frozen AU, minor character death, schemes, background Shiro/Keith, Extremely background Alfor/Melenor, magic, Lotor's generals are there

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The fourteenth child of a man who hated all of them would gain no power. Lotor had known that before he’d even really understood how the line of succession worked, when he was still asking questions like he might receive useful answers, but oh, he’d always known.

When he’d grown a little older, he surmised that if he was ever going to hold political power, it would be in a different country, married off to that country’s sovereign; it would never, ever be won from his own merit or worth. But that, of course, presented the problem of what sovereign would marry the fourteenth son, instead of a second or third.

But perhaps he could marry a duchess close to the top of her own line of succession, and then. Well. Accidents happened all the time, didn’t they? It seemed the best, if not only, option, and Lotor was determined to one day hold a throne, he wasn’t picky on which.

So he studied foreign languages like he would die if he didn’t, and wound up fluent in tongues his brothers and sisters had only ever passingly heard of. He sent his spies out far and wide, looking for chinks in the armor of foreign dignitaries, gossip, predictions, oracles.

And then, one year, he found it. The little magic country of Altea. Known largely for its exports of ice, and the shrouding rumors that surrounded it of powerful magic. Lotor had magic, himself, most noble lines did, but Altea’s was rumored to be something else entirely. Pity, then, that they were largely regarded as hermits by most of the civilized world, sequestered away on their little northern island with its large fishing ports and large ice production and nothing else of any noteworthy size at all. Except, of course, that whenever someone did try to conquer the tiny island to round off that ugly looking little corner on the map, they were thoroughly bested no matter if they sent ten or a hundred thousand troops to Altea’s borders.

Enticing, even if the rest of the island’s economy was dull.

Still. A throne was a throne, and Lotor would not be picky in his pursuit of the title he knew he was destined for. And the spy he’d sent north, his Ezor, who had what was well regarded as powerful magic in her own right, spoke marvels in his ear.

Twin sisters the only heirs. The throne held by a regent after a horrible accident at sea had taken the rulers. The elder twin was seen as cruel and cutthroat, her peoples hesitant and wary of what would happen to them when she took the throne. The younger twin was sweet and beloved by all Altea, a kind-hearted girl who’d been kept locked up in the castle since her parents’ passing.

And oh, what an opportunity. Exactly what Lotor needed. The younger would be sweet, lonely, a little naive, Lotor was well familiar with the act of shaping himself into anything another person wanted, he could be her dashing prince, wed her, and discreetly remove her elder sister, who sounded reviled enough that the people might not even investigate her death too closely. Of course, he’d have Narti or Ezor do it, their work as assassins flawless, but there might be room for error, which Lotor rarely received.

He called the other three back from their scouting.

Altea would have its coronation on the twins’ birthday, when they came of age to take the throne from the hands of their regent, and Lotor needed only to convince his father to allow him to be the representative their country sent. Something that would, ideally, not be too difficult, as he did not believe that callus man had any intentions of sending any representative to little Altea at all.

Finally. Finally, the opportunity Lotor had been waiting for all his life.

***

Altea was beautiful. Even Zethrid, who was rarely moved by any beauty not attached to a giggling woman, agreed. Its trees were old and… alive, in a way that Lotor would not typically liken to an inanimate object. The sky was crisp and blue, the architecture quaint but solidly built, favoring quality and longevity over speed in erecting the buildings, the streets were clean, its people sensibly well dressed, and the glistening ocean port was clear as a gemstone.

This would be a fine country to be king of.

“Sire, is that… the princess?” Acxa asked with quiet confusion, and Lotor glanced at her only long enough to follow her line of sight.

There in the streets, dancing and singing with a group of children, was one of the most beautiful women Lotor had ever laid eyes on. She had long, cascading, wavy hair so dark a brown it was nearly black and light brown eyes squinted up in a smile, pink markings on her cheeks that were such a defining mark of Altean beauty standards and pigmented cosmetics, her dress lovely, but not necessarily noticeably nicer than the peasantry around her. Even so, when compared to the sketch that Ezor had given him of the younger twin—

“Yup, that’s her alright,” Ezor said from behind Acxa, leaning in a little. “She’ll do this, just wander around outside the castle until her sister’s guardsmen come haul her back in. For someone sneaking out, she doesn’t really hide her identity much.”

“We can only hope her elder sister will be similarly careless in allowing her guard to drop,” Lotor muttered, so quietly that only his four most trusted allies could hear him. “Still, an opportunity should not be wasted, I will introduce myself.”

Narti’s hand on his arm stilled him as he took his first step, and she gestured, subtly, towards the castle.

The guards were here to collect their princess. Well, better then to spare her any embarrassment. He would introduce himself properly inside the castle halls, as a foreign dignitary to local royals, no real loss there. And this confirmed his suspicions: that she was sweet and naive. That she was a softhearted little fool that snuck away from her minders to play with children and flowers.

Naivety could be exploited. Who better, then, than him? He would do her no harm for being sweet and young and trusting. He would help her rise to power and be her ally and confidant, help her with ruling and her responsibilities, shape himself to what she wanted and be the dashing romantic hero of her dreams. She would be the happiest queen in the world, and he would be rightfully made king.

He arched his back and squared his shoulders, pictured himself the beautiful man of a sweet young girl’s imaginings, and strode forward.

***

The castle was opened on the day of the coronation, Altea’s people welcomed into its halls to mingle and eat and dance before the ceremony that evening. To say Lotor was unused to such customs would be a wretched understatement, but while in Altea, do as the Alteans do. He put on a charming smile and pretended he was not at all bothered by being spoken to as though an equal by peasants, was carefully neutral towards all wait staff who he overheard the paupers thanking (he would wait to see if the Altean nobility did such things before lowering himself such), and did not raise his hackles at being so crowded. How Altea’s royal line persisted at all was a mystery to him, anyone could slip in with the crowd and assassinate anyone they felt like! Ezor and Narti would have a trivially easy time removing the elder twin once his marriage to the younger was complete.

But it was a day of celebration, and Lotor had larger fish to fry (there was quite a lot of fish on offer, this being a port city on a small island). He searched for the young princess but couldn’t quite find her, the lovely lady all but invisible since he’d formally introduced himself on his arrival.

The elder twin was far more obvious, accepting nervous shows of goodwill from her citizens and schmoozy congratulations from foreign sycophants. Typically Lotor would be among them, but Hira was not his target (well, not in that way, and not tonight).

After a few fruitless hours, he made a casual, half-careless inquiry to a group of diplomats who seemed as offput by the paupers’ presence as he was, and showing it thrice as badly, “Has anyone seen the lovely Princess Allura?”

“No, and neither the Regent.”

Hm, Lotor admittedly hadn’t even been looking for him. But very well, then, he would simply have to go searching for his mark. Just as he resolved to do so, heralds announced the arrival of the King Regent, Coran, some cousin or distant relative of the late King Alfor (and that their regent wasn’t even a relation to their sovereign was. Interesting. He still wasn’t sure if perhaps Ezor was mistaken on that). Allura swaned in behind him, silent and more beautiful than the day he first laid eyes on her.

King Regent Coran gave a truly lovely speech, extolling the virtues of Hira while dancing neatly away from her vices, which the people of Altea seemed all too uneasily aware of. Hira then proved herself the rightful heir to the throne with a display of magic, her snow-white hair and ice-blue eyes glittering with energy as she summoned a flurry mid-summer, snow dancing around delighted children and a chill wind sending shivers up the spines of their worried parents. Lotor admitted he was, at least a little bit, impressed. No magic of his home country could change the weather, though many a witch lost themselves in their hubris attempting to do so.

Hira stood, proud and regal and with an all-too-familiar glint of cruelty in those ice-blue eyes, and waited as the King Regent removed his own crown, setting it neatly on a silken pillow, and lifted the coronal to place on Hira’s brow.

A knife protruded from the princess’s stomach, just barely below her ribs.

For a flash, Lotor panicked. It was too early, far too public, why would Ezor or Narti—but then the corpse fell to the floor and revealed not his own women, but the Princess Allura behind her.

The room was as shocked as he was, rising tension speaking of a bubbling panic that would seize the room in scarce moments. The guards were reacting the best, getting the regent away from the princess, others were crowding on her, but then her voice cut, clear as the day, through the whole room,

“My people!” The air itself seemed to still for her. “Forgive me! This is not how I wished for this to go. But please, please believe me when I say that this was a cruel act born out of necessity, not any pleasure of mine.”

The guards that had closed on the princess were now retreating half-steps back, warned away by the two that had joined Princess Allura on the dias. Altea’s Champion, Shiro, famed throughout the little country as being undefeatable, rumors swirling around him of how he’d defended their shores near-single-handedly from any foreign attackers from the moment the previous rulers had knighted him, one who bore a white shock of hair despite no relation to the royal line and possessed arcane magic down his right arm. Altea’s Blade, Keith, whose hair might be raven black, but could perceive magic with uncanny ability, such that Ezor could never approach him when she was invisible, his hackles immediately raised. He was less famed though no less deadly, and that these two would side with the younger princess would work marvels for her reputation amongst the people. Lotor knew all too well how helpful it was to have competent supporters.

“Whatever cruelties you feared from my sister Hira, know she intended worse,” Princess Allura implored her gathered people, the regent now quite successfully removed from the area, her hair slowly turning white from the tips up, her soft brown eyes turning colder, lighter, ice-blue. “For years since our parents’ deaths, she has locked me in this very castle and tormented me with horrible stories of what she planned the moment she had power to enact it. The beautiful magic our grandmothers and our grandmother’s grandmothers passed down for generations would have been perverted and twisted, used for cruelty for the sake of her own amusement. She would have fashioned herself a conqueror, rather than a defender, and sent our people out to die on foreign shores for the sake of her own ego. I did not do this for power, only for the safety of our people, and those she would have raised Altea’s fist against!”

It was a moving speech. Even more impressive if it was true. Lotor would hardly have blamed her for killing her sister even if she had done it just for power, he’d had the same aim after all, but her competence of speech and intellect could not be ignored. All around him, Altea’s people were moved by the lovely young princess’s words, and Lotor felt a thrill heretofore yet unexperienced at his next realization.

He had been so, so wrong about her.

Wilting, soft, naive, sweet little girl she was not. Well, sweet and soft, perhaps, perhaps still those, yes. The tears in her eyes at the blood on her hands truly did not seem feigned, and if they were she was a phenomenal actress, and he had seen her out dancing and flower braiding with children. But there was a desperate steel within her, also. Politically shrewd enough to win Altea’s Champion and Blade to her side before committing the deed. Conducting her sororicide in public, in full daylight, in front of the largest crowd she would ever get on this tiny island, rather than taking the sneaky route, he wasn’t sure if that was bravery or madness.

The white reached the roots of her hair, her eyes seemed to glow with the iciness of their new blue. The transferral of their bloodline’s magic was complete, Hira’s corpse now on the floor with strawberry-chestnut hair and eyes Lotor couldn’t see.

She staggered.

“I, wait, what is—?” she asked, now quieter, confused. The temperature of the room dropped palpably, and continued to decline.

“Wait, stop, this isn’t, wait,” she murmured, staring at her own hands in front of her, her eyes glowing in earnest now. Outside, the soft, white, fluffy clouds that Hira had summoned turned heavy and black, blotting out the sun. A harsh, bitter wind wailed down the empty streets of Atlea, through the open doors and windows of the castle, and Lotor shuddered at the cold.

Shit, Narti was cold-blooded, fuck, it was summer, they’d not brought any of her gear, he needed—

“Princess,” Shiro said, his arms outstretched, placating, while Keith kept himself between the princess and the crowd.

“No, no, this isn’t supposed to—I am its rightful heir it shouldn’t—no, listen to me, stop!” Princess Allura seemed to be arguing with her own magic, and Lotor abruptly realized what was happening as he gathered Narti close to his chest and had Zethrid crowd her from the other side.

Immense, generational, ancient, powerful magic was now in the hands of someone who had never wielded it before. Hira had learned control over her birthright from childhood. Allura was entirely new, and overwhelmed, emotions already running high, and it seemed her natural talent for the power was far stronger than her sister’s had ever been, the magic pouring out of her like a burst dam. Frost spread across the stone floors, beautiful and patterned and unwelcome, flowing outwards like a mop bucket spilled.

“This isn’t—”

Icicles formed from the ceiling, the doorways, the window sills, people screaming, some fleeing, others gathering their children under them, shielding them so their backs would take any icicles that fell, if they did fall.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen—”

The stormclouds broke, heavy, fat snowflakes pelting down in the merciless winds.

“I was meant to stop—!”

Someone screamed, and Lotor heard an icicle shatter against the stone floor. Not a body, at least. The crowd was well and truly in a panic now, people fleeing, feet stomping, shit, trample risk, the princess—

In a burst of magic, an icy arch left in her wake, the princess fled. Out the doors, into the storm, and oh things were really out of hand now. Someone needed to seize control of the situation before the body count rose higher than just the once-princess Hira. Someone should—

Lotor was someone.

“Everyone, please!” he boomed, projecting his voice as best he could, summoning all his princely presence. Maybe a little dampened by his hair smacking himself repeatedly in the face in the torrent, but he’d suffered worse indignities than this. “We mustn’t panic! Everyone, further into the castle, guards, shut the doors and windows, barricade against the wind, castle staff, light fires, we need to gather together and preserve warmth!”

Okay, the panicking at least had stopped.

“I need volunteers to go out in groups of three or four with lanterns and find those who already fled! They are unlikely to last in this sort of storm wearing only their summer clothes! Castle staff, we need winter gear, those not lighting fires go unearth coats and gloves from storage and pass them along to the search groups. Everyone not engaged thusly: blankets! As many as this castle has. Everyone not assigned a task, crowd together and keep warm!”

Slower than he’d like, but moving for him (listening to him, obeying him, heeding him, these people, his people to be, it was a heady thing), people did as he ordered.

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

“Champion. Blade.” Lotor approached the pair, leaving Narti between Zethrid and Acxa, “I must speak with the King Regent.”

Keith was sporting a new slice down his cheek, likely clipped by the princess’ icy exit, Shiro’s glowing arm warm and wrapped behind him, his mortal hand pressing a cloth to the wound to stay the bleeding. Meeting his eyes, the Blade’s a curious shade of purple—maybe not so bereft of magic as all that—the pair nodded.

“Thank you for your help with all of this,” Shiro said gravely, and Lotor nodded his head in acknowledgement. Shiro was of suitable rank Lotor did not mind half so much to bow or speak as equals.

He was incredibly visible. Everywhere he went, all eyes were on him. He could feel the public’s approval. In this crisis, he’d swayed Altea to his side, and if he could ride this momentum he would be welcomed with open arms and celebration as their king. He nearly shivered with it, this was incredible, the chance he’d always wanted, his heart beat with how quickly things were moving.

He needed to keep them all safe.

“King Regent, I am Prince Lotor of Daibazaal,” he greeted, bowing precisely as low as a prince must to a foreign king while on that king’s land.

“Prince Lotor, I’m told you took control out there, my apologies I wasn’t there to do so myself,” the king returned, bowing much more shallowly to him.

Still, it was an optimistic sign that he bowed at all. Lotor would win his favor, also, and his path to the crown would be made all the easier.

“Not at all, your safety was paramount. I’ve gathered the people of Altea inside the castle walls, with search groups for those that fled to bring them here to share their warmth. Blankets and fires and what coats are available have been distributed, your people will be kept safe.”

“And of the princess?”

No longer the regent or king, Coran’s face broke in wretched distress, just a kindhearted old man worried sick for his little girl.

Lotor made himself soft. Compassionate. Assuring. Whatever the King Regent wanted him to be.

“She will be alright,” he said, not knowing or caring if it was true or not, his voice gentle, and made the bold choice to cross the distance between them and settle a soft hand on the regent’s arm. “Her own magic would surely not dare harm her, you will not lose a second niece today.”

The sweet old man had tears in his eyes, and covered Lotor’s hand with his own.

“I pray to all our Ancients you are correct.”

“Your Majesty, with your permission,” Lotor said, now locking on this next wild and swift opportunity, “I would search for her, myself. Grant me gear enough for myself and my four most loyal to brave the blizzard, and we will return her safely to you.” And perhaps, in doing so, Lotor might finally win himself a blasted conversation with the elusive woman he was set on marrying.

“I could not ask this of you.”

“You are not asking. I make the offer.”

“It is deadly outside these walls.”

“The princess is not the only one with white hair.” Because she wasn’t. He couldn’t consciously use the damned magic, but he had it. He knew what his own magic did. Fortunately, it was all that it took to convince the worried, fatherly man.

“Then please, Prince Lotor of Daibazaal,” the regent said, lifting Lotor’s hand and clasping it between his two, “bring my princess home safe to me.”

Such trusting creatures, these Alteans.

Well, it wasn’t like Lotor was going to shatter such trust. Merely exploit it.

“Of course.”

He returned the way he came, passing by the guards outside the door, passing by the Champion and Blade, heads on one another’s shoulders, past Ezor, who waited invisibly for him in the hall just outside of the Blade’s range, and returned to Narti.

“We will have equipment soon, by the regent’s order. Will you be capable of facing the snow?” he asked, low and quiet.

Narti, bundled in a heavy blanket she shared with Zethrid and Acxa, nodded gravely, only once.

“Good. We search for the Princess Allura, and will bring her back here, safe and unharmed.”

“We’re gonna be heroes, boss?” Ezor asked, playful and spritely but just as quiet.

“Our names shall be remembered in the histories of this kingdom’s tomes. I continue to curry favor. The plan remains unchanged.”

Well. They wouldn’t have to kill Hira themselves. But aside from that, unchanged.

Once swaddled in coats and gloves and scarves and heavy boots, Narti’s pockets lined with magic-touched firestones and runes embroidered at the hems (it was good of them, to give her something clearly constructed for royalty (but then again, Hira wouldn’t be needing such articles ever again, now would she?)) they slipped through the doors of the castle, opened only just a crack to ward off the cold, and braved the blizzard.

If he were a sweet young princess, distressed with the blood on his own hands, terrified of the power he now freshly wielded, blindly fleeing, where would he go?

“Boss!” Acxa called over the howling wind, “Something’s on the mountain that wasn’t there before!”

His sharp eyed shooter. He could barely make out the shadow of the mountain, but Acxa had always had a keener eye than most.

He led the way.

It was not what he would call a pleasant climb. Even when the blizzarding mount gave way to magically constructed stairways and bridges, it was still a very tiresome number of stairways, uphill. The storm continued, worsened, by his measure, and at more than one point they had to catch one another from falling on the icy steps.

But eventually, many hours or even a day later, they did arrive at the… structure. It looked loosely like a castle? But only just. Less inviting. A lot more spikes.

And a horrible, snowy warden, that was rather atypical.

The beast lumbered up, made of snow and ice and trapped twigs and dirt and gravel, a shambling mass that towered and lurched. It bellowed at them, and behind him, Lotor heard Zethrid laugh.

“My turn!” she crowed, and rushed past him with her axe already out.

“Sir, what is that?” Acxa asked, rather incredulously.

“Likely just a manifestation of the princess’s magic, summoned to protect her from unwanted visitors. Acxa, Narti, keep Zethrid alive and the beast distracted. Ezor, watch their backs.”

“Sir!” the three chorused, Ezor stepping backwards and flicking invisible, the other two surging forwards, drawing their weapons as they went. Lotor, for his part, snuck around behind the thing, and entered the not-quite-castle.

Jagged, sharp edges protruded from every surface. Atlea’s castle made of ice instead of stone, and far less welcoming. Spikes and blades, icicles and whatever the frozen equivalent of a stalagmite was, shards as sharp as glass and just as clear, Lotor found himself thankful for the lent, thick boots, and navigated carefully.

He heard no weeping, so, no finding her by sound. Though, if the girl had killed her own sister so boldly, maybe she wasn’t the type to weep after all. If this castle was any indication of her mind, he might even find a kindred spirit in her.

She wasn’t crying. But when he found her, he did find her curled up in a little ball, huddled in the corner of the spikiest room to date. Her dress was in tatters, her hair a mess, her fingers trembling where she gripped herself in some facsimile of a hug.

“Princess,” he said gently, fashioning himself into a dashing hero, a suave prince, a savior, a fairy tale.

Her head jerked up with a jolt, eyes wide with fear, mouth open in a sharp breath of panic.

“Come no closer! It is not safe for you here!”

“Princess, it is alright,” he said, so gentle and placating, hands raised, face open.

“No, no, it isn’t, nothing was supposed to go this way, everything is wrong!” She clutched the sides of her head, still panicking after all these hours, her breath short and shallow.

“Breathe, Your Highness, it’s going to be okay,” he coaxed, stepping closer slowly.

“It can’t be!”

Okay, the dashing gentle angle wasn’t working. He tried commanding, straightening his shoulders and emboldening his voice. “It is your power, your magic. You must gather your wits about you—”

A sudden, heavy jut of ice erupted from the floor and struck him dead center of his chest, sending him flying backwards. On any other man, it might have killed him.

The princess wailed. “I told you!” she cried, feet kicking out against the icy floor, driving her further into the corner, “I told you! I told you this would happen!”

“I’m fine,” Lotor grit out, then coughed sorely. Alright. Not commanding, lesson learned, he would be giving the princess no orders. He rose slowly back to sitting, hand on his chest, ribs burning with ache, but he would live. It was a magic blow. It couldn’t kill him.

“Princess, I’m alright,” he said, unable to keep the pain from his voice, a smidge of irritation, but he couldn’t tell if she heard him. Her face was buried in her knees again, trembling hands tangled in her hair.

Hm. He found himself at an unusual loss for words. He could normally think of at least something, but he wasn’t sure what Allura wanted him to be, and he was making no progress on figuring it out.

He drew closer to her, not particularly hiding his footfalls, but not making any intentional noise either. Once close, he leaned his back to the wall and slid down, seated right beside her, close enough to reach out and touch.

He didn’t. One pillar of ice to the chest was more than enough for the day. But still, he found himself at loss for words.

Outside, just barely over the din of the raging storm, he heard Zethrid crow with delight and the heavy sound of some sort of impact. At least someone was having a nice time with all of this.

Dashing, gentle prince didn’t work. Commanding, powerful authority didn’t work. It was too late to play meek, and he wasn’t very good at that angle anyway. Perhaps something related to how the regent was worried about her? An assurance that her destructive powers had not caused her people any harm?

But in the end, it was not him that broke the silence. “What are you doing here?” she asked miserably, words muffled in her knees.

“Looking for you,” he answered honestly, before he could think of a more witty or poetic answer.

She lifted her head, appearing much less panicked, and looked at him—truly looked at him, as she hadn’t even when he introduced himself upon his arrival—with tired eyes and a stray lock of hair falling over her face. Lotor had never seen a woman in such… mundane disarray. Even in Daibazaal, when a noble was in a fit, they might go for a fainting couch or artful dishevelment, not this painful, miserable, tired sort of…

“Tch,” she clicked, raising a hand to swipe at her eye. “And what is a prince of Daibazaal even doing here?” she asked, a much different question from before.

Still, he answered honestly, with a small shrug as he said, “Looking for you.”

“Me?”

“I would have courted your sister, if I had thought she’d ever allow me to woo her.” The words tumbled out of his mouth before he realized he said them, surprising himself with his own honesty.

She snorted, jerking, and it was an ugly, mundane sound, so fitting with the miserable, tired bags under her eyes and the shredded mess of her dress, that he suddenly found himself feeling fake. Glass facets where she was a jewel. Dead wood painted with browns and greens, carved and shredded, where she was an actual tree. There was something more real about her than even the ice and snow and stone beneath them, and his breath caught in his throat.

“No, you would have had no success there. She had no interest in… anyone, really. Save herself.”

Lotor wanted to reach out and touch her. To caress the crumpled lock of snow-white hair from her face, to touch this radiant being that was somehow so much more real than he was. It distracted him from finding words that would—impress her? Woo her? Calm her, manipulate her, puppet her? He forgot what he was meant to be doing.

“I don’t blame you for what you did,” he said, not sure what his damned mouth was doing, but he let it prattle on anyway. “I don’t think anyone does.”

“Everyone must hate me,” she said, wet and high, and tears gathered in her eyes again.

“No one hates you. They understood your reasoning, and the snow has frightened them, but none hate you.”

“I—have you…”

Lotor tilted his head.

“Have you heard any word from my uncle?”

“He worries for you,” Lotor said, gentle and soft without even trying to be. “He was nearly moved to tears with his fear for your wellbeing.”

Princess Allura sniffled and wiped at her eyes again.

“He is a good man,” she said.

“Would that I had such an uncle,” Lotor said, since, well, honesty had been the only thing she’d responded to thus far. Might as well.

“He has always been good to us. She would’ve killed him, I know she would have. Not right away, but as soon as he got in the way of her plans, she would’ve gotten ‘rid’ of him, just as she wanted to rid of me.”

Lotor reached out before his good sense could stop him, curling his fingers gently around her hand.

“You would not have let her.”

Nor would Lotor. But that wasn’t the important part, and also she didn’t really need to know that.

She squeezed his hand with impressive strength.

A silence passed between them, Lotor marveling at the touch of her. A sprawling mountain forest, holding the hand of a potted plant.

“Sorry I struck you. I didn’t mean to.”

“It will take more than that to kill me, Princess, worry not. I am merely sore.”

“I could kill you,” she said, her hand in his own beginning to tremble again. “I could—I am—”

“You could not,” he said, trying to sound firm without being commanding or arrogant. “Allura, you are not the only one with white hair.”

She looked at him again, surprised, but, yes, he did in fact have white hair.

“Oh. You are—a witch then?”

“Not quite,” he said, a little ruefully, “I might have had an easier time, if I was, but then again, I might be dead. I am what is called ‘fate touched.’ No magic can kill me.”

She made a curious sound, and in the corner of his eye, he realized the spikes and icicles were receding into the walls.

Well. Honesty was working. Time to share his secrets.

“It is as it sounds. No act of magic can kill me, no matter how powerful. I am not protected from all harm, and I do still feel pain, but I’ve survived every magical act ever laid upon me, even when others wouldn’t, or didn’t. If I am to be assassinated one must use more primitive means. And even then, an enchanted blade could not kill me any more than a magic column of ice.”

“You sound quite sure of that.”

He shrugged.

“To be stabbed by one’s sister is a more common occurrence in Daibazaal, than I gather it is here.”

Allura’s face caved with pity and horror. “Your own sister?”

Lotor shrugged again. “As the fourteenth of fourteen, I was not particularly needed, and my personality, in Daibazaal, is not quite well liked. It made manifest my magic, at the least, so now I know what this blasted hair indicates. Even though I’ve no control over it, and outside of perilous situations it does nothing.”

Allura huffed. “Would that mine was so passive.”

She stared out at the room around them, then frowned, noticing the changes.

“It seems tied to your emotions,” Lotor remarked, her hand a burning star in the brittle earth of his own. “Such magics are difficult to control, but not impossible. Is not your Champion’s much the same?”

Allura sighed. “He has a lover on which to ground himself when his mind feels lost, a steadfast, even personality from default, and far more practice than I.”

“You seem to be doing better with it now, by my measure.”

Beyond the icy walls, the sound of blizzarding gales was subsided, and the sky, though not quite visible through all the ice, felt as though it was lighter.

He’d helped. This was, at least in part, the result of his own doing. He’d helped her. Grounded her. It was a pride immeasurable, beating in his chest.

“And if I am lost to my distress again?”

Lotor turned to face her fully, twisting onto a knee and genuflecting before her, clasping her hand earnestly.

“Then we will deal with this again. It is your magic now, you cannot hide from it, only grasp the opportunity you have made for yourself and shoulder the consequences. I—” he felt unusually self-conscious, as he spoke his next words, “I would remain with you here, if you think my presence at all a boon.”

She smiled, a little wryly, and tilted her head at him, one brow neatly arched. “Here to look for me indeed.”

Lotor blinked. Oh he, well, yes. Yes, he was here to win her, but, in making his offer he’d forgotten—

“I… am not opposed, though,” she mused, staring down at their hands between them, her thumb brushing a fire-bright line over the back of his glove.

Lotor burst out laughing, his head dropping. “Princess,” he said around his own hysterics, “absolutely nothing about this conversation went as I had thought it might. There is,” he lifted his head again and looked her in the eye, submitting to his urge to reach out and caress away her stray lock of hair from her face, “something so ardently compelling about you.”

She smiled, and all remaining traces of jagged edges and spikes vanished into the floors and walls, sunlight breaking through the clouds and glinting off the pristine ice.

“I must confess the same of you. I would… like to get to know you better, Prince…?”

“Lotor,” he supplied, not even offended she’d forgotten his name.

“Prince Lotor, take me home.”

“Yes, Princess.”

He lifted her, her tattered dress and shoes like as not to be useless on the trek back down, and realized that, in the span of a single conversation, his lifelong goal had been abruptly changed.

No longer did he wish to marry her so he might one day become king.

Now he only wished to marry her.

[the-lightning-strikes-again]

Lotura Week 2023 Day 1 - Space Mall Sillies Drabble

The (Im)perfect Mattress

“Oh,” Princess Allura of Altea—soon to be Empress Allura—whined as she stretched out on a mattress at the space mall. Her blue and purple skirts fanned about her legs in a stiff line. “This is far too hard. It feels like sleeping on the floor of Blue Lion.” 

Emperor Lotor of the Galra had lain beside her. His velvet voice was contemplative. “I disagree, princess. In fact, I fear it is not hard enough to support my form.”

She turned her cheek to him, and her curls intermixed with the straight locks of his hair as he turned to her.

“You can’t possibly be serious,” she said. “This is the hardest bed I’ve ever had the misfortune of testing.”

He huffed back at her. “Galran bones are heavier and require significant firmness to avoid misalignment.” His sharp face twisted in a merry pout. “Do you wish back pain upon your husband-to-be?”

Allura moaned, running her hands over her face. “By the stars, this is the third mattress shop in the mall, and we’re no closer to landing on a marriage bed than we were two vargas ago.”

Lotor raised up on his arm, cradling in his cheek in his hand. He playfully narrowed his eyes, which glowed slightly in the mall’s fluorescent lights. “I’ll have you know,” he said, reaching out to poke her sensitive side, “I’m quite fine with this one.”

The princess squeaked, recoiling from the poke and swatting his hand away. “How cruel of you to say. Do you wish back pain upon your wife-to-be?”  

His lazy fingers—Lotor had grown more at ease in recent times, more playful—swirled against one of her curls as his expression grew pensive. “In truth, I desire your comfort as much as my own. Perhaps we can cut two mattresses in half and then sew the halves together.”

Allura actively considered the idea, rubbing her chin. “But what if we wish to cuddle in the middle? I do like cuddling.”

Lotor bit his lip as his eyebrows knitted together. Allura’s white curls slid against his fingers. “As do I. Which does pose a challenge to my solution, yes. I suppose you could rest on top of me in such cases.”

Her expression grew mischievous. “Is that an invitation?”

“For all time, princess.”

She giggled, her toes wiggling in her royal slippers. “You terrible tease. We’re already in trouble for, um, holographic interface indecencies during our remote conference with the planet Numoria.”

His eyes blew wide with innocence. “That is besides the point, which is that we have a solution to our marriage bed problem.” His chest puffed out. “We shall graft two mattresses into one, just as we graft our worlds and our lives together.”

Allura, still laying on her back, reached up to stroke Lotor’s cheek. “I do like that concept,” she said, voice soft.

He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes to fervently kiss her palm.

For one brief tick, they forgot they were in public. It took the shifting of elevator music to shake them out of their daze—along with the snapping of pictures from a few reporters from the Intergalactic Gazette, curious of the space royals on their day out shopping.

Lotor’s elfin ear flicked, and he turned to the store windows, the heat in his eyes sapping with a mild embarrassment as his cheeks flushed a deep lavender.

Allura turned to follow his gaze, and she froze, making a noise. “Oh. Um. It appears we’ve attracted quite a following.”

The emperor set his jaw, face still hot. “So we have,” he murmured, voice halted. “Have they been following us all along?”

“I don’t remember them around the first two shops,” she whispered. “Perhaps they congregated upon making the poor shop keeper whine that we are impossible to please.”

He turned back to her. “I do not wish to cause an incident, but I’m afraid pictures of us testing mattresses may inspire…strange headlines.”

The princess giggled despite her embarrassment. “What do you suppose we do?”

“…In this case, perhaps we retreat,” he said. And then he regally slipped off the bed and onto the softest mattress nearby—designed for the water beings of Wutrax II. With royal grace, he sunk into it with his heavy Galran bones, nearly disappearing from sight.

The princess giggled and then stood from the bed, calling, “Oh, but how will we manage to get you out?”   

From out of the material came his muffled voice, somewhat in awe. “I’m not sure.” And then there was a beat of silence before he added, “But do you know, this is not entirely uncomfortable. Rather like being cocooned.”

Her face faulted. “Oh. Oh no. Lotor, no, please. Tell me you jest. What was that again about requiring some form of support?”

“I do entreat you to try it with me, and at least you will not be seen by the crowds.”

Allura bit her lip, glanced back at the store windows, and then dared to lean into the water bed, only to squeak as she slipped down into the heavy depression. She found herself lying atop a warm and perfectly firm but perfectly pliable Lotor.

The shop owner walked by, shaking his head as Allura’s giggle echoed up.

“Oh,” came her delighted voice. “Actually, this is quite nice, yes.”

[quiznack]

ranking voltron characters on how much they should have been at the cluuuuuuuuubbbbbbbbbbb:

lance: there has never been a character who should have been at the club more than lance mcclain. i know hes absolutely slaughtering it on the dance floor. leave him there for five minutes and hes already made three new friends in the smoking area and bought far too many drinks for the meager amount in his bank account. a man with a true clubbing spirit and its honestly cruel voltron stole that from him. 10/10

hunk: now hunks place at the proverbial club is a little less sure. i think hunk would enjoy going clubbing occasionally, especially if its lance he's going out with. but he likes clubs that aren't as intense with plenty of seating area. maybe a lovely jazz place. that being said, the club is less of a natural habitat for him and more of a fun once-in-a-while. 6/10

pidge: this is a little hard for me to visualize because pidge is like, fifteen. many years remain before she can even dream of the club. that being said i think pidge has the potential to have fun at a club but it definitely wouldn't be her first choice. she would prefer playing video games at home. 3/10

shiro: i dont think shiro went to the club much pre-kerberos mission, always very focused on his career yk. always the guy reminding everyone to drink water, always the guy you left your drink with cause he took it deathly serious. that being said, he was occasionally known to bust a poorly done move. he did have fun! during voltron he was too busy having ptsd flashbacks and leading a war to be at the club. post the whole voltron kerfuffle i do not think you would ever find him at the club. that is an old ass man let him have his tea and biscuts and leave him alone. hasnt he done enough. 5/10 pre-kerberos and 1/10 after.

allura: i think, for allura, the club is a complicated place. on one hand she is an ancient alien princess unaccustomed to human clubs and i cant imagine, her being a teenager and also (it needs to be stated again) a princess, she had much clubbing experience on altea. that being said i think she could learn. whether she could shake off the stress of being princess/diplomat/paladin/all of her other roles long enough to truly enjoy it is another question. her killer dance moves make up for her stressed out vibes though and she is ultimately just a girl who wants to have fun. 5/10

keith: absolutely fucking not. keith has whatever the opposite of a clubbers spirit is. keith being at the club would be a sign of deep spiritual unrest. get my boy OUT of there. 0/10

coran: 10/10 no explanation needed. please let that man into a human club and please let me watch the show

[the-priestess-of-dawn]

My little world building head finds it cool because

a. The buildings actually seem to be more reminiscent of apartment buildings than the standard medieval home (multiple floors, blocky, multiple windows) which could imply more communal living compared to Ylisstol

b. It seems to straight up be an accurate castle. Obviously, its not the most realistic, but castles are actually more of a large closed-in city/village/fort compared to the modern idea that they are just fancy palaces. In this, the buildings/town seem to be inside the courtyard of Plegia's castle (and Grima's bones). This is closer to IRl castles.

c. This implies Plegia's courtyard/castle has a history of being used in war. Combined with the way Plegia's army seems to be majorly wyvern riders, mages, and archers (classes that can move easier on sand) we can kinda imagine that Plegia's managed to stay so strong because they employ a more "lure in the enemy to us, we have the home advantage" type of strategy. In fact, this happens to Chrom and the Shepherds in act 1.

I find it interesting how Plegia seems to be a more closed-off and military kingdom than Ylisse. We also know they have an amazing navy (800 ships!!! And that's not even all of it!) as well as good wealth. Makes me imagine that perhaps Emmeryn and the Shepherds weren't the only ones to fall for Plegias tactics... Who knows, perhaps Grima employed the same strategies and they just stuck! What ideas/headcanons/theories do you have on plegia's society/history?

Neat stuff! There's not a ton of explicit worldbuilding in Awakening, so it's really fun to draw inferences from little details like this!

I don't have a LOT of headcanons on Plegian society and history I usually try to be somewhat vague in my fics (although, well, The Museum of Plegian History kind of necessarily required me to touch on the matter. True Believers, too, although not quite as much since Chrom isn't actually raised within Plegian society itself). Anyway, my major headcanons are

1) The Grimleal migrated to Plegia from Khadein (though they weren't all necessarily *born* in Khadein; there was a school there, after all, so some people were probably already from abroad), and thus there's a significant blending of cultures within Plegia. (On a somewhat related note, I am fascinated by the fact that the land that was once Altea is now within Plegia's borders and has in fact become the "border wastes" on the Feroxi border... Combined with Ferox's Longfort stretching across their entire southern border, I can't help but wonder how much blood was shed over and on that specific territory... I also wonder how many blue-haired Plegians with Altean features might be around, and if perhaps that could relate to why it's so easy for the Feroxi guards to suspect Chrom of being a Plegian brigand as well as for Cynthia to get tricked by someone masquerading as Chrom...)

2) Because even the word "Grimleal" professes loyalty to Grima, I think loyalty is a keystone principle in Plegian society. You can see it in the way Mustafa's men continue to fight for him even though they no longer support the war itself. I'd say you can also see it in Chapter 7 when you fight Vasto. See, Vasto has some pretty nasty words for the Hierarch, who was supposed to be taken into custody and protected after betraying Emmeryn to Plegia... Instead, though, Vasto just has him killed. And if you're just looking at the text in a cursory manner, it's easy to write it off as a show of brutality (like, yep, these are for sure the bad guys!) BUT Vasto is actually one of the characters that Henry talks about in his supports with Ricken. He's the kind of guy who likes to brag about his mother's knitting, and turns out he was really excited that day because it was his first major command... So in that light, it seems less like he's particularly cruel, and more like he's legitimately disgusted that the Hierarch would betray his ruler like that. There's also a line from Aversa late in the game—"How Robin lives with the shame, attacking his/her own blood..."—which again seems to imply that in Plegia you are supposed to stick with your own even if it kills you (as Aversa also just said that she'd gladly die at Validar's command)

[memwazz]

WINGS WINGS WINGS !!

Just like Nisis and Gweldas, Azran used to have their own wings and they were reddish since they're the creator of red magic. At the time, they were nicer and had a pretty good relationship with their brothers.

Nisis and Gweldas raised them and taught them everything they needed to fly safely (since their parents don't have wings, they could not help with this).

Unfortunately, growing up, Azran felt upset about the throne and royalty, starting to understand how important it was. They quickly got jealous for not being raised as an actual heir and tired of being the third wheel. This jealousy was feeded by Yevlan, whom they were very close to and who persuaded Azran they would constantly be put aside and loved less than the twins.

Then Azran started to corrupt themselves, getting obsessed with money and power, fully aware that their magic could help them getting what they wanted. Their behavior towards their brothers became cruel for no reason, they tricked them many times and rejected everything about them and their past relationship.

When Azran was banished from Altea after corrupting mortals, they felt angrier than ever and refused to have anything to do with their "family". Thus they cut their wings not to look like their brothers, and sold most of the feathers as lucky charms to mortals.

Nowadays legends tell some feathers have remained and buying or finding one would bring eternal fortune and abundance. Azran really regrets the impulsive act of cutting these wings they truly loved, but they would never admit it.

[dartstrix]

Bayonetta and Jeanne using Cruel Altea

[manndycoffee]

Day 11: Cruel #myart #inktober2018 #inktober #tradionalart #day11 #illustration #cruel #ocs #myocs #Altea #Toshiro https://www.instagram.com/p/Bo0EAV5hrgY/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1pmbcs2i9yyox

[autisticlancemcclain]

They all sort of… paired off, after the war. Not, like, exact pairs — maybe more like groups. Shiro reunited with Adam. The two of them bought a house far the fuck away from the Garrison and everything associated with it. Hunk and Pidge paired off, both pursuing their doctorates like the smartypants they were and are. Allura, Coran, and Romelle stayed on Earth for a bit, but all three of them ached for the comfort of home, and returned to New Altea eventually.

That left Lance and Keith.

Well, not really. Originally Lance assumed it meant he was left alone to try and reconnect with the family he’d grown away from — a family he loved and still loves with every fibre of his being, but the family that he couldn’t quite… click with, anymore. He’s changed, they’d changed, and he wasn’t sure where he fit. He’d been scared, although he wouldn’t admit it.

Keith had been the one to approach him, actually. Asked Lance if he’d want to move in with him.

“You’re not moving in with Shiro and Adam?”

Keith snorted. “Absolutely not. They have retired into a little home on the prairies, or whatever. I have some respect for my ears and so I will not be moving in to the constant background noise of my brother having regular honeymoon sex, or whatever.”

It was a joke. He’d meant for Lance to laugh. But the shock was still ringing through his head; laughter was the furthest thing from his mind.

“With the Alteans, then, to New Altea?”

“Nope.”

“The Blades, with your mother?”

“I’ve had enough of the Blade of Marmora, I think. I liked it there, but I don’t really want to do it for the rest of my life. Besides, I actually missed Earth. I didn’t realise how pretty it was here ‘til I left.”

“…Oh.”

And it has been fine, for the first few days. Awkward, but fine. It had been like having a roommate, really — not that Lance knew what that was like, but he could wager a guess. They made schedules, divvied up chores, occasionally hung out on the couch.

It came out of nowhere, Lance’s hurt. Well, not really nowhere. It had to come out sometime. But it had seemed so random, then. Lance had pushed the hurt down so far for so long it was almost unrecognisable, but then there it was: for the first time in as long as he could remember, Lance wanted everyone else to ache as badly as he did. To writhe, to suffer. He wanted Pidge to feel stupid. He wanted Hunk to feel abandoned. He wanted Shiro to feel small, for Allura to feel dismissed and second-rate. He wanted them to hurt for every pain they’d made him feel. He’d wanted Keith, especially, to feel hated. He’d wanted Keith to feel like he was lesser and a burden and unloved and forgotten.

Lance wanted to be cruel. But he couldn’t bring himself to say the words, so he went silent.

Keith noticed, because of course he did. They didn’t talk to many other people, the two of them. He’d left it, at first. Lance didn’t know what Keith assumed was going on, but he’d smiled at Lance more and left it at that. After a week of Lance’s silence, though, he’d started to get a little pushy.

“Hey, you okay? We haven’t talked in a while.”

Lance kept his eyes on the task in front of him, scrubbing the plate a little harder.

“Which is weird,” Keith continued, “because we literally live together. Super weird, actually. Unlikely, even.”

The plate cracked in Lance’s hand, porcelain shatters embedding themselves into his palm. The water turned pink.

“Jesus, Lance, what happened?” Keith rushed forward, grabbing a clean dishtowel and reaching for Lance’s arm.

Lance flinched.

Keith froze.

“…Lance?”

Lance swallowed. He drained the soiled water, carefully scooping out the broken pieces to discard, but a pale hand reached over again, slowly this time. Hesitantly. Lance forced himself to stay still, even as he felt bile rising up his throat. Forced himself to keep his fists from clenching, so the shards didn’t get any deeper. Forced himself to breath.

“Let me get it,” Keith said softly.

He didn’t want to. He didn’t want Keith’s help, Keith’s gentleness. He didn’t need it anymore. He had needed it, then, needed Keith’s gentleness and care and love and smile and embrace but he didn’t fucking get it, then, not when he needed it, not when he was gasping and drowning for it, so why the fuck would he take it now? Why would he take Keith’s offered hand, now, when his heart had moved on?

His jaw ached, strained with the need to yell the words. To spit them in Keith’s face.

Where were you? He wanted to yell. Where were you when I was suffering? When I was dying? When I was begging the sun to shine and it rained on me as I lay drowning? Where was your hand, then? Your saving grace?

But he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. So he dried his hands, swallowed the lump in his throat, and walked away.

———

It would have been one thing if he was declining calls. But it really ached that his phone was drier than the desert. Now that he wasn’t calling, wasn’t reaching out to the people that were supposed to be one with him, they’d dropped him. Were they even thinking of him? Was he even on their radar? Did they talk to each other, and was Lance the odd one out?

He hoped they still thought about him, even occasionally. It was too painful to think otherwise. It was stupid to feel the pain, anyway, to wish they called even though Lance knows damn well he wouldn’t answer. He’s still furious with each and every one of them, although the hurt is starting to overcome to anger.

Part of the ache is that he doesn’t really… do much. They’re not allowed to accept jobs, not for another four months. They had psych evals, after that final battle, all of ‘em. Apparently they each had PTSD, and until they were ‘appropriately settled into a civilian life’, it was ‘unfair to both them and their employer to expect regular labour’. Why they weren’t allowed to do some freelance stuff or whatever, Lance didn’t know, but it meant a lot of time wasting away in his room. He’d tried helping the relief effort, and he’d done that for a while, but he’d had a couple… episodes. Maybe he was a little affected by the war, the Omega Shield in particular. Whatever. What he does know is that he’d become very well-acquainted with the insides of his eyelids. He can’t remember the last time he was awake for longer than six consecutive hours.

There’s a knock at the door. Lance doesn’t even bother taking the pillow off his head.

“Lance?” Keith calls.

Lance doesn’t acknowledge him. Even if he had the energy, he hasn’t talked to Keith in five months. He hasn’t talked to anyone in five months, not even his mamá. He doubts his voice even works, anymore.

Keith sighs heavily. “I’m going to see your mother,” he says. “She invited us both for dinner again. She’s worried about you. So am I. You coming? She’s making garlic knots.” The last sentence is coaxing, singsong. Lance wonders when Keith’s patience is going to give out. He’s surprised he’s even lasted this long. He wonders what he’s gonna do when Keith finally quits. Breaks the lease, packs his bags. Leaves Lance again.

Maybe it’s not fair for Lance to be angry at Keith for something he’s not even done, yet. But Lance is tired. Too tired for nuance.

Keith leaves without him.

———

The most action Lance gets, any day of the week, is timing when Keith is out of the house, because then he can go eat. (Does he eat every day? Probably. Maybe. Honestly, he’s not sure. Time kind of blurs. He eats when he’s so hungry he can’t sleep, and showers when he convinces himself he should.) He’s gotten pretty good at it, actually. He’s so tuned in to Keith’s footsteps that they actually wake him up, because his body knows that it’s the only time it’s moving.

(Lance does know, objectively, that he’s killing himself. He knows it. He feels it in the frailty of his bones, the bags under his eyes even though he does nothing but sleep. In the way his mouth always feels gross because he rarely makes himself brush his teeth. In the way he’s running out of things he cares about, reasons to stay alive.)

That’s probably why he perks up now, hearing the footsteps approach his door. He’s a little angry at himself for the perking up in question, but whatever. Who cares. Keith is going to talk to him vaguely through the door and give up, and then Lance can go back to sleep, and then Lance can stop thinking about it.

Keith’s not talking to him through the door. He’s also not leaving. In fact, the only sound Lance hears is the jiggling of the handle.

Lance blinks. He sits up. Every joint cracks, because he hasn’t moved in a very long time.

Oh no.

The door swings open, revealing Keith in all his glory, holding a pillow and a blanket and looking very, very determined. He walks over to Lance’s bed and shoves him a little, albeit gently. Lance bites back an incredulous ‘what the fuck do you think you’re doing’. Keith either does not notice or care, throwing his pillow beside Lance’s and crawling on the bed. He fluffs the blanket over both of them, and Lance tells himself that he does not care.

“We’re watching a movie,” Keith says firmly, “like we did when we first moved in. And we are perhaps going to even chat, but no pressure. Mostly you’re going to do something that isn’t being unconscious, and we’re going to do it together.”

Lance takes a moment to process that. Mostly he feels nothing. Whatever. Keith can do what he wants. Lance will just wait until Keith gets bored and then go back to sleep.

But another part of him reminds him of the pain Keith caused. The hurt he felt.

Not now, Lance.

I just don’t want to spend eternity with Lance.

The rage lights the fire back into his heart. The molten lava of his pain spreads throughout his veins, and he tenses. The words crawl up his throat. He shoves them down.

“We’re watching Barbie Pegasus, because you love that movie.”

Lance shoves the words down.

“And then you’re going to call your mother.”

He shoves them down.

“And then we’re going to do a face mask.”

Down.

“I was gonna bring snacks, but we don’t have any of that pink-coated popcorn you like and I haven’t gone grocery shopping in a while, actually, so the fridge is kind of barren.”

Down.

“Uh, that’s it for plans. I’ll be honest, I kind of stormed in here with very little forethought.”

“Why do you care now?”

The words burst out of him. He can do nothing to stop them, nor can he stop the tears.

Keith startles. “You talked,” he breathes. He sounds awed. “Like, really. With your mouth and vocal chords.”

Lance ignores him. “You said you didn’t want me,” he says. He tastes salt and acid. “You said you wanted to be away from me eternity. You think I am annoying. You only want to live with me because you have no other options. You don’t love me. The rest of the team stopped loving me months ago. My family mourned me, they don’t need me anymore. I don’t — I don’t know why you’re here. Why are you still here? Why — I don’t know. I don’t understand! I want to hate you! You hurt me, you hurt every part of me! You broke my fucking heart, Keith, and you don’t seem sorry and I don’t know what to do with the pieces, now.”

Lance doesn’t look at Keith. He can’t. He clenches the blanket Keith brought in his fists, watching the grey of the fabric get blurrier and blurrier as the tears build and drop from his eyes.

“Lance.”

Lance swallows.

“Lance, look at me.”

Keith sounds like he’s begging. Lance sobs.

“I’m so lost, Keith. I’m so — lost.”

“Oh, Lance.” Keith reaches out for him. Lance doesn’t move. He doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t reach back. He sits there. Keith doesn’t seem to mind. He wraps a solid arm around Lance’s waist, dragging him closer. He turns Lance around once he’s close enough, pressing his face into his neck. This time, Lance goes willingly.

He’s still mad. He’s still hurt. His heart still aches and he doesn’t know how to feel.

But it’s been so long since he’s been held. Weeks. Months. (Years, really. It stopped in space, the affection. Everyone got busy, and then got tired. He doesn’t even remember if he hugged his sisters, when they got back, or if there was too much to worry about.)

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” Keith whispers. His hands run gently through Lance’s probably gross hair. “I didn’t realize. I didn’t think about how much I was hurting you, how much you were already hurt. I was scared. Everything was changing for me, I was stressed, I was supposed to lead people I didn’t know had to lead.” He sighs. He presses a kiss to Lance’s head. “I failed you, Lance. I’m sorry.”

Lance sobs again. It’s been… so long, since someone apologized. Since someone cared about his pain. It’s — soothing. Cold water running over his skin, cooling the burns. He clutches Keith tighter.

Maybe things will be okay.

[ohmyoverland]

I’m finally watching the Voltron finale (without watching most of the last season bc I’m not gonna waste that much time lmao) and hoo boy it is WORSE than I thought it would be.

[bjdavis5]

Bayonetta 3 demons & weapons concept art

Malphas harbinger of finality / simoon

Labolas destroyer of fate / cruel altea

Umbran clock tower spire of the forbidden / tartarus

Mictlantecuhtli presser of destruction / abracadabra

Alraune whisperer of insanity / alruna

[venushasvixens]

October 5th - Possession/Mind Control (Lotor x Reader) / Kinktober 2021

[A/N] nothing other than Lotor is a sadistic fuck in this.

WARNING: not in control?? 18+, contains adult content

You were strapped firmly by your hands and feet to a reclining piece of metal. You had been subjected to torture before, and you were prepared for anything. The time from when you were captured by Prince Lotor and his generals to now was a blur. All you remember was the sudden appearance of his ship, guns at the ready. A fight ensued, and at last, you were in their custody.

Having just assisted Voltron in defending an alien race against the Galra, you knew that there was a huge target on your back. Anyone associated with them would be obliterated to smithereens. And now your time has come.

All of a sudden, you heard the sound of blast doors opening. A light had flicked on, illuminating your tied up body. Squinting at the harsh lights, you heard the slow thuds of a large being echoed throughout the chamber. You couldn't turn your head at all, completely paralyzed. A flash of white hair could be seen in the darkness in front of you, tampering with a machine that stood dormant in front of you.

“I trust you are comfortable?” The being spoke, his fingers tapping on the machine. It roared to life, ready to power up.

“A pillow would be nice.” Smart ass. “What do you want from me?”

The being hummed. “I think you know.”

“I really don’t know what youre talking about, I’m just a lowly scavenger making her way through the galaxy.” You lied, pulling at your restraints.

“Is that so? Well in that case,” the being pulled out a holopad, flashing an image of you shaking hands with the Princess of Altea, “can you tell me who this is?”

You stared at the picture, flabbergasted. “Damn, you got me there.”

“That’s what I thought. Now, I will ask you nicely.” The being appeared from the shadows, his white long hair catching the light. “Where is Voltron?”

You sighed. “Look, if I’m being honest, all I did was help them in a battle I had no business in. There was not one word uttered to me about their next destination.”

Lotor nodded, thinking. With a turn of the heel, he strode over to the machine again, twisting a lever.

“I’m giving you one last chance to tell me. Where. Is. Voltron?”

“I’ve told you, they didn’t tell me where they were going next. All I got was a thanks and a small praise and I was on my way.” You muttered, tired of this pointless interrogation. “Besides, if you were any better at your job, you wouldn’t be wasting your time on me.”

Lotor smirked, his pupils at a slit. “Thank you for giving me an excuse to use this fine device. You’ll make an excellent experiment.”

The lever was pulled back, the power of the machine accelerating. This was it. You were going to die. The room filled with a bright magenta hue, with the center of the machine being a growing dot of destruction.

BAM!

A blinding light flashed in your eyes, rendering you powerless. Screaming out in fear, your body tensed against your restraints. Is this what dying felt like? No.

Instead, you could hear the voice of the cruel prince calling you back to reality.

“Open your eyes.”

You did as he commanded, your eyes forced open, everything in the room a fuschia shade. Panicked, your eyes set on Lotor who stood in front of you. He watched you in fascination, untying your limbs. Your brain commanded your limb to move, to punch and hit, but to no avail. You could not move.

“Lift your arm.” He instructed. Your arm raised above your head, much to Lotor’s excitement. This was terrifying. “Good, good. Let’s see what else we can do.”

-

“Moan for me.”

Your nipples were so sore from being licked and sucked. You refused to give in, resulting in Lotor’s own method of torture. Taking his dagger, he cut your shirt in half, taking your silky breast into his mouth.

He wouldn’t stop. His tongue trailed over your breasts, circling the nipple with just the tip of his tongue. You couldn’t help but moan, your tits having always been so sensitive. He gave equal attention to each one, gently massaging the other.

Lotor pinched your nipples in between his fingertips, rubbing them quickly.

“Mmm a-aaah, p-please.” You cried out, the pleasure going straight to your pussy, a rising heat forming in your stomach.

“Such a good toy.” Lotor praised you, giving a kiss to your panting mouth. You hated him so much, but it felt so good. He took over your body completely, obeying his every word. Telling you to moan and cry, you did exactly that. Morally, this was so wrong. It wasn't you in control, and that's what frightened you.

But stars, you haven’t felt such attention and sensuality in a long time.

Your torment lasted for vargas, being used by Lotor in every position possible. The amount of times you were told to cum was mounting up. Slamming himself into your aching pussy once more, all you could really do was mindlessly cry Lotor’s name. He had brainwashed you to think of only him. Every time he thrusted into you, you could never get used to his cock. Thick and veiny, it was greater each time he fucked you.

“Legs over my shoulders, now.” You complied, doing as you were told. Your knees by your head, and Lotor positioning himself, he pounded into you with a forceful thrust.

“A-ah, yes, this is much better.” He growled in your ear, arms wrapped around your body. Digging his claws into your skin, his hips moved faster and faster. It was animalistic, a monster devouring his prey. It was so hard the tip of his cock slammed into your cervix each time. You were so oversexed you did not care, all you wanted was him.

You wanted his cum, his cock buried inside of you until the end of time. You were his whore, wanting to only give him your holes to be filled up. His endurance amazed you, lasting for eons. Galrans were known for that, practically indestructible. He truly was their prince.

“You’re mine, all mine.” He snarled, his voice strained. You couldn’t imagine the mess you were in for.

He bared his fangs, intensely staring in your face. There was a glimpse of affection, satisfied with the work he had done on you. He had broken you.

Smack, smack, smack

That noise and Lotor’s moans were all you could hear. He grabbed your face into his hand, firmly grasping your chin. “I want to see those pretty eyes when I come into you, do you understand pet?”

You nodded, brows furrowed and your mouth lolled open. Putting your legs down, he gripped onto your hips. Holding you right where he wanted you, his momentum picked up.

Slam, slam, slam

You couldn't look away. This was a command, you were so enthralled with the sight that laid before you. White strands of hair tickled your face, Lotor’s face distorted. His expressions changed at a whim, his teeth bared and angry. You were obsessed with it.

You could feel the ending was near. Lotor’s legs twitched, hesitating to enter you once more, but he ignored it. He was going to mark you in every way he could.

“Come with me, come with me.”

A guttural howl echoed throughout the chamber as Lotor convulsed inside of you. As he did, all you could muster was a silent scream, your orgasms coinciding together. He gave a small thrust inside you before pulling out. A small pop sound could be heard, your pussy empty and alone.

Like that, the act was over.

“Good, I had gotten what I wanted from you.” Lotor breathed nonchalantly, as if he didnt give you the best (and humiliating) fucking of your life. As he placed his armor back onto his lavender body gracefully, you laid on the floor taking in his words and presence.

He took what he wanted, and now your death was approaching soon. You were of no use to him anymore.

As Lotor headed to the blast doors, he turned to face his prisoner. He stared at you for a moment, his eyes squinted and concentrated. “Hmm.”

Strolling to your side, he knelt down by your head. “Forgive me for what I said. As an apology, I will give you this.”

He whispered deeply in your ear, causing goosebumps to rise on your skin.

“Join me, and together we can capture and destroy Voltron. Together.”

The picture was clear now. Voltron was the enemy. Parasites of the empire, and must be eliminated. You couldn't agree more with him.

“When do we start?”

[arcstral]

—  altean retrospective; 490 - 537 a.c.  —

   i .   490 a.c.

At age ten, Marcelus remarked on his desire to learn to read.

Neither Anri nor their father and mother could, though it was not precisely that Marcelus wished to be the difference in their family, the hallmark of scholarly enlightenment in their long and storied line of illiterate to marginally literate fishermen. He expressed this because being able to read the tariffs in the marketplace made things easier. Easier to haggle prices with the upland Archanean traders, easier to know the worth of money, and above all—at that young and impressionable age—easier to know his own worth.

Anri was, after all, not only the elder between them by several years, but also the stronger and more universally useful son.

He knew the patterns of the sea and sky like the back of his hand, he was uncommonly good with a sword, and well-bred even in his features—when looked upon at an angle seemed almost unsuited to the humble roots of privation he came from. One could nearly forget that their father had accumulated a lifetime fortune in debt from failed whaling expeditions to the eastern Pyrathi ocean. One could nearly forget that his second son was born a cripple.

But even in Marcelus’ own desire to improve, Anri had helped in this, too.

Upon noticing the way Marcelus looked at the traders buried in their ledgers, Anri responded in a way that only he could—an action that would carve him into a man of his younger brother’s respect for the entirety of his lifetime.

He approached the company of the traders and sold to them the several chickens they had. He reemerged before supper, arms filled with a mountain of books he couldn’t afford and the prices of which he could read even less. Anri knew only the repercussions and he suffered them well with a beating from their father upon his return home. It was the most horrifying state he had ever seen his brother but Marcelus understood:

There was no extent that Anri would not go to for the people he loved.

It would be the same for a princess as it was for a brother.

   ii .   497 a.c.

“Between the two of us, you were born with a king’s name, Marcelus.”

Without turning eye and heel to the owner of the voice, he knew how he appeared. Sunken into his far too itchy throne, upon a bale of alfalfa that rubbed grass stains across his knees and elbows, all whilst pondering the finer fortunes that glittered beyond the muddy horizon of Altea Town and its crooked hovels. Its shoeless children and hole-ridden roofs. Spurning the sights that reigned true before his eyes, Anri dreamt of the same destinies of wealth and lordship that every peasant man imagined at least once before reality shattered upon their heads a cruel and undeceiving vase.

But the difference between them was that normal peasant men understood the harsh justice of their class. The difference between them was that Marcelus did, too. In reality, disillusionment had primed its gavel over the head of poor Marcelus quite a bit earlier in life, but the other had slipped free from its shadow many a time. He’d even have his moods painted so clearly across his face; a vision that told Marcelus it’d be a few more years before the same lesson successfully caught on for his older brother. Or perhaps it never would.

With great certainty, he knew he would not be the one to tell him. With nothing to lose and even less to gain, a man of common birth could dream so long as it did not affect his work. That the man in question came from the same womb as himself was only named another tall measure of his silence.

“A king’s name and nothing more. I’d prefer a working pair of legs over a name too high and mighty for my rocks,” he laughed instead, dragging his leg with a grunt as he toted the spring harvest from one corner of the granary to the other. As he felt those blue eyes protectively follow him throughout this process.

They both knew it was not the lame leg that barred him from so much as harmlessly dreaming of a kingdom and queen all his own. Not any more than the poor landless debtor of a father they shared at home, or the pail of rotten goat milk that had tossed on him that very morning upon leaving it. Matron Theresa, stumbling more and more towards the pitfalls of geriartic weakness, had lost the grip on her eyesight spectacularly since striking age sixty.

The smell only worsened as the day dragged on. An observation that Marcelus remarked upon to reiterate the point.

Anri, strong and radiant, cheerfully laughed at this.

   iii .   498 a.c.

Princess Artemis, last of her line, proved a breathtakingly beautiful tempest that swept away all surviving notions of normalcy within Altea town. The war with the Dolhr Empire had not touched a region as remote and forgettable as their village until the very fruit it chased landed upon their doorstep. The last hopes of far-off Archanea, she was called, though that climactic nature touched no chord in Anri. Finality did not affect him even when an attachment of Duke Cartas’ knights retrieved her from the island, perhaps because a part of her stayed with his brother.

“Sir Anri, you have shined your kindness and love upon me with great impression,” Artemis said on the very day, tears in her eyes and no mistake in them as to what man she loved—what man she need leave behind.

“I beg that you live happily. You will survive in my thoughts forever.”

Marcelus watched Anri, saw the flicker of steel across his face.

Witnessed how it was love for a princess that strengthened his resolve and squared his shoulders, love that compelled him to take up his armor and untangle himself from the mundane life he knew to follow a voice in his head: retrieve the Falchion from the Ice Dragon Shrine. Destroy Medeus.

Though it was insanity Marcelus could not stop him, and though it was inevitable Marcelus could not go with him. There was nothing that even the younger brother of Anri could do to deter him as he set out on a path of salvation for one woman and her kingdom. I’m leaving, he solemnly declared and within his eyes read a look that no force and no man of earthly nature could deign to stop.

A martyr to love, Anri sailed alone into the sea on a year-long quest for a divine blade. When he next returned with the blood of a dragon on his hands, his brother went by a new name.

‘Hero-King.’

   iv .   499 a.c.

The War of Liberation as it was now called had proven to be a exceedingly difficult war, but even the endless tribulations of recovery that followed held no candle to the heroes. The five who burned even brighter: Cartas, Marlon, Iote, Ordwin—

Anri.

His brother is hailed the crowning hero of an eight-year war, a famous if not base-born youth risen from a region known primarily for its farmlands and fisheries. But the bright celebration of Anri’s glory bore a long shadow, Marcelus knew, and this shadow fell in the form of the troubling news that Princess Artemis had decided to marry Duke Cartas of Archanea.

They would consummate their union within a fortnight, subverting half the expectations that she would marry the war’s messiah. Even more the offense was the fact that she sent no letter of explanation to his brother. It was as if his brother didn’t exist. Or as if she paid greater heed to the blue-blooded snakes in her ear than Anri’s heartfelt whispers of love.

It was certainly no secret now. All the newly liberated peoples of Archanea from the lowest street urchin to the highest commanding officer possessed their likely speculations. That the one thing the Archanean nobility detested more than their subjugation by the hands of a dragon was a peasant for a king.

“Wretched woman,” Marcelus spat in his fury.

Anri, who could not look in him in the eye, spoke steadily even then.

“Artemis must have her reasons.”

Marcelus made no remark of the silent air of tragedy that followed him in the years thereafter. Anri was a hero beloved for his gift of liberation, for his beauty and fairness and bravery. On behest of the Archaneans he fought for, love was a war he had lost.

   v .   500 a.c.

As the second of Archanea’s holdings to gain independence, over the course of a year the tiny agrarian town known as Altea is quickly transformed into a prosperous island kingdom. King Anri, its first anointed sovereign with the divine sword Falchion as his holy relic, is celebrated by all people.

His brother’s rule is even majorly legitimatized. The subsidy of the Archanean crown allowed for the construction of a grand castle and with many knights to outfit it alongside, there remained little to delineate Anri’s former roots as a commoner save for the absence of a royal wife.

A point on which few of their vassals made to fret and even fewer dared to comment.

   vi .   505 a.c.

A life for a life, the crown prince is born in exchange for his own mother.

Artemis dies in the throes of childbirth after the conception of her first and only son.

He suspects that Anri saw something of her in this child—his brother was the first to swear fealty to their newborn suzerain. This little prince of Archanea.

   vii .   537 a.c.

At the somber age of fifty-seven, Marcelus looked into the eyes of his dying older brother and regretted all that he could not do for him throughout his life.

It was a wretched thing to think—but he could not help the thought that it was not Anri who failed others, but rather people who immortally failed him. Anri who walked the difficult pilgrimage to the Ice Dragon Shrine alone, deprived of comfort and air and heat. Anri who founded a kingdom and fed his people on a lifetime of his good deeds. Anri who could not enjoy the love he so arduously fought so.

And that the first king of Altea should die childless not merely by circumstance, but in the protest of his fate... None would know save for Marcelus. His gaze slid to the side and he dismissed his adult son with a jut of his chin.

“Leave me, Marius. I wish to speak with your uncle alone.”

Anri stirred little even at the departure of his beloved nephew, his brother’s son. So far gone he was, but still he smiled for Marcelus. Still his face glowed bright with the bounty of his love.

Still he spoke of one thing:

“Between the two of us, you were born with a king’s name, Marcelus," Anri murmured fondly, pointing him in the direction of the divine blade mounted on the wall with a trembling finger.

“...So be king.”

.

.

.

Anri, king of Altea, dies childless and is succeeded by his younger brother, Marcelus

Due to internal conflict, the Kingdom of Gra splits from Altea and becomes independent.

[the-lightning-strikes-again]

It would’ve been nice to see flirty banter between Lotor and Allura. Maybe while working on the comet ship and teasing about each other when they were on that gas planet chasing each other before meeting each other face to face.

Flirty Banter - A Lotura Drabble

Princess Allura of Altea could feel Emperor Lotor’s presence as a thick tension against her. His breath puffed lightly against the tip of her ear. His gloved fingers occasionally brushed her own while they performed calculations for their creation.

Their creation—a ship that could survive the quintessence field.

Allura swallowed hard, wondering if Lotor could hear her pounding heartbeat with his proximity. They’d grown much closer over the last several weeks, at ease in each other’s presence despite initial paranoia and fear. Now, a different emotion had overtaken her. She did not dare to name it.

Lotor’s velvet voice drifted lightly over her, echoing in the hangar. “Princess, do you remember Thayserix?”

Her heart skipped. Her fingers slipped from the holographic interface. “Of course, I do,” she said dryly. She turned to him, quirking a brow. “You tried to hunt me down on that planet. It was a very rude affair, I should say.”

By the Ancients, Lotor was tall. She had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. She struggled to get her eyes up high enough, as her appreciation liked to linger on his broad shoulders and the fullness of his lips.

The emperor smiled down at her, revealing white fangs. His eyes crinkled in amusement. “A rude affair?” he repeated. This was the problem with Emperor Lotor of the Galra, son of Zarkon. He wasn’t a stick in the mud but in fact could appreciate the finer things in life���including humor. And teasing her. “Why, Allura, I was unaware of having an affair with you at that time.”

Her cheeks lit hot, and she narrowed her eyes. “Oh, you know what I mean.” She dared to poke his stomach. He was firm and hot beneath her touch, his muscle twitching at the invasion. “You weren’t very nice back then. And why do you bring it up now, only to tease me?”

Lotor pressed a button on the holographic interface, shutting it down without breaking their gazes. “I should like to clarify,” he murmured, voice edging with a pout, “that I do not have affairs. But truly, I did not know it was you in that Blue Lion.”

Allura straightened her spine, raising her chin to give him a playfully haughty look. “Is this your attempt at an apology, then, Emperor Lotor? It does not feel heartfelt to me.”

He pressed his hand over his heart. “Perhaps because I cannot feel regret over Thayserix.”

“You don’t?”

“No, princess.” His eyes—a deep blue that often bled purple in the darkness—seared through her. “I do not regret that day or my actions.”

She huffed lightly at him despite the increasing heat of her cheeks and the harder pounding of her heart. “Whyever not?”

Lotor leaned in closer, the locks of his hair slipping against her shoulder. “Because I rather enjoy chasing you.”

She blinked, and her expression fell with a merry pain. She poked him again. “Oh, how cruel of you to say! You should know, Emperor Lotor, that you had me very upset on Thayserix. I was quite thinking I could die. My heart pounded in fear.”

The tip of his elfin ear twitched. His smile stretched wide. “Your heart is pounding now. Not in fear, I hope.”

Allura’s breath caught. She stuttered, “It’s—ah—it’s pounding because you have upset me so suddenly, with a reminder of Thayserix.”

Lotor’s expression tightened. He pressed his lips together, then gently moved to grab her hand. They'd both grown terribly used to touching each other in such innocent ways, and for all his claws and hard muscle and fangs, he held her gently. He set her hand upon the chestplate of his armor.

The armor burned warm with his living heat. Her fingers twitched in surprise that she could feel the mild reverberation of his own heartbeat, echoing through the armor and even within his fingers.

The rhythm was fast despite his outwardly cool appearance.

He quietly admitted, eyes lowered, “My heart pounds for you as well. And not simply because you outwitted me on Thayserix.”

Allura inhaled unsteadily as she stared at his chestplate in awe. Her fingers were encased in his own.

His heartbeat matched hers.

“Oh,” she whispered. She held her hand to him in great interest of him and of the vulnerability with which he invited her to touch him.

His white brows knitted together in fervent pain. “You should not tease me with the word affair, princess. Both our people—Altean and Galra—traditionally mated for life.”

Allura glanced up at him, aching suddenly to feel more of him. She asked, voice unsteady, “And is that how the Galra initiate a courtship—by chasing them down?”

For all the attraction in him, and despite the way his eyes had dilated with desire, he managed a wry smile. “My people have lost the art of romance, I’m afraid. Perhaps you can assist me with rediscovering it.”

She hummed, her Altean marks bright from the blush surging within her. She teased, voice soft, “We are rather good at rediscovering lost things together, aren’t we?”

His voice was an aching puff against her lips. “Yes, princess.”

[quintessenceofdust73]

Allura broke the surface sputtering and gasping for breath. She struggled to keep her head above the water, trying desperately to swim in a sea that felt as if it were as vast as the universe itself. She knew she couldn’t keep this up forever. The Altean princess felt the fatigue in her limbs as she swam, praying there would be a piece of flotsam somewhere she could grasp. She felt like the survivor of a shipwreck.

“Or a genocide,” a cold voice spoke to her. Her mind was flooded with images of old Altea, extinct for 10,000 years, but alive in her memory as if she had been there only yesterday. She could still see it: the Castle of Lions, the Juniberry fields, her father’s handsome face, her mother’s gentle smile...

...gone, all gone. She wept, her tears as salty as the sea water in which she swam. Why was she still alive? She sensed them there, her parents, just behind the veil between the living and the dead. Perhaps in this realm it would be easier to see them and converse with them. Many of the sentient peoples of the universe had legends about the dead visiting the living to speak to them in dreams...

“Father? Mother?” she called in a hoarse voice, barely audible over the howl of the wind. The waves threatened to engulf her. “Help me!” she cried.

Her parents’ likenesses appeared before her mind’s eye, their countenances twisted and cruel. She suddenly felt aware of how frigid the water was.

“You should have died,” the image of her father said. “You should have died like the rest of us.”

But the specter of her mother smiled and extended a hand towards her. Allura reached for it, recoiling in fear when she realized that the hand was skeletal, not covered in flesh. She screamed.

Her parents first looked upon her disdainfully, and then stared at her with unnaturally wide grins, like that of a pair of skulls whose skin and muscle had rotted away. They laughed at her, not at all in the manner of the King and Queen Of Altea, but sounding more like the maniacal cackling of the Witch and her cruel son.

From Defenders of the Multiverse Chapter 2 “Paladins in Peril”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/31663769/chapters/78362156#workskin

[yinyangswings]

I’ve been working on this for awhile now, and finally it’s complete!! I wanted to draw my ideas, so I did. Anyhoo, here it is. It’s a little wordy so you can read more under the line

August Falke 

I know August begins traveling with MC at the end of his route, but eventually I see him having like...three kids.

2 boys, 1 girl

The boys were born during their travels. The girl was born while visiting the Falke family, and she was born early.

That scares the crap out of August because he had taken the boys out exploring to give their mother some relaxing time, so MC’s water broke and he wasn’t there. 

Thankfully, Asta is there and helps out while Heloise runs to find August.

That little girl has August and her brothers wrapped around her finger 

All three of the kids love horses. August doesn’t see a problem in teaching them how to ride horses when they’re young. MC is a little more hesitant especially with their daughter when she’s younger.

Their oldest son takes great pride in looking after their siblings. He’s protective of his little brother and sister. August is immensely proud of him.

Nyx and Wyndsor are impromptu babysitters sometimes. Nyx is a little more strict than Wyndsor but is absolutely smitten with them.

On the road they are ambushed, and the kids are separated from their parents. Wyndsor and Nyx are thankfully with them, and the horses watch over them until August and MC locate them again. 

The oldest boy as well as their daughter are interested in becoming knights. The youngest son is actually interested in following his grandparents shoes and becoming an inn-keeper.

Saerys 

He has four kids; one boy, identical twin girls, and another little girl.

The oldest is nearly identical to his father and surprisingly shares Saerys’s eye colors. The girls are little copies of their mother. Their youngest girl is a mix between her parents.

The boy is very responsible and mature and is protective of his parents and siblings. One of the girl’s is very shy and quiet, while the other is very energetic, and adventurous. The youngest is very sweet and innocent.

Saerys cries when he holds all of them the first time. He had never thought he would have this or any of them for that matter.

They all have demon variant names. Some of them are a little more human like because of MC, but they all are demon-related names.

Saerys is incredibly protective of them, and when they were young, rarely let any of them out of his sight. MC would tease him a little bit, but understands his reasons

The girls are Saerys’s little shadows. Their oldest son is a mama’s boy, though he denies it all the time. The youngest girl is also totally a mama’s girl and clings to her whenever she can.

All four are snatched by slavers who can see a hefty profit out of several half-demons. Which is true...granted they did not account for nearly the entire group chasing after them. They’re greeted by two enraged and worried parents, several elves, nearly an army of humans, some of the demons from the village, and a whole lot more.

The kidnappers are lucky to be alive after all of that.

They love exploring and want to travel like their father and mother, though right now are content with remaining in the village.

Altea Bellerose 

They adopt a little girl who has magic abilities. She is deaf as well, which is the main reason her parents abandoned her. She survived on the streets.

They find her abandoned in an alleyway, trying to get some food, accidentally surprising her. She lashes out with her magic out of instinct, though Altea easily deflects it. The child promptly collapses and the two women nurse her back to health. 

When they find out she’s deaf, they start learning/teaching her sign language. 

There is initially some trouble as the girl doesn’t completely understand why MC and Altea are being so protective of her, and she keeps expecting to get hurt or get into trouble because of her magic. Gradually the girl starts to warm up to them.

MC sees Helena quite a lot in the girl, a comparison that bothers Altea.

Altea’s parents aren’t exactly happy to meet her the first time, but they’re a little more receptive to her in comparison to when they first met MC.

Lional absolutely adores his little niece and is quick to try and learn sign language to talk to her. They become little partners in crime and tend to raid the kitchens for snacks 

Her parents find out about her abilities and trick MC and Altea into thinking she managed to get lost several years ago and that they had been looking for her. Reluctantly, the two let her go home, though she’s incredibly upset about it.

She is very rebellious to her parents, refusing to use her magic for them, and the mother finally snaps and then promptly sells off to a slave trader.

When Altea and MC find this out, all hell breaks loose and the parents learn it’s not wise to trick a wizard. They nearly tear down the kingdom looking for her and when they do find her, scare the pants off of the trader into giving her back. Altea is the angriest of the two and wants to do far worse than just scaring him

They nurse her back to health (the slave trader was pushing her into using her magic till exhaustion)

They officially adopt her and Altea begins to teach her magic.

Reiner Wolfson 

They have one girl who has dark hair like her mother (though if the sun hits it right, they can see her father’s red hair) and her father’s eye color

That little girl is Reiner’s world and MC cannot help but laugh whenever she sees Reiner with their daughter, because that man is so protective of her.

She’s a very gentle, kind girl who is always trying to help. She does tend to explore which gives her parents heart attacks, but she loves her parents a lot. 

She loves listening as well as learning the piano with her father. When she was a baby, there were many nights that if neither MC or Reiner could calm her down, him playing the piano would make her settle incredibly quickly

When she gets a little older, some nobles comment on how much she looks like the Witch Queen and she would be a danger. She overhears and, not exactly understanding, asks Reiner and MC if she’s going to become the Witch Queen. That goes as well as expected.

Ryland is so happy about the kid and he’s super protective over her. She follows him and Solaria around when she’s not with her parents. 

She is kidnapped by a woman whose daughter was killed during the war. Due to the girl looking similar to her daughter, she kidnaps the girl in the hopes of raising her. The girl manages to escape and hides in the forest where she meets a mysterious man who keeps her calm until she’s found by MC

She later tells MC that the man looked like Reiner, leading MC to believe it might have been Aldric’s spirit looking over his niece.

Sometimes MC wonders if Reiner’s family would have liked her, and Reiner is quick to say they would have adored the both of them. 

Iseul Idreis 

We already know of Iris, but I see them having at least two more. The middle child is a boy, while the youngest is non-binary.

Iris is very energetic and a bit of a troublemaker. Their son is a bit more reserved and quiet while the youngest is extremely loud and boisterous, but also hard-headed and has no qualms with arguing with their siblings.

The boy looks the most like MC, even though his ears are pointed, they aren’t as prominently elf looking as his siblings and father.

Iris and their sibling tend to tease him about it, not realizing at first how much it upsets him.

The youngest is closest to Iraia and constantly follows her around. Their son is close to his grandfather and grandmother, and enjoys being with them. 

Iris likes to explore with her youngest sibling. Her brother tends to stay at home with his mother.

He’s a Mama’s boy.

One day the comments about their son’s looks prove too much for him and he runs away after having an argument with Iris.

They can’t find him for a while, much to MC, Iseul, and their family’s panic. 

It’s late at night when Iseul and MC find him curled up in a tree. The parents have a conversation with their son, and learn about his insecurities about his ears and not looking ‘elf’ enough

Iseul and MC comfort him and tell him that there will always be people who will be cruel to him. But there will also be those who care for him, his family being a prime example. Even his siblings.

After the incident, Iris and their sibling try to curtail the teasing, knowing now how much it bothers him. 

They visit Chicago a lot and the kids enjoy exploring the city and want to see more of that world eventually. Something MC is happy to do.

Helena Klein    

They have one son, who they name Alain. He is conceived via in-vitro fertilization. Helena’s egg is inseminated and MC carries him.

He looks like a mini-Helena

Both MC and Helena are protective of him, though Helena is much more than MC.

All Helena can see is her childhood and she doesn’t want her son to feel the same way.

Living in Chicago has its own set of problems that the mother’s have to deal with, mainly people not seeing one or the other women as the boy’s mother. It drives Helena mad, and annoys MC quite a lot.

Every milestone is a miracle to Helena, who didn’t think this would ever happen in her life.

She didn’t think she would be allowed to be this happy.

They tell him the story of how they met. Whether or not he’ll continue to believe it when he gets older will remain unknown, but he loves thinking about how his Mommy’s met in such a fantasy way

Helena has many nightmares of her child being taken from her or hurt, or something going wrong and him hating her. MC has to comfort her a lot and their son comforts her just as much.

He gets lost one time while out with his mothers. Helena is frantic in trying to find him. When they do, she refuses to let him go for quite awhile.

That is Helena’s baby boy...and nothing is going to take that away from her.

Alain Richter 

They have two little girls that Alain just adores. Their oldest daughter takes after her mother, while the youngest takes after her father in looks.

After their second daughter, MC asks hesitantly if he’s disappointed that he hasn’t had a son. Alain looks stunned and quickly tells MC that he’s happy with his two daughters

And he is. Those two little girls are his life and he is protective over them. He rarely lets them out of his sight, terrified that someone would try and take his daughters, either for revenge or just because they're precious and beautiful.

He has nightmares a lot when they’re younger. That they’re going to die or be taken away from him because of what he’s done in the past. That he doesn’t deserve to be happy. 

When their first daughter is born, any sound has him running to check on her and he rarely lets her out of his sight when she starts walking. He’s calmed a little by the time their second daughter is born, but only a little

He generally doesn’t like them out of his sight, something MC understands, though she is quick to tell him that they’ll need to spread their wings and leave the nest eventually. Which he agrees...albeit it is very reluctantly.

Both of them love horses, and Nyx is very much spoiled by those two girls. Alain jokes that she loves those girls more than him now.

He’s probably not wrong

Some of Lennox’s cult members ambush Alain and the girls while they are out, taking the girls in the hopes of reviving the WQ through the eldest. Alain is captured as well and is beaten quite severely as he tries to protect his daughters.

Cue MC arriving, incredibly pissed off that her husband and children are kidnapped. It doesn’t get any better when she sees the state of her husband and her two petrified daughters.

It’s the first time in a long time that she felt the closest to being like the WQ. 

When her husband and children are back and safe is when she finally relaxes and she curls up to them, relieved that they are safe.

They also swear to always be there for their children and make sure they don’t fall into evil and darkness like the WQ.

Both MC and Alain make a promise to themselves if either of the kids have magic to make sure they’re trained and that they are loved.