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angelremnants · 1 month ago

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A Christmas to Cherish, A Yule to Remember l L. Laufeyson

summary : When tasked with organizing a holiday cultural exchange between Midgard and New Asgard, you face clashing traditions and unexpected connections. To foster goodwill, you plan a hybrid celebration that blends Christmas with Yule, inviting world leaders and dignitaries to experience Asgard's unique customs. However, hosting off-worlders, especially a skeptical Loki, proves challenging. His sarcasm only more adds tension as sparks begin to fly between you, testing your growing connection. As Yule and Christmas traditions collide, an unexpected kiss under the mistletoe might just be the season's most surprising twist.

pairing : Loki Laufeyson x f!reader

warnings : tooth-rotting fluff, mutual pining, cultural clashes, emotional vulnerability, sarcastic banter, mild angst with eventual heartwarming fluff, some hurt/comfort, teasing, suggestive flirtation, references to holiday traditions, references to norse lore and traditions.

word count : 18.3k

author's notes : Ho ho ho! You didn’t think I would pass up the chance to write an Asgardian Christmas story, did you? I admit, I may have gone a bit overboard with this fic. What can I say? Santa’s spirit inspired me greatly. Well, this and jschlatt's christmas album.

Like my first ever Loki fic, this is loosely connected to the A Tales Of series (though in an AU way?) but can definitely be read as a stand-alone. This narrative is somewhat like a Hallmark movie, but let’s be honest: who would turn down a feel-good story, especially featuring our dear god of mischief?

As Gossip Girl once said, have a holly jolly Christmas, xoxo.

(ao3 version)

The snow-dusted village of New Asgard glimmered under the pale light of a crisp winter morning. Nestled along the rugged Norwegian coast, the settlement was a patchwork of old-world Asgardian charm and Midgardian practicality. Wooden houses stood sturdily against the biting wind, their roofs lined with faint traces of frost. Small boats bobbed gently in the harbor, and the faint hum of activity filled the air as Asgardians went about their lives. For you, this place was no stranger—it felt like stepping into a world both ancient and familiar, a realm that had become something of a second home.

Your arrival this time lacked the fanfare of your first visit. You stepped out of the rumbling helicopter onto the cobblestone square, the crunch of your boots against the frosty ground drawing a few curious glances from passersby. You adjusted the scarf around your neck, the chill of the air biting your cheeks as you scanned the familiar faces awaiting you. Your attire was both practical and stylish: a dark wool coat cinched at the waist accompanied by equally dark thigh stockings and combat boots, a deep burgundy scarf, and black gloves to ward off the cold.

Ever the picture of poise and authority, Brunnhilde stood at the forefront, her arms crossed and a knowing smirk playing on her lips. She wore a sleek leather jacket lined with fur, a modern touch to her otherwise warrior-like appearance. Beside her was Thor, his golden locks catching the sunlight as he waved enthusiastically, clad in a thick knit sweater that somehow managed to look regal, and slightly behind them, Loki, who looked as though he’d rather be anywhere else but here. Dressed in a dark green cloak over his tailored Asgardian tunic, his expression was one of perpetual exasperation.

“Well, if it isn’t our favorite Midgardian diplomat,” Brunnhilde called out, her voice carrying easily over the chatter of the square. “Welcome back, sweet cheeks.”

“Favorite? Or just the one who causes the most trouble?” Loki quipped, his tone dry as he adjusted his green-and-gold cloak. His sharp eyes lingered on you momentarily, taking in your wind-flushed cheeks and bright smile.

“Missed you too, Mischief,” you shot back with a grin, brushing past him to greet Brunnhilde with a brief hug.

Thor clapped a hand on your shoulder, nearly knocking you off balance with his exuberance. “It’s good to see you again, Lady [Y/N]! Come, you must be freezing. We’ve prepared a feast worthy of a returning friend.”

“I’m sure it’s as subtle as ever, big guy,” you teased, raising a brow. As you followed them towards the grand longhouse, you turned to Thor, a hint of curiosity in your eyes. “I thought you’d be off-world with the Guardians of the Galaxy. What brings you here?”

Thor shrugged, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Even the god of thunder needs a break, and what better place to rest than home? Besides, someone has to make sure these two don’t kill each other.”

“That’s reassuring,” you said dryly, earning a chuckle from Brunnhilde. “But I’m not here just for feasts. There’s a little diplomacy to be done too, remember?”

The newly appointed Allfather led the group toward the longhouse that served as New Asgard’s central hub. “We wouldn’t dream of letting you forget your duties. Though, knowing Thor, he might try to bribe you with ale and roasted boar.”

“Would it work?” Thor asked, grinning as he held open the door.

Inside, the longhouse was warm and inviting, its timber walls adorned with carvings that told stories of Asgardian history. Intricate designs of Asgardian history and the nine realms stretched across the beams, illuminated by the flicker of firelight. A large hearth roared at the center of the hall, its heat radiating outward and mingling with the smell of spiced mead and freshly baked bread. You let the warmth seep into your bones, feeling a sense of comfort you rarely found elsewhere.

You took a seat at the long wooden table, its surface polished to a high shine, the grain of the wood still bearing marks of its Asgardian craftsmanship. As you settled around the long wooden table, the conversation shifted naturally, the camaraderie among them making you feel like part of the family.

“We’re honored you could join us again,” Brunnhilde said, pouring you a cup of mead. “Especially so close to your Midgardian holiday—what is it called again? Christmas?”

“That’s the one,” you confirmed, taking a sip of the sweet drink. “It’s a huge, worldwide deal here. Lights, trees, gifts, food—basically everything Thor loves, but with more glitter.”

Thor laughed heartily. “Glitter sounds like a fine addition to any celebration!”

“Hardly,” Loki muttered, his tone dripping with disdain. “Leave it to Midgardians to turn a perfectly good winter solstice into a gaudy spectacle.”

“Oh, come on,” you said, leaning forward with a playful smirk. “You’re telling me Asgardians don’t have their own version of an over-the-top winter celebration?”

Loki exchanged a look with Thor, who chuckled sheepishly. “We do,” the blonde admitted. “It’s called Yule. But it’s not quite as… excessive as your Christmas. It’s more about tradition—feasting, storytelling, honoring the turning of the seasons. We celebrate every five years, given our longer lifespans.”

“Every five years?” you repeated, your brows lifting in surprise. “That’s… really long and sad to hear.” You mulled over the information before your eyes lit up as you sat straighter, as if struck by lightning. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. The United Nations and New Asgard have been strengthening ties through mutual aid, cultural exchange programs, and even security. But diplomacy shouldn’t just be treaties and meetings—it needs moments of connection. What better way than inviting emissaries from Midgard to experience Yule with you?”

Thor beamed, slapping the table. “Now that’s an idea worthy of Asgard!”

Loki’s scoff was almost immediate. “Ah yes, because what we need is another excuse for Thor to hang glittering baubles everywhere.”

“Don’t tempt me, brother,” Thor replied, his grin widening.

Ignoring Loki’s grumbling, you pressed on. “I’m serious. Think of it: world leaders, ambassadors, and cultural experts all coming together to witness your traditions while sharing ours. It’s symbolic—a reminder that Earth is now your home too. It’ll also facilitate recognition of your country’s borders from the neighboring countries, and God knows how much you need it for the UN to get off your asses.”

Brunnhilde nodded thoughtfully. “It would certainly help foster goodwill. But it’s not without its challenges. Hosting off-worlders isn’t exactly simple. Though organizing something like this would take effort. And volunteers.”

“I’ll handle the logistics,” you offered. “We’ll make it a hybrid celebration—Christmas and Yule, blending the best of both worlds. Think of it as creating a new tradition for New Asgard. We have three weeks at most for this, I’m sure we’ll manage to come up with something nice.”

Loki let out a soft, sarcastic laugh. “How charming. Perhaps we can also write jingles to serenade these dignitaries.”

Thor, however, seemed genuinely excited. “Brother, you must admit—this could be grand event. We can show Midgard our hospitality while learning from them in return. You should participate with us, especially considering your probation status.” He said brightly, clapping his brother on the back.

Loki’s expression darkened immediately. “I will do no such thing.”

“Oh, don't be such a wet blanket,” you teased. “Think of it as a way to get back into everyone’s good graces. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to be doing?”

His sharp gaze met yours, and for a moment, the air between you seemed to crackle. “If I agree to this farce,” he said finally, his voice low and deliberate, “it will not be because you’ve managed to guilt me into it.”

“Of course not,” you replied sweetly. “It’ll be because you secretly enjoy a good challenge.”

Brunnhilde leaned back in her chair, smirking as she watched the exchange. “Well, it’s settled then. [Y/N], you’re officially in charge of Christmas diplomacy. But don’t expect Loki to be helpful.”

Loki sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This will end in disaster.”

“Only if you let it,” you said, your tone light but your eyes sparkling with determination. “Besides, a little festivities never hurt anyone.”

“You’re delusional if you think this will go smoothly,” he retorted, earning a laugh from Thor and a pointed look from Brunnhilde.

As the conversation wound down, you couldn’t help but feel the excitement bubbling inside you. This was going to be a holiday unlike any other—a melding of traditions, cultures, and worlds.

⠀

The royal library of New Asgard was a marvel of timeless craftsmanship and quiet grandeur. Its towering, vaulted ceilings bore intricate carvings of Asgardian myths, the golden threads in their design shimmering faintly under the glow of enchanted lamps. Rows upon rows of towering bookshelves, brimming with ancient tomes and fragile scrolls, stretched upward as if reaching for the heavens. The air carried the faint scent of aged parchment and polished wood, a comforting reminder of centuries of preserved knowledge. Warm light illuminated the dark, ornately carved furniture, casting soft shadows that danced with a gentle flicker. It was a sanctuary of wisdom and serenity—and, at present, an arena of subtle conflict.

You sat at a large, circular table, its surface strewn with papers, notes, and an assortment of books ranging from Midgardian holiday traditions to Asgardian histories. You tapped your pen against the notebook in front of you, glancing across the table at Loki, who looked entirely unamused. He lounged in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, absently flipping through a book as if he couldn’t be less interested.

“This is supposed to be a brainstorming session,” you said, breaking the silence. “Not a sulking session.”

Loki didn’t look up, though the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. “I assure you, I’m doing neither. I’m merely tolerating this… exercise in futility.”

You raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. “You mean the logistics for what could be one of the most culturally significant events New Asgard has hosted since its founding?”

“Culturally significant?” Loki echoed, finally looking up. His emerald eyes glimmered with amusement, though his tone remained dry. “You’re combining gaudy, Midgardian frivolities with centuries-old Asgardian tradition. Forgive me if I fail to see the ‘significance’ in that.”

“Excuse me—gaudy?” you repeated, mock-offended. “You say that as if Asgardians don’t have a penchant for drama and grandeur themselves. I’ve never seen more divas than you guys, actually.”

Loki smirked but said nothing, instead closing the book he had been flipping through with an exaggerated snap. He gestured to the pile of materials on the table. “Very well, enlighten me. Which Midgardian traditions are we meant to subject ourselves to this time? Ugly sweaters? Marshmallows floating in heated milk?”

You laughed, leaning back in your chair. “First of all, ugly sweaters are iconic. Secondly, you can’t tell me that enchanted ale or Thor’s thunderous feast presentations aren’t Asgard’s version of over-the-top. It’s practically the same thing.”

“That’s debatable,” Loki tilted his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “But I’ll concede that Thor’s idea of revelry is... boisterous. But at least our celebrations have history, tradition, and dignity—unlike your chaotic, candy-cane-laden spectacles.”

You narrowed your eyes playfully. “Oh, sure. Because nothing says ‘dignity’ like smashing a barrel of mead over someone’s head when you’ve had too much.”

He couldn’t suppress a chuckle, the rich sound echoing in the quiet library. “Touché. Still, I doubt you’ll find a single Midgardian festivity that rivals the elegance of an Asgardian Yule feast.”

“Well, then,” you said, leaning forward with a teasing glint in your eye. “Let’s make sure this one does. What do you say we blend the two? Grand Asgardian feast meets Midgardian charm.”

Loki tilted his head, narrowing his eyes as if studying you. “If we are to make this ‘blend’ of yours work, it will require proper execution. I refuse to let Midgardian cuisine overshadow Asgardian delicacies.”

You smirked, folding your arms across your chest. “Who said anything about overshadowing? I’m just saying the two can complement each other—if you don’t insist on being so stubborn about it.”

“I am simply being practical,” he countered, feigning offense at the remark. “Your realm’s fascination with things like marshmallow-topped casseroles is... baffling.”

“Okay, first of all, not every dish is like that,” you retorted with a laugh. “Secondly, maybe you just haven’t had the right Midgardian food. Let me handle it, and you’ll see.”

Loki leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as a smirk tugged at his lips. “Very well. If you’re so confident in your culinary abilities, I’ll leave the Midgardian fare to you. But don’t expect me to lift a finger if it turns into a disaster.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of asking you to,” you teased, your tone dripping with mock sweetness. “I’ll manage the Midgardian menu and decorations—after all, I’ve got experience with this sort of thing. And you can handle the Asgardian side of things. Deal?”

He regarded you for a moment, his emerald eyes gleaming with intrigue. “Deal. Though I expect nothing less than perfection on your part. Our reputation depends on it.”

“Funny, I was going to say the same to you,” you shot back with a grin.

Loki leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Then it’s settled. I’ll curate a feast that embodies the grandeur and tradition of Asgard. You... can figure out how to make your chaotic cuisine somewhat palatable.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress your laughter. “Whatever. We need to make this event big enough to fund itself. That means inviting not just the locals but foreign envoys, dignitaries, and even some of the press.”

Loki’s eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of disapproval crossing his features. “Ah, commercializing a solstice celebration. How very... Midgardian of you.”

You shrugged. “Well, we don’t have unlimited resources. Unless you’d like me to request funds from the treasury—and deal with Val’s budget lectures?”

“Perish the thought,” Loki muttered.

“Exactly,” you said, smirking. “So, we’ll sell tickets for the main events and some of the smaller ones leading up to the big day. Maybe even have booths with crafts and snacks. People love that kind of thing. You’d be surprised how much they’ll pay for something with a story behind it.”

“Fascinating,” he said dryly. “You’ve turned a festival of tradition into a marketplace.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” you teased. “It’s just good planning. Besides, someone has to oversee the sales and ensure we don’t turn this into complete chaos.”

Loki arched a brow, his lips curving into a faint smirk. “And naturally, you’ve decided that someone is you?”

“Of course,” you replied with mock seriousness. “I happen to be very good at multitasking. I’ll handle the ticket sales, the booths, and the Midgardian side of things while you can focus on maintaining Asgardian traditions. A win-win.”

“Convenient,” he remarked, leaning back in his chair. “You delegate the tedious work to me while you run your little market empire.”

You grinned. “It’s called playing to our strengths, Loki. And besides, don’t pretend you’re not secretly thrilled to have complete creative control over the Asgardian portion.”

Loki chuckled softly, his gaze sharpening with intrigue. “Very well, but if I’m to oversee Asgardian traditions, you’ll have to prepare yourself for customs far richer—and far more theatrical—than your quaint Midgardian charm.”

“Like what?” you challenged, leaning forward.

“For instance,” he began, his voice slipping into a storytelling tone, “the Wild Hunt. A tradition led by Odin himself, where ghostly riders swept across the skies in search of lost souls. It’s a spectacle of power, mysticism, and awe. Imagine recreating it, with shadowed steeds and ethereal warriors galloping through the night.”

You blinked, your expression shifting between amusement and concern. “You mean you want to reenact something that, if I recall correctly, terrified Midgardians for centuries? Sounds... subtle.”

His smirk widened. “Subtlety is overrated. The Hunt would remind everyone of Asgard’s grandeur, a symbol of tradition and strength. Besides, it’s far more engaging than watching mortals sing around a fireplace.”

“Oh, speaking of fireplaces,” you interjected quickly, “what about the Yule log? That’s one tradition I can get behind. A cozy fire, some mulled ale—it’s charming.”

Loki rolled his eyes, waving a dismissive hand. “The Yule log is passable at best, but it pales in comparison to the Wild Hunt’s grandeur. Imagine thunder rolling in the heavens, spectral figures cutting through the sky, and Odin’s name whispered in awe.”

“Yeah, because holiday cheer is guaranteed by scaring the wits out of everyone,” you replied, crossing your arms. “How about this—we tone it down? Maybe we could turn the Hunt into something interactive, like a quest. A game for everyone, where they follow clues and complete challenges to ‘join’ Odin’s riders or uncover their secrets. It keeps the mystique but makes it fun rather than terrifying.”

Loki tilted his head, considering your suggestion. “An interactive quest... intriguing. It could preserve the spirit of the Hunt while appealing to the masses. But I insist on weaving in Asgardian lore—stories of valor, wit, and cunning—so it isn’t entirely watered down.”

“Fine by me,” you said with a grin. “And while you’re at it, I’ll make sure the Yule log has its rightful place. Even if it’s not as ‘grand’ as the Hunt, some traditions are worth keeping simple. Maybe the quest could end with everyone gathering around the fire to share stories and rewards.”

Loki gave you a sidelong glance, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “If we must. But I reserve the right to oversee every detail of this quest. If it fails, it’ll be because of your Midgardian ‘simplicity.’”

You rolled your eyes. “Speaking of Midgardian traditions, what about something for the children? Maybe they could write letters about their wishes for the new year. It’d be a way to honor the spirit of giving—and maybe a subtle nod to Odin. After all, he was considered a Santa-like figure back in the day.”

Loki’s expression darkened slightly, his teasing smirk fading. “A ‘Santa-like figure’? Is that how you choose to remember the All-Father? As some mortal caricature who doles out trinkets?”

You softened your tone. “It’s not about reducing him to that. It’s about creating a memorial that’s accessible to everyone—something heartfelt for the people, especially the children.”

He shook his head, his gaze dropping to the table. “Children don’t need to write frivolous letters when they already have the tradition of storytelling. It was one of the few times we, as a people, passed down something meaningful. Stories that carried wisdom, courage, and strength.”

You noticed the melancholic edge to his voice, the faraway look in his eyes. “You miss it, don’t you? The way things used to be.”

Loki didn’t respond immediately, his fingers tracing the edge of a page in one of the books. “Asgard was flawed, but it was home. These traditions... they’re all fragments of a life we can never fully restore.”

You reached across the table, your hand brushing his. ��Then let’s make sure those fragments shine as brightly as they can. We might not be able to bring back everything, but we can honor what mattered—and maybe even create something new along the way.”

His gaze lifted to yours, a flicker of gratitude softening his features. “You’re unbearably persistent, you know that?”

“And you’re unreasonably dramatic,” you replied with a teasing grin, leaning back in your chair. “Now, about those stories...”

You went on like this for nearly the entire evening, your playful banter echoing through the quiet halls. One idea led to another, each suggestion sparking either spirited debate or begrudging agreement, until most of the tasks were neatly divided between you. Somewhere along the way, it turned into a friendly competition—Midgardian ingenuity versus Asgardian grandeur. Loki, ever the perfectionist, declared that his half of the event would be a masterpiece of tradition and elegance, while you, with a teasing grin, promised to bring charm and creativity to yours. By the end of it, your rivalry was set, and the stakes were clear: whoever’s contributions won the most admiration during the celebration would earn the undeniable right to gloat.

Three days after the council meeting, New Asgard had been buzzing with excitement. Word of the upcoming celebration spread like wildfire, and the entire realm was invested in the planning. Everyone—from the youngest child to the oldest elder—had some part to play in bringing the festivities to life. The atmosphere was electric, filled with anticipation for the grand feast, the traditions, and the merging of Midgardian charm with Asgardian grandeur. The excitement was contagious, and for a brief moment, the people of New Asgard felt united in their mission to make this event unforgettable.

With only two and a half weeks left to pull everything together, things seemed to be running smoothly. The decorations were coming along, the entertainment had been secured, and the Midgardian food vendors had been booked. However, the first hiccup came when you checked in with the cooking team about the feast’s food supplies.

You walked into the grand kitchen, where the chatter of the chefs and cooks filled the air, the scent of spices and roasting meats already beginning to mingle in the warm atmosphere. You neared a table where several of the Asgardian head chefs were organizing inventory, noting down large quantities of food on a parchment. You could already smell the fragrant aromas of roasting meats and simmering stews. You had heard murmurs of excitement as they prepared the grand feast. However, when you glanced over the inventory list, your stomach dropped.

“Ah, my lady, good to see you,” said Thorvald, the head of the Asgardian cooking team, a stocky, broad-shouldered man with a booming laugh and a fondness for rustic dishes. “We’ve made sure we have plenty of meat, and the roasts are looking excellent for the feast. Odin Allfather, bless his soul, would’ve approved of this spread!”

You scanned the numbers on the parchment and furrowed your brow. “This is... a lot of food, Thorvald. Too much, in fact. The quantities are well over the planned budget.”

“Ah, you worry too much, my friend!” Thorvald chuckled. “We want to give the people of New Asgard a true taste of our heritage, yes? We shall not scrimp on food—especially not when it’s for such an occasion!”

“That’s the problem, Thorvald,” you sighed. “We don’t have the funds to support all of this. I was told that the Asgardian part of the menu has far exceeded the budget we allocated for food. It’s going to require cuts—somewhere. And we can’t afford to cut corners with Midgardian elements just because the Asgardian offerings are more expensive.”

Thorvald blinked in surprise. “Cut some of our dishes? That is... not an easy thing to ask of me, my lady. I’ve spent weeks perfecting these recipes for the feast. These dishes are the soul of Asgardian culture!”

“I’m aware of that,” you replied, your tone strained. “But we have to balance the budget. You can’t expect the Midgardian side to be neglected. I’m going to have to speak to Loki about this.”

You left the kitchen with a heavy heart, your mind racing as you made your way to the main hall. As you passed through the stone corridors, you wondered who had approved such a large quantity of food. You assumed it had to be Thor—he had always been more enthusiastic about showcasing Asgardian culture, after all. But when you entered the hall, you spotted Loki deep in conversation with a few council members—Thrain and Freya. That’s when it hit you.

Of course. Loki.

Your steps slowed as you approached the trio. Loki glanced up as you neared, his usual sly smile spreading across his face. “Ah, darling, what a pleasant surprise. How are the preparations coming along?”

“Mischief,” you said, keeping your voice steady, “I just checked the food inventory. You’re over budget. The Asgardian portion alone is far too much. We’re going to need to cut back on something.”

Loki’s grin widened, though there was a glint of something almost mischievous in his eyes. “And what exactly is the problem?”

“You’re blowing the budget,” you said bluntly. “The quantities are ridiculous. You’ve put us in a bind, Loki. I can’t go back to the Midgardian vendors and explain that their share of the food is being cut so we can accommodate your... extravagance.”

Loki’s smile never faltered, and he leaned in slightly, as if savoring the moment. “Everything is permitted when it comes to Asgardian feasts, don’t you think? I had to make sure our food was sumptuous. If we’re going to impress our guests, we must do it right.”

You blinked, incredulous. “You did this? I thought it was Thor who went overboard with the food. But you—you—decided this was appropriate?”

“Indeed,” Loki replied, his tone light, yet his eyes sharp. “Thor is far too busy with other matters. He’s off delivering invitations to the world leaders. Someone had to make sure the Asgardian side was flawless.”

You shook your head, frustration bubbling up. “Loki, I don’t think you understand the issue. This isn’t just about impressing people. We have to balance both sides. If the Asgardian dishes are more expensive, we’ll have to trim something else to stay within budget.”

Loki’s expression hardened slightly, though he kept his composure. “I already told you—everything is permitted. The Asgardian food will be nothing short of magnificent. If that means cutting a corner somewhere else, so be it.”

“This isn’t a game, Loki!” you snapped, your patience thinning. “We agreed on a budget, and I won’t let you push the Midgardian side aside for your grandiose plans.”

Loki’s lips curled into a small smirk. “Very well, then. We’ll trim a few corners where it pleases you. But I’m telling you, it won’t be the same. Asgardian feasts are a tradition. And traditions don’t come cheap.”

“Maybe next time you’ll think before you make decisions like this,” you warned, your tone firm. “This is your best chance at redemption, Loki. Either we figure this out, or the entire celebration could be in jeopardy. I won’t let you sabotage everything.”

Loki held your gaze for a moment, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. Then, he gave a barely perceptible nod. “Fine. I’ll speak with Thorvald and see where we can adjust things. But don’t think this is over, [Y/N]. You’re too concerned with rules and budgets for your own good.”

“Rules and budgets keep everything in line,” you countered. “Without them, chaos follows. Just remember that when you try to pull off another stunt like this.”

With one last look, you turned on your heel and stormed off, leaving Loki standing with a sly smile, no doubt enjoying the brief conflict. As you left the hall, you knew the next few days would be even more challenging. But one thing was certain—you wouldn’t let him derail the celebration, no matter how much he tried to push his agenda.

⠀

It had been a few days since the food fiasco, and you had hoped the worst was behind you. Yet, when it came to the holiday festivities, a new challenge emerged. You had been put in charge of the decorations, a task you had anticipated would bring joy, but you hadn’t expected the clash of cultures to be so pronounced.

The Asgardians, with their love of grandiose displays, had created decorations featuring intricate carvings, golden accents, and shimmering lights. The Midgardians, on the other hand, had opted for a more homey approach: a mix of soft pastels, tinsel, and small handcrafted ornaments. It was a cacophony of styles that left the hall looking more like a battlefield than a festive wonderland.

You stood in the center of it all, rubbing your temples in frustration. There were a few standout pieces—like the Runestone Ornaments, which you had suggested to add a touch of Asgardian culture. The beautifully carved runes for good luck and blessings were meant to bring harmony, but they were far too overpowering against the gentle hues of the Midgardian decorations. Some of the Asgardians had even insisted on sun-shaped ornaments to bring a sense of warmth and light, while others had complained that they clashed with the more subdued Christmas tree lights.

But the real problem didn’t come until you began unpacking a box of mistletoe. You had seen the tradition in Midgardian homes and thought it would add a charming touch to the festivities. After all, kissing under the mistletoe was a beloved tradition for good fortune, something light-hearted to bring the Asgardians and Midgardians together.

You hung the first mistletoe up near the doorframe, stepping back to admire your handiwork. That’s when it happened.

Asgardians walking by froze in their tracks, staring wide-eyed at the sprig of mistletoe hanging innocently overhead. A few of them stiffened, exchanging uncomfortable glances. The tall Asgardian warrior and member of the council, Thrain, quickly turned and muttered something under his breath, visibly distressed.

“What’s going on?” you asked, genuinely confused.

“You... My lady, you’re hanging that?” Thrain asked in a low voice, his expression grim. “You do know what it means, don’t you?”

You blinked. “The mistletoe? Yeah, it’s a tradition where I come from. You kiss under it for good luck and good cheer during the holidays.”

Thrain’s face turned pale, and a few of the others stepped back cautiously.

“Bad luck, Lady [Y/N],” Thrain said with a sigh. “That’s not just a decoration. It’s a symbol of misfortune in Asgard.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Misfortune? How can a sprig of mistletoe be a symbol of misfortune?”

Thrain glanced around as if to make sure no one else could overhear. After a moment, he leaned in closer to you, his voice lowering. “It’s a long story... but the mistletoe reminds us of an event that happened many centuries ago. It all goes back to a farce Prince Loki pulled on one of our greatest commanders, Balder the Brave.”

You furrowed your brow. “What happened?”

Thrain glanced around again and then began telling the story. “Oh, he’s quite the trickster. This one wasn’t as bad as some of his other schemes, but it certainly caused a ruckus. It happened during a festival many years ago.”

You frowned. “I don’t doubt this behavior coming from him, but I still fail to see how a simple prank would create a ruckus over some plant.”

“One evening, during the midwinter festival,” Thrain continued, “Balder, one of our finest commanders at the time, had just returned victorious from a long campaign. Everyone was celebrating in the Great Hall. Prince Loki, as always, couldn’t resist a chance for a little mischief.”

You frowned. “What did he do?”

“He enchanted a sprig of mistletoe, knowing that Balder, proud as he was, would never let anyone get the better of him. He tricked him into standing under the mistletoe, and as the tradition goes, whoever is beneath it must perform a challenge or take on a task.”

You tilted your head. “A challenge?”

Thrain nodded. “Yes. The challenge was a bit harmless—nothing like what you’d expect. But Loki, ever the trickster, made sure it was something unexpected. He enchanted the mistletoe so that whoever stood under it would be compelled to challenge the nearest person to a game of strength, wit, or skill.”

You laughed. “That sounds fun, not dangerous.”

Thrain smiled but his eyes darkened a little. “It was comical... until it got out of hand. Balder, in his pride, ended up challenging Hodr, his brother, to a contest of wit. But because of Loki’s enchantment, neither of them could back down. The game grew more and more intense—what started as a harmless wager soon escalated into a full-on competition, with the entire hall watching them argue over the silliest things. The game became a battle of pride and ego, and by the end, it nearly caused a rift and a blood battle between the two brothers.”

You raised an eyebrow. “A game of pride? Over mistletoe?”

“Exactly,” Thrain said, sighing. “It became a symbol of misplaced warfare rather than cheer. And since then, the mistletoe has been associated with that... heated contest. It’s seen as a bad omen for anyone who might fall into the trap of too much pride or too much competition.”

You frowned, considering the tale. “I didn’t know it had such a backstory. But I still think it’s a nice tradition. It’s about bringing people together, not creating rivalries.”

Thrain shook his head with a smile. “I suppose it’s not all bad. But many of us are cautious when it comes to mistletoe, considering its history.”

You smiled warmly, standing your ground. “I understand, but I’d like to carry on with the tradition. Maybe this time, it won’t be such a surprise. After all, it’s all in good fun. And, it’s a way to bring the Midgardian and Asgardian sides together.”

Before Thrain could say anything more, Loki casually strolled by, his ever-present grin spreading across his face as he overheard the conversation. He looked at you standing beneath the mistletoe, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Well, well,” Loki drawled, “looks like someone is trying to bring some of Midgard's cheer to Asgard, hmm?”

Thrain narrowed his eyes at Loki. “You’re the one to blame for this mess. You do remember what happened with the mistletoe and Balder, don’t you?”

You looked from Loki to Thrain. “So you don’t mind? I mean, you’re the one who started it.”

Loki raised an eyebrow, a sly grin creeping across his face. “I never said I minded. You’re more than welcome to give it a try, darling [Y/N]. I’ll just be here to watch the chaos unfold.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to keep the grin from spreading. “Don’t act so smug, Loki. I’m just trying to bring some cheer around here.”

Loki leaned in a bit closer, his voice low and playful. “Oh, I’m sure it’s all in good fun. But if you’re going to hang mistletoe, you must be prepared for the consequences. After all, I did start this tradition with a bit of mischief. Who’s to say what might happen next?”

You gave him a pointed look, not backing down. “I’m not scared of a little mischief, Loki. And if anyone’s at risk of causing chaos around here, it’s you, not me.”

Loki’s grin widened, and he took a step closer, leaning in just enough for his voice to drop further. “Ah, but you’re the one daring enough to carry on the tradition, aren’t you? I’m just here to watch... and perhaps enjoy the show.”

Thrain raised an eyebrow at the playful exchange, clearly amused but also a bit wary of what would happen next.

You shot Loki a playful smile. “Well, I hope you found a good spot because everything is going to go as smoothly as a baby’s bottom. Just wait and see.”

Loki chuckled, stepping back with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I’ll be watching, indeed. But don’t be too disappointed if things don’t go exactly as planned.”

You didn’t back down. “We’ll see about that. And just so you know... I do like a bit of trickery in my holiday traditions.”

As Loki walked away, still laughing softly to himself, Thrain shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I see now... you’re not just abiding by mere traditions. You’re leading to misconduct.”

You grinned and hung the mistletoe with a flourish. “Maybe. But it’ll be fun. Besides, what’s a Christmas holiday without a little bit of naughtiness?”

With that, you carried on with your task, hanging the mistletoe, while Loki strolled off, still grinning as he watched from a distance.

⠀

As you walked briskly down the hall with a bundle of fairy lights in hand, you tried to shake off the growing frustration gnawing at you. It had been a long day filled with last-minute details, and the pressure was starting to mount. The grand hall was coming together with decorations now adorning every corner, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. When you passed by the table where Loki was supposed to be organizing the gifts for the prestigious guests, you nearly stumbled.

The sight before you made you stop dead in your tracks.

On the table laid haphazardly a collection of... unusual objects. You blinked, certain you had misread the situation.

The gifts were mismatched and meager, hardly fitting for the prestigious guests who would be attending the feast. They were strange—vastly different from anything you could imagine giving at such an important event.

There were intricately carved wooden figures, but they weren’t graceful or beautiful. One was a grotesque hybrid of a raven and a wolf, its features stretched and contorted as if trying too hard to be intimidating. Another was a stone, awkwardly shaped, with jagged edges and no real discernible design. You couldn’t tell if it was meant to represent a mountain, a fortress, or just... a rock.

Then, there were the vials—delicate glass tubes filled with what appeared to be tiny, glittering shards. There was a strange metallic sheen to them, as though they were meant to be potions. But it wasn’t something you could imagine anyone actually using. Certainly not the dignitaries they were expecting.

Your irritation bubbled up to the surface. You couldn’t imagine how these would be seen as a suitable gift, especially not for the dignitaries of Midgard.

“Loki?” you called, your voice a little sharper than you intended as you approached the table.

Loki glanced up from the strange wooden carving he was inspecting. His eyes lit up with that ever-present mischievous gleam, but his smile faltered when he saw the look on your face.

“Darling. I see you’ve found the gifts,” he said smoothly, clearly pleased with his work.

“Yes,” you said, your voice tight. “I have. And I’m... not sure what to make of them.”

Loki raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “What’s wrong with them?”

Your jaw tightened as you glanced from the wolf-raven hybrid to the glass vials, each one looking more out of place than the last. “Loki, these—these are not what I imagined. They’re... off-putting.” You took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself but failing. “These are not appropriate for the guests we’re inviting. These are—” you pointed at the grotesque wooden figures “—bizarre.”

Loki’s eyes narrowed slightly, his expression shifting from playful to defensive. “I don’t understand,” he said, his tone cold now. “What’s wrong with them? They’re authentic Asgardian craftsmanship. I thought the Midgardians would appreciate such unique offerings.”

“Unique?” you snapped, your frustration spilling over. “These aren’t unique, Loki. They’re strange. Midgardians have a different taste in gifts, and you’re not exactly showing the best of Asgard here. Look at this! This is not something you give a king or queen!”

You gestured toward the awkwardly shaped stone again. “A rock? Really? And these vials—” you picked one up, nearly dropping it when the tiny shards inside shimmered in the light “—what even is this?”

Loki’s expression remained calm, though there was a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. “Well, perhaps you Midgardians are more accustomed to giving mundane things like jewels or soft fabrics. But these gifts are symbolic of our realm’s might and history.”

You let out an exasperated breath, rubbing your temples as your stress levels rose. “Loki, gifts are about more than just showing off. It’s about connecting with the person you’re giving it to, about meaning. You can’t just throw a bunch of random objects together and call it a gift. They need to reflect the people you're giving them to—something personal, something that makes them feel seen. Not just... intimidating displays of power!”

Loki’s lips curled into a smirk. “Are you telling me these aren’t worthy of Asgardian guests?” His voice was laced with mockery, but there was a hint of genuine confusion beneath it.

“Not worthy—appropriate,” you shot back, your patience wearing thin. “They need to fit the occasion! We need to think about the people we're giving them to, not just impress them with how ‘mighty’ Asgard is!”

Loki was silent for a moment, staring at the table of strange objects. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—was it doubt? No, it couldn’t be. But something about your words made him pause.

Finally, he exhaled slowly and raised an eyebrow. “So, what do you suggest I do? I am not accustomed to the delicate, personal gifts you Midgardians are so fond of.” He made air quotes around the word ‘personal’, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

You stood your ground, your voice tight. “For starters? Hand-carved wooden jewelry boxes, a set of hand-blown glass ornaments, fine, elegant cloaks, scrolls with inscriptions of peace and goodwill, or something more symbolic. Something that shows you’ve thought about the person receiving it, not just what’s flashy and ‘impressive’.”

Loki leaned against the table, crossing his arms, his gaze unreadable. “Hm. So, you want me to take all these—” He motioned toward the array of oddities. “And turn them into something bland and safe?”

“I want you to make something thoughtful,” you retorted, your voice sharp. “I’m not asking for ‘bland’. I’m asking you to take a moment and actually think about the people who’ll receive these gifts. Just because they’re from Asgard doesn’t mean they’ll automatically be appreciated.” You were starting to feel more and more on edge, but you didn’t back down.

Loki studied you for a long moment, his lips curling into that familiar, teasing smile. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said with a sigh, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I shall reconsider my gift choices. But I must say, I do find your attitude a bit... aggressive for something as simple as gift-giving.”

You didn’t smile. You glared at him, your chest tight with both frustration and exhaustion. “Maybe it’s the pressure of this entire event that’s making me a little on edge, Loki,” you said, your voice laced with sarcasm. “You know, considering I’ve got a million things to handle, and your weird-ass gifts are not helping.”

Loki tilted his head, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Ah, so you admit you’re a little... stressed?” he teased, his voice dropping an octave.

You forced a smile, your tone sharp but controlled. “Stressed? No, irritated, and you’re the reason why.”

Loki laughed softly, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Well, I shall do my best to improve the situation. As you so kindly suggested.”

You shot him a final glare before turning on your heel, muttering under your breath. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Loki, still grinning, watched you walk away, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh, I’m sure you will, darling. You’ll see.”

⠀

The days were growing shorter, and the pressure was mounting. You had barely slept in the past few days, and you were starting to feel the weight of everything pressing down on your shoulders. As you stood in the hall, supervising the lights and sound systems for the grand celebration, you couldn’t help but feel the overwhelming anticipation in the air. The event was drawing closer, and there were still so many things to check off your list.

You were adjusting a speaker, ensuring it was positioned properly, when you couldn’t resist. The temptation to hear the music was too much, so you quickly branched the speaker and connected your device. A soft click and then—Christmas carols filled the air. You smiled, satisfied with the sound quality, as the cheerful tunes resonated through the room. But your satisfaction was short-lived.

The room grew suddenly quieter, and a few Asgardians who had been nearby shot you disapproving looks. One of them, a stern-faced woman, crossed her arms and approached with a disapproving glare.

"You... put this on?" she asked, her tone tight. "This is not how we celebrate our Yule. This... commercialized nonsense. What is this Midgardian tradition you’ve chosen to impose upon us?"

You blinked, confused. “What do you mean? It’s just Christmas carols... The song is about goodwill and joy. It’s part of the festivities."

The woman shook her head sharply, clearly upset. “Yule is a sacred time for Asgardians. We do not need the influence of Midgard’s festivals to ruin it.” She turned on her heel, walking away, muttering something about traditions being lost.

The sound of footsteps behind you caught your attention, and soon you were surrounded by a small crowd of disapproving Asgardians. Your stomach sank as their frowns deepened. The more they gathered, the more agitated they became, and soon voices were rising in frustration.

“This is not the way we do things here!” one of them exclaimed. “You can’t just commercialize our holiday!”

“I never agreed to this,” another voice chimed in. “This is a travesty to our sacred traditions!”

Your pulse quickened, and your mind raced, but the words felt like they were getting jumbled in your head. You tried to speak, but the frustration in the room was suffocating. The weight of their disapproval settled heavily on your chest, and you felt the first stirrings of panic. You had tried to make everything perfect, to blend the two worlds, but it seemed you had miscalculated, and now you were drowning in the pressure. You took a deep breath, but it felt shallow, and your hands trembled slightly. This was going wrong. Everything was going wrong. You were failing—again. You opened your mouth, but before you could say anything, a familiar voice cut through the tension.

"Enough."

Brunnhilde, with her ever-present calm and authority, stepped forward, her eyes scanning the crowd with quiet dominance. The Asgardians fell silent, and though they clearly weren’t pleased, they respected the king's presence. She turned to you, offering a small, sympathetic smile before addressing the group.

“We are guests in Midgard’s customs, and we are also here to celebrate Yule,” the Valkyrie said, her voice firm. “You are welcome to honor your traditions, but we must also respect the customs of the land we are in. Lady [Y/N] meant no disrespect, but there are many ways to celebrate, and it’s important to find balance.” She glanced over her shoulder. “If you have concerns, I am happy to discuss them with you. But for now, let us all move forward in the spirit of the festivities. There is no need to argue further.”

The Asgardians grumbled but eventually nodded, dispersing with a few sideways glares. Brunnhilde turned back to you, her expression softening.

“You’ve got a lot on your plate,” she said quietly, once the crowd had broken up. “And I know it’s not easy. But you can’t let every little mishap break you down. You’re doing the best you can.”

You let out a shaky breath, feeling the weight of everything crash down on you again. “I just... I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. Everything’s falling apart, Val. I thought this was going to go well, but—” You paused, your voice catching. “It feels like everything I try only makes things worse.”

The Valkyrie placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, giving you a reassuring squeeze. “You’re not perfect, sweet cheeks. Of course you’re going to make mistakes. And you’re in charge of something that’s never been done before—of course, things will get complicated. But you can’t let it get to you like this. You have less than a week to go, and you need to pull yourself together. You can’t keep running to me for help every time something goes wrong. You’re more than capable of handling this.”

You gave her a strained smile, trying to hold back the frustration and exhaustion threatening to spill over. “I’ll do my best,” you said, though your voice was tired, worn. “I just want it to go well. For everyone.”

The Valkyrie's expression softened further, a knowing look in her eyes. “I know you do. You’ve put so much of yourself into this, and it won’t go unnoticed. But if you don’t take a moment to breathe and trust in your abilities, you’re going to burn out. So please, just... take a step back when you need to.”

You nodded, feeling the sincerity in her words, even if you weren’t entirely convinced. “I’ll... I’ll try. Thank you, Val’.”

She gave you a warm smile, her eyes full of understanding. “That’s all anyone can ask for. You’re doing great, even if you don’t feel it. Just don’t forget to keep breathing.”

With a final pat on the shoulder, she turned and walked off, leaving you standing there, a little more grounded. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. You had a week left—you could do this. You had to.

It was supposed to be the highlight of the festivities. The Christmas tree. Everyone had been looking forward to it—the centerpiece of the entire celebration. You had spent weeks planning for it. You had found the perfect tree—a towering Asgardian pine, with thick branches that would hold the glowing lights and ornaments just right. It was going to be the perfect way to end all the planning, a moment of beauty and unity.

But when you arrived at the hall that morning, ready to supervise the decorating, you froze in horror. The spot where the tree had once stood was now empty.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you rushed through the room, looking everywhere, even behind the columns, but the tree was nowhere to be found. You moved faster, your panic growing.

“Where is it?” you muttered to yourself, voice rising with panic.

You turned the corner and saw a scene that made your stomach drop. The tree was... in pieces. Cut into sections, dragged across the floor, and stacked near the Yule log, ready to be burned. Your breath caught in your throat. The beautiful tree that had taken so long to pick, to care for, was now destined to be turned into kindling.

You stood frozen for a moment, staring at the pile of branches and needles.

You began to ask around, stopping the first Asgardian you saw. “What happened to the tree?” you demanded.

The person looked confused for a moment before answering, their voice careful. “Oh, the orders came down this morning. The tree was to be cut down and used for the Yule log. It’s been taken to be prepared for the fire tonight.”

Your blood ran cold. “What? No, that was the Christmas tree!” you said, your voice rising in disbelief. “Not for the Yule log. That was for decorating—”

Before you could finish, another Asgardian approached quickly, clearly out of breath. “The treasure hunt,” they said urgently. “It’s gone. It’s disappeared.”

The words hit you like a wave crashing over you. You couldn’t breathe. Your stomach twisted in horror, and your vision blurred as panic surged in your chest. You turned back toward the pile of cut branches and needles, but this time, you couldn’t stop the overwhelming flood of emotions.

“No! No, no, no…” you whispered, almost choking on the words. You couldn’t do this anymore. Your hands shook as you looked from the missing tree to the empty space where the treasure hunt should have been. You had worked so hard on every detail, every tradition. And now it was all falling apart.

Your breath caught in your throat as you realized just how much was slipping through your fingers. The pressure, the endless demands, the mistakes you couldn’t control. Everything you had worked for—everything you had poured your energy into—was unraveling before your eyes.

Without thinking, you screamed in frustration, the sound of it echoing in the empty hall.

“This is insane!” you shouted, your voice breaking. Your hands balled into fists at your sides as you fought to keep yourself from completely losing it.

As your outburst rang through the room, you realized a small crowd had gathered. They were watching you, exchanging glances. You could see the looks of confusion, even pity, but it was too much. Too much to bear.

You spun toward Loki, who had appeared in the doorway, clearly having heard the commotion. The sight of him was the last straw.

“You!” you yelled, your eyes blazing with fury. “This is your fault, isn’t it? You’re the one who gave the order to cut down the tree, aren't you?”

Loki didn’t flinch, his expression calm as ever, though his eyes narrowed slightly at your tone. “How kind of you to assume it originates from me,” he answered smoothly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s a tree. It wasn’t going to last anyway.”

“No!” you snapped, your voice cracking. “It was supposed to be the Christmas tree! This was supposed to be the centerpiece of the entire festival, and now it’s—gone! Everything is falling apart!”

Loki raised an eyebrow, clearly unamused by your outburst. “I’m not sure what you’re upset about, darling. It’s just a tree. We have plenty of others.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “And as for the treasure hunt... perhaps it’s just better you move on.”

The words felt like a slap to your already fragile state. You were barely holding yourself together. “You don’t get it! Do you even know about how much effort I’ve put into this?” you cried, your voice shaking with frustration.

Before you could continue, the Asgardian who had spoken earlier came rushing in again, their face full of urgency. “The treasure hunt—there was another problem. The maps and clues were taken. We can’t find any of it!”

You stood there, your mind reeling, your entire body trembling as the weight of everything you had been carrying finally broke through. You were suffocating under the pressure.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you whispered, voice barely audible. Your chest heaved as tears began to burn at the corners of your eyes. The anger, the frustration, the helplessness—it all collided inside you, and you couldn’t keep it in anymore.

Loki, standing calmly in front of you, regarded you with a mixture of curiosity and mild irritation. He stepped closer, his expression unreadable. “You need to calm down, [Y/N]. It’s just a few mistakes. We’ll fix it.”

“You don’t get it!” you shouted at him, your voice cracking with emotion. “You’re the one who screwed this all up!” You were shaking now, your entire body trembling from the storm of feelings threatening to consume you. “I’ve been working so hard to make this perfect, and you—you just came in and ruined everything!”

Loki’s calm demeanor didn’t change, though there was a flash of something like annoyance in his eyes. “Enough,” he said simply. “You need a break.”

Before you could respond, Loki encased one of your arms with his hand, and suddenly, the world around you disappeared in a rush of swirling light. The noise, the chaos, the pressure—all of it vanished as you were transported far from the hall, away from the mess.

Thor, who had just returned from handing out the invitations, stepped into the hall, ready to greet the others and take in the progress. His cheerful mood faltered however when he saw the tension in the air. Brunnhilde stepped in front of him quickly, her presence a calming force.

“Thor,” she said softly, “don’t worry. We’ll take care of it. The tree and the treasure hunt will be set right.”

Thor frowned but nodded slowly, trusting her judgment. “What happened?”

“Leave it to me,” She replied with a reassuring smile. “It’s not as bad as it seems. Just give us a little time, and everything will be in order.”

Thor sighed, his face softening. “Alright. Just... make sure everything is alright.”

The valkyrie gave him a firm nod. “It’ll be fine. We’ll handle it.”

⠀

The sudden rush of magic had barely settled when your power surged inside you, raw and untamed. Your emotions, a swirling storm of anger, frustration, and fear, acted like a catalyst, and without warning, your armor materialized around you—jagged and radiant, the energy radiating from you like a tempest.

The environment was eerily quiet, isolated from the hustle of the main celebration preparations. The corner they were in was a secluded stretch of rocky outcrop nestled between tall, jagged trees that seemed to protect the area from view. The ground beneath them was soft with moss and small, scattered leaves. A few low stone walls were partly overgrown with ivy, adding to the sense that this was an untouched space, perfect for moments away from the prying eyes of others.

Your frustration boiled over. “You!” you screamed, pointing an accusing finger at Loki. “This is your fault!” Your voice was raw with rage, and the air around them crackled with your energy as you lunged at him.

Loki blinked, clearly caught off guard by the sudden eruption of power. He barely had time to react before you lunged at him, your armor glowing with destructive energy. “I told you to take it seriously!” you yelled, your voice hoarse, as you swung an energy-charged fist toward him.

Loki, still calm despite your fury, sidestepped the attack easily, but he wasn’t expecting the ferocity of your movements. “For Norn’s sake, calm down,” he exclaimed, dodging another strike, his voice measured. “You’re losing it!”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” you spat, your energy only intensifying. You launched yourself at him again, this time in a flurry of punches and energy blasts that tore through the air. Each time Loki parried, it only made you angrier, and you screamed in frustration, the energy from your armor flaring brighter. The surrounding trees shuddered in response to the intensity.

Loki’s face hardened with determination as he blocked your energy with his seiðr, deflecting your blows. “You need to stop this,” he said, barely dodging another attack. His voice tinged with something more serious than usual. “I know you’re angry, but this won’t solve anything.”

“I don’t care!” you shouted, charging forward again, your movements fueled by raw, uncontrolled power. Each punch you threw left ripples in the air, crackling with auroral energy. The moss beneath their feet quivered under the force, and distant birds flew away in alarm.

Loki, his expression tightening, continued to dodge your strikes, his calm demeanor beginning to crack. “You don’t need to do this. Control yourself, you’re letting your emotions take over.”

“Everything is falling apart!” you yelled back, your eyes blazing with power. “I worked so hard for this and it’s all crumbling! I don’t even know what to do anymore!”

The wind picked up around them, swirling the fallen leaves into a frenzy. Loki's stance grew more defensive, his magic weaving through the air to deflect your blows. “I understand that, but lashing out won’t make it better,” he countered, his eyes flashing as his powers met yours in the charged atmosphere. “Destroying yourself over this won’t help either.”

You recoiled slightly, eyes wild, but there was a flash of uncertainty in them now. Another blast of energy shot from your hands, missing Loki only by a hair. But this time, the force of your attack wasn’t matched by the fury you had before. The anger was still there, but it was beginning to dissipate, replaced by sheer exhaustion.

Your attacks slowed, and you found yourself dropping to your knees, the heavy weight of your emotions finally catching up to you. You were gasping for breath, your chest heaving. The power surrounding you flickered and began to fade as your energy drained. Your armor seemed to collapse in on itself, leaving only your trembling form.

You pulled your knees to your chest, your body curled inwards as your arms wrapped around yourself. Tears started to fall, hot and fast, as everything you had been bottling up poured out in sobs. You didn’t even try to stop them. You felt broken, like all the pressure and expectations had crushed you, and there was nothing left but this overwhelming, suffocating exhaustion.

Loki watched silently, his expression softening as he took in the sight of you. You had been so strong, so determined, and now you were crumpled in front of him, vulnerable in a way he had rarely seen before.

“Darling,” he said softly, his voice lacking its usual edge. He took a step forward, his tone gentler than it had been all day. “I didn’t want you to get to this point. But you’re not alone. You never have to be alone in this.”

You sniffled, your voice breaking as you spoke through your tears. “Shut up. I tried so hard… But—But nothing is going right and—and I can’t keep pretending like I’ve got everything under control.”

You sat quietly, your head resting on your knees as the last remnants of your armor faded away. The hum of the distant festivities was a dull echo compared to the storm of emotions that had overwhelmed you moments ago. Loki remained beside you, his posture relaxed but his eyes never leaving you, watching you carefully as if gauging when to speak.

The silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was as if they were both taking a breath, letting the tension of the moment settle before moving forward.

Finally, Loki shifted slightly, lowering himself to sit beside you. He rested his elbows on his knees, his gaze softening as he looked at you, his usual playful demeanor absent for once.

“You know,” he began softly, his voice a comforting murmur in the quiet space between them, “I’ve seen many things in my time—more than most can fathom. But there is one thing about Yule that has always amused me.”

You glanced up at him, the exhaustion in your eyes still clear, but there was a small flicker of curiosity and apprehension in them as you met his gaze. Loki smiled faintly, leaning back slightly to get more comfortable. He seemed to take a breath before he began, his tone easing into something reminiscent of a tale he had long since retold to himself.

“When I was younger, and Asgard still celebrated Yule in its true, ancient form, there was a tradition... one that many might call ‘foolish’ now,” he began, a glint of mischief creeping into his voice. “We used to have a grand competition every year—a Yule feast, yes, but with a twist. It wasn’t just about who could decorate the best or bring the finest gifts. No, it was about who could make the best ‘Yule pudding.’”

You looked at him with a raised brow, unimpressed. “Yule pudding?”

Loki nodded, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips as he continued. “Yes. It was an Asgardian delicacy, made from all sorts of strange and exotic ingredients—some of which were better left unspoken of. The twist, however, was that everyone’s pudding had to be kept a secret until the feast began. The idea was that the other competitors would be surprised, even horrified, by what they found in their bowls.” He gave you a playful, knowing look. “And trust me, some of the ingredients were... less than appealing.”

You slightly tilted your head up, your curiosity piqued despite yourself. “So... did anyone actually win?”

“Oh, yes,” Loki chuckled, his eyes lighting up with a familiar mischief that was comforting, even in the current tense atmosphere. “But not in the way you’d expect. The prize was a crown, yes, but the true victory came from seeing the faces of the other competitors. You know, nothing is more satisfying than watching the mightiest warriors of Asgard choke down something so vile... all for the sake of tradition.”

You couldn’t help but let out a scoff at the image he painted, the tension in your shoulders easing for the first time that evening. “I can’t believe you used to get people to eat that stuff,” you said, shaking your head, though the corners of your lips twitched into a small smile.

Loki’s grin softened at the sound of your laughter, and he leaned a little closer to you, resting his arm across his knee. “I may have been a bit of a... troublemaker,” he said with a small shrug. “But the real lesson was the spirit of Yule itself—not in the feasts or the gifts, but in the laughter and joy that followed. Even in the worst moments, there is light to be found.�� He glanced at you, his voice dropping to a quieter, more serious tone. “Even now, during times like this. What matters is not how perfect everything is, but how we come together, despite it all.”

You stared at him for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in, but it was the warm look in his eyes that made your heart settle. It was an understanding you hadn’t expected, and for the first time since the pressure began to mount, you felt a little less alone in your frustration.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, your breath steadying. The soft comfort of his presence, the closeness, and the warmth of his energy settled the lingering chaos inside you.

Loki’s posture stiffened for a moment, surprised, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he allowed himself a small smile, his fingers lightly brushing against your forearm as if offering silent reassurance. “Better?”

You sighed, closing your eyes for a moment as you nodded, allowing yourself to rest in the calm space he’d created. “Yeah. Thank you, Mischief.” You paused, your voice quieter. “I’m still angry with you, though.”

He chuckled, though there was an apologetic undertone in his laughter. “I know,” he replied softly, his hand finding hers, the contact warm and comforting. “And… I apologize. I should have thought more carefully about how things would turn out, but as you know, I never could resist pushing your buttons.”

You gave a half-hearted smile, your eyes still closed as you rested your head against his shoulder. “Yeah, I noticed that alright. I guess I’ll have to be more careful around you in the future when it comes to important duty stuff.”

“I’ll consider this a compliment,” he said with a sly smirk, though the softness in his tone betrayed his true feelings. “I never did well with being ignored.”

You let out a small laugh, your shoulders relaxing fully now. The tension you’d carried for so long seemed to ease with each word he spoke, each breath he took. “I could’ve never have guessed,” you said teasingly, lifting your head to glance at him. Your gaze softened as you looked into his eyes. “But truly, thank you. You didn’t have to do this.”

Loki’s lips curled into a small, sly smile as he looked at you. “I suppose even I, the magnificent and benevolent god that I am, cannot resist the allure of your stubbornness,” he said with a mockingly grandiose tone.

You stayed seated, the world around you hushed, save for the gentle rustling of the snow and the occasional sound of distant footsteps. The snow blanketed everything in serene stillness, creating a peaceful atmosphere that made it feel as though you were in a world of your own, far removed from the stress of the impending festivities.

Loki, still holding your hand without realizing it, gently rubbed his thumb along the back of your hand. The touch was comforting, soothing in its quiet rhythm, as if trying to calm the lingering tension in both of you. You didn’t speak for a while, content in the peacefulness of the moment.

You sat there, side by side, the stillness of the world around you filling the space between you with an unspoken connection. The flakes of snow continued to drift down around you, their quiet dance a gentle reminder of the calm you shared.

You glanced at him, your heart beating a little faster than usual. You weren’t sure if it was the cold, or something else, but your cheeks felt warmer, and when you looked at Loki, he seemed to be feeling the same quiet shift between you. Your fingers remained intertwined, a small, unnoticed act of closeness that neither of you questioned.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, both content in each other's company as the world around you continued to fall into the winter stillness. The silence felt comfortable now, and neither of you was in a hurry to leave it.

As the minutes passed, you felt the cold slowly creeping back into your bones, a shiver running through you. You glanced at Loki and saw that his eyes had softened, watching you carefully. He felt it too, the quiet coldness in the air.

Loki, still with his thumb brushing against the back of your hand, looked at you for a moment before speaking again. “I believe we’ve overstayed our welcome here. Let’s get you back before someone else decides to accidentally destroy something.”

You let out a small laugh, this time free of the weight you’d carried for so long. You felt lighter—easier. You stood up and offered him your hand, which he took with an ease that made the whole moment feel just right. “Can’t wait to see what other problem awaits us,” you answered sarcastically, a small smile on your lips.

You had said "us"—a small word, but one that meant a lot in this moment. The connection between you, the quiet bond you shared, felt even more solid in the simplicity of it.

When you finally stood, neither of you noticed how your hands were still clasped together. It was only when you began walking back toward the hall that the warmth of your intertwined hands made you realize just how natural it felt. Neither of you spoke of it, but both knew that something had shifted. Neither of you knew if your cheeks were flushed from the cold, or from something else entirely, but neither of you minded.

The sound of your footsteps blended with the soft echo of the falling snow as you made your way back, the world around you still and serene, leaving you alone in your thoughts and the shared comfort of each other's presence.

The first thing you noticed upon waking the next morning was the soft, golden light spilling through the windows, casting a warm glow over the room. The warmth was a welcome contrast to the cool air of the hall you’d fallen asleep in, and you slowly stretched, your body sore from the events of the previous day. Your mind was still clouded with memories of the chaos—broken decorations, missing trees, disorganized gifts. A faint sense of panic clawed at your chest, but as you sat up, you realized the quiet hum of activity had returned to the castle.

You wiped your face with the back of your hand, trying to shake off the weight of the previous day’s exhaustion. It was hard to believe it had all come to a head the night before—one misstep after another, and yet, here you were, still alive and breathing.

When you pushed yourself up from the bed and stepped into the hallway, you found it quieter than usual. The usual hustle and bustle of the Yule preparations had faded into the background. Your feet carried you instinctively toward the great hall, but when you stepped inside, your breath caught in your throat. The hall had transformed overnight.

Where there had been scattered remnants of undone decorations and unfinished projects, now there were beautifully decorated trees, glowing with twinkling lights. The large, grand Yule tree, full of shimmering baubles and sparkling tinsel, stood proudly near the center of the hall, towering over the tables. Garlands of holly and ivy draped across every surface, and the sweet smell of freshly baked bread and roasting meats filled the air.

But despite the stunning transformation, your heart still raced. You looked around with wide eyes, trying to take in everything, but it only seemed to make your nerves flare up.

“Where is everything?” you muttered under your breath, mostly to yourself, but the words were tinged with a hint of anxiety. Had they truly fixed everything? The tree looked perfect—tall, regal, and sturdy—but was it the right one? You had been so frantic, you hadn’t even stopped to look at it properly.

Your footsteps quickened, and you moved to the table where the feast had been laid out. Platters of food, colorful and hearty, were stacked in layers of decadent variety. The bread, the pastries, the meats… everything looked impeccable. Had they managed to get everything right? What if something had been missed?

“[Y/N],” came Valkyrie’s voice, drawing your attention. You looked up to see her walking toward you with a teasing grin. “Good morning. I see you’re already making your rounds.”

You swallowed, forcing yourself to appear calm as you turned toward her. “I just—I just want to make sure everything’s in order,” you said, though your tone was strained. “The tree... it’s the right one, isn’t it? And the feast—did we get everything? We can’t afford to make any more mistakes.”

The Valkyrie arched a brow, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’ve got a lot of fretting to do, don’t you? You need to take a break. Everything is done. The tree is perfect, the decorations are all set, and the feast... well, the Asgardian delicacies are sure to make an impression. Relax.”

You hesitated, eyes scanning the room again, but the weight of the last few days, added to your constant sense of responsibility, didn’t allow you to settle so easily. “But what about the gifts? Did Loki handle everything? And the—the treasure hunt?”

Brunnhilde gave a small chuckle. “Oh, the treasure hunt is a... success,” she said, the way she said it making you feel slightly apprehensive. “Though, I must admit, I didn’t expect the children to raid the chocolate stash as thoroughly as they did. I’m still trying to figure out how the entire chest went missing, but they found the treasure in the end, and I think that’s what matters.”

“Wait, the chocolates—” you froze, then sighed. “Of course. Of course, they ate it all.”

She smirked. “At least they found it,” she added with a shrug. “But that’s all handled. You’ve done your part. Now, you can rest.”

“I can’t rest,” you muttered, glancing over at the corner of the hall where a few last-minute touches were still needed. “There’s still the lights to check, and the candles—what if they’re uneven? What if the guests don’t like the decorations?”

The Valkyrie watched you for a moment, her expression softening slightly. She walked over and placed a hand on your shoulder, her voice becoming more serious. “Listen to me, sweet cheeks. You’ve been working nonstop for days. Everything is taken care of. It’s all ready. All that’s left for you to do is enjoy it.”

Your face flushed with embarrassment. You knew you were overthinking everything, but it was hard to shake off the anxiety that had built up during the previous days. You had put so much pressure on yourself, and the idea of something going wrong—again—made your stomach twist.

But Brunnhilde was right. Everything was perfect. You had helped put it all together, and now all you had to do was step back and enjoy it. No more fretting.

With a deep sigh, you finally nodded. “You’re right. I just... I can’t help it.” You rubbed your temples. “I’ll try to rest for a bit.”

She grinned and gave you a playful shove toward the seating area. “Good. Now go take a break. Everything is in order. We’ve got this.”

Your steps slowed, and you made your way to the chairs near the fireplace, feeling lighter with each step. It was hard to let go of the responsibility, but in that quiet moment, with everything taken care of, you could finally breathe a little easier.

As you sank into the warmth of the chair and allowed yourself to close your eyes for just a moment, you felt a sense of relief wash over you. The rest of the day would be filled with festivities, joy, and laughter. The Yule festival was coming soon. And this time, you could enjoy it without the weight of worry on your shoulders.

⠀

The royal library had been deemed a perfect spot for the traditional storytelling to take place. The shelves lined with ancient tomes and scrolls seemed to add an air of mystique to the already enchanting setting. Children crowded around Loki, sitting cross-legged on the floor, their eyes wide with curiosity. Even a few of the adults had gathered, drawn in by the sheer magnetism of his presence.

You stood near the doorway, watching quietly from the sidelines. You couldn’t help but smile at the sight before you—Loki, the formidable god of mischief, captivating the room with his magic. His voice was deep and resonant, laced with humor, as he began weaving his tale.

“And so, there I was,” he began, gesturing dramatically with one hand, “standing atop the great peak of Jotunheim, facing down an entire army of giants. The cold bit at my skin, but did I flinch?” He paused, his lips curling into a playful grin. “Of course not. I am Loki, the trickster god, the one who—”

The children erupted in giggles, and Loki’s grin widened. With a snap of his fingers, the air around him shimmered with a faint green glow. He conjured an illusion of a massive ice giant, towering above the group, its icy form glowing ominously. The kids gasped in awe, eyes glued to the spectacle.

“Fear not, young ones!” Loki’s voice boomed as he summoned another flick of magic, and the giant began to shrink. “I wasn’t about to let a little thing like that scare me. With one swift move, I tricked them into thinking they’d already won. I am a god, after all.”

As he spoke, his illusions shifted with every word—mighty warriors battling against beasts, massive serpents coiling around towering castles, and fire-breathing dragons soaring across the sky. The magic seemed to come alive with every flick of his wrist, each new image more mesmerizing than the last.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away. It wasn’t just the magic—though it was impressive—it was the way Loki moved, the way he commanded the room. There was something about him in these moments, his charm and wit flowing effortlessly, drawing even the adults in.

His eyes met yours for a fleeting second as he continued his tale, and you felt your heart skip a beat. There was something oddly endearing about watching him perform for the children. He was so... alive. His usual smirk softened in these moments, replaced by a deep sense of contentment as he captivated his audience.

“You know, the trick to deceiving giants,” Loki continued, his voice lowering conspiratorially as the children leaned in closer, “is not in strength, but in the art of persuasion. They believed me when I said the sun had risen on their kingdom. But I knew better. The sun? It wasn’t even close to rising.” He chuckled darkly. “I’ll spare you the details of the real trick, but let’s just say... they learned to always listen to Loki.”

A few of the children laughed and clapped, clearly entranced by the story, while the adults looked on with amused smiles. You couldn’t help but smile fondly at him from your position by the doorway, the warmth of the moment settling in your chest.

“That was quite the tale,” Brunnhilde said, stepping up behind you with a playful grin. “I didn’t realize you were so captivated by Loki’s antics.”

You turned quickly, caught off guard by her teasing. “What?” you asked, your cheeks heating slightly as you tried to hide the warmth spreading through your chest. “I’m just... enjoying the story.”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the situation. “Mm-hmm, enjoying it quite a lot, I see. You know, if you’re really into the storytelling, you could always go sit on Loki’s lap, like the Midgardian children do with Santa. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.” She smirked, nudging you playfully.

You flushed, rolling your eyes as you tried to cover up your flustered state. “I’m fine where I am, thank you,” you said, though your gaze lingered on Loki at the center of the room. Your heart fluttered a little as you watched him, and you quickly turned away to hide the warmth creeping into your cheeks.

As the story continued, Loki’s hands wove through the air, creating glowing, animated figures with his seiðr. He made the children laugh, gasp, and even squeal with excitement as dragons flew overhead and kingdoms were overthrown. Each tale he told seemed to be tailored to his young audience, but you couldn’t help but notice how the adults—yourself included—were just as mesmerized by him.

You shifted slightly, and your eyes caught on one of the floating illusions—a massive serpent coiling around a castle tower. For a moment, you thought it looked almost... real. You blinked and glanced at Loki, noticing the slight tilt of his head as he continued to spin his tale.

Your heart skipped again.

“So,” The Valkyrie said, her voice dropping to a low whisper. “What do you think? Still not interested in the man behind the magic?”

You shot her an incredulous look. “What are you talking about?” you hissed under your breath. “I told you, I’m just here for the storytelling.”

“Sure you are,” she teased, nudging you with her elbow.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes again, but deep down, you felt a quiet warmth in your chest. Brunnhilde's teasing aside, there was something undeniable about the way Loki commanded the room. You were captivated, and you didn’t think there was any shame in admitting it.

Finally, after several more stories, Loki ended his performance with a dramatic flourish. The children clapped, their cheers echoing through the grand library.

“At ease,” he said, bowing slightly, “I hope you all enjoyed the tale. It’s not every day you get to hear the true version of events, after all.” He gave the children a wink before turning toward the adults. “Now, my dear friends, it’s time to take a break and prepare for the real festivities to begin.”

You stepped back as Loki turned toward you, still basking in the glow of the applause. He caught your eye, and you couldn’t help but smile fondly. He seemed so at ease in his element—charming, playful, and utterly captivating.

The Valkyrie’s teasing voice broke through your thoughts again. “Looks like you’ve got a fan club to be a part of,” she whispered with a sly grin.

You could only chuckle, shaking your head. "Oh, hush."

But as Loki’s gaze met yours once more, you felt something stir in your chest—a connection you couldn’t quite put into words. For all his mischief and tricks, something was endearing about the way he made the world around him brighter, even if it was just for a moment.

⠀

The grand hall was alive with the soft hum of conversation and laughter, but amid the lively atmosphere, you found yourself quietly drawn toward the Yule tree. Its towering branches were adorned with delicate glass ornaments, shimmering ribbons, and lights that cast a soft, magical glow throughout the room. You stood before it, mesmerized by the beauty of it all.

But as you stepped closer, your attention was caught by something unexpected. Among the glittering baubles and tinsel were small, folded papers tied with delicate strings, hanging just like ornaments. At first, you thought they were part of the decorations, but as you leaned in to examine them, you realized they were letters—each one carefully placed with intention. Curiosity piqued, you gently plucked one from the tree and unfolded it.

The first letter was simple, the handwriting of a child: I wish for a pet dragon, even if it’s small. You smiled softly, your heartwarming at the innocent wish. You moved to the next one, your fingers tracing the fragile paper. I wish for snow to never stop falling, so I can play forever. Each note seemed to carry with it a small, pure hope, a wish that felt timeless and untouched by the complications of the world.

You let out a quiet laugh, glancing at another letter. I wish for more sweets at the feast tomorrow. That one made you grin wider—something about it felt so wonderfully human, so relatable in its simplicity.

“You seem to be enjoying those.” The voice startled you, and you turned to find Loki standing just behind you, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. There was a certain softness to his gaze as he watched you, a subtle pride that he didn’t always show.

You raised an eyebrow, still holding the letter in your hand. “What is this? Some sort of... Yule tree tradition I wasn’t aware of?”

Loki’s expression shifted, and he looked almost bashful for a moment. “It’s new. After the storytelling, I thought it might be a good idea for the children to write down their wishes. I gave them the task of hanging them on the tree, hoping the magic of the season might make them come true.”

You blinked, surprised. “You—did you get the children to do this?” You shook your head, your tone softening as you looked at him in a way you hadn’t before. “That’s... a really thoughtful gesture, Loki.”

“I may have a flair for splendor,” Loki admitted with a small shrug, his voice laced with both humility and pride, “but even I can recognize the value of sincerity. Not everything must be a grand display of power.” He gestured toward the tree, his gaze lingering on the little letters. “Their wishes deserved more than a fleeting moment. Why not bind them to the spirit of Yule? A reminder that even the smallest dreams can take root and grow into something magnificent.”

You looked back at the tree, your heart feeling full as you saw the wishes swaying gently in the breeze. For a brief moment, the disarray of the previous days, the stress, and all the uncertainty melted away. It felt peaceful, in a way you hadn’t expected. The simplicity of the wishes, the hope behind them, made everything feel just a little bit more magical.

“You’ve thought this through, haven’t you?” you asked softly, the weight of your words more sincere than you’d meant. “I didn’t expect this side of you. You’re a bit of a softy in disguise.”

Loki smirked, his eyes glinting with a playfulness that only he could pull off, though a hint of warmth remained in his tone. "I am many things, but I would hardly call myself soft. My genius is unrivaled, my charm is clearly undeniable, but I am far from sentimental."

He paused, the playfulness momentarily fading as he regarded you with a softer look. "But even the most enigmatic of gods can have their... moments," he added quietly, his gaze lingering on you before quickly flashing back to his usual impish grin. "Don’t tell anyone, though. It would ruin my reputation."

You tilted your head, your gaze softening as you considered his words. There was something in the way he spoke, something unguarded that made you pause. You gave him a small, knowing smile, your tone teasing but with an underlying sincerity. "I guess you do have your moments of wisdom, after all," you said, your voice warm. "I always thought you were all about grandeur and spectacle, but I guess even someone like you knows the power of the little things."

You leaned in just slightly, your smile still in place, but there was a flicker of curiosity in your eyes. "It’s funny," you mused, your words soft, "I didn’t expect this side of you. I guess we all have our layers, don’t we?"

Loki smiled, a touch of pride in his eyes, but it was a softer, more genuine pride than you were used to. “You’d be surprised how much thought I put into things sometimes.” His voice lowered a little, almost as though he was sharing something personal. “Not everything has to be grand or spectacular to matter. Sometimes, it’s the simple gestures that can mean the most.”

You turned back to the tree, your fingers lightly brushing the edges of the next letter you picked. “This is really special, Loki.” Your voice was quieter now, almost reverent as you took in the sight of all the letters hanging on the tree. “You’ve given them something to look forward to and to believe in.”

Loki stepped closer, his eyes never leaving the tree. “I suppose I’ve learned a few things over the years. Not everything has to be perfect for it to be meaningful.”

As you pulled away from the tree, your eyes lingered on the sparkling ornaments for just a moment longer. You turned to Loki, who was still standing nearby, his hands lightly brushing the branches as if contemplating something deeper. There was a warmth in your chest, a quiet understanding of the thought and care that had gone into making this Yule truly special.

"Thank you," you said softly, your voice full of sincerity. "I don’t think I ever would’ve thought of this. It’s perfect."

Loki glanced at you, his gaze softening. Before he could respond, you stood up on your tiptoes and, without thinking, placed a quick, affectionate kiss on his cheek. His eyes widened in surprise, the briefest of blushes flickering across his cheeks before he masked it with his usual playful composure.

"If I’d known something as small as this would grant me such a delicacy, I would’ve done it sooner," he teased, his voice still carrying the usual mischievous undertone, though there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—something a little warmer, a little softer.

You rolled your eyes, fighting a smile as you stepped back, your face a little flushed. "Don’t push your luck, Mischief," you replied, the hint of a challenge in your tone.

He chuckled, raising a brow. "Oh, I never push, darling. I simply nudge… gently," he added with his signature smirk returning, as if he hadn’t just been caught a bit off guard by the unexpected tenderness.

As you shared that moment, something unspoken passed between you—an understanding, a shift in the air, but nothing too bold. Yet, both of your hearts seemed to beat a little faster, and the space between you felt just a little more charged than before.

The royal courtyard had been transformed into a winter wonderland. Strings of golden lights intertwined with frosted branches, casting a warm glow across the snow-covered ground. A towering evergreen stood at the center, adorned with shimmering ornaments and glowing runes that pulsed faintly with magic. Tables laden with Asgardian delicacies lined the perimeter, and a faint melody floated through the air, played by an ensemble of musicians stationed near the tree.

As the first portal shimmered open, Jane Foster stepped through, pulling her coat tighter against the chill. Her expression lit up at the sight of Thor, who bounded over with his usual exuberance. “Jane!” he called, his voice booming even in the open air. “At last! Welcome to Asgard’s Yule celebration!”

“Thor,” Jane laughed as he enveloped her in a bear hug. “You’re going to squash me before I even get to enjoy the festivities.”

Before she could say more, another portal opened with a soft hum, revealing a group of familiar faces. Tony Stark was the first to step out, his eyes immediately scanning the scene. “Interesting,” he drawled, tugging his scarf tighter. “Looks like someone’s been raiding the Hallmark aisle. Did you do this, Reindeer Games?”

Loki, who had been leaning casually against one of the pillars at the edge of the courtyard, arched an eyebrow. “Ah, Tin Man,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery. “I see your sense of fashion is as middling as ever. And no, I don’t sully my talents with mere decorations.”

“Sure you don’t,” Tony shot back, already making his way toward one of the tables. “But I’ll bet you were in charge of the drinks. Let’s see if they’re as pretentious as you are.”

Steve Rogers stepped through the portal next, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. He took a moment to take in the scene, a small smile tugging at his lips. “This is… something alright,” he said quietly.

Thor clapped him on the back with enough force to make him stagger slightly. “Is it not magnificent? Tonight, my friends, we celebrate in true Asgardian style! Food, drink, and merriment for all!”

Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton followed close behind, their sharp eyes surveying the courtyard. “This is cozy,” Natasha remarked dryly. Her gaze flicked to Loki. “I’m surprised you’re not sulking in a corner somewhere or plotting mischief.”

“I’m afraid I must disappoint you, Agent Romanoff,” Loki replied smoothly, his smirk just this side of smug. “My mischief is already in motion.”

You, who had been overseeing the final touches on the feast, approached the group with a welcoming smile. “Glad you all could make it, guys,” you said, your breath fogging slightly in the cold air. “I wasn’t sure if Asgardian traditions would be your thing.”

“Oh, traditions are fine, Skittles,” Tony replied, already holding a goblet of mead he’d managed to acquire. “But I’m here for the food. And maybe to see if Frosty over there pulls off anything entertaining.”

Bruce Banner shuffled over, his smile soft and unassuming. “Thanks for having us,” he said. “It’s… nice to get a break from everything.”

As the group began to mingle, the dynamics unfolded naturally. Jane and Bruce struck up a conversation about the science behind the glowing runes on the tree, with Thor chiming in enthusiastically about the enchantments. Natasha and Clint drifted toward the weapons display near the courtyard’s edge, their interest piqued by the craftsmanship.

Tony, meanwhile, found himself circling back to Loki. “So, puny god,” he began, taking a sip of his drink. “What’s the over-under on you pulling some kind of elaborate prank tonight?”

Loki’s lips curled into a slow, deliberate smirk. “Stark, if I were to indulge in such trivialities, you would not see them coming. But I do hope you enjoy yourself tonight. I’d hate for you to feel… out of place.”

You, who had been listening from a few steps away, couldn’t help but laugh softly. “Don’t encourage him, Tony. He doesn’t need the help.”

“Oh, I’m not encouraging him, Tinkerbell,” Tony replied with a grin. “I’m just testing his limits.”

Steve, who had been quietly observing, walked over to Thor and gestured toward the massive Yule log near the tree. “So… what’s the story with that?”

Thor grinned broadly. “Ah, the Yule log! Its lighting marks the official start of the festivities. A sacred moment, my friend. You’ll see soon enough!”

Nearby, Jane sidled up to you, her tone curious. “This is your first Yule celebration, right? How are you holding up?”

You smiled, glancing toward Loki, who was now demonstrating his seiðr for a small group of curious onlookers. The green-hued magic danced in the air, forming intricate shapes that captivated everyone watching. “It’s overwhelming,” you admitted. “But it’s magical. I can see why this means so much to everyone.”

Jane followed your gaze, then smirked knowingly. “And I’m sure a certain dark prince has nothing to do with that sentiment?”

Before you could reply, Brunnhilde appeared, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “Oh, she’s smitten, no doubt about it. But don’t worry, sweet cheeks, I’m sure brooding stuff over there will find some way to complicate things before the night’s over.”

“Val’,” you groaned, your cheeks warming.

“What?” she replied with a grin, lifting her goblet. “It’s Yule. A little mischief and romance are practically mandatory.”

The playful banter dissolved into laughter, and soon the courtyard was alive with the sound of merriment as more guests continued to arrive, setting the stage for a celebration no one would forget.

⠀

Soon enough, the air in the courtyard hummed with anticipation as the gathering crowd turned toward the massive Yule log stationed near the towering evergreen tree. The log, carved with intricate patterns of Norse runes and adorned with garlands of evergreen and holly, rested on an iron stand at the heart of the celebration.

Thor stood before it, Stormbreaker gripped tightly in his hand, his broad figure illuminated by the golden glow of the surrounding lights. The faint crackle of his lightning echoed in the air, a promise of the power about to be unleashed. Beside him stood Brunnhilde, her presence commanding as ever, a goblet in one hand and her other resting on the pommel of her sword.

The chatter of the crowd quieted as Brunnhilde raised her hand, signaling the beginning of the tradition. She stepped forward, her voice carrying with a regal authority that silenced even the most boisterous of guests.

“Friends, family, and honored guests,” she began, her tone strong yet warm, “we gather here tonight, under the light of the Yule tree and the vast expanse of the stars, to celebrate the turning of the season and the bonds we share. Yule is not merely a time of merriment—it is a time to reflect, to honor the past, and to look toward the future with hope.”

She raised her goblet slightly, her eyes sweeping across the crowd. “Tonight, as we light the Yule log, we kindle the fire of community, resilience, and renewal. Let this flame burn bright, a beacon in the dark, reminding us of the strength we find in each other. Let it mark the start of a celebration worthy of Asgard’s legacy.”

The crowd erupted in cheers and applause, raising their own goblets in response. Brunnhilde stepped aside with a small, satisfied smirk, gesturing toward Thor.

“Now, who better to light the way than the God of Thunder himself?” she added, her tone laced with humor.

Thor grinned broadly, stepping forward with his usual swagger. He lifted Stormbreaker high, and the skies above seemed to darken just slightly, as though the stars themselves leaned in to watch.

“Let us welcome the light, and may it guide us through this season of joy!” He bellowed, his voice resonating through the courtyard.

With a sharp crackle, bolts of lightning arced from the axe, striking the Yule log with an explosive burst of light. The log ignited instantly, flames leaping to life and casting a warm, golden glow over the crowd. The fire danced and flickered, its light reflected in the awestruck faces of everyone present.

The warmth of the fire spread through the courtyard, both physically and metaphorically, as the crowd erupted into cheers once more. The musicians struck up a lively tune, and the celebration officially began.

You, standing toward the edge of the crowd, couldn’t help but smile in childlike wonder at the sight. The sheer spectacle, the sense of unity, and the magic of the moment were overwhelming in the best way.

Loki appeared at your side, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the scene with a faint smirk. “Thor does enjoy his dramatics,” he remarked lightly, though his tone held no malice.

You glanced at him, your smile widening. “I don’t blame him, it’s tradition,” you replied. “And it’s beautiful.”

Loki tilted his head, his gaze softening as he watched you instead of the fire. “It is,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the hum of the crowd.

As the music picked up and the guests began to drift toward the dance floor near the Yule tree, Brunnhilde raised her goblet once more, her voice cutting through the joyous commotion.

“Let the festivities begin!” she declared, her grin wide and infectious.

With that, the courtyard came alive with laughter, music, and the sound of feet moving to the rhythm of the dance. The Yule celebration was officially underway.

⠀

The flames of the Yule log crackled and danced, casting warm golden light over the courtyard. The lively music of flutes, strings, and drums filled the air as the guests, Asgardian and Midgardian alike, joined in the festivities. Around the grand fire and beneath the glittering Yule tree, people swayed, twirled, and laughed in a joyous dance that blurred the line between realms.

You stood off to the side, catching your breath after spending most of the evening immersed in the revelry. Your cheeks were flushed from dancing—both the lively Asgardian traditional dances you had eagerly learned and the familiar Midgardian waltzes that had followed.

Your earlier conversations with the various United Nations diplomats and Midgardian guests had been engaging yet intense, requiring a level of charm and tact you hadn’t entirely realized you possessed. Between discussing Asgardian culture and bridging gaps between worlds, you had barely had a moment to yourself.

Several guests had gone out of their way to compliment you on the gifts they had received earlier in the evening. Each one was uniquely tailored: intricate wooden carvings of Yggdrasil that doubled as ornate keepsake boxes, filled with an assortment of Midgardian delicacies and Asgardian mead, or beautifully crafted quills forged from Asgardian metals, paired with sleek, modern Midgardian ink sets.

You had been stunned by their enthusiasm. The gifts, which you had initially seen in their raw, almost haphazard state under Loki’s supervision, had clearly undergone a transformation. What had once seemed overly extravagant and mismatched now carried a thoughtful elegance, seamlessly blending the traditions of both realms.

Your gaze instinctively sought Loki in the crowd. He must have changed them, you realized, your surprise mingling with an odd sense of pride. He had somehow taken what could have been a garish display and turned it into something meaningful—something that resonated with both Asgardian and Midgardian sensibilities.

Now, as you leaned lightly against a table laden with mulled wine and pastries, you allowed yourself to take it all in. The flickering light painted everything in a magical glow—the Yule tree adorned with shimmering ornaments and glowing letters, the Yule log blazing brightly, and the joyous crowd swaying in a beautiful, chaotic harmony.

You watched as an Asgardian couple paused beneath a sprig of mistletoe, sharing a quiet kiss before bursting into laughter and rejoining the dance. The sight brought a small smile to your lips, though it also sent a flutter through your chest.

“I’m surprised you’re not out there,” Loki’s voice came from behind you, smooth and teasing.

You turned to find him standing just a step away, his emerald-green tunic catching the firelight. He looked every bit the god tonight, regal and effortlessly captivating, though there was something softer in the way his eyes met yours.

“Taking a break,” you said lightly, raising an eyebrow. “Believe it or not, even I need a moment to breathe after dancing with half the delegation and learning to not trip over myself in your people’s traditional dances.”

Loki’s lips quirked into a sly smile. “I’d expect nothing less coming from you. You managed it to make it surprisingly effortless.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped. “Flattery, Mischief? You’re slipping.”

“Am I now, darling?” Loki replied, stepping closer, his tone low and playful. “Or perhaps I’m just warming up.”

You tilted your head, curious. “And why would you need to warm up?”

Loki smirked, offering his hand. “Because the best dance of the night is yet to come.”

You hesitated for a moment, your eyes narrowing in playful suspicion. “I’m not sure I trust you on this one.”

“Wise,” Loki said with a mockingly serious nod, “but not nearly as fun. Come, indulge me.”

Despite your wariness, you placed your hand in his, and he led you toward the center of the dance floor. The lively music shifted into something slower, more melodic, as you joined the other couples. Loki’s hand rested lightly on your waist, his touch surprisingly gentle, as you began to move.

As you swayed to the rhythm, you couldn’t help but glance around the crowd. Your eyes landed on Thor, Jane, and Valkyrie standing off to the side. Thor was grinning broadly, lifting his mug in a mock toast, while Jane stifled a giggle behind her hand. Valkyrie, however, made no attempt to hide her amusement, smirking as she gave you an exaggerated thumbs-up.

You rolled your eyes but felt the heat rise in your cheeks, a mixture of embarrassment and exasperation. “The Justice League is watching,” you muttered, tilting your head slightly toward the trio.

Loki followed your gaze and sighed dramatically. “Of course, they are. Discretion has never been their strong suit.”

You bit back a laugh, shaking your head. “I think they’re enjoying this more than they should.”

“Let them,” Loki said with a smirk, his voice dipping into a playful tone. “We’re far more interesting than whatever ale-induced tales Thor was spinning moments ago.”

“You’re full of surprises tonight,” you said softly as you swayed together, your voice barely audible over the music.

“Am I?” Loki arched an eyebrow, his smirk teasing but his gaze steady.

“You are,” you confirmed. “I know about the gifts—thank you for listening to me, by the way. This… whole thing; this isn’t what I expected from you.”

Loki chuckled, his voice low and warm. “Perhaps you haven’t been paying close enough attention. I’m more than just mischief and chaos, you know.”

As the song came to an end, you felt the faintest tug on your hand. Loki had led you just a step away from the tree, where another sprig of mistletoe dangled from its branches.

You glanced up, realization dawning as you looked back at him. “Seriously? A mistletoe prank?”

Loki’s lips curled into a sly smile, but there was a flicker of something softer in his gaze. “Oh, I assure you, this is no prank,” he replied, his voice smooth as ever.

You narrowed your eyes, your arms crossing over your chest. “If this is about everything—about me pushing you into putting all of this together—then you can save the theatrics. I know you probably still want to argue about it, but I won’t engage in some pitiful argument of pride. We both did well.” Your tone was firm, though there was an edge of exasperation beneath it.

Loki’s expression shifted, his usual air of mischief melting into something gentler. “You think I went through all this trouble merely to settle a disagreement?” He took a step closer, his voice quieter now, almost earnest. “This isn’t about proving a point or one-upping anyone. It’s about—” He paused, his gaze steady on yours. “You.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity in his tone. “Me?”

“You, who somehow managed to coax an entire realm into celebrating something most would have dismissed as frivolous,” Loki said, a rare softness coloring his words. “You, who demanded I find meaning in the smallest of gestures, who taught me that joy doesn’t always come in grand schemes or victories but in shared moments like this.”

Your breath hitched at his words, and for a moment, you were unsure of what to say. Loki took your silence as permission to continue, his hand lifting to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. “This mistletoe isn’t some clever ploy or a prank,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “It’s a reminder. A way to say ‘thank you’ for showing me that despite everything, even I am capable of something... good.”

You felt your heart skip a beat, your earlier irritation melting away under the weight of his words. “Loki...”

“Now,” he murmured as he brought you closer to him, his gaze dropping to your lips and then back to your eyes, “are you going to kiss me, or shall I be forced to endure yet another smug grin from Thor when he realizes I failed?”

You let out a soft laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “You’re incorrigible.”

“I am,” Loki replied, his smirk softening into something more sincere as his voice lowered, “and I dare say I’ve been patient long enough. Now, I demand my gift for my good behavior.”

Unable to help yourself, you closed the distance, your lips brushing his in a kiss that was hesitant at first, testing the waters. But as Loki’s hand tightened ever so slightly on your waist, and your fingers brushed the back of his neck, the kiss deepened, warm and unhurried. It was as though the world around you had melted away, leaving just the two of you beneath the gently falling snow, surrounded by the golden glow of the firelight.

The moment stretched, but just as you parted, the sound of raucous cheers startled you both. Loki sighed, glancing over his shoulder to see Thor lifting Jane into the air triumphantly, having spun her around in an exaggerated display of holiday spirit. Jane, laughing but apparently exasperated, swatted at Thor to put her down, which only made the crowd cheer louder.

Loki groaned, rubbing his temple as if pained. “Leave it to my oaf of a brother to ruin a perfectly good moment.”

You laughed, your eyes bright as you leaned in and kissed him again, this time quick and playful. Pulling back, you smiled at him, your voice soft as you said, “Merry Christmas, Mischief.”

Loki’s lips curled into a rare, genuine smile, his eyes alight with something tender.

“Merry Yule, darling.”

⠀⠀

Want to read more of my works? Check out my masterlist !

taglist : @stilleobjection — @the-fandoms-onceler .

⠀

dividers © @angelremnants + @cafekitsune .

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keferon · 2 months ago

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You all flatter me! Now I am all pumped up to continue on the TF mecha au train. Ratchlock has me in a chokehold. You can't compliment me like that, It goes to my head! I haven't writen anything in like 12 years 😭. Also Yes yes to all the angst. I thrive on it more then the fluffy moments. Jazz and Deadlock/Drift are lining up nicely for a possible meeting. But first Deadlock WILL bath in blood! Wanna see?

****

Ratchet will not let Deadlock follow him around. Nope. Instead he keeps Deadlock on strict bed rest /he's learning human terms in his free time/ with the oh so sweet promise to weld him to the wall if he doesn't listen. He knows better to not test Ratchet, he'd do it no hesitation. Deadlocks fangs and claws only cause a raised eyebrow and wave of a slipper near well... anywhere in Ratchet's swating or throwing range. Since both of them honor their word/glyphic, they made a deal that if Ratchet comes home on time then in return Deadlock will be on his best behavior.

They use every extra moment together to learn, heal, and plot together. Deadlock's wounds are fully healed by now. He is ready to be the guardian knight he vowed to be for Ratchet. Ratchet's knuckles still ache which makes his hands shaky at times, especially when cold, but his squishy perseveres like a true warrior. Deadlock has learned that revving his engine to build up heat and letting Ratchet rest against his chassis helps with those trimmering aches the bioengineer tries to rub out.

He wants to give any comfort he can to Ratchet while he's working in that cursed lab with those ungreatful sacks of slags. He has photos of each one of those fraggers saved in his proccesor. The list only grows the longer they wait to leave. If he can work around Ratchet somehow, he'll cross them off at some point with a deep satisfaction while doing it. Ratchet has been as sly as a turbofox. He's been sidestepping, talking around, and out ranting the higher ups for a while. Deadlock is so proud of him for not backing down or falling silent. Right now Deadlock has the tv playing a sitcom while tinkering with his long range blaster. His audial fins flick as the door opens and closes. Ratchet looks at the show while shrugs his winter coat off, "So has Sam confessed his undying love to the ice cream vender Carly yet?" Ratchet asks walking over to the lazy-e-boy chair.

Deadlock reaches out and taps his back before he can sit down. "Refuel first." He reminds him before going back to tightening some wires. He smiles at the grumble and is pleased when Ratchet listens to him for once and heads to the kitchen, "and no the episode ended with him getting hit by a waste disposal truck. Now it's a filler episode. Jack is trying to get out of going to an Amica Endura's beach party. He is playing up a illness called the pox."

Ratchet comes back with a warm plate of food. Deadlock nods pleased with the portion. Ratchet rolls his eyes and sits down, "They did that same plot with Raphael four seasons ago." He grumbles and bats at Deadlocks claw when he tries to ruffle his hair, "If they drag this out for three episodes like last time I am popping in a different show." Both are content, they banter and complain about the show while Ratchet eats. When Ratchet reclines his lazy-e-boy chair Deadlock puts his weapon away, "They are transferring some of us to a different base in the morning. You know First Aid. They are putting him on a transport to the sister base north east of here. Called the Alpha Blade Strikers."

Deadlock tilts his helm, "That's the one that was visiting here? The commander of that base is the one you knocked out for slagging you off right? You mentioned the base being cursed." He asks leaning forward a bit, his servos tingling for revenge.

"Yes, same place and person. Don't believe in any of that cursed stuff but a lot of talk does go around about it. Mostly one pacific mecha being the main cursed object. First Aid was stressed to tears about being transferred. He had just gotten comfortable here with his friends. I feel a bit bad for the kid." Ratchet mumbles rubbing his face with his unbandged hand.

Deadlock gives a soft smile, "From what you've told me, he keeps his helm down. I am sure he will find friends or leave when he can. But if you are worried I am not opposed to taking him with us."

"We do not kidnap people, Drift. He wouldn't want to come along anyways. He wants to 'do his part for human kind'. Besides it takes him a while to get use to change and the possibility that we may be hunted down once we leave would most likely send him into cardiac arrest." Ratchet tilts his head back gives Deadlock a stern look, "On the topic of leaving we'll need to do that sooner then planned. Something isn't right, I don't like how hyper focused Pharma has gotten with quintessons corpses. Now he is showing intrest in you. He wants to know how I programmed a mecha to be powered by an AI system so flawlessly. It's driving him up a wall to not know. You know, since a mecha has never moved around without a pilot and can not talk. He keeps begging the higher ups to let him 'partner up with me' or let him take over the 'project' since I am just 'playing around with you'."

"Right fine. No kidnapping the youngling. But do not assume we will be the ones being hunted." Deadlock hums amused but turns serious when Pharma is brought up. That name is at the top of his 'don't let Ratchet catch on' splat list, "But me being 'imprinted' on you is keeping them from letting him get his quintessons gut covered servos... Err hands sorry, on me."

Ratchet nods rubbing his face again with a tired sigh, "I made certain they know you'll attack anything that isn't me." Deadlock can tell Ratchet is fighting a yawn. He lays down behind the chair and rumbles his engine. Ratchet's lips twitch with a smile hearing how smooth it's running now, "Pharma has never been a good listener though. Just be on guard okay kid... he's ploting something." Ratchet mumbles soaking up the heat coming from behind him. He tilts his head back against the head rest looking up at Deadlocks handsome, smug, sharp fanged grin, "He tries touching you, you can kill him. Don't let him into your system. I fear what he'd do. Probably make you even more loony and unbearable." The bioengineer yawns his voice full of fondness that makes Deadlock's spark sing.

Deadlock purrs as he gently pets Ratchet's head with a, claw retracted, digit. Ratchet's eyes grow heavy missing the most feral, down right demonic, energon hungry look Deadlock has at the permission to off Pharma, "He will not harm me. But I can tell he has worn on you today. You are more drained then grumpy, your insults are lacking any heat. Recharge Ratchet. I will reconfigure our supplies and time line while you regain your strenght. Then I'll show you in the morning. You can edit it while you fuel." He chuckles as Ratchet grumbles and mumbles at him. His squishy can't fight the cozy warmth and soothing pets. Deadlock's humming engine makes a familiar white noise that has grown to mean safe to Ratchet. In no time Ratchet is out cold. Picking up a blanket with a careful pinch he lays it on top of Ratchet and follows him into recharge.

-- --

They are so close to leaving. They have a place picked out and a time. Their supplies are packed and hidden away with a close friend of Ratchet's. The thing still keeping them on base is Ratchet's need to clear out all of his research. He doesn't want anyone to have anything of his, to have a chance to twist it into something that would cause more harm and death. It's been a tedious process but Ratchet has been deleting his work bit by bit so no one catches on.

Four days before their chosen leave date Ratchet walks into his lab only to be escorted to a debriefing room. One he has have never been to. Deep under the base. He had tried getting anyone to speak up about what's happening but the escorts, six of them for fuck sakes, don't even look at him. His gut instinct is screaming DANGER the deeper they go. His skin is crawling with uneasiness and he is fighting his fight then flight instincts. He taps at the small circler tracker he has in his winter coats collar as subtly as possible. Hoping it looks more like a nervious tick then a trigger to call for help. Hopfully they aren't to far down for it to work. The group stops at a vault door and Ratchet cuts off a growl growing in his throat when one of the 'escorts' pulls out some heavy duty cuffs. "Tell me what reason you have for those or their not going on Spike." He warns fists clenching at his side. He huffs at the click of a gun and someone has the balls to press it into his back.

The young soldier, Spike, frowns and waves his hand at the others behind Ratchet, "Ratchet please it's just procedure. You have saved a lot of our lives don't make us be rough. We don't want to be. Just put them on so I don't get yelled at later." Ratchet narrows his eyes, frown tightening. Spike groans, "I don't know what they want. No one told us anything. Please I am just doing what I was told."

Ratchet can tell Spike is holding his breath, pleading silently for Ratchet to listen. Ratchet does let a growl slip when the guns barrel grinds into his spine. His head snaps around and he glares hard enough to cause pause, "Cut that out, I know exactly how far to shove that to not kill you but make damn sure you wish I did." He snarls as he holds his wrists up to Spike. The comment earns him muffled chuckles and a few glares. Cuffs on Ratchet walks into the room. Spike shoots him an apologetic look as the door closes behind him. With a heavy exhale Ratchet takes in the room. A concrete floor, circular shaped room with thick metal walls. Cameras line the ceiling edges. His exhale catches in his throat as the metal walls start rolling up to reveal bullet proof glass filled with quintessons in various stages of dissection and tests. "We have another sublevel secret lab bellow our sublevel secret lab. Of course we do." Ratchet mumbles flatly to pissed off he didn't know this base was more fucked up then he thought then to be scared.

Speakers crackle on and an annoying whine comes through, "Not the reaction I was hoping for. Come on Ratch buddy show a bit more emotion then that. Less grump more begging maybe? At least shock." Pharma's voice chimes around him in an irritating way.

"Looks like all of this has been going on for a while. Why bring me into this now Pharma?" Ratchet says calmly since that seems to piss Pharma off more. He looks at his cuffed wrists and his blood runs cold as the hair on his neck stands on end. Goosebumps cover his arms making him shudder under the heavy coat, "I am not here for shop talk."

"Mmhmm, I am going to miss that snarky brain of yours Ratchy. But you did do a lot of things that put the base in danger. Security has taken notice of a lot of data, intel, cameras and video footage being tampered with." Pharma almost has a mocking sing songy tone to him. Strange, Ratchet knows he didn't tamper with anything that would jeopardized the security of the base. Definitely not the cameras or video footage, "You know what you've done and what we do to traitors. I already have received the ok to take over your work. The good commander is allowing me to say goodbye to you since we were such good old friends. Don't worry. I'll take good care of your Mecha." Yeah, Pharma sounds real choked up about all this, Ratchet rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, he'll take care of you Pharma." Ratchet keeps his tone and body language nonchalant as he studies the cuffs. He takes note of the little bit of gap, if he dislocates his thumbs.. "Only thing that's annoying about all of this is I'll be late getting home."

"I swear you are boring me to death on purpose Ratchet!!" Pharma snarls as a thud noise rings through the speakers

"Oh could I be so lucky?" Ratchet sighs sounding hopeful. He stiffens as the room lights turn red and multiple hisses of compressed air being released surrounds him. A robotic voice rings out a warning that the test subjects are being released. Ratchet whips his head around stepping in a circle as snarles and screeches drowned out the warnings. Ratchet steadies his breathing as best he can as his hands trimble and heart beats wildly. Deadlock would be livid if he doesn't go down giving it his all to get back to him. Ratchet would be just as pissed to, "I'll do what I can but you better hurry kid..."

-- --

"You weren't suppose to do that Pharma." A flat voice speaks up from behind Pharma after picking up the chair he had kicked away. Pharma scoffs and grumbles, "You are not even going to ask him what he ment by being late to his quarters?" The chief of security drones on.

"Be sure to capture all angles. I want detailed shots of it all." Pharma growls removings his hand from the release butten he hit hard enough to crack. "You are being paranoid per usual. Don't tell me you never heard the rammblings of a dying man?" Pharma sighs, with a dramatic flick of his wrist he walks out of the room.

"No, but I imagine I will soon enough." The security director mumbles under his breath. Reaching over the chair he resets the cameras.

OH. OH THEY ARE FUUUUUUCKED

OH THEY ARE SO SO INCREDIBLY FUCKED THEY ARE GONNA GET SPREAD EVENLY ALL OVER THE FLOOR AND I WANNA SEE IT SO B A D

#YEAS #YES PLEASE #ANON #ANON I LOVE YOU #Also Deadlock basically purring is just #kfmfnfjfjfmmfnfmfkfkfkfl #tf mecha universe #also Deadlock keeping track of Ratchets routine is so cute omg

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unrealistic-ideas-for-writers · 28 days ago

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Ooo? I’d say Cal would be called Sundust. Both in coloration for his eyes and because of his backstory in general.

Anything Firefly coded would also suit his younger self as well.

Of Trashcans, Alley Cats, and begrudgingly touch starved Crocodiles.

Aka Cat!Beneath the Sands AU.

The fluffy thing was weird. It felt soft beneath his paws but not quite like fur and it smelled like too many things at once. It made his nose itch.

(Caladin would later learn this is called a "rug.")

He had been picked up by the odd green Twoleg and had been staying in their Den for a few days now. He was certainly still wary of them- them and the other brightly colored Twolegs that came around sometimes. But they had been gentle with him.

He would admit that this soft den was much better than the wet box he'd been sleeping in, and the food was very tasty. There were other cats, but Caladin was only familiar with the one who'd "picked him up" with the Twoleg, Valerian. He was relatively respectful- allowing Caladin space to adjust and answering questions. There were apparently at least two other cats- Sobeknesef, grumpy but quiet, and Jiahui, who was recovering from losing part of her leg.

Caladin felt sorry for her. She slept a lot. He'd tried bringing her a squirrel once. The green Twoleg had taken it away and replaced it with one of the tasty things that didn't look like food.

Well. He tried.

Now he was sitting next to Valerian on the smelly, fluffy thing. Sun high made them all sleepy. The bengal was all splayed out in a sunny spot while Cal sat up straight, watching. And waiting.

"Hey- Val...? What the fuck, dude. When did you get so many cats- and-" Caladin paused, squinting at the collars around the necks of the bengal and mau.

"Did you name your cats after us????" The blonde snorted, expression both amused and mildly bewildered as he glanced over at his friend.

Feel free to add onto this with your OCs. I was just thinking of a little silly modern AU in which Valerian adopts Cats and names them after his friends :3

taglist:

@uncreative-cryptid

@hobbysognodilibri

@yupuffin

@captainsounddisaster

@crypticrainbowmoss

#wuwa #wuthering waves #wuwa oc #caladin #valerian #jiahui #sobeknesef #beneath the sands wuwa #cat!au #modern!au #warrior cats

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k-nayee · 3 months ago

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Wife to the Winds Epic: The Musical | iiii

wc: 4.4k a/n: whew! this is it y'all, the final and last part of the WTTW series. I hope you guys enjoyed it as much as I did <3 Here's the animation for this part (and honestly the main inspiration for this entire series) sidenote: In this AU, when Odysseus left for war Telemachus was 9 years old.

Shameless Plug in for Penelope!Warrior Fic!

Traveler M.List

Previous |

ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

The rolling sea churned beneath the ship as waves sprayed mist over the deck.

By this point you had gained full respect of the crew—especially those who owed their lives to you.

Now as the ship rocked over rough waves, you steadied yourself by the railing, ignoring the heated discussion unfolding between Odysseus and Eurylochus.

Polites was caught in the middle, a concerned spectator of their throwing words. He would cast you a nervous glance every now and then as a silent call for help.

But you wouldn't know. Your eyes were locked onto the dark clouds circling overhead in the sky and the ever-approaching mountain-like formation of Aeolia.

Even among the chaos of the storm the sky palace loomed like a beacon—massive and otherworldly against the darkening horizon.

Aeolus’ island was unlike anything you’d ever seen. It floated above the waves with its lively beauty, anchored to nothing but the whims of the winds themselves.

Approaching footsteps behind you grew louder. You turn to see Odysseus and Eurylochus approaching with their argument trailing along them.

"I can't have you planting seeds of doubt every step of the way," Odysseus said to his Second in Command, every word spoken edged with unyielding authority. "I can't have you disagreeing each route. I need you to agree and comply without question or we risk all of us dying in this. Do you understand?"

A tense silence settled between them. For a moment Eurylochus held his gaze, the frown on his face fading to resignation.

“Okay,” he muttered almost reluctantly.

Odysseus seemed to release a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Thank you."

A shout from one of the men broke through and all of you turned. The crew had managed to hook several ropes onto the cliff edges of Aeolia, securing the ship in place.

Odysseus turned to you, his features darkening as he prepared to leave for his encounter with Aeolus.

“Stay here,” his command carried a weight of finality. “This is no place for you nor is it safe.”

Frustration welled within but you bit back any protest.

Watching Odysseus hoist himself up the ropes, you felt the weight of all that had happened over the past months—the times your instincts had protected the crew, the risks you’d taken.

'Would he be on this journey at all if not for me defying his orders?'

You turned to Eurylochus and Polites who were already watching you with a mixture of concern and uncertainty.

“You know as well as I do that if I hadn’t disobeyed Odysseus before, many of you would be with Hades by now.” The words carried confidence you’d earned through hard-won respect. “Odysseus may not admit it but he needs me. We all know it.”

The two exchanged a silent conversation before Polites gave a small nod.

Eurylochus folded his arms, the faintest hint of a smile breaking through his normally guarded expression.

“Alright,” he murmured, “but keep close.”

With a nod you gripped the rope tightly and began to climb, your heart thudding in time with each pull and stretch.

The air grew colder the higher you went, an exhilarating chill that bit at your skin.

But when you reached the top and hoisted yourself over the edge that coldness was replaced with awe.

Aeolus’ realm spread out before you like a dream—a world sculpted from wind and sky.

Clouds coiled and twisted to form walls and archways, each one alive with a shimmer of captured light.

Wind chimes of crystal and glass that hung suspended in mid-air harmonized with the constant rush of air that whipped past.

Towers of vast storm clouds and statues of mist shifted with each gust of wind.

You marveled at the beauty and wonder of the place. The sights and sounds were nearly overwhelming but you forced yourself to focus.

From behind a cluster of silvery trees you heard Odysseus’ voice, followed by a low rich laugh that sent shivers down your spine.

Silently creeping closer you slip behind a low wall of crystalline stone allowing the view of your Captain standing face-to-face with the Wind God.

Beside him floated two beautiful wind nymphs, their features delicate and movements as light as air.

They twirled around the God like ribbons caught in a breeze with playful knowing smiles.

Aeolus himself was a sight to behold.

Tall and willowy, his hair moved with the rhythm of the wind as his soft and flowing robes made him seem less a man and more a living embodiment of the sky itself.

“Let’s play a game!”

A visibly wary Odysseus took a cautious step forward. “A game?”

“Yes that's what I'm serving,” his smile widened as his nymphs swayed alongside him mirroring his amusement. “And if you win you’ll get what you’re yearning.”

"...deal."

A decorated leather bag appears cradled in the immortal's hands. The bag seemed to pulse with energy as though it barely contained the forces within.

“Take a look right here at this bag. It has the winds of the storm all trapped. All you gotta do is not open this bag.”

Odysseus eyed the bag warily. “Sounds too easy. What’s the catch?”

You see a flicker of something sly in the Ruler of the Wind's eyes—a twist of his lips that gave away the God’s true nature.

“Ha ha ha!” Aeolus’s laughter rang out light and carefree. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer...”

His voice trailed off into a lyrical hum as the nymphs joined in harmony. “Never really know who you can trust!”

The words sent a chill down your spine. You could see Odysseus bristle slightly at the implications.

Aeolus, noticing his reaction, flashed a smile filled with a playful malevolence. He leans in as if sharing a secret. “If they wanna get the bag open you gotta say no sir.”

The nymphs pop up behind the Greek King. “Sometimes killing is a must!”

“What?”

But Aeolus and his nymphs continued, their song unbroken, their voices dipping into a darker melody. “Cause the end always justifies the means. Friends turn into foes and rivalries...”

“So keep your friends close and your enemies closer” His smile was something between a grin and a threat. “Never really know who you can trust.”

“Never really know who you can trust!”

A chill ran down your spine. Unable to hold back any longer, you decide it was time to make yourself known.

Stepping out from behind the bushes with careful steps you softly called, “Odysseus?”

Your voice broke through the tension catching the attention of all present. Odysseus turned with furrowed brows, but it was Aeolus whose reaction was most striking.

His eyes widened as he took you in and a faint pink flush crept across his cheeks. The winds around him stirred and eddied—reflecting his sudden interest.

In an instant Aeolus floated toward you, his movements impossibly graceful as though the air itself had carried him to you.

He looked down at you as if he could scarcely believe what he saw.

The nymphs fluttered around him. Similar to their own master's fascination, their nimble fingers reach out as though to touch the air around you.

“Who...who are you?” he asked hushed and reverently. His hand lift almost instinctively, fingers curling as if he could pull you closer with only a thought.

“A beauty like yours and no God has claimed you? Not even Zeus himself?”

His tone was laced with admiration, but beneath it lay something else—possessiveness perhaps.

You blinked, momentarily taken aback by his gaze. 'A God enraptured...by me? '

The idea of a divine being finding you so captivating was a dangerous thrill. But as the initial shock faded your wits returned, recognizing the opportunity.

If Aeolus wanted to play games you were more than willing to play along.

You softened your expression. With a tilt of your head you meet his gaze through lowered lashes

“Me?” you murmured, letting your voice carry the perfect note of awe and shyness. “A mere mortal to catch the eye of a God as glorious as you?”

Aeolus’s eyes sparkled in delight by your response. He leaned in slightly, his gaze intent as if waiting for something more.

You let the moment build and step closer as though drawn to him with a whisper of invitation in your eyes.

Then, just as you seemed close enough to brush your lips against his, you gracefully twirled away to a stop next to Odysseus.

The shift in your movements left Aeolus visibly stunned and you couldn’t resist a subtle satisfied smile as you watched his reaction.

“How deeply flattering is is...” You placed your hand gently over your heart, letting your eyes shine with wistful regret. “But I am already bound to my dear King Odysseus. Sworn to remain by his side. Oh! It breaks my heart so.”

Aeolus’s eyes sharpened at your words. His attention moved from you to Odysseus in a new kind of interest.

“Oh truly?” The weight of the God’s gaze settled heavily on the King of Ithaca as a slow calculating smile pulled at his lips.

“In that case let us make another deal, King of Ithaca.” He straightened as he turned to fully face the Greek Hero. “I will command my winds to carry you safely to Ithaca unchallenged by storm or squall. But in return...”

His gaze returned to you. “Once her feet touch the sands of Ithaca, she shall be mine—a bride as a token of goodwill.”

Odysseus stiffened in shock. The idea of choosing between his mission to return home and leave you to another made his mouth fill with distaste.

'After all she has done for me and my men...'

The son of Laërtes' lips curled as refusal sat at the tip of his tongue. “I—”

You place a steadying hand on his arm, your fingers firm but gentle, signaling him to stop.

Meeting his gaze you simply offer a faint nod. Odysseus hesitated, his expression softening as he read the resolve in your eyes.

Finally, he turned to Aeolus and nodded. “Very well. We have a deal.”

The God's face lit up in a radiant almost childlike joy. He let out a delighted laugh before throwing his arms wide as if to embrace the entire sky.

Without warning he swept you into his arms and lifted you into the air, twirling you around.

The world spun in a blur of color and sound as the wind caught your hair and clothes making you feel weightless.

His nymphs whirled around you both; their laughter blending with his in a symphony of wind and joy.

When he set you back down on your feet, the Wind God was mere inches away, his eyes soft and filled with something almost tender.

His hand came up to gently cradle your face, his thumb tracing a line just below your cheekbone as he whispered, “Soon...”

With that single word a delicate ring of cloud appeared around your neck: light and cool against your skin like the softest silk brushing against you.

You instinctively touched it and felt the tickle of mist against your fingers. The cloud ring was ethereal—a reminder of the promise that had been made.

Glancing at Odysseus, you spot the faint distress in his eyes and offer him a reassuring smile.

For now the deal was struck. And with Aeolus’s favor on your side, Ithaca was finally within reach.

*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

The path down to the ship was silent with the gravity of your decision pressing down on you like the weight of a storm.

As you and Odysseus descended he stole glances at you, his face shadowed with a mixture of gratitude and guilt.

Unfortunately he couldn't speak his mind because the moment you both reached the deck, countless crewmen began to cluster around in curiosity.

Elpenor, one of Odysseus most loyal crewman, pushed to the front with worry etched into his expressions.

“Captain what’s happening?” His asked, gaze dropping down to the object held tightly in Odysseus's hand. “What’s trapped in that bag?”

Odysseus drew a breath. "Something dangerous friends, we mustn't lag. It's—"

"Treasure!"

Your heart stopped and you spun around just in time to catch sight of the two wind nymphs, their ghostly forms dissolving into the wind.

As they faded they shot you a pair of sly knowing smiles. "Buh-bye~"

The effect on the crew was immediate. Greed gleamed in their eyes as they leaned forward.

Whispers of excitement rippled through the crowd.

“Treasure you say?” one of the crewmen licked his lips as he eyed the bag.

Another voice chimed in eagerly, “What could it be? Gold? Jewels?”

"Well open the bag Captain!"

"Yeah let's see what you got!"

Several of the crew members took eager steps forward, their hands twitching with the urge to reach out.

“No! Do not!” Odysseus snarled with an severe expression. His voice rang out sharply, cutting through the growing excitement. “Everybody listen closely. See how this bag is closed?” He held it up firmly. “That’s how it’s supposed to be. This bag doesn’t contain treasure—it holds the storm inside. It must not be touched.”

There was a long pause as the crew absorbed his words.

They didn’t look convinced. But once wary glance at Odysseus’s stern expression and they reluctantly broke away with grumbles as they returned to their tasks.

Yet you could see the gleam of suspicion in their eyes, their greedy curiosity far from satisfied.

Odysseus' jaw clenched in frustration. Seeing Eurylochus and Polites standing nearby his face hardened with a new determination.

“Eurylochus, Polites: we can’t afford to let the treasure rumor fly. Not a single word of it.”

Eurylochus’s expression grew grim and he gave a determined nod. “Understood Captain.”

He turned and began ordering the men to prepare the sails, his voice sharp and unyielding as he barked commands.

Polites lingered to offer a strained apologetic smile. “We’ll try to keep them in line,” he murmured before hurrying off to assist Eurylochus.

Odysseus let out a sigh, his shoulders finally relaxing as the tension began to ease.

But then his gaze drifted back to you and his eyes fell on the faint cloud ring still resting around your neck—visible proof of the promise he’d made with Aeolus.

"Why did you agree to this?" His sorrowful eyes searched yours.

You met his gaze steadily. "Aeolus is infatuated and I’m nothing but a passing fascination to him. His promise of safe passage may be the only way to see you all home.”

You look to the sealed bag in his hands then back to him. “Having him focused on me hopefully stops him from tempting the crew anymore than he already has. You all get to go home Odysseus—and that’s what matters.”

Odysseus considered your words before his expression melts with admiration and gratitude.

“You’ve sacrificed much for us,” he murmured, touched by your foresight. “To keep us safe you’ve bound yourself to a God.”

There was a somber pride in his gaze and for a fleeting moment you saw a hint of sadness. Still he was deeply grateful.

With a solemn nod he set his jaw with renewed resolve. “I will guard this bag myself to make sure your sacrifice is not in vain.”

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

Over the next nine days Odysseus kept his promise. He did not sleep, and even when his eyes grew heavy his grip remained firm.

As the days passed you couldn’t help but notice the cloud ring moving on your body.

Halfway to Ithaca the cloud ring settled on your upper arm, forming a delicate band around your bicep, barely perceptible yet still cool against your skin.

With each shift of the misty band the weight of Aeolus’s claim grew more tangible—silent countdown marking each mile toward Ithaca.

By the tenth day you could see exhaustion settling heavily on Odysseus. He fought to keep his eyes open but the days without sleep were taking their toll.

At dawn, just as a soft glow of sunrise bathed the deck, you noticed him beginning to doze, head dipping ever so slightly as his grip on the bag loosened.

That was when you saw them: several crew members creeping forward with greed shining in their eyes.

Two men stood on lookout duty, glancing back at Eurylochus and Polites who were distracted by the other crew members with carefully timed questions and complaints about minor ship problems.

The rest surrounded Odysseus quietly, their eyes fixed on the bag as if it held the promise of riches.

Casting one last glance around to ensure they were unnoticed, the sailor closest reach out with trembling hands toward the bag.

Heart pounding you leapt to your feet. In a flash you crossed the deck, dagger in hand, and positioned yourself between the crewmen and the bag.

“Stop!” you hissed, Your free hand went down to grab and clutch the bag tightly against your chest as you leveled a fierce glare at each man. “Do you have any idea what you almost cost us?”

One of the men sneered but his defiance wavered under your fierce gaze. “We only wanted to see what’s in it.” he muttered, though his voice lacked conviction.

“See? See?!” you spat in disdain. “What do you think Aeolus placed inside? These are winds bound by the hand of a God! Open it and you would unleash storms strong enough to send us all to the depths.”

The men shrank back as their defiance crumbled into shame the more they processed the gravity of their actions.

Just then Odysseus stirred awake, his eyes snapping open at the sound of your voice. “Wha...?”

Taking in the scene—the dagger in your hand, the bag clutched protectively to your chest, and the men standing sheepishly before you—his expression hardened.

“You...fools!” Odysseus growled. “Do you understand what you nearly did?!”

The men hung their heads as Odysseus continued to speak with a fury that left them visibly shaken.

“Aeolus gave us a chance to return home—each of you has a family waiting, a future. And yet you would risk it all because of your greed?” His gaze was unyielding and each word hit like a hammer on stone. “One gust from this bag would have thrown us back to the depths of the sea and we would never see Ithaca again.”

The men murmured apologies, their faces red with shame as they backed away, visibly chastised.

You let out a breath as you sheathed your dagger, feeling the tension ease from your shoulders as the threat passed.

Odysseus stepped forward. “Let this be a lesson you remember well. Disobedience...distrust—these are poisons that will kill us all before any sword or storm. Your lack of discipline nearly cost us Ithaca, nearly costed us everything after all we've been through.”

Just as he finished a shout from the ship's crow's nest broke the tension. “Land ahead!”

The cry sent a ripple of excitement through the crew, their earlier shame momentarily forgotten.

They scrambled toward the bow and you turned with Odysseus to catch sight of homeland just beyond the horizon.

Ithaca—finally within reach. Something that meant freedom for the men and for Odysseus.

And yet for you it was meant something else entirely.

You tightened your grip on the railing.

Glancing down you saw the cloud ring had shifted once more; sliding down from your forearm to your wrist, its misty band now clasped around you like a bracelet.

As the crew rushed to prepare for docking Odysseus found his way to your side. Together, you both stared at the nearing shores in silence.

The Greek King looked almost somber as though the sight of his homeland stirred memories long buried.

After a long contemplative pause, he finally speaks. “The last time I saw those shores...Telemachus was just a boy of nine.” A bittersweet smile touched his lips. “I wonder what kind of man he’s grown into. If he’ll even recognize me...”

You offer a faint smile when he turned his gaze to you but it did nothing to stop the sadness.

He searched your face as though memorizing it and then said, “I am endlessly grateful to you—for everything you’ve done. For the men and for me. All of this...” He looks away as though unable to face you directly. “...only to become another prisoner. Just as you were before.”

Sadness pooled in your chest, but you met his words with a quiet acceptance.

“There’s not much to be done when it comes to the Gods,” you calmly say despite melancholy coloring each word. It was a fate you’d accepted the moment you’d struck that deal.

Odysseus’s silence was broken by a quiet, almost wistful chuckle. You turned to him to catch a glimmer in his eyes.

“If things had been different you would have made the perfect wife for my son Telemachus.” He looked at you fondly.

Caught off guard you felt your cheeks warm. His words were laced with a sincerity that was both touching and painful.

“Intelligence like yours...it shouldn’t be wasted on the whims and entertainments of Gods.” His tone softened into something almost paternal. “You would help Ithaca flourish as its Queen.”

You let out a dry almost self-mocking laugh. “Pity isn't it?” you replied, unable to hide the edge of bitterness in your voice.

Looking back toward the nearing shores of Ithaca, the cloud bracelet has now shifted to your finger. The opaque object slowly gaining its solid coloring with every passing wave.

“In the end I’ve found myself exactly where I didn’t want to be: just another pawn in the games of Gods and Kings.” With a rueful smile you add, “Though...at least the King I served along the way was worth it.”

Leaning against the railing you let out a mock sigh of resignation. “But a promise is a promise isn’t it?”

You lift your hand, letting the light catch on the cloud ring as it hovered on the cusp of your fingers. “Where my feet touch the sands of Ithaca...”

Odysseus' gaze moves from the ring to your face causing him to perk up. “The sands you say...”

A knowing glint light his eyes as a thoughtful smile curved his lips.

.*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

Odysseus stepped into the grand hall. His gaze swept over the familiar stone walls, the polished floors, the long-forgotten scent of his own kingdom.

His heart pounded as he took in the sight before him: Penelope, standing tall yet trembling, her face softened by age but still achingly beautiful.

Beside her stood Telemachus—no longer the child he had left behind but a grown man with his father’s strength and his mother’s fierce gaze.

They stared at him as if willing themselves to believe that he was truly here.

“Odysseus...” Penelope’s voice finally broke the stillness, barely more than a whisper in fear the weight of his name in her mouth might make him vanish.

Odysseus crossed the floor. When he reached her he stopped, his roughened hands slowly reaching to cup her face.

“Penelope,” he murmured, voice thick with longing, “after all these years...”

Penelope reached up to cover his hands with her own. “You...you are here. Truly here.” Tears gathered in her eyes and she fluttered them back in fear that one blink might end the dream.

“I am,” Odysseus replied barely holding on. “By the grace of the Gods and the strength of our hope I’ve come back to you.”

As if a dam had broken she threw her arms around him, clutching him tightly as though the very fabric of the world depended on her hold.

“I kept your memory here,” she said into his shoulder. “I told Telemachus every story, every lesson you ever shared. I waited and I prayed.”

Odysseus held her tightly as he murmur in her hair. “And I lived each day for the thought of this moment my love.”

Behind her Telemachus took a hesitant step forward. His hands were clenched at his sides, his face filled with an emotion too complex to put into words.

Odysseus’s gaze shifted to his son. “Telemachus...” He released Penelope slowly, stepping toward the Prince. “Look at you.”

His breath caught as he took in Telemachus’ tall strong frame, the shadow of a beard on his face, the look of a man who had faced his own battles.

The King's eyes shone with pride as sorrow mingled in their depths.

“I'm sorry I wasn’t there to see it. To guide you. But it seems you’ve become a man on your own.” He placed a strong hand on Telemachus’ shoulder, squeezing gently. “And I could not be more proud.”

Telemachus met his father’s gaze with a clenched jaw in attempt to fight back tears. “It was my honor to learn from your shadow father.”

They embraced and for a moment the world shrank to the three of them—the cunning King of Ithaca, his devoted wife, and the son who had grown up in his absence.

The tearful reunion was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of several men carrying a large cloth-draped basket.

Penelope and Telemachus pull from the hug as the men carefully set the basket down the middle of the hall before leaving. They turn to Odysseus, their confusion plain.

Odysseus smiled. Yet there was something else in his expression—a hint of anticipation and a glint of mischief.

Gently, he took Penelope’s hand and guided her closer to the basket, gesturing for Telemachus to follow.

“This,” he began, “is the reason I am here. And though the introduction may seem unconventional, it was the only way. I had to be specific to avoid some...complications upon disembarkment.”

He turned to Telemachus, his expression one of pride and apology combined. “I am sorry I was not there to see you grow into the man you are now. But what I brought for you is something any should have...”

With that Odysseus placed his hand on the woven lid of the basket and lift.

You emerged slowly, rising from within the wicker container with a serene smile. The soft light of the torches cast a warm glow over you giving your appearance an almost otherworldly quality.

The son of Odysseus and Penelope was silent. His eyes widening as he took in your your face making his stunned expression quickly shift to awe.

He was speechless—utterly captivated. For him, it was as if no one else existed in the hall.

A blush crept over Telemachus’ cheeks as glanced between you and his father with astonishment still etched across his features.

Holding his gaze, you smiled, allowing a touch of playful confidence to warm your expression. “Hello husband.”

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kneelingshadowsalome · 1 year ago

Note

Salome!

"La Belle Dame sans Mercy" ("The Beautiful Lady Without Mercy") - A ballad by John Keats

"The poem is about a fairy who condemns a knight to an unpleasant fate after she seduces him with her eyes and singing." please

This screams Knight!König x Fairy!Reader to me.

I just know König would gladly die by the hand of such an ethereal being.

"She looked at me as she did love, and made a sweet moan."

"And sure in language strange she said—'I love thee true.'"

That’s it. Thank you.

I swear this artwork kills me everytime I see it....

Ok this became the silliest fairytale ever 🩷✨️

CW: Historical AU blending with mythical/supernatural AU. König being a dreamy mess of a knight who doesn't fit in "normal" society. Reader is part of faefolk. Heavy Arthurian Romance vibes.

König returns to the castle one day. The son of a great liege lord, a warrior through and through, but some people say he should’ve been a poet: so dreamily he looks beyond the battlements at times, sighs after drinking too much wine, stares off into dark corners of the room while tending to his sword and armour as if he can see little pixies dancing there.

His siblings sometimes hit him on the back of his head, or wave a hand over his eyes when he’s about to slip into the fairy world, a forgotten plane that is not supposed to reach the castle. But the castle stones were taken from the moors and the woods, the old land not bending to the priest’s will no matter how many crosses they brought here. Fragile souls are wanton prey for the elves and the fairies who would take them to their land the moment they drop down their guard, and only prayer and fasting hold them at bay. In the fairylands, there is no toil or sorrow; the food is golden honey and wine, the dance and love everlasting, and the fae girls more beautiful than any human maid.

It sounded too good to be true, and it was: God had created men to work and women to give birth, and all the land was theirs to use and cultivate, it was not made to simply run and frolic upon. Some say that these were just old tales and that Christ would banish these creatures away, turn the land to yielding crops and tame firewood.

But some still believed.

When he was a child, the mighty son of the feared lord took porridge and almonds to the woods. “For the fairy people,” he said with bright, trusting eyes. Stole food from under the mistress’s nose, and no one ever dared to say anything about it.

But when this nonsense carried on to adulthood, people had to intervene. There was work to be done, war, harvest and building, and no matter how many coins this man paid to the visiting bards, it would never turn their stories true.

His arm was strong and his strike was true, but his head seemed to be filled with dandelion wine, even when he hadn’t been drinking. Sighed after this maiden or that, wished to travel to foreign lands, courted every nobleman’s daughter who visited the castle, but no one ever took him seriously.

This man had to watch how lady after lady chose some other valiant knight as their husband, some men whose heads were not filled with fairytales and dreams. They did flirt with him, for who could’ve resisted the temptation of making this giant a little sweaty under all that armor? Armor that demanded plate for two people, and a smith who had the talent to forge such a beastly thing.

Nevertheless, he was always left without a warm embrace, and so he was usually found outside, looking at the full moon or spending time in taverns, choosing the company of thieves and rascals over his serious kin.

And now he has returned from the woods, having been gone for months.

People thought he had finally left to fight for some other lord, posing as a simple footsoldier, a disguise that would relieve him of his tedious duties as a knight. Or to court some “lovely peasant girl” he always talked about – such talks were usually crushed by his father, demanding him to be sensible for once in his life.

But he doesn’t prattle about peasant girls now, nor does he ramble about screaming ships at the bottom of the sea. He doesn’t hold a speech about forgotten stone circles in the forest, the ones that already grow moss. No, he has finally lost it completely.

His eyes are wild, as is his hair; his armour is nowhere to be seen, and his sword is without its sheath. He doesn’t talk about what he saw in that forest to anyone, nor is he willing to tell where he has even been these past few moons.

He seems very shaken when he’s told they were worried he wouldn’t make it to the May Day feast, and asks for how long he was gone, drives a hand through dishevelled hair when he hears that he was away for three full months.

“Three months…” he mutters to himself, then leaves to his room, the huge sword dragging against the stone floor as he goes. He has always, always made sure it wouldn’t dull, but now he’s treating it like it’s become a part of him, confused and lost.

He doesn’t eat, hardly speaks after that.

The food tastes like ash, he says, and the ale tastes like bile. But the following evening, when his mother orders someone to pour her poor son some more wine, he looks up helplessly like a child.

“I have to go back,” he says.

A clamour arises, huffed exclaims of “What on earth is he on about” and “Sir, you only just got back!” His father rises from his chair and orders him to stop this nonsense at once. But this time, there is no embarrassed sweep of hand through hair, no red colour that rises on this peculiar knight’s cheeks. His lips only make a thin line before he rises as well and leaves the hall with a weight on his shoulders and dark determination in his stare.

At the stables, a stout Moorland pony and poor stable boy get to witness the drunken bawls of a forlorn knight. The wine sack almost slips from his hands to the dirt as he slumps against the timber of the stall, distorted face coming to rest against a wide, shaky palm.

Luckily, a friend of his knows where to look, and the stable boy sneaks into the shadows, slightly scared of the sorrow of such a big, intimidating man.

But even the companion who always listened to every enthusiastic story since they were kids and ran across the moors, throwing little rocks at his father’s soldiers and laughing when their helmets made a funny clinky sound, can not understand the drunken babble that comes out of König’s mouth this time.

He starts from the middle, which is highly unusual, and talks in strings of sentences that don’t make sense. “She was real, I just know it,” he repeats, over and over again in the middle of confessions about how beautiful she was, how her hair was like the softest spun yarn, her body incredible, naked and wild when she came to him. That her laugh was like the chime of little bells or the sound of the loveliest harp, a song on its own when she walked to him.

She was fascinated with his sword, especially the pommel and the handle interested her, and the curve in the middle of the blade she brushed with her fingers as if it was an entire vale.

He had never seen a woman touch his sword like that… They were never interested in such things, but she was, and she asked him so many questions.

Had he ever felled a tree?

Did he like squirrels?

Were his thighs as hairy as his chest?

She took him down the river, or he followed her; he can’t remember. Her step was so light it didn’t make a sound, and the moss seemed to turn brighter every time her little foot stepped on it. Her hands were tiny too when she wrapped them around his neck, pressed her body against his, and kissed him until there was nothing left of him: no helmet, no sword, nothing but sun and her, her hands and her lips.

Her mouth was still on his when she whispered she didn’t like his armour because it was so hard and rigid and cold, oh, she wondered if there was a man inside there at all.

So of course he showed her.

She giggled at the sight of him, especially his thighs, knelt down on the moss to see how hairy they were.

And would you believe the way she touched him then? It makes him heady even now…

Yes, he took her. But not the way a man takes a woman. She came to straddle him and laughed again, and the things they did together… He can’t even speak about them, but he knows the sun always shined when they rolled on the grass. Her giggles and moans surrounded him, her soft little thighs were stronger than they looked, her breasts so round and soft, so perfect he swore he had gone to heaven.

He bathed in her, with her, all day long. And the nights… You wouldn’t believe the nights: there was song and dance and more giggling women, and also a man dressed all in leaves, so big and thick he first thought he was a tree. An old king, she said, nothing he should worry about. And the wine tasted like summer and honey and gold; it was red, perhaps, but also like sea amber and sun…

She fed him flowers and laughed, caressed his face and said he’s the biggest and hairiest human she had ever seen. She let him lick honey from her fingertips and caressed him with heather and ivy, opened her mouth before feeding him a soft, sweet piece of cake, showing him how he needed to open his mouth as well if he wanted it on his tongue.

She kissed the crumbs from his lips and trailed a finger down his chest, all the way down, until…

Oh, he can’t talk about it.

It was better than he ever even imagined: better than the stories they tell in the taverns. It was like his wedding night, over and over again, it was like he was Lancelot, and she was his Guinevere.

No, no, she was not an enchantress, although everything about her was enchanting... All the stories came alive with her, even the moon was bigger than anywhere he’d ever seen, the deers ran past them while they made love, and the birds sang even at night.

He told her he loved her, but she didn’t know what it meant. When he explained it to her, she looked at him gently, so gently…

He cried from joy then, but she never mocked him. She only said it’s a sign that he’s hers. That he will never forget her. She said he’ll always find her, even when he’s old: she will make him young again. He’s welcome here if he wants: she has so many places to show him.

He thanked all the saints for having found her, Saint George and Saint Mary first, but stopped when her little brows furrowed with sorrow. Her eyes, filled with starlight and love, turned so sad that his heart couldn’t bear it, not for one beat.

The sea is far wilder here: he should come and see the ocean as it was at the dawn of time. The ivy is so strong you can use it to climb the trees and see the whole world from atop the tree, the whole land, covered in forest, such as it was before humans came. There’s no smoke or fire or war: just green everywhere, wild rippling streams and honey bees and berries and fish for everyone who ever feels hungry... They can make love day and night, and she’ll teach him all the songs of old. Humans only remember bits and pieces, but she knows how things really happened, she can tell him everything about heroes, kings and queens.

She said she wanted to sleep, and so he took her from the feast and laid her on the grass… She might’ve sung to him, he can’t remember, but it was like an angel’s caress all over him, somber and sweet before the dreams took him, a dream within a dream.

He slept for ages, it seemed, saw so many dreams, each more beautiful than the last until he woke up and saw that the forest had turned grey.

There was no maiden in his lap, no dance and song in the distance, no scent of flowers and dreams and springs to be found. The sun was up in the sky, but it didn’t paint all the colours with gold or fill the streams with light. The forest was half dead to him, just old, thick trees around him, a green-grey forest floor and a shaggy squirrel who chirped and squeaked at him as if it was his fault that the fae folk were gone.

He searched for her, called for her, but she didn’t answer, and how could she have? He didn’t even know her name. He only knew how lovely she felt, how soft her hair was when it fell to cover him like a veil, how adorable her sighs and tiny little gasps were when he filled her, over and over again.

His armour was nowhere to be found, and his sword was somewhere downstream, half covered with leaves and dirt, rusty and beaten by the wind. It was early spring when he came here; the land was still barren and grey, but now, everything was green. Still, it was not the green he wanted. It was not the green that filled his vision entirely, bright, blooming green that pulsed with lush joy. It was just… earth and grass and dirt.

So you see, he has to go back. He has to find her, whatever it takes. She promised he could always come back… She promised…

He cries once more, head bowed and mighty shoulders trembling from the force of his sorrow, and it is no use to tell him that the fae folk are evil. That they’re from the Devil and only want to make good, decent men like them forget. Forget their duty, their laws, their Christ.

It’s no use to tell him that it is not natural, the place he has seen. No doubt he has been somewhere, but it cannot be anything good… No man can survive on flowers and spring water for three months; they cannot frolic with the faeries for days on end without losing their mind and soul.

And König is already lost; he was lost since he was a child, rambling about how he received flowers, sticks and stones as tokens of the faefolk’s gratitude because he brought them food.

He tries to tell the boy who never grew up, the mightiest man in this kingdom, the dreamiest knight there ever was, that he needs to return to the real world. No fae woman would have him as a husband, they are only after his soul. But surely some human lady would take him into her bed, think about it, for God’s sake, please... He has duties here, people who love him, his father would make him a lord if he only put himself together. What kind of knight would abandon his sword, helmet and armour for the sake of an elf who despises the saints...?

But in the morn, König is gone.

His rusty sword is on the floor, the wooden cross taken off the wall. There lies a honeycomb and a flower on his window, a blossom so sweet it cannot be plucked from any field around here. Too exotic and bright, especially when placed atop the rough, grey stones, it looks like it could never wither from how beautifully it blooms.

The peasants now tell a tale of a man that haunts the woods: a huge giant dressed all in green, donning a leaf cloak of some sort and a beard that grows ivy. But they say he is not evil: he only shows himself to hunters who are about to fall a deer, or children who remember the land with little gifts.

Old men say they saw a green man when they were kids and brought bread and milk to the faeries, they swear to this day they saw a man who greeted them with a smile. And when they looked again, there was nothing but a tree where this giant stook, a young oak, sighing with the wind...

#könig x reader #könig x you #mythology au #arthurian au #historical au

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dynasty889 · 3 months ago

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(I have an updated, finished version of this drabble: https://www.tumblr.com/dynasty889/771873983315542016/love-in-paradise-warriorpenelope-au-updated

Working on a thingy. The Time Dive but it’s warrior!Penelope. Do I like it? Mayhaps. Anyway:

Ares’ eyes glared down into the abyss as he stood upon the edge of the hour glass. He had never anticipated to be bothered with Penelope again, but her son had the same ability of convincing people that she did. So, here he was.

Ares put his helmet on. All around him, Penelope’s memories jumped out at him. “Old friend, it’s been ten years since I last saw you,” he said softly. Even so, he remembered it vividly. Those feelings of anger, frustration, and disappointment as he watched Penelope make that mistake.

“Remember me! I am the infamous Penelope!” She stood at the entrance of Polyphemus’ cave. He had just warned her not to, but she did it anyway. He was furious.

He sighed. Ares leaned forward, lifting his arms up, and fell into Penelope’s memories. “Let’s see where you’ve been!”

Penelope held a bag in her hands. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer!” Aeolus sang. Too cheerful for it to be a good thing. Ares knew something had gone horribly wrong.

Next up: Poseidon. “Ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves!” he shouted. Waves lunged at Penelope’s fleet. Bodies and debris littered the ocean. Ares paused momentarily to watch Penelope unleash the wind bag to escape the sea god.

“One wrong move and you’re done for! Anything I—!”

“—Song of past romance. I see the—“

“—We won’t take more suffering from you!”

“Drown in your sorrow and fears!”

The next several memories whipped by him. A witch who transformed her crew into pigs, a prophet in the underworld, the killing of sirens, and a run-in with a six-headed sea monster.

“Captain?” Ares barely recognized that voice. But he knew it was one of Penelope’s comrades. Thunder roared above the crew as Zeus’ hands lingered over Penelope and forced her to look at her crew. Ares had not been so angry in a long time. To see his father’s hands on the girl he had mentored sparked a fire inside him, one full of rage.

“I have to see him…” Penelope mumbled. Tears streamed down her face. Her face and clothes were torn and bloody. A black eye and a stab wound. The anger Ares had felt dissipated as he realized what happened.

“But we’ll die.”

“I know.”

Lightning struck the boat, and it exploded into hundreds of small fragments of wood. Again, bodies and blood covered the ocean. He couldn’t find Penelope among the wreckage.

“Penelope…” he started. Ares was almost shocked by how concerned he sounded, for her of all people. “Where did you go?” One more of Penelope’s memories gravitated towards him. Perhaps this one would tell him what had happened to her…

Penelope swam until the darkness of the night made things too hard to see. Until her legs gave out. She had managed to drag herself to the shore of an island, where she passed out. The next day, Penelope awoke to the sounds of gulls crying and the waves breaking on the shore. The light of the sun was nearly blinding. Every muscle in her body ached.

A stifled, low chuckle echoed in her ears. Blinking, she looked up and saw a man sitting beside her. “Morning, sleepyhead. You’ve been resting for quite a while, haven’t you?” he teased. His voice was deep, but despite that and his gruff appearance, it carried a humorous air. It was one Penelope did not like at all.

The man laughed again. Penelope’ confusion was adorably amusing to him and he decided he would savor it as long as he could. “You know, I swore that you were dead when I found you on the beach this morning,” he mused. “Did you know you talk in your sleep? Tell me, though, who’s Odysseus?”

Odysseus. That name, like sweet honey, lingered in her ears. It was like medicine to soothe her aching head. Though she was still groggy and dazed, her senses were slowly coming to her. “He’s my husband…” she murmured. It was at that same moment she realized how close the man was to her and that his hand was gently resting on her thigh.

He blinked, like he was confused. Penelope, equally confused, stared back. They exchanged stares in awkward silence before the man spoke again. He pulled Penelope up to her feet and dragged her behind him. “Anyways, I’ve got all you could want here, all you could need here. Just you and me, my dear, my love in paradise.” His hands trailed down her body and he brought her close to him, like an embrace. “Soon, you will join me in bed and we’ll spend our time.”

#epic the musical #penelope #warrior!penelope #epic the wisdom saga #ares #work in progress

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windupaymeric · 1 year ago

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Continuation of this

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myherobkg · 4 months ago

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THE ROLE OF A LIFETIME; dungeons & dragons au

Katsuki was born a half-giant and bred to roam the plains with his barbarian brethren. He was a foul-mouthed, ill-tempered, reckless brute adorned in fur and armor with his mighty mace hanging over his back. He was born to rule them all.

But fate had other plans, and his tribe was wiped off the face of the Earth after the King of the skies razed hellfire on them. Returning from a hunt, Katsuki arrived at his decimated home, ruined to ash and rubble.

His family—his people—were there one moment and gone the next, reduced to charred statues. After that, Katsuki wandered aimlessly until he became enthralled by the allure of alcohol.

A young half-giant, the last of his tribe, turned to mercenary work to fund his gluttony.

Katsuki's last payment came from a clean-up job, clearing out a small wooded area infested with monsters. The small village on the outskirts of the wood sent for him, requesting his help for a large sum.

It was an easy feat for a warrior of his stature, and his success wrought fruitful results—a free room at the pub and all the drinks he could ask for.

However, the offer had its contingencies, and Katsuki was forced to enjoy his pints amidst the celebration held for the village people. That's where he met the Businessman.

The Businessman kept two men at his side as he sat down with Katsuki. His companions remained standing behind him.

"Enjoying the festivities, Warrior?" The man started the conversation cryptically.

Katsuki doesn't look up from his pint. The party raged around him, but no one dared touch him in passing. "No."

Clearing his throat, the man decided to skip the niceties. "I have a job for you."

"Not interested," Katsuki gruffs out before touching his lips to the rim.

"I will pay you 100 gold," the Businessman bid.

"I want 300." Katsuki slammed his glass on the table and signaled for another. The man's jaw dropped.

"300 is outrageous. It's a simple delivery to the Earl." He laughed pathetically. "I'm sure the Earl will reward you handsomely for your efficiency."

"You pay me 300 now. I'll have the Earl pay me 500 when I get there."

"So, you'll take the job?" The Businessman clenched his hands into fists with a broad smile before remembering Katsuki's rate. "If you come with us, we can pay for the cargo. However, you must leave tonight."

Katsuki froze, lifting his topped-off drink. "Make it 400."

The man choked mid-breath. "Warrior, I implore you to reconsider your price. Think of the honor you'd receive for escorting such an important gift for nobility."

Katsuki lugged half of his drink down, spilling some down the sides of his face and neck. "It's 400, or you shut the hell up and quit bothering me." His ruby-red eyes glimmered dangerously in the lamp-light.

The Businessman shrank in his seat and waved his hand for his men. The guard on his right went off to get the payment.

"If you wouldn't mind following us as quickly as you can," the Businessman murmured nervously, avoiding direct eye contact. "We can settle you with the cargo, and you can be on your way."

Katsuki looked at the weak man standing behind his employer. It wouldn't take any effort to throw that man through the ceiling, but it somehow felt appealing for the Businessman to bring security.

With this in mind, Katsuki didn't expect any issues from a little side quest for money. Perhaps he was tired from his last battle, but the adrenaline and deep, crippling fear of loneliness kept pushing him to suppress it.

"Let's get this over with." He grumbled, disregarding his last sip of beer and pushing away from the table.

The Businessman and his guard led Katsuki outside to a barn on the edge of the village. The night was calm, and the skies were clear—a good omen for this task.

"The cargo is just inside here," the Businessman murmured, sharing an uneasy expression with his guard, which alerted a few alarms in Katsuki's head. As he led Katsuki in, the guard stayed outside the entrance.

The first thing Katsuki noticed was that there was no "cargo." Two more guards were standing inside, and you were chained to the floor. Your hair and face were dirty, and your clothes were covered in dirt and cow shit.

When you looked up at him, he took note of your cat-like eyes and pointed ears. The chains around your wrists had runes etched into them.

Magic?

"Is this a goddamn joke?" Katsuki asked loudly, making one of the guards flinch. "What do you goddamn hicks take me for?"

He turns on his heel and starts walking out when the Businessman shouts out for him.

Katsuki falters in his step, and something compels him to turn to turn around. He sees the Businessman sweating profusely—he must be desperate to get you off his hands, Katsuki thinks. He catches the two guards adjusting their grips on their weapons: a spear and a bow. The sight of them shaking in fear and regret almost makes Katsuki laugh.

He licks his lips and pulls out a dagger—decides it's expendable. When he winds his arm back, all three adversaries flinch, fearful of being the target. The knife flies through the air between their shoulders, aimed for the floor where your cuffs come together.

Katsuki's taken by surprise when you slam your wrist against the ground, breaking the cuff on your right in one attempt. You tear off the other cuff with ease. He stands back and watches you jump between each man, slaughtering them with your clumsy, desperate hands.

After the men are dead, you're left standing over their bodies with blood on your hands, panting heavily.

With his arms crossed, exuding confidence, Katsuki whistles for your attention. He knows he has it when your head turns, angling your ear to him.

"How did men like them get their hands on a magic-wielding elf?" He questions, sincerely curious.

You turn to face him fully, blood and hay falling from your tunic.

"Auction houses," you answer breathlessly, with sweat matting hair to your forehead. Wiping it out of your face, you trip on your shaky legs to the barn post and release a heavy sigh. "You would've delivered me to my sixth owner. You looked like a good one when you walked in, too."

You were still breathing heavily. Katsuki recognized it as panic.

"I'm not going back," you say quickly as he approaches you. Your eyes are wild, and your appearance makes you look hysterical.

"You aren't going back," he promises quietly, raising his hand for you. Your arm shakes when you reach for him.

When he brings his fur around your shoulders, you bat it away, spitefully refusing it.

"I want to leave," you whisper anxiously, pushing against Katsuki's arms.

"Then cover yourself," Katsuki orders firmly, wrapping his fur tightly around you. His fur, which drapes over his shoulder like a garment, wraps around you like a blanket. "There are still folk wandering everywhere."

"Where are we right now?" You ask as he ushers you out of the barn.

"A village. Heldenfaire," Katsuki answers.

"There's a town in this land. I wish for you to take me there."

"We can discuss the details of our arrangement later." Katsuki threw his cloak over his shoulders and pulled his hood over his head before steering you toward the nearby stables. "Let's first focus on getting a horse."

#katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki #barbarian katsuki #dungeons and dragons au #half-giant mercenary au #mha fantasy au #katsuki bakugo x y/n #bakugo katsuki #barbarian bakugou #barbarian bakugo x reader #bakugou katuski x reader #bakugou x reader #mercenary bakugo #half giant bakugo #goliath!bakugo

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doumadono · 21 days ago

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Warnings: violence, viking!Dabi, viking!Shoto, earl!All Might, viking!Hawks, fem!reader, viking themes, viking!Bakugo, viking!Aizawa, blood, Shoto is a massive jerk

Summary: Shoto’s tyrannical rule and brutal possessiveness come to a head as he claims Touya survived but is a traitor. The hope of rebellion begins to stir among the oppressed villagers

Word count: circa 5,5k

A/N: to everyone who waited patiently and reached out to ask when the next part of Kvitravn would be published — the time has finally come! Please accept my apologies for the long delay, as this chapter comes nearly a year after the last one. I’ve been incredibly busy with commissions and other projects, which pulled my focus away from Kvitravn and Viking Dabi’s adventures for a while. This is the penultimate chapter of the series, and we are now inevitably heading toward the end. I truly hope you enjoy this chapter and thank you for sticking with me on this journey! If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series, please let me know ♥

KVITRAVN - MHA VIKING AU • MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST • MY HERO ACADEMIA - PART II

PREVIOUS CHAPTER • FINAL CHAPTER

ACT VII - THE RIGHTFUL EARL

The harsh wind whipped through the village of Hvinverjadalr, carrying with it the salty scent of the sea.

Earl Toshinorison stood at the edge of the cliff, his eyes scanning the horizon. His settlement was preparing for a battle that would define their future, a clash with Skjaldvargr, the fearsome settlement ruled by the brutal Endeavor. The tensions between the two settlements had simmered for years, and now, the time for confrontation had come.

As Earl Toshinorison gazed over the horizon, he couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling gnawing at his gut. The morning mist clung to the valley. His thoughts were interrupted by the hurried footsteps of a young scout, who skidded to a halt before him, panting heavily.

"My lord," the scout gasped, dropping to one knee. "News from Skjaldvargr."

Toshinorison’s expression darkened, and he beckoned the scout to rise. "Speak."

The scout took a deep breath. "Our envoy... he was found dead, my lord. Murdered. His body was scattered near the Stenström lake. Me and my comrades found him on our way back home."

A heavy silence fell over the assembled warriors. Toshinorison’s jaw clenched, though his eyes betrayed no surprise. He had sent the envoy with a message of parley, hoping to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. In his heart, he had known the likelihood of such a fate, but there was a sliver of hope that Endeavor would be glad to learn his eldest son was alive.

"A calculated risk," Toshinorison murmured to himself, his gaze drifting to the horizon. "Endeavor, it seems, has chosen war over reunion." The earl nodded curtly, dismissing the young man with a wave of his hand. "Thank you for your service. Go and rest, you’ve earned it."

The scout bowed, his face pale and drawn, before retreating into the crowd. As the boy disappeared among the throngs of warriors and villagers, Toshinorison turned back to the horizon, his thoughts swirling in a storm of anger and sorrow.

Footsteps approached, deliberate and measured. Toshinorison didn’t need to turn to recognize the presence of Aizawa, his ever-watchful lieutenant.

"Earl," Aizawa uttered quietly, his voice carrying a weight of understanding and solidarity.

Toshinorison glanced sideways, meeting Aizawa’s dark eyes. "Aizawa. I suppose you heard everything. What do you make of this?"

Aizawa’s eyes narrowed, his mind already piecing together the implications. "It was a risk, sending the envoy. A necessary one, but a risk nonetheless. Endeavor’s response is no surprise, though it’s a disappointment. I thought we would make an alliance over the fact we wined and dined his eldest.”

Toshinorison sighed, "I had hoped that the news of his eldest son being alive might sway him, even momentarily. But it seems Endeavor’s thirst for power outweighs any paternal instinct he might have left. He would rather spill blood than acknowledge any fracture in his rule."

Aizawa’s expression softened, a rare occurrence for the stoic warrior. "Endeavor is blinded by his ambition and pride. He sees any show of diplomacy as a sign of weakness. But we mustn’t let this deter us. The men need your strength now more than ever."

Toshinorison nodded slowly, his resolve hardening. "You’re right, as always. We must move forward. Preparations must be completed, and the men need to be ready for the coming battle."

Aizawa placed a reassuring hand on the earl’s shoulder. "We’ll make them pay for this treachery, my lord. Hvinverjadalr will not fall."

Toshinorison clasped Aizawa’s arm, a silent acknowledgment of their bond and shared purpose. "Thank you, Aizawa. Your counsel is invaluable."

Aizawa inclined his head. "I’ll see to the preparations. Bakugo and Kirishima are already rallying the men. We’ll be ready when you give the order."

As Aizawa moved away to carry out his duties, Toshinorison took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill his lungs. The sky above was darkening with storm clouds, a fitting backdrop for the storm brewing within him. He knew that the coming battle would be brutal, but his resolve was unwavering.

The earl made his way through the camp, his presence a steadying force for the warriors who paused to acknowledge him with respectful nods. He offered words of encouragement and reassurance, his voice calm and authoritative.

The settlement was a bustling hive of activity. Warriors sharpened their swords and axes, their faces set in grim determination. The air was thick with the scent of freshly baked bread and the acrid tang of smoke from the forges.

In a secluded corner of the camp, he found Bakugo and Touya Endeavorson, continuing their intense training.

Bakugo’s barked commands and Dabi’s determined grunts filled the air.

Despite the intensity of their session, earl couldn't help but smile as he witnessed the progress Touya had made since his recovery. It was a sight that filled him with pride, knowing that the future king was regaining his strength and skill with each passing day.

Bakugo watched closely as Touya Endeavorson swung his sword, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. The young man was panting, sweat dripping down his brow as he struggled to keep up with Bakugo's relentless training regimen. Recovering from his injuries had been a long and arduous process, and Touya still had much ground to cover in regaining his agility and athleticism.

"Come on, Endeavorson! You call that a swing?" Bakugo barked, his voice sharp and demanding. He wielded his own sword with precision, his movements fluid and powerful. He had little patience for anything less than perfection, especially when it came to training. And he wasn't going to go easy on the prince.

"Touya, you need to focus!" Bakugo's voice was sharp, his crimson eyes blazing with determination. "You can't afford to slack off if you want to get back to peak condition."

Touya gritted his teeth, determination flashing in his turquoise eyes as he pushed himself to keep up with Bakugo's pace. Despite his exhaustion, he knew that he had to prove himself if he ever wanted to stand alongside the best. With each swing of his sword, he pushed his limits, inching closer to the level of skill and strength he once possessed.

"Come on, Endeavorson! Is that the best you can do?!" Bakugo's voice was sharp, his eyes narrowing as he pressed the attack.

With a fierce yell, Bakugo launched another series of strikes, each one faster and more precise than the last.

Touya struggled to keep pace, his breath coming in ragged gasps. But he refused to give up, pushing himself to his limits and beyond. “I promise you, there will come a time when I reclaim all of my strength, and then I'll challenge you to a sparring match,” the prince vowed with determination.

"Katsuki, Touya," Toshinorison's voice echoed across the training grounds, commanding their attention and halting their rigorous practice session.

Bakugo looked up, wiping sweat from his brow. "My lord?"

Toshinorison approached, his gaze shifting between the two warriors. "How is the training?"

Bakugo smirked, his usual arrogance tempered by respect as he patted Touya’s shoulder after the prince approached as well. "Endeavorson’s getting there. He’ll be ready when the time comes,” Katsuki panted.

Yagi gave a slight nod, and then shifted his gaze from Katsuki to Endeavorson. “Touya,” the earl called, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of gravity. “Come. We need to speak.”

The harsh wind whispered through the great wooden beams of the mead hall in Hvinverjadalr, its low howl mingling with the crackling of torches set along the long walls of the Great Hall.

Earl Toshinorison sat at the head of the feasting table, his hand wrapped firmly around a carved horn brimming with mead. His expression was solemn, his sharp blue eyes focused on Touya Endeavorson, who sat to his right, his posture stiff despite the warmth of the hall.

The place was quieter than usual. Most of the warriors had finished their meals and retreated to the barracks or to their loved ones for the night, leaving only a few lingering souls, their hushed conversations weaving faintly through the space.

Toshinorison set his horn down with a thud, leaning back in his chair. "Touya," he began, his voice a deep rumble, tinged with both weariness and gravity, "there is something you need to hear, and I will not sugarcoat it."

Touya straightened, his turquoise eyes narrowing. "What is it, my lord?" His tone held a mixture of curiosity and unease.

The earl looked down at his hands, turning the horn slowly between his palms. "Our envoy to Skjaldvargr, he is dead."

The words fell between them like a thunderclap. Touya’s breath hitched, his gaze sharpening. "Dead? How?"

Toshinorison’s jaw tightened, his calm façade cracking just enough for a flicker of grief to pass through his eyes. "His body was found near the Stenström lake. Torn apart, left for the carrion. It was not an accident. He was murdered."

Touya froze, the weight of the revelation sinking in. Touya stared at the table, his mind racing. “But how? My father, he values negotiation. He knows the power it holds, the lives it can save. Killing an envoy is an act of war. He would have known that.”

Toshinorison’s eyes darkened, and he set his horn down with a measured motion. “Would he? Or perhaps he sees war as the more advantageous option. A chance to assert dominance and crush any dissent before it can grow.”

Touya shook his head, his thoughts tangled. “No, it doesn’t make sense. My father rules with an iron fist, yes, but he’s always been calculated in his actions. Recklessness isn’t his way. This feels wrong.”

“Perhaps it is not recklessness,” Toshinorison said pointedly, “but desperation. Or arrogance. Both are dangerous in a man who holds power.”

“He wouldn’t be so brash as to —"

The earl’s expression hardened, his eyes pinning Touya with a piercing stare. "Wouldn’t he? Think carefully, Endeavorson. Your father’s pride has always burned brighter than his reason. To him, the arrival of an envoy from Hvinverjadalr — bearing a message of peace, no less — would be seen as an insult to his strength. Perhaps even as an attempt to undermine his authority."

Touya’s hands curled into fists on the table, the leather bracers creaking under the strain. "But to kill an envoy? That’s not just a rejection, that’s an act of war. He must have known it would come to that! He is a brute, indeed, but not an idiot."

Toshinorison nodded solemnly. "Oh, he knew. Make no mistake, Touya, this was not the act of a man caught unawares. Your father is playing a dangerous game, one where he believes he holds all the cards. But…" His gaze shifted, darkened. "It makes me wonder if something else is stirring within Skjaldvargr."

The younger man’s eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

Toshinorison leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "I mean that this level of recklessness doesn’t align with what I’ve known of your father. Brutal? Yes. Arrogant? Certainly. But uncalculated? Never. Something must have changed. Either there is discord in his ranks, or something — or someone — has emboldened him to act without fear of reprisal."

Touya’s mind raced, flashes of memory stabbing through him like cold steel. The image of his father, standing tall and unyielding, came to him first. Then, unbidden, the face of his younger brother, Shoto. The last time he had seen him… he was oh so different from a young man he used to know. Was Shoto now his father’s confidant? Had he become the hand that stoked the fires of war?

His thoughts drifted again, unbidden, to you — the Christian woman who had become a thread of comfort in his life. The way your voice wavered when you spoke his name, the way your eyes reflected defiance and vulnerability in equal measure. He had tried to shield you from the harshest realities of his world, but in the end, he had left you behind in Skjaldvargr. Did you think he had abandoned you? That you had been nothing but a burden, an inconvenient trophy from a raid long past?

He could see you clearly in his mind’s eye: the way you had knelt by the fire, clutching that small wooden cross as if it held the power to protect you from the cruel whims of their gods. He had hated the sight of that cross once, a reminder of the world they had razed to claim you. But later you chose to follow their path. You chose to claim their gods as yours.

Did you curse his name now? Or did you still look toward the horizon, wondering if he might return for you one day?

Toshinorison’s voice broke through his spiraling thoughts. "Touya. Focus."

He blinked, his gaze snapping back to the earl. Touya’s jaw tightened, frustration bubbling to the surface. “I need to go there myself. I need to see what’s happening. If this was truly my father’s doing, I’ll get the answers.”

The earl’s expression softened, but his tone remained firm. “No, Touya. I cannot allow that. You are still recovering, and I will not risk your life unnecessarily. If you were to confront your father now, in this state, it would be suicide.”

Touya’s fist slammed against the table, the mead in his horn sloshing over the rim. “With all due respect, my lord, this is my family! I have to know the truth! I can’t just sit here while —”

“And what if you go and find yourself in the same grave as the envoy?” Toshinorison cut in sharply, his voice a whip crack of authority. “I will not lose you, Touya. Not to your father’s wrath, not to his schemes. Your time will come, but not now. If Endeavor suspects you of betrayal or sees you as a threat to any of his plans, he will not hesitate to eliminate you. That’s the sad truth. For now, you must remain here and recover. When the time is right, you will play your part. But for now, trust me to carry this burden."

Touya slumped back in his chair, his mind churning with unspoken protests. He knew the earl was right, but the thought of staying idle while chaos brewed in Skjaldvargr gnawed at him like a festering wound. Touya glared at the earl, his anger warring with the truth he couldn’t deny. The young prince ran a hand through his snowy hair. “Then what do you suggest, my lord? That I wait here while the world burns?”

“Perhaps your father no longer holds the iron grip he once did.”

Touya shook his head firmly. “That’s not possible. My father rules with absolute authority. His people respect him, fear him.”

“And yet, even the strongest walls can crumble from within,” the earl countered. “Consider this, Touya: if someone within Skjaldvargr is pushing him toward war, they would have everything to gain from this chaos. A fractured kingdom. A weakened ruler.”

Touya stared into the amber liquid in his horn, his mind a storm of thoughts.

"Rest now, Endeavorson," Toshinorison said quietly, his voice tempered with a rare note of compassion as he slowly got up from the table. "The storm is coming, and we will need all our strength to weather it."

Touya nodded reluctantly, though his thoughts remained elsewhere. On his father. On Shoto. On you.

Would you ever understand why he had left? Would he ever find the words to explain it if he saw you again?

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the hall, and Touya stared into the flames, searching for answers he knew he wouldn’t find tonight.

The icy wind swept through the main square of Skjaldvargr, carrying with it the biting chill of an early snow. Flurries danced in the dim light of torches lining the square, their flames flickering weakly against the encroaching night. The air was heavy with silence, broken only by the muffled coughs of villagers and the rhythmic thuds of boots as guards herded the assembled crowd into place.

The people of Skjaldvargr were a shadow of their former selves. Once a proud and resilient settlement, they now bore the weight of Shoto’s relentless rule. The crowd, ragged and gaunt, stood huddled together, their breath visible in the freezing air. Thin cloaks and patched furs barely shielded them from the bitter chill, but they dared not complain. Shoto Endeavorson had summoned them, and in his presence, even the smallest hint of defiance could mean death. Frostbitten hands clutched at thin cloaks and patched furs, offering little protection from the biting cold. Children huddled close to their mothers, their cheeks red and raw, their eyes dull with fatigue.

The village itself bore the scars of Shoto’s greed. Buildings that had once stood sturdy and proud were now crumbling under the weight of neglect. Smoke from overworked forges choked the air, the acrid scent of iron and sweat lingering long after the fires had died down for the night. Every able-bodied villager was forced to labor beyond their limits, hauling timber, forging weapons, or tilling frozen fields for crops that would never grow. Those who faltered or dared to speak against the earl vanished in the dead of night, their names whispered with fear and sorrow among the survivors. Some were never seen again. Others were found days later, their lifeless bodies discarded as warnings to the rest.

At the center of the square, a podium stood like a grim monument to Skjaldvargr’s suffering. It was the same place where Endeavor, the former earl, had been executed. Blood from his beheading had long since frozen into the stones, a dark stain that even the snow couldn’t cover completely. And now, in his place, his youngest son sat on the carved throne, his presence a chilling reminder of how far the settlement had fallen.

Shoto Endeavorson lounged on the throne, an imposing figure draped in thick bear fur. The fur was so white it seemed to glow against the darkness, its pristine condition a mockery of the filth and poverty that plagued his people. His crown, a brutal thing of iron and obsidian, glinted in the torchlight, casting shadows over his mismatched eyes. One turquoise, cold and calculating, the other a stormy gray, filled with malice. His lips curled into a smirk as he surveyed the crowd, his gaze cutting through them like a blade.

By his side, you stood silently, cradling your child in your arms. The baby, a nearly one-year-old boy wrapped in the finest furs and silks that had been ordered from the Silk Road itself, slept peacefully against your chest, oblivious to the turmoil around him. His tiny breaths were soft and rhythmic, a stark contrast to the tension that gripped the square.

Shoto had claimed the child as his own, though he knew the boy was Touya’s, conceived in the fleeting moments of solace you had shared with the man you truly loved. Despite knowing the boy’s lineage, Shoto had insisted on raising him under his rule, molding him into an heir shaped by his own twisted values. You, however, had done everything in your power to shield the boy from Shoto’s influence, whispering stories of honor and kindness to him in the quiet of the night, hoping to instill the same virtues Touya had once embodied.

But you knew your time was running out. The only reason Shoto hadn’t cast you aside — or worse — was because the boy still depended on your milk. When that need ended, you would have no place in his plans. And every argument, every whispered defiance, brought you closer to inevitable.

The square grew quieter as Shoto rose from his throne, his presence commanding attention. He lifted a hand, and the guards stepped forward, dragging a bound figure to the center of the platform. The prisoner, a young man with bruised and bloodied features, was thrown to his knees before the earl.

“People of Skjaldvargr,” Shoto’s voice rang out, cold and clear. “An enemy has come to infiltrate our settlement.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd, the villagers exchanging uneasy glances. The prisoner groaned, his head lolling forward, but Shoto ignored him, stepping closer to the edge of the podium to address his people.

"This," Shoto began, his voice cold and methodical as he ;pointed at the man, "is a spy. A worm sent by Hvinverjadalr to infiltrate our settlement and sow dissent. He thought he could challenge me, challenge us. But as you can see, I do not tolerate treachery."

The crowd gasped, fear and anger flickering across their faces. But Shoto wasn’t finished. His next words dropped like stones into the frigid air.

He turned to the crowd, his expression a mask of cruel amusement. "And do you know what this spy revealed during interrogation?" He paused, letting the suspense build. "That Touya Endeavorson, the traitorous prince, is alive."

Gasps rippled through the crowd, followed by murmurs of disbelief and tentative hope. You felt your heart stop, the weight of his words crashing down on you. Tears filled your eyes, unbidden, and slid down your cheeks as you clutched your son tighter. Touya was alive…

The crowd’s whispers grew louder, turning into cheers as the realization spread. “Touya ! Touya ! Bring us our rightful earl!” they shouted, their voices raw with pure desperation.

Touya was alive. Somewhere out there, the man you had believed lost to death and betrayal was still fighting, still breathing. The weight of your sorrow and fear lifted, replaced by a fierce, unyielding hope.

But Shoto’s hand shot up, silencing the crowd with an imperious glare. “Enough!” he barked, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “You will not chant his name. Touya is a traitor, a man who abandoned his people when they needed him most. He is no savior.” He turned back to the prisoner and drove his dagger deep into the man’s chest.

The spy’s body jerked once, then went still, his blood pooling around him in the snow.

Shoto let the body fall, his face twisted with fury. “Let this be a warning,” he snarled, his voice echoing through the square. “Anyone who speaks the traitor’s name again will meet the same fate.”

You felt Hawks’ gaze on you, a flicker of pity in his golden eyes. But it was fleeting, and as he turned away, his expression once again became unreadable.

Shoto turned back to the crowd, his voice colder than the snow falling around him. “Remember this, people of Skjaldvargr: treachery will not be tolerated. Anyone caught conspiring against me will meet the same fate as this spy.”

Shoto’s guards tensed, shifting their stances as the crowd’s unrest grew.

A man near the front, his face weathered with age but his eyes blazing with defiance, stepped forward. “Enough of this tyranny!” he bellowed, his voice ringing out over the square. “You sit there in your furs and silks while we starve and freeze. Prince Touya would never have allowed this!”

Others joined in, their voices rising like a storm.

“You’re not our earl!”

“You’re a traitor!”

“We want Touya! Not you, tyrant!”

The first stone was thrown by a boy no older than fifteen. It struck one of the guards in the chest, bouncing harmlessly off his armor, but the act of defiance was enough to shatter the fragile tension. The square erupted into chaos. Villagers surged forward.

A woman wielding a broken plank swung at a guard, her face twisted with fury. Another man, carrying a rusted farming scythe, lunged at a soldier, only to be struck down with the flat of a blade.

The guards, momentarily caught off guard by the ferocity of the crowd, began to push back, their swords flashing in the torchlight.

On the podium, Shoto’s lip curled into a snarl. His mismatched eyes burned with fury as he took in the sight of his people — his people — rising against him. His voice thundered over the din, cutting through the chaos like a blade. “That’s enough!” he roared, his tone laced with unrestrained venom. “You dare defy me, worms?!”

But the crowd didn’t stop. For the first time since his ascension, the villagers no longer cowered before him. They had tasted the possibility of freedom, the hope of a rightful leader, and it fueled their rage.

Shoto’s fingers twitched, itching to draw his weapon and spill blood to remind them of their place. But Hawks, standing nearby, stepped closer, his golden eyes narrowing as he leaned toward the earl.

“My lord,” Hawks murmured, his voice low and urgent, “this is not the time. Kill them, and the rebellion will only grow. You’ll have a full-scale revolt on your hands by dawn.”

Shoto’s snarl deepened, but he didn’t miss the truth in Hawks’ words. His guards, though armed and trained, were vastly outnumbered. The villagers were desperate, and desperation made them dangerous.

“Guards! Hold your weapons!”

The guards froze, their blades half-raised, and glanced at each other uncertainly. The crowd murmured, their anger not entirely quelled but their momentum paused by Shoto’s sudden command.

“Do not attack anyone,” Shoto barked, his voice cutting through the whispers. “But clear the square. Now.”

The guards obeyed immediately, forming a line and advancing methodically toward the villagers. They did not raise their weapons, but their sheer presence was enough to push the crowd back.

The people resisted at first, glaring at the guards with unmasked hatred, but the weight of their suffering left them too weak to fight for long. Slowly, reluctantly, they began to retreat toward the edges of the square.

“Listen to me, people of Skjaldvargr,” Shoto continued, his voice cold and biting. He stepped forward on the podium, his posture rigid with authority. “This ends now. Return to your homes. No one is to leave their houses tonight. Any who disobey will face my judgment come morning.”

The crowd bristled, but no one dared speak.

The guards began ushering people down the streets, their armored boots thudding against the cobblestones as they enforced the earl’s decree.

As the square emptied, Shoto remained on the podium, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The snow fell heavier now, blanketing the blood-stained ground in a thin layer of white. He turned to Hawks, his voice a low growl. “This isn’t over. They think they can defy me. They will fucking learn who is their rightful leader. Make sure the gates are locked,” Shoto ordered, his voice low. “No one enters or leaves the settlement tonight.”

Hawks regarded him carefully, his golden eyes unreadable. “As you wish, my lord. Though it seems you’ve already made your point. Tonight, you avoided something awful. A rebellion can be managed. An uprising cannot.”

Shoto shot him a sharp look, his irritation flaring. “My point isn’t made until they remember who rules them. Now go.”

Hawks shrugged lazily but strode off to carry out the order, his long coat billowing behind him.

Shoto stepped back onto the podium, his boots leaving bloody prints in the snow. He gestured to the guards, who began herding the people back to their homes. As the square emptied, his gaze shifted to you, cold and calculating. “And you better remember your place,” he reminded quietly, his voice a venomous whisper. “Your boy is mine now. Better don’t try anything or I’ll have to make sure your pretty, little head is neatly cut off from the rest of your body. Now, take the boy inside, it’s getting cold out here.”

The Great Hall was eerily quiet as you stepped inside, the heavy wooden doors groaning shut behind you with a thud that reverberated through the empty space. The warmth of the fires lining the walls was a stark contrast to the freezing storm outside, but it did little to chase away the chill that had settled deep within you.

The baby stirred in your arms, a soft whimper escaping his lips before he settled again, his tiny fingers clutching at the edge of his fur blanket. You held him close, pressing a kiss to his head to calm your own racing heart. The flickering firelight cast long shadows across the hall, making the carved wooden beams and intricate tapestries seem alive with movement.

You paused near the hearth, your ears straining for the sound of Shoto’s boots against the stone floor. When it finally came — measured, deliberate, and echoing down the hall — you turned your back to the door, pretending to focus on soothing the baby.

Shoto walked past without a word, his mismatched eyes briefly flicking toward you before he ascended the steps to your shared chambers.

You waited, your breath shallow, until the faint creak of the door to his room reached your ears. Only then did you exhale, your body trembling with a mix of dread and determination. Placing the baby gently into his crib near the hearth, you lingered for a moment, brushing a hand over his soft, white hair. His peaceful face was a small comfort, a reminder of what you were fighting to protect.

Straightening your spine, you turned and made your way up the stairs. Each step felt heavier than the last, your heart pounding as you rehearsed the confrontation in your mind. When you reached the door, you pushed it open without knocking.

Shoto stood near the window, his back to you, the snow outside casting a pale glow over his figure. He was still draped in the thick bear fur from earlier, his crown set on the table beside him. He didn’t turn as you entered, but you knew he was aware of your presence.

“Did you know?” you asked simply, your voice barely above a whisper, yet it carried across the room like a blade. “Did you know Touya was alive?”

Shoto turned slowly, his mismatched eyes meeting yours with an expression that was equal parts amusement and menace. “I thought I had ensured his end,” he stated, his voice calm, almost conversational. “But apparently, the gods had other plans.”

Your breath hitched, and you clenched your fists at your sides. “You knew, and you didn’t tell us,” you said, your voice trembling with anger and disbelief. “All this time, you let us think he was —”

“Dead?” Shoto cut you off, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “For all intents and purposes, he was. And yet here we are.” He stepped toward you, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator closing in on its prey.

You didn’t back away, though your heart hammered in your chest. “Why?” you demanded, your voice rising. “Why would you try to kill him? He is your brother !”

“Brother?” Shoto’s laugh was cold, devoid of humor. “He was a threat. To my rule. To my plans. And to my power. A man like Touya doesn’t understand the sacrifices it takes to lead. He was weak.”

As he spoke, he closed the distance between you, his presence looming. Before you could react, his hand shot out, his fingers gripping your chin firmly. He tilted your head upward, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You,” he murmured, his tone dark and possessive, “should focus on the present, not the past.”

Before you could protest, his lips crashed against yours, rough and unrelenting. The force of the kiss left you breathless, a tear slipping down your cheek as you struggled against the overwhelming tide of emotions — anger, sorrow, and fear.

When he finally pulled back, his mismatched eyes bore into yours, his grip on your chin unyielding. “You are mine,” he claimed, his voice low and dangerous. “And so is the boy. Don’t ever forget who holds the power here.”

You bit back the retort that burned in your throat that the boy was not and would never be his son.

Your hand froze on the doorknob as you turned your head to glance at Shoto. In a calm, matter-of-fact tone, you stated, "You know, Shoto, the past never truly dies." With that, you stepped out of your shared chamber, leaving him behind. The very idea of sharing a bed with that man made your stomach churn, so you resolved to spend the night in the main hall instead. As you peeked into the crib to check if your son was still asleep, a single thought burned in your mind: Touya was alive. And you were ready to do whatever it took to help him reclaim what was rightfully his.

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