#no beta we due like canon by my blade

[olet-lucernam]

A Hollow Promise [3] chapter i, part iii

{_[on AO3]_}

main tags : loki x original character, post-avengers 2012, canon divergence - post-thor: the dark world, canon-typical violence, mentions of torture

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summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of New York, the Avengers need a few days to build a transport device for the Tesseract. With the Helicarrier damaged and surveillance offline, SHIELD sends an asset to guard Loki in the interim: a young woman who sees the truth in all things, and cannot lie.

Even long presumed dead, her memories lost to her, Loki would know her anywhere.

And this changes things.

Some things last beyond infinity. And the universe is in love with chaos.

(Loki was never looking for redemption. It came as an unexpected side-effect.)

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chapter summary : awaiting his return to asgard after the battle of new york, loki unexpectedly encounters a familiar face.

recommended listening : vedro con mio diletto, vivaldi

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Half an hour lapsed, before a sigh of hydraulics heralded her return.

Seated at the bench installed into the back wall of the cell, Loki opened his eyes.

"Hello again, darling," he directed at the ceiling, the seamless LED lights shattering curving threads of cold white through his lashes. The tips of his fingers were laced loosely, draped between his parted knees, head tilted back against the glass.

"Hello again, Prince Loki." The tap of her boots circled up towards the control panel, echoing slightly in the hollow space. "Did I keep you waiting?"

The corner of Loki's mouth lifted. "I am a man of my word," he replied smoothly, "and you, a woman worth the wait."

A short, unguarded giggle bubbled out of her, chased by the clink of zips of a bag dropping to the walkway.

"Silvertongue," she murmured, like an old joke. "I ought to have expected that."

Loki exhaled into a soundless laugh.

"Indeed." He lowered his head to look at her.

She had returned with her luggage, unloading them by the terminal; the canvas rucksack listed under its own weight, packed to rounded seams, with a tightly furled bedroll propped against the wall next to it. Hooking her thumb under a thick strap cutting into her shoulder, she swung a black duffel bag off her shoulder and to the floor with an alarmingly solid clang.

Loki stared at the bag, faintly disconcerted.

Straightening, she sighed in relief, fingers slipping under her collar to massage the indent out of her flesh. Catching his eye, it took her a moment to interpret his expression.

She smiled ruefully.

"Paper is heavy."

Loki watched as she knelt, briskly unzipping the duffel bag- and began decanting dozens of books.

He stifled the immediate pang of longing. It had been almost two years since he had last held a book, any book, in his hands, and while the quality of craftsmanship paled in comparison to the texts in the heart of Asgard's citadel- whether in the vast halls and endless rows of the royal archives, or his mother's private, meticulously curated reading room in her apartments, or his own jealously guarded, voraciously maintained library- any bibliophile knew that a book's value was in its content first, and its bindings second.

Every volume in her collection was creased and cracked, softened and furled with repeated handlings and rereads; a select few leatherbound and embossed compendia supplemented bricks of paperbacks, mass-produced from cheap wood pulp and printing presses, covers splitting into fractures of white. It was a glut of eclectic taste, unabashedly unfrugal.

Loki canted his head to skim the titles printed along the spines.

"Classical literature, philosophy, history- both ancient and more recent," he noted aloud, "mythology, medicine, politics- and poetry." Loki arched an eyebrow. "An acquired taste, some would say."

"An easily acquired taste," she said, sitting back on her heel, a tome on the Byzantine Empire in one hand, and three slim treatises- Sun Tzu, Niccolò Machiavelli, Friedrich Nietzsche- in the other. "Anyone who hates poetry just hasn't found a style they like yet."

"And your taste?"

Demonstratively, she dropped a thick poetry anthology atop a tower of nineteenth century novels.

"Broad. But leaning into English classics. Cliché as that may be."

"Clichés are often genius overused," Loki argued.

"Or overhyped mediocrity," she replied, "or a weak imitation that mimics genius without understanding why the original worked."

"And of those, which are your clichéd classics?"

Loki could tell that she had sensed a trap, even if she couldn't yet identify how it would close around her.

"Are you going to take me as an authority?"

"Why should I not?" Loki spread his hands. "You cannot speak an untruth."

"Literary opinions are subjective."

"Then I will accept a subjective truth."

"And why the sudden interest in Earth- Midgardian literature?"

"Perhaps I find the example of an eloquent, well-spoken individual persuasive."

She shot him a narrow look at his phrasing.

Loki pressed down on a smile. Crafting his words around a negative space without making the omission obvious, at least to the untrained or unwary, was a trick that he had practiced into perfection.

The young woman in front of him was neither untrained or unwary. And, as someone who couldn't lie, he suspected that she had used the trick herself more than once, to get away with speaking without saying much, while convincing the entire room otherwise.

"Or- maybe that was a complete non-answer, devoid of substance and beautifully costumed in flattery," she said.

Loki smirked. "You are hardly proving it to be false flattery with that answer, darling."

"I never said it was false."

A laugh startled out of Loki at the unapologetic response. "Well. No self-effacement? No blushing modesty? How refreshing."

"Why should I pretend? Even if I could." Rising to her feet, she flicked a stray curl out of her face with a toss of her head, folding her arms. The gesture would be almost preening, were her tone not so utterly matter of fact. "You're right. I'm intelligent, and articulate enough to express it, and I don't rest on my laurels. I work hard to be excellent. You complimented me. Why shouldn't I agree?"

"Why, indeed?" Loki's voice thrummed low and warm, leaning in. "And why should I not presume that your literary taste is one that you can defend with alacrity and wit, and therefore worthy of hearing?"

She was quiet for a long moment.

"I think I should be asking for your recommendations."

Her nail hooked into her sleeve, twisting the fabric around her fingertip.

Loki knew he had won before she even had to speak.

"What would you like to hear?"

"Anything," he answered softly. "Anything I may not have heard before. Anything beautiful."

"Hm."

She pressed the pad of her thumb to the seam of her lips, gaze slipping aside in thought.

She began to recite.

"To see a World in a Grain of Sand And Heaven in a Wild Flower Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand –"

"– And Eternity in an hour," Loki finished, startling her.

He almost regretted interrupting. She had an easy cadence, smooth as molten gold, like the world crystallised at golden hour. But the white-hot thrill of triumph at the way she was stunned into speechlessness was worth it.

"William Blake, Auguries of Innocence, circa 1803," he cited. "An English classic indeed."

The trap was sprung.

Her expression tensed from surprise into something caustic, eyes flashing.

Loki watched her with poorly concealed amusement.

A part of him wanted her indignant and angry and flustered after she had pulled him apart so easily, like splitting open a pomegranate with her thumbs- and the rest of him just wanted to see what she would do, how she would retaliate, how she would ignite.

She didn't disappoint. Straightening, she made her counterstrike.

"Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire –"

"– I hold with those who favour fire," Loki interrupted, cutting across her, eyes darkening, each vowel a rush of air like the heat from a plume of flame.

"But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice."

He tilted his head at her, assessing.

"Robert Frost. Ice and Fire."

"Fire and Ice," she corrected him coolly. "Published 1920."

Loki's eyebrow tensed, ego pricked.

Before she could select a new verse, Loki rose from the bench swiftly, and launched into a turbulent, passionate speech, equal parts imploring and accusing.

"Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke? 'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, For no man well of such a salve can speak That heals the wound but cures not the disgrace: Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief; Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss: The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief To him that bears the strong offence's loss –"

"– Ah, but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds," she uttered the final couplet powerfully, a sweet, surrendering absolution. "And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds."

Loki could taste his heartbeat on his tongue, blood singing in his ears, thumbing at the creases of his opposite palm. As he had spoken each line, he had pulled closer to the edge of the cell, drawn in with each quartet of iambic pentameter- and she had followed, magnetic, suddenly standing before him in aching definition.

"Shakespeare, Sonnet 34," she said, lifting a hand to skim against the glass. Loki's fingers twitched with the reflex to mirror her. "You chose one of the more obscure ones."

"Ah, I forgot- you called your taste cliché. Bright star, would I were as stedfast as thou art –"

"Keats," she interposed, rolling her eyes slightly, "Bright Star, I'm familiar."

Loki canted his head at her. "Not your taste?"

"In small doses. Like all the Romantics, Keats can get a little- cloying. Like a cake with too much buttercream. And for your information," she added, eyes sweeping up and sharpening on his, "I like obscure."

"I would believe it, were I given evidence." Loki replied, blithely aloof.

She pressed her tongue to the back of her teeth.

"Your lies are things of beauty, my love."

It was spoken in the inflection of a taunt.

"They flit from the tongue, wingéd alight Enchant the mind, and cheat and bluff.

Your lies, sweet one, settle as sugar dust Upon festered wound and sphacelus To draw the bitter from the slough.

Your lies are a keen knife, my love. Chased with silver Limned with blood.

The loveliest lies are thine, dear heart For the furtive truths they each impart –"

She trailed off expectantly.

Loki ransacked his memory for the reference.

"Too obscure?" She suggested with a slight grin.

Loki held up a hand, stalling.

Biting down on her smile, she yielded to the request, stepping away and letting him think.

Loki was almost certain that he knew the poem. He vaguely recognised the irregular lilt whittled into the stanzas, but he couldn't place it. Given their shorter lifespans, Midgardian artists in general tended to be more prolific, and the lack of a unified planetary culture making the offerings diverse, but currently that virtue was only a hindrance.

Midway through debating whether to search back another century, it struck him.

They were, after all, still playing a game.

Or rather, several games layered over each other like a multiple exposure photographic film.

Loki's eyes snapped up to meet hers.

She was grinning from behind her fingers, delighted that he was catching on.

He cast his mind forwards, to the most recently published poets who had debuted the past half decade.

Oh.

He turned to her abruptly with a rush of recollection.

"For words they speak not, yet still confirm With every utterance and phrases' turn. Thy heart, as stars in daylight skies, Is unveiled in the dark of gentle lies."

She hummed, a low musical note in the back of throat. "Title and author?"

"Lies. Ellison." Loki exhaled slowly, irked. "That was unfair."

"How so?"

"It was published barely two years ago," he said rancorously, "a novice effort by an unknown neophyte of barely fourteen-"

"And yet you can still cite the date of publication, and the poet's age," she replied blithely, "so it couldn't have been that unfair, could it?"

Loki glared at her mutinously.

"You asked for obscure," she said, unaffected. "If you wanted to me to continue with the ancients, you should have said."

Entirely against his will, and much to his displeasure, Loki was impressed.

"Very well," he said, quietly dangerous, "I am now specifying."

She flicked out an open palm, ceding the floor in challenge.

Loki set his jaw.

"Kàn zhūchéngbì sī fēnfēn, Qiáocuì zhīlí wèi yì jūn. Bùxìn bǐ lái zhǎng xià lèi, Kāi xiāng yàn qǔ shíliúqún."

He had deliberately recited the original text, rather than speaking through the filter of Allspeak. Some nuance was inevitably lost in translation, particularly within the limited fidelity of the universal tongue- but while more precise in meaning, the original was also several shades opaquer. The Hanyu languages were tonal, brimming with homonyms differentiated solely by inflection, easily missed by non-native speakers. And considering that the poem in question was a few centuries older than Loki himself, with the linguistic drift, she would find it nigh impossible-

"So deep in thought while watching reds change to greens," she translated pensively, as though she were somewhere else. "So frail I've become in memory of you. If you do not believe these tears I have wept, open this chest and see the marks on my pomegranate dress."

Loki started at her in carefully masked disbelief.

"You speak Chinese."

"Mandarin and a little Cantonese, yes," she said simply- before wincing into a sheepish grimace. "Although, you also chose one of the few classical Chinese poems I know well enough to recognise."

Loki sent her a sour look.

"You could have mentioned that."

"I might have, if you had asked," she retorted. "You're the one who quoted Wu Zetian out of the blue."

Loki glowered, but relented.

"How many languages do you speak?" He asked instead.

"A few. Enough to qualify as a polyglot, if not a hyperglot."

"Impressive."

The compliment had spilled out of him, unthinking and genuine.

Like the sun breaking through cloud cover, she warmed through.

"Thank you. I've always been good with languages."

"I can credit it." Loki ran a fingertip along his lower lip, observing her through his lashes. "Care to put forward any other non-English poems?"

She paused, her mouth twisting slightly in thought.

"There is one. But- it's not a poem in the strictest sense."

It was a strange caveat. "You have my attention, darling."

"Do I? Lucky me."

Her tone was wry, but the look in her eyes was intense, glowing like embers.

And instead of speaking-

"Vedrò con mio diletto –"

- she sang.

Loki's heart stopped.

"L'alma dell'alma mia, dell'alma mia Il core del mio cor Pien di content Pien di contento –"

The Vivaldi aria was crystalline and angelic, composed for vaulted opera halls and soaring cathedral naves, for white marble and clerestory windows flooding light into a basilica, rather than black steel sealed against the open air- but the way she sang it was lower, warmer, sweeter. She allayed the piercing brightness of the upper register into something gentler, more earthly, like a dawn-soaked aubade heard on the cusp of waking.

The lights in the cell flickered briefly.

"Vedrò con mio diletto L'alma dell'alma mia, dell'alma mia Il cor di questo, cor pien di content Pien di contento

E se dal caro oggetto Lungi convien che sia, convien che sia Sospirerò penando Ogni momento…"

The air throbbed, metal shivering from the final note, settling like dust.

Loki swallowed, unsealing his lips.

"I will see with joy," he translated, throat stoppered, vocal cords strangled by the words, "the soul of my soul, heart of my heart, full of contentment. And if from my dear object I be far away, I will sigh, suffering every moment."

Her eyes were locked on his.

"You have a lovely voice," he confessed.

There is witchcraft in your lips.

The air left her lungs in a slow, soundless billow.

Watching her watch him was like pressing his eye to the lens of a kaleidoscope. Every brilliant facet of her was cracked open, letting him look for as long as he wanted- and gazing back.

Loki wanted to demand more and to wrench away.

Eventually, she fell away from the cell.

She returned to the books, sinking to one knee. Pulling a few from the collection, sampling seemingly at random, she stacked them into the crook of one arm until she could barely balance them against her torso.

Rising to her feet and rounding the cage, she dropped just out of sight, behind one of the thickset pillars set at the cardinal points of the cell.

Loki heard the chirp of a digital keypad, the snap of a latch, and a clunk.

Not for the first time, Loki noticed the faint seams in the pillars, the outline of a door. It hadn't been relevant, before; he already had his plans in motion, locked into place like clockwork, and indifference towards his prison only served to make his captors more unsettled.

It had taken the bare minimum for Loki to start splitting them at the seams, to turn disinterest and wariness into open hostility and discord.

Imagine what someone could accomplish if they were actually trying.

With a click, and the snick of a digital lock, she emerged from behind the pillar, arms empty and eyes expectant.

Loki arched an eyebrow, and indulged her. Crossing the cell, he found the handle, and pulled the hatch open.

Inside the hollow interior were several shelves, installed at intervals. It was completely empty- save for an assortment of books on a ledge just below his ribs.

Loki turned the stack with a near-frictionless rasp of paper against metal, examining the spines.

The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. Northern Lights. Paradise Lost. The Tragedy of Eleanora Belmont. Il Principe. Pride and Prejudice. The Theory of Existentialism. The Pretender. Hogfather. Wicked Things. Wolf Hall.

"You gave me the best of your library, darling," he observed, tracing the satin cover of the Bard's anthology, stitched with floral devices in shimmering gold.

"Oh, don't worry." She slid the rest of her library into place against the wall. "I held a few back."

She hefted up a modest hardback, interlocking geometric detailing embossed in gold leaf in the leather, ubiquitous and unmistakable.

Tales of Norse Mythology, the cover declared.

She burst out laughing, sweet and unmalicious, at his look of affront.

"Relax," she soothed, setting the offending book down, "I prefer Greek mythology anyway. Much better attested, and with contemporaneous sources, unlike the Prose and Poetic Edda. Ah, no offense intended, Old Norse poetry is deliciously intricate. Especially dróttkvævitt, with the way the kennings and heiti turning it into a labyrinth of meaning."

Loki's lips quirked. "Well. I must admit, your pronunciation is-"

Then he caught up with what she had just said.

Greek.

Oh.

"Aletheia."

She looked up, a trio of books gathered to her chest, halfway through moving a folding plastic chair from against the wall.

"Yes?"

"Lethe," he continued, "meaning oblivion, forgetfulness, concealment. With the alpha privative, aletheia- unconcealed. Or- truth."

She straightened, setting the chair in front of the control panel, and smiled faintly.

"You know your Greek," she acknowledged, before shifting into neutral explanation. "Aletheia is the Greek goddess and personification of truth. She's often interpreted as the daughter of Chronos, personification of time, who is also usually her vindicator and protector, revealing her to the world. It's a popular allegory in Western classical art." She gave a self-deprecating smile. "In one of the novels I gave you, there is a device called an alethiometer, a golden compass that tells the truth to any question asked. That's where I got the name, originally. In my defence, Aletheia is far more obscure a deity than, say, Nike."

"How apt," Loki commented dryly. "Victory favoured over truth."

She stifled an amused smirk.

"You have no idea."

"I can hazard a guess, darling."

She stilled.

"Oh," she said, doubtlessly catching the truth in his grim tone, "you can."

Loki tapped his index finger against the nearest book cover.

"Do you have any recommendations? As to where I should start?"

She slipped into her seat, swivelling and bending to extract a slim device from a pocket of her duffel bag, followed by a tangle of candy-coloured silicone earphones.

"My suggestions will be biased," she warned without heat. "And probably unnecessary, depending on how many of them you've already read."

Loki smirked. "Darling, I'm counting on it."

"Ah- so you've been trying to read me though my preferences all along." Her eyes glinted like the taper of a needle. "Clever."

She spoke as if the ploy hadn't been double-edged from the beginning- as if she wasn't aware of it, in the same way that Loki had known his ploy would draw his own blood as much as hers.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to convince himself that he was looking at a lie, and to stop himself from cataloguing all the loopholes that could make it true.

"Hm, well," he mused with a smile, dropping his voice to something dangerously intimate and only mostly insincere, "I could be sweet for you, and have you spilling all your secrets. Is that preferable?"

She suppressed a smile.

"Start with a few Shakespearean plays," she instructed, plugging in her earphones and cracking open one of the books in her lap, tucking the other two aside, holstered next to her hip. "Merchant of Venice, Othello, Much Ado About Nothing- in that order. Then Northern Lights, The Pretender, and Hogfather. Throw in a few breaks with the lighter ones, especially The Prince. That particular translation is very digestible, and probably as succinct as Machiavelli originally intended."

"More laconic than loquacious," Loki added, leafing through her slender copy of the infamous work, an edition with the gloss of recent printing and the wear of thorough, repeated study, "all the better for the intended audience of a short-tempered political leader with an even shorter attention span."

"Too much lion, not enough fox," she agreed with a conspiratorial smirk.

"Thus spake the fierce fox," Loki observed, easing the brick of the Shakespearean anthology out from inside the pillar.

She looked up, settling back in the chair as comfortably as the rigid frame would permit.

"So utters the cunning lion," she said, kicking one leg up to cross over the other.

She raised the music player, tapping the play button with an audible click.

Wresting back a laugh as bright as snow-blindness, Loki took a seat at the bench.

The two of them sank into the quiet.

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[velidewrites]

Get In The Water

To bargain with an ancient death-lord, Captain Elain Archeron must acquire the rare, magical scales of a siren. Little does she know her target is no ordinary Mer—but the Prince of the Undersea himself.

Pairing: Elucien

Tags: Pirate!Elain x Merman!Lucien

Notes: For the beautiful talented stunning @areyoudreaminof for the @acotargiftexchange! I wasn't your original Secret Santa, but I tried to include some of your favourites here (this is your official warning for Jurian being a canon-typical little shit). Sending you so many smooches!

Thank you @ablogofsapphicpanic for being my beta<3

Read on AO3

“With all due respect, Captain Archeron, I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

Elain’s answering sigh was deep enough to rustle the waves ahead. She tossed them a final look before turning back to her quartermaster. “You know exactly where you can shove your respect, Jurian.”

He bounced off the mast with a grin. “Up my arse, no doubt,” he mused, a large, tanned hand stroking his much overgrown stubble. They’d been out at sea for weeks—for good reason, too, though Elain realised it was a sentiment less and less of her crew continued to share.

Still, she nodded with a smile of her own. “Same as last time.”

“Then I’m sure I don’t have to tell you it would have been wise to dock in Adriata two weeks ago.” He crossed his arms. “We’re not exactly welcome on Day Court waters.”

That was certainly one way to put it. Elain was half-expecting the High Lord’s army, ready at arms and lined up on the shores of Port Denera to arrest her and her crew. It would hardly be the first time.

Elain’s smile only grew wider. “There’s nothing quite like coming home.”

Jurian rolled his eyes, no doubt remembering their latest excursion himself, and leaned over the bulwark. “It’s been a while,” he remarked, his brown gaze drifting off to the azure sea. In the waning hours of the afternoon, the golden sunlight reflected off its surface, shimmering quietly as though unaware of the chaos to come. Where she came from—a little town bordering the Eastern Coast—the fishermen used to say the future was carried in with the waves. Elain was never much a practitioner of such belief—after all, if it were true, her ship would surely be on the verge of utter collapse right now, sinking underwater with the crashing force of the raging sea.

Instead, they continued to peacefully make their way northeast, the sun warming their skin as though in greeting. The irony wasn’t lost on her, but she supposed it was much easier to enjoy the bliss while it lasted. The silver blade strapped to her side flashed at the thought, undeniably in protest—she’d had it dipped in the Cauldron a few decades ago (before her sister, the High Lady herself, had somehow lost the whole damn thing), and since then, the sword had seemed to develop a mind of its own. Elain didn’t mind. It was bloody useful in battle, and she was smarter than to argue with a deadly, magical artifact. Even if it was a real fucking smartass.

The sword flashed again—and a lot brighter this time, too bright to mistake it with a random glimpse of the sunlight.

“Sorry,” Elain muttered.

Jurian—she’d nearly forgotted he was still here—glanced down at her belt. “You need to stop talking to the damn thing.”

She could have sworn she felt something sharp twitch against her hip.

“Would you like to talk to it instead?” she asked sweetly.

Jurian’s eyes narrowed. “No.”

“I thought so.”

“Seriously, Elain,” he sighed, apparently foregoing her usual title. “I would have gone to the ends of the earth with you to get those scales. Hell, I will go to the ends of the earth, and you know I won’t so much as hesitate.”

Elain did know. The stakes were too high—too personal, especially for her second-in-command.

“But the crew needs a break,” Jurian continued. “Adriata was supposed to be our goldmine, and we found nothing—nothing, Elain, not even one of those gods-damned—”

“I know what happened in Adriata, Jurian,” Elain cut in. “I was there.”

“I only mean—”

“I know what you mean. And I agree, even if I do not show it sometimes. Jurian, I…” She closed her eyes, letting the salty mist pearl on her skin, her lashes. “I miss her too. Every day.”

For a moment, there was only silence—silence and the quiet whoosh of the deep blue waves.

“I know you do,” Jurian whispered beside her.

“She’s out there, somewhere—somewhere on the Continent. With that monster to do with her as he likes.” She could practically hear Jurian grit his teeth beside her. “I won’t give up, and we’ve been out here together long enough for me to know you won’t give up, either.”

“The Death God is persistent,” Jurian seethed. “He demands too high a price.”

Indeed he did. Koschei, a being so ancient even the fishermen in her small Day Court village had no legends singing of his name, had been magically bound to his lair on the Continent millennia ago—and, apparently, had been trying to find a way out of his chains ever since. The only thing in the world able to release him, though, was—of course—the Cauldron, the creator of the world itself.

And, up until sixty years ago, Elain would see it in her sister’s dining room every Solstice. It was ridiculous, really, the power the Night Court used to have in its grasp. That wasn’t to say it had not been deserved—the Cauldron had been won in a war full of blood and sacrifice, one her sister and his mate had nearly lost their life in, but…well. Surely they could have found a more secure place to display it than their townhouse in Velaris. A place where it could not have gotten stolen by only the Mother knew whom, or better yet—a place where no one, not even Feyre and Rhysand, could ever find it again.

It was too late for such semantics. Despite an entire Valkyrie region searching the skies for a sign of it, the Cauldron was simply…gone.

Nesta believed it to have been an inside job. After all, there were only a handful of people outside of Velaris aware of the city’s existence at all, let alone the High Lord and Lady’s private residence. But the Head Valkyrie had questioned them all—and found nothing at all.

For the first twenty years, Elain searched for it, too—anything to get out of her village, really, and the ghosts of a life she longed to leave behind. An engagement to a local lord’s son might have been the dream of many females back home, but it was, and never would be, Elain’s

The missing Cauldron had given her the opportunity she’d been searching for, and Elain did not look back when Feyre asked for her help. In her travels, though…she discovered a beauty to the seas, to the vast world they opened up for her taking—and so, after too many hopeless clues and tearful conversations with her sister, Elain had let the waves consume her entirely.

She did not think she would ever have to worry about the Cauldron again. She’d hoped, perhaps foolishly, that it had lost itself to the world just as she wished it would. But then Elain had met Vassa, and then Vassa had been taken by Koschei, and, well…

Her fate belonged to the Cauldron once again.

This time, though, it was hardly a chore, or a favour she was doing her little sister. It was a matter of life or death, of the family she’d found sailing the seas of Prythian. Vassa was a sister, too, a sister she loved dearly enough that when Koschei’s demands began to invade her visions, Elain did not hesitate.

She and Jurian had devised a plan—it wasn’t exactly foolproof, so to say, but she hoped it would be enough. It had to be.

“Do you know how much just one of the Mer scales runs for on the black market, Jurian?” Elain asked, more to prove a point than to get an actual answer. He knew—they’d been chasing them for the past two years. Still, she said, “Ten thousand gold marks. You could buy a manor in Spring for that kind of money.”

“I have allergies,” Jurian murmured.

“I know I didn’t just hear that.”

Jurian sighed. “It just seems…I don’t know, Elain. The Mer people are folktale. If your so-called Undersea were to exist, we would have found it in Adriata.”

“The High Lord’s libraries clearly point to the seas of Day,” Elain pressed.

Jurian snorted. “Are you sure you read that right? We didn’t exactly have a lot of time in that library, you know.”

She cut him a look sharper than the sword at her side. “I’m sure. I got the information we needed with a few minutes to spare.”

“I think your posters are still hanging at the entrance.”

Elain wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like the way my hair looks in those ones.” When it came to painting, the Day Court forces were no Feyre.

“They put quite the bounty on your head, you know,” Jurian added. “If that isn’t flattering, then I don’t know what is.”

Elain grinned. “Well, I stole some really valuable books.”

“I’ll bet.” He looked out to the sea again, that rugged face turning more solemn as he studied the horizon—and the shore stretching far ahead. “How do you know the scales will be enough to get Vassa back?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “I don’t know. But, if we can find the Mer here and get the scales we need…perhaps we can bargain with Koschei to take them instead. Their magic is forgotten, just as he is. He might find them to be enough.”

“That’s a big if, Elain.”

She shrugged. “At the very least, we might be able to use them to trace the Cauldron. I’ve sent a letter to Velaris—Amren volunteered her assistance.”

Jurian shuddered.

“Don’t be a baby,” Elain rolled her eyes. “She’s useful. Ancient.”

“Precisely.”

“I just…” He shook his head, his brown curls catching the sunlight. “Things are weird enough as they are. You Fae are hardly accepting of pirates, let alone humans.”

Elain tucked a loose strand of hair behind an arched ear. “I’m a pirate,” she declared, letting some of the pride she’d buried deep in her chest creep into her tone. “I am happy to share at least half of the burden with you.”

Jurian’s warm hand covered her own. “You’re a good friend, Elain,” he said. “You could have left—could have sailed off after that whole fiasco with Koschei.” He gave her a light squeeze. “But you chose to stay.”

She could not meet his stare—not when the salt in her eyes had begun to burn too much, blurring her own gaze as she turned to face the shallowing water. “I’ve run away before,” she told him quietly. “No more.”

“No more,” Jurian agreed. He had a past of his own—and, when the time was right…he would tell her. And she would embrace it without question.

“I’ll tell you what,” Elain started, her throat suddenly tight. “It’s a big day we’ve got tomorrow. Tell the crew we’ll be dining at the local tavern tonight?”

Slowly, Jurian turned to her—and smiled. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

***

The Pearl was a small ship—small enough not to raise suspicions when they’d docked in Port Denera. The flag—a Mer tail with a pearl resting between its fins—had been carefully folded away prior to their arrival, the sigil of Elain’s crew all but too recognisable in those parts of Prythian.

It wasn’t that Elain had no moral compass whatsoever, but, over the years, she had learned that sometimes, taking her life into her own hands had a tendency to pay off a whole lot more than simply letting it run its course. Had she lived by a different set of rules, she would have long been married to the new Lord Nolan, never having left her hometown and spending her days at the beach, looking out to the sea and wishing for a life never to be.

It could have been a good life, perhaps—but it would never be the life she wanted, the life she craved. Besides, it wasn’t like Elain had ever been given a good example to follow. Feyre, after all, had escaped her own arranged marriage and ran right to the deepest, darkest corners of Night, Nesta following shortly after. It was only fair that Elain followed the family tradition.

Father had been devastated—Elain’s engagement, after all, had been his final, desperate attempt at seeing his daughters well off before his passing. After Feyre and Nesta’s disobedience, as he’d called it, Father had assumed his daughters had simply rebelled because they wished to remain home. Perhaps that was why, after having tried marrying Feyre off to Spring and Nesta to Hybern, he’d settled for seeing Elain with a small, local nobleman.

Elain did not care for riches—well, she hadn’t cared then. Now, having seen all that the world had to offer, she supposed she did enjoy having a few pearls and gold around her neck at times. But it hadn’t been the match itself that bothered her—she was sure Greysen Nolan was perfectly nice and well-mannered—but the fact that Father hadn’t even asked if he was who Elain wanted, if he’d even cared if she could ever love Greysen at all.

As cliché as it sounded, love was exactly what Elain craved so viciously. And now, decades later, she had finally found that love—here, out at sea, with the waves embracing her wholly and eternally. This—the Pearl—was her home.

She sure hoped home wouldn’t mind seeing her stumble back aboard in a few hours, when she was well and thoroughly drunk out of her mind.

Aside from pearls and jewellery, Elain had developed a taste for ale, and it just so happened that the Port Denera tavern was famous for the golden drink. It tasted like liquid gold in her cup, leaving a tinge on her tongue that sent her senses spiralling and flushed her cheeks with bright-pink heat.

The crew seemed to be enjoying themselves, too, and it was only for that reason that she’d allowed her instincts to abandon ship for a moment or two. Well, perhaps three. She hadn’t seen Jurian this happy and relaxed since Vassa had been taken—a sign of how truly tired he must have been these past few weeks, of how badly he needed an evening to forget.

The thought sobered her up just a little, and Elain remembered the true reason she’d allowed this unusual night out in a town where the entire army was on the lookout for Captain Archeron. She did feel slightly guilty for misleading Jurian into thinking it was simply out of the goodness of her own heart—into omitting the one, small ulterior motive that had lately seemed to be driving nearly every decision of hers.

Information.

While the fishermen in the East of the Day Court had no knowledge of the Mer, the folk of Port Denera no doubt sang of the old creatures lurking beneath the sea. She’d already picked up on a few shanties on the way to the tavern, humming the words quietly to herself as she searched the lyrics for anything valuable. The Mer’s magic appeared to be as sharp as their teeth, capable of stirring the waves and calling upon storms. The strongest of them could lure the innocent, hungry wanderers into their traps with a lulling voice and mesmerising eyes, ones that reflected the soul’s deepest desires just as the surface of the sea reflected the sun above. Once captured, they’d sink those teeth into the flesh of their prey, and drag them under—never to be seen again.

Elain hummed the tune again cheerfully, excitement bubbling up in her chest—well, she supposed the bubbles might have had to do with some of the barrels of alcohol she’d consumed. Still, this was promising. All she needed was a name—a lagoon, or a hidden grotto, perhaps, where she could locate a lair. Her Cauldron-blessed sword would do the rest of the job.

Somewhere far beyond her peripheral vision, she heard the silver hum happily, already summoned by the rather bloodthirsty thought.

It was not that Elain wanted to murder the Mer in cold blood. She did not enjoy killing (she could have sworn her blade huffed at the sentiment), but if there was no other way to acquire the scales, she would do it. She loved Vassa enough to do whatever it took—the exiled, Firebird queen would do the exact same for her.

For what had to have been the hundredth time, Elain looked around the tavern, her somewhat blurry gaze scanning the bustling area. It was a lot more crowded than she’d expected—which proved a good thing all the same. It was a lot harder to get spotted in a sea of creatures of all shapes and sizes, and it sure helped that they all seemed piss-drunk, too.

The local shanty found its way onto her lips once more, and she sang it absently, her attention entirely focused on some old wraith somehow downing two bottles of wine at once. Her sharp nails scraped against the glass as she drank, and Elain watched, completely entranced at what she’d never thought could be accomplished before.

In the morning sun so bright, the sailors set to sea,

Their hearts as bold as brass, their spirits ever-free.

But careful, sailor, please, beware the waves that dance and play,

Beneath this sunny surface, a wicked mermaid lay.

“Sounds terrifying.”

Elain jumped.

The ale in her hand fell to the ground with a loud clunk, the sound immediately drowned out by a rumbling laughter of the crows. The golden liquid spilled over her, sticking to the skin of her neck, her collarbones, the curves of her exposed breasts—until finally sinking into the white fabric of her corset. Elain swore under her breath, cursing her choice of garment for tonight, before finally looking up.

“Shit,” she swore again, for the lack of a better word—or, perhaps, because there was no word to describe the male standing before her.

The most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

A pair of shining eyes of molten gold looked her up and down, an auburn eyebrow quirking up in amusement. “Now, don’t tell me you’re disappointed,” he drawled, his voice rich and deep and smoother than the liquid she’d swallowed down her throat. “I spent a lot of time on my hair earlier tonight.”

Elain blinked—then blinked again. “Are you…hitting on me?”

His mouth—full and plush and gods she needed to get it together—twitched. “And here I was, thinking I was all too obvious,” he quipped.

She peeled her gaze off the soft waves of his hair, glistening under the tavern’s candlelight. “Perhaps you’re just not very good at it,” she remarked, thanking the Mother for keeping her tongue sharp when her mind bordered on insanity.

The stranger smiled openly now. “What’s your name?” he asked.

Elain angled her head an inch. “Why?”

Did she really just ask him that?

Perhaps it was time to order some water.

The male seemed entirely unbothered. “It’s not often you meet a beautiful female singing old folktales in the middle of a tavern,” he said, offering a one-shouldered shrug. “I find myself somewhat…intrigued.”

“Intrigued,” Elain repeated blankly.

His smile grew wider. “Quite,” he agreed. “Those are old, you know.”

Elain straightened—straightened and blinked again, her thoughts somehow collecting into one, singular stream as she remembered what, exactly, she had come to this tavern for. “Are they?” she asked, “I’ve just picked up on them an hour ago.”

“An hour?”

She offered a smile of her own. “I have an excellent memory.”

Those golden eyes glistened. “Is that so?” the male asked, his gaze sweeping down her body as though he had all the time in the world. “If I tell you my name, will you sing it for me, too?”

Focus, Elain. He’d mentioned the Mer shanties, did he not? “I doubt anyone will hear it,” she remarked. “I never see Port Denera this busy.”

“You’ve been here before?”

Elain waved a dismissive hand. “Once or twice,”

The male hummed. “Then you know today is an important day,” he said, that strange shade of amusement playing over his features once more. “The High Lord is mourning the loss of his dear wife and son, and we are drinking in a show of, ah…solidarity,” he finished, a passing faun raising his glass at them, as though emphasising his agreement.

Elain waited for him to get out of earshot. “Wife and son?” she questioned, searching the corners of her mind that stored everything she knew about her Court.. “Didn’t that happen three hundred years ago?”

Those eyes narrowed at her slightly, and the stranger tilted his head. “Do you think he should have moved on instead?” he asked, the question so quiet it may as well have been a breath—and yet, she’d heard it perfectly over the bustling crowd.

Elain considered. “I think it must have been a beautiful kind of love, if he’s mourning it so many centuries later.”

His auburn brow arched in surprise. “What did you say your name was, lady…?”

Elain snorted. “Oh, I’m no lady.” She set her glass on a nearby table. “Haven’t been for a while.”

“You certainly look like one,” he remarked, that smile once again creeping back onto his ridiculously handsome features.

She couldn’t resist. “Do I, now?”

He chuckled, the sound low and honeyed. “Oh, absolutely.”

“And are you in the habit of flirting with all the ladies you pick up in a tavern?” Elain teased.

“No, no. I usually let them come to me.” He winked. “I can be a good singer too, you know.”

Elain smiled.

“I’ll take your word for it,” she laughed. “So, you know those shanties, too?”

His eyes glittered.

There it was.

“Some of them,” he agreed.

“Do they hold any truth?” she pressed. Come on, come on, come on…

“Sometimes,” he nodded. “Does it matter?”

You have no idea, Elain thought. “It does. I’m looking for…” she hesitated. “Information.”

“Oh?”

“The books in Day’s library state I might find it here,” she added carefully.

Something like realisation crept onto his features. “You wish to know about the Merpeople,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. Elain’s gaze flickered to the movement. “How did you get access to those books?” he asked.

“It’s not important,” she told him, eyeing the golden-brown muscles flexing under the candlelight.

“I disagree,” the male said, “those books are extremely well-guarded.” Was that admiration she’d heard in his tone?

“What was your name, again?” Elain asked him.

The male smiled. “Would you like to come outside with me?”

As if. “I’m not exactly in a hook-up mood right now, sorry,” she told him, though uncertain if the words rang entirely true.

He smiled—as though he knew. “What about information?” She felt her brows flick up. “I thought so. Now, shall we? It’s more quiet out back,” he added, gesturing to the tavern’s back door.

“I like it loud,” Elain countered. The more people drowning their conversation, the better.

“So do I,” he winked. “Another time, baby, I promise.”

Elain rolled her eyes. “Very funny,” she said, then dared a quick glance around the space again. Come to think of it, the couple at the table near where the two of them stood were awfully close—close enough that Elain decided not to risk it. She nodded to the stranger. “Let’s go.”

“Just so that we’re clear,” he started as they made their way through the crowd, “once you get those scales, we’re splitting the profits.”

“We can discuss the money later,” Elain countered. Like hell she was going to share anything with him.

“If that is what you wish,” he nodded, and opened the door.

The fresh air hit her almost unexpectedly, but it was a welcome change from the stuffy tavern in the back. She breathed in the salt carried in by the sea, her thoughts clearing up enough that she could finally focus on the matter at hand without unnecessary…distractions.

The distraction flashed her a smile, the beach behind him illuminated by the dying sunlight. “So, Mer scales, hmm? What do you need those for?”

“That,” Elain said firmly, “is none of your business.”

He chuckled again, the sound different this time—less than that deep, raspy sound she’d heard before, but more…fluid, like tea stirring in a cup. Warm. Inviting. “Oh, you have no idea,” he said quietly—and reached out his hand.

“Come with me,” the stranger told her.

Elain frowned. “I’m already here,” she pointed out. “You wanted to leave the tavern,” she reminded him.

He hummed—and she could have sworn it was like a melody pouring from his chest. “Yes,” he told her, stepping back until his feet—bare, she now noticed—reached the sand. “Let’s go a little further, alright?”

Elain stepped forward. “I…don’t understand,” she said. Still, she moved in closer.

He offered her a gentle smile. “Just one more step for me, gorgeous, please,” he tried again, his hand still outstretched.

“Okay.” She reached the sand now, too—but he had somehow moved back a few steps again, inches away from the waves’ embrace.

“Good girl,” he purred, the water now kissing his skin. Elain stepped in closer. “You’re very beautiful, you know,” he told her, angling his head slightly. She watched as his long hair spilled down his back in waves softer than the very sea—and met his gaze again, only to find it dark. “Almost beautiful enough to hide that rotten soul of yours.”

That gold had tarnished—enough to hide that bright, enticing gleam.

“Yes,” Elain agreed.

“Mmm, I thought so,” he mused. “I just need you to take a few more steps, alright? We’re almost at the shore,” he added, his voice like a lullaby, reassuring.

“Yes, I’ll follow you,” she agreed again.

“You’re doing so well for me,” he praised. “I might even consider making your death painless,” he whispered, watching her closely as she, too, neared the edge of the water. “Though that wasn’t the kind of death you had planned for my kind, was it?” he asked, a certain sharpness to his tone that made her open her mouth. “Oh, no need to answer that, baby,” he interrupted, “but I do appreciate your eagerness.”

Elain nodded. “Whatever you wish.”

He smiled, flashing his teeth. A perfect, pearly set of sharp blades—sharp enough to tear her flesh apart. “That’s a good girl,” he hummed, and she could have sworn she heard her soul sing in answer. “Now, step into the sea.”

Elain stopped inches from the seafoam. “Will you give me your hand?” she asked him shyly.

His features softened—though the sharp, predatory smile remained. “Of course, my rotten, terrible lady,” he purred. “Come with me.”

Elain slid her hand in his—and waited.

His skin, surprisingly, was warm—sun-kissed, as if he hadn’t spent an entire lifetime in the dark depths of the Undersea. He felt smooth, too, with some coarseness here and there that let her know his palm was no stranger to holding a weapon—a trident, perhaps, if the songs of the fishermen had, indeed, held any truth to them. 

The leaves behind her rustled—and Elain finally, finally released a breath.

“No,” she told him, her voice still feigning that blissful softness. “No, I don’t think I will.”

The merman blinked. “What?”

Elain gave him a smile that was purely Fae—one that let him know she was a monster, too. “It was a nice try, really,” she said, her free hand reaching back to her belt. “Sorry it didn’t work out.”

A pair of iron cuffs appeared in her grip—and, in a flash of a second, found its way onto the merman’s wrists.

His skin sizzled, and he hissed sharply, those dark eyes wide and not leaving hers for one second—but Elain held on, murmuring the spell she’d memorised under her breath.

She could never come to the land of the Mer unprepared.

“Duck!” Jurian yelled behind her.

She only had a fraction of a moment to see the bow in his hands—to stop him before he released the arrow.

Elain didn’t stop him, though.

She ducked.

***

“I can’t believe you caught one of them,” Jurian said in disbelief. “Good work, really, Elain, but did you have to bring him onto the ship?”

From the corner of her eye, she caught a flicker of movement behind the bars. The merman rose to his full height—he seemed taller in the constrained space of the brig, somehow—and met her gaze directly.

“Your name,” he said as though in a daze. “Elain.”

Elain cut her friend a look. “Thank you, Jurian.”

Jurian bounced off the wall. “Sorry,” he shrugged, his tone suggesting he wasn’t sorry at all.

“It didn’t work,” their prisoner said, more to himself now than his jailors.

“What didn’t work?” Jurian asked him sharply.

The merman looked at him—and Elain knew it took everything in her quartermaster not to flinch under his scrutiny. “My spell,” he explained slowly, then turned toward her again. “It didn’t work on you,” he repeated.

“Perhaps you’re not as good as you thought,” Jurian said.

He scoffed, as though the remark pulled him out of whatever fog had clouded his thoughts. “My name is Lucien Spell Cleaver,” he declared, his voice louder now, stronger. “Firstborn son of Helion Spell Cleaver, Prince of the Undersea—and heir to the High Lord of the Day Court.”

Beside her, Jurian went entirely still. Truth be told, she wasn’t sure she was moving at all, either.

She may have been a pirate, but kidnapping a High Lord’s son—nay, his heir—was an act of treason, and Elain really wished to see one hundred before eventually dying a horrible, undoubtedly painful death. Quite common in her profession, really. 

“Impossible,” she whispered. “Helion’s son is dead—as is his wife.”

“Clearly not,” Jurian murmured.

The male—Lucien—narrowed his gaze at the two of them. “We have been in hiding for the moment I was born. There was no denying what I was, not until I learned how to glamour myself, and my mother—she took me back to her people to protect me,” he explained.

“Does the High Lord know?” Elain breathed. He was lying. He had to have been.

Still, it was nice to at least know his name. Fake or not, it pleased her, for some reason. Lucien.

“Of course,” he scoffed. “The ‘Summer Estate’ he leaves for six months every year is Undersea.”

The answer was detailed enough that Elain’s heart quickened. “You really are Lucien Spell Cleaver?” she asked.

“And you,” Lucien nodded, “are Elain Archeron. Pirate…and Mer killer, apparently.”

“I haven’t killed anyone,” Elain protested.

“Yet,” he finished for her. “You were going to kill me,” he said, those golden eyes—back to normal now that he was at their mercy—settling on her as he added, “You still are.”

“I haven’t decided yet,” she scrambled. Some pirate she was—some of her rivals back East would have made her walk the plank for her hesitation.

Still, Elain could not bring herself to remember why…

“Why do you want my scales?” Lucien asked, interrupting her trail of thought—completing it, really.

“I told you, that is none of your business,” she told him, though her voice lacked her previous conviction this time.

“It is, if you still want them,” he countered.

“Why on earth would you give us your scales?” Jurian demanded.

“Well, I wouldn’t,” Lucien shrugged, then lifted his iron-bound hands into view. “As you can see, I am not in my Mer form, and will not be until you release me back into the sea,” he argued. “So, why don’t you just let me go, I give you my scales, and everyone wins?”

“Because you’re very obviously lying,” Elain cut in. “And you and your little Undersea army are going to sink my ship the moment it sails.”

The corner of his lip ticked upwards. “Is the word of a Prince not credible enough for you, Elain Archeron?”

“Not particularly,” she replied calmly. Princes, Lords—she’d heard their promises before, and ran to the sea to escape them.

“You are unlike any Mer hunter I’ve ever met before,” Lucien hummed, as though in thought.

Elain frowned. “There are hunters?”

“Of course,” he told her. “My father has disposed of as many of them as he could, but some still emerge every few years, hoping to see if the songs are true.” His expressions sombered. “Our scales are very valuable.”

“So we’ve heard,” Jurian said.

Lucien’s gaze flickered up. “It is money, then,” he said matter-of-factly, though something like anger lingered in the back of his throat.. “You wish to kill my people for a few gold marks?”

Elain swallowed.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, princeling,” Jurian seethed.

Elain placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Take a breath, Jurian,” she told him quietly. “Why don’t you leave us alone for a moment?”

Jurian looked at her—then back at Lucien again. “Let me know if you need help killing him,” he said darkly. Then, “For the record, I don’t care what you are,” he told Lucien. “You’re just annoying the shit out of me.”

And with that, he was gone, the wooden stairs carrying the echo of his steps. Only when they faded did Lucien finally say, “I like him.”

“He shot you,” Elain reminded him.

Lucien shrugged. “It wasn’t an ash arrow, now, was it? We live to forgive. Besides, I’m healed now.” Indeed, the wound in his shoulder had now closed almost entirely. “Well, almost,” he said, pointedly raising his wrists back into the light.

Elain had hoped the iron would work—it was an old superstition the humans thought could harm the Fae, but it had to have stemmed from somewhere. With Day’s libraries proclaiming the Merpeople as millenia older than the Fae, Elain figured it wouldn’t hurt to try.

“Sorry about the iron bars,” she said, nodding to Lucien’s cell. “Precautions.”

“I would have expected nothing less,” Lucien said—then leaned back, letting the back of his head rest against the wood. “So.”

Elain released a breath.

“Alright,” she braced herself. He was her future High Lord, apparently—if she lied, she was already dead. “What do you know of Koschei?”

“Who?”

“Nothing, then,” Elain sighed. “He is a death-lord—a god-like being trapped somewhere deep in the Continent. His magic is even more ancient than yours.”

Lucien’s brows furrowed. “And you seek to…take his magic for yourself?”

“I want nothing to do with his magic,” Elain told him hotly, earning an arched eyebrow in response. “It is revolting. But, it also currently binds my friend’s soul to Koschei himself, and he will not give her up unless we offer him something in exchange.”

“Mer scales?”

“He wants the Cauldron,” she explained. “We are hoping the scales will do for now.” She fought the urge to bury her face in her hands. Was the plan truly that hopeless? Was Vassa going to be trapped…forever?

In her misery, she hardly noticed Lucien had gone strangely quiet.

“Our scales do not even compare to the sheer power of the Cauldron,” he said, the words barely above a whisper.

Elain laughed bitterly. “If this is your way of talking me out of it, you should know I’m pretty desperate,” she told him. “I’ll do whatever it takes to get my friend back.”

At that, Lucien said nothing. He only stared at her in thought, his eyes shimmering despite the darkness she and Jurian had shoved him into.

Then, “I see.” He stepped forward then—and halted an inch from the iron bars. “I was wrong about you.”

That, Elain did not expect.

“I told you, your spells do not work on me.”

“I’m well aware,” Lucien hummed. “I speak the truth. What is your friend’s name?”

Her throat threatening to close up, Elain managed, “Vassa.” She shook her head. “She’s like a sister to me. She’s Jurian’s…”

Understanding dawned on his features.

“That makes a lot of sense,” Lucien said.

“Yes,” Elain whispered. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

Lucien studied her closely. “And do you have a…?”

Elain almost laughed—though she supposed it was better than breaking down in front of the man she’d imprisoned aboard her own ship. “Don’t tell me you’re back to your flirting strategy now,” she told him.

Lucien smiled—a true smile this time, though Elain wasn’t sure how she knew. “Was I truly that obvious?”

“I knew what you were,” she gestured over him as if it was enough of an explanation. “No one else has eyes like that.” Like the morning sun itself.

“Now who’s the shameless flirt, Elain?”

Elain chuckled. “Don’t flatter yourself.” She met his gaze again. “The song summoned you, did it not?” she asked. “You weren’t at the tavern when I arrived.”

Lucien nodded. “I heard it from beneath the waves.”

“I’m not that good a singer.”

“No, you’re not,” he said, his smile fading with the words. She found herself wanting to see it again. “It was for another reason that I heard you. I recognise that now.”

“Recognise what?”

Lucien hesitated. “I need to…” He shook his head. “I—I can’t be sure, it doesn’t…” He locked his eyes with her own again, and she watched him patiently as he searched her gaze. “Elain,” Lucien tried again, and she could have sworn his voice trembled with the word. He loosed a breath. “Come with me.”

Elain looked at his outstretched hand—careful not to let the bars graze his skin. “I told you—”

“I’m not using my magic,” Lucien interrupted. “Just…come with me. Undersea.”

“Like hell I will,” she crossed her arms. “I don’t trust you.”

Lucien just stared at her—started as if some internal battle was playing out deep inside him, one she could almost feel in her own chest.

Then, his hand pulled back, and he laid his palm flat over his chest. His heart, Elain realised, her gaze dipping toward it.

She heard it, then—a quiet, yet powerful sound, like a wave crashing over the shore. The steady beating of his heart.

It couldn’t have been—and yet…

And yet, somehow, Elain heard it. Continued to hear it even now, even stronger as Lucien proclaimed, “With my life,” he began, “I promise to do you no harm.” There was an urgency in his gaze as he pleaded, “Just get in the water with me, and I will be yours.”

Elain paused. “Your scales, you mean,” she corrected, suddenly finding herself entirely out of breath.

“Yes,” Lucien agreed. “That.”

Elain studied the bars keeping him away—then the iron key strapped beside her Cauldron-blessed sword. She swore on the Mother herself she could hear it whisper: Do it.

Perhaps she was simply losing her mind.

“Are you going to make me regret this, Lucien?” she asked him.

He simply stared back. “Are you?”

She supposed the question was reasonable enough. “Don’t tell Jurian I’m doing this,” she warned Lucien. “He’s going to kill me.”

Two minutes later, Lucien was free.

It was a blessing that they’d somehow missed Jurian, really—that she’d guided Lucien through the narrow space upstairs until they arrived at the starboard hand in hand, the sea soft and patient. Waiting.

What the hell was she doing? The only thing Elain knew for certain right now was that she was almost certainly going insane, and that Lucien’s hand in hers was warm and steadying in the buoying ship—and that those steps she was hearing somewhere behind them were, without a shadow of a doubt, Jurian’s.

Whatever Lucien was trying to prove, he had to do it now.

“Do we…jump?” she asked him.

“ELAIN!” Jurian yelled.

“I guess so,” Elain answered for him—and, together, they jumped.

The water, surprisingly, was warm despite the middle of the night. Helion liked to keep his Court warm at all times, but she supposed the sea, at least, would have carried some chill to it. It was then that she realised she’d never swam in those waters before—that she’d spent her lifetime admiring their every corner, but had never actually felt their beauty herself.

Everything happened so quickly.

The moonlight shimmered atop the sea, then sank deep beneath its surface, illuminating the space between them. Illuminating Lucien as his glamour faded and revealed the Prince of the Undersea in his true, unmasked form.

Elain could have drowned there and then.

The scales dotting his body glimmered under the light in a symphony of golds, bronzes and maroons, glowing even underwater as they formed a long, finned tail that floated gently with the current. He was sunlight come to life, the forest on a warm, autumn morning, the golden thread coming to life as it wrapped itself around her ribs, and Elain knew—knew this was the true beauty the sea had meant to show her from the very first moment she’d set sail.

“You…” She struggled for a breath. “You’re so beautiful.”

Lucien smiled, a webbed hand reaching for her own. “So are you, he said, placing her palm over his bare chest—just as he did aboard her ship moments ago. This time, though—this time, Elain could hear as their two heartbeats blended into one, a melody that made her own soul sing as Lucien whispered, “I am yours.”

The thread around her ribs tightened, forever to remain.

“You…” Elain blinked. “Oh.” She covered their joined hands with another, as if to make sure. “Lucien.”

“I needed to make sure,” he breathed, pulling her in. “You are my mate.”

There was reverence in the way he’d spoken the words—like some sacred spell only Elain was privy to hear from his lips.

She wanted to try them too.

“You are mine.”

“Yes,” he assured her.

“And I am yours.”

“Yes,” Lucien whispered again.

“Your scale—”

He squeezed her hands tighter. “Everything I am belongs to you now, Elain,” he interrupted. “But you will not need them.”

Elain blinked once more. “I don’t understand, I—”

Lucien smiled. “We have the Cauldron,” he told her. “My father took it—from Velaris.”

Elain wasn’t sure she was breathing.

“No.”

“Its wards protect us—have been keeping us safe for decades,” Lucien explained. “I think it is time we take our safety into our own hands,” he added, his thumb brushing over her palm.

Did he mean—?

Elain shook her head. “I couldn’t—”

“Where you go, I go,” Lucien said. “I am yours, Elain, and you are mine. Together, we’ll get your family back. And,” he hesitated, “If—if you still wish to have me around then—”

Her mate.

“Kiss me,” Elain demanded.

Lucien stilled. “What—”

“Now, Lucien.”

And he did.

Her eyes fluttered shut as Lucien’s mouth clashed into her own, and the world around then exploded—he tasted of salt and the sun-warmed breeze. He tasted like the rest of her gods-damned life, though she supposed eternity could never be enough to satiate the hunger one kiss had instilled deep inside her. Lucien kissed her as if she was the world, as if she was the light illuminating the sea embracing them, his lips hot and soft and all-consuming.

They had a war to face—but, as long as they faced it together…

Elain pulled back, their hearts pounding as one. She smiled at the sound.

“Let’s do this.”

[theodora3022]

Crown Jewel

(noun): a particularly valuable or prized possession or asset.

Pairing: Francis Scott Fitzgerald X fem! former assassin reader

Summary: Having betrayed the Order of the Clock Tower and fled to Japan, you hid your ability and worked at the ADA as a secretary for protection. Life was not as good, but you knew what Lady Christie would do if she discovered a traitor’s whereabouts. You knew someone would dig up your old dirt sooner or later, but why does it have to be this arrogant, awful man? 

Notes: This is really self-indulgent (to satiate my cravings and daddy issues), so read it at your own risk. I am not comfortable with cheating, so Francis is single in this one and never went bankrupt.(But he is still a family man, his wife Zelda passed away before the events in the show) He is an arrogant bastard in canon so you might find his behaviour offensive but that is just how he is. Excuse my pathetic Canadian English, as I cannot write in British English at all. This fic took me too many hours to write, thankfully it is finally done...

Special thanks to my friends for beta reading this long thing, your encouragement and praises are what kept my fragile sanity intact in the process!

Word count: 4.2k

Warnings: Mild bimbofication, mild objectification, coercion, implied dub-con(We all know what happens in marriages right?), Yandere themes

She was beautiful, but not like those girls in the magazines.

She was beautiful for the way she thought.

She was beautiful, for the sparkle in her eyes when she talked about something she loved.

She was beautiful, for her ability to make other people smile, even if she was sad.

No, she wasn’t beautiful for something as temporary as her looks.

She was beautiful, deep down to her soul.

-F.Scott Fitzgerald

The entire Fitzgerald Estate is finely, thoughtfully decorated, lavish even. Like photographs right out of a luxurious architecture magazine, with marble floors, persian carpets and high raised ceilings. A manor that sits on the top of a little hill, surrounded by trees and flowerbeds. But no matter how beautiful it may be, no one can never feel quite at home in prison. You thought as you lean back on the living room sofa near the patio, slowly dozing off in the afternoon sunlight with a half-read novel on your lap. Maybe you would go for a swim later, you could use a soak before he returns.

It’s easy to forget how much blood is on your hands in peaceful times like these. Ever since he made you dispose of your count book, you can barely remember how many people you had slaughtered.

Your hands were once covered with callouses from hours of training, but now they are as smooth as the velvet curtains. The glow from the big diamond ring on your ring finger irritates you so very often, but he had warned you not to take it off.

“Lady Fitzgerald? Mrs. Smith is here for your fitting session.” It is one of the maids. Ah, is the tailor here already? You put up a smile for the guest and got up, silently cursing your “husband” in the process. Good thing he is at work most of the time, so you can at least enjoy this glamorous life every once in a while without wanting to bury yourself in a bottomless pit.

Another week, another one of those frivolous social events. But you have no choice but to accompany him to every single one of them. While acting as the leader of the Guild, Francis is also the head of the Fitzgerald cooperation, therefore this high society life has always been the norm for him. You, on the other hand, prefer lurking in the shades. All these shimmering lights, noisy parties, fancy dresses and high heels leave you either dazzled or vulnerable. You feel more like his nice accessory, a Christmas bauble than a wife. However, you know your obligations. Be his arm candy, smile, be obedient and not to speak unless spoken to. The alternative of obeying these absurdities is simply unthinkable. Merely the thought can make you feel chills on this warm summer afternoon.

It’s either this or absolute hell. No, that is not an exaggeration.

As an experienced assassin, you had prepared for death since you first signed up for the position. However, no one can bear the Order’s punishments. You know that too well, having witnessed it first-hand countless times.

At least you can live a carefree life with this option. With infuriating restrictions or not, you are still alive and maintain a certain degree of freedom. You should take this compared to an excruciating death any day. Plus you also get to live in extravagance, you cannot hate that for one bit. This rich man has spoiled you to no end, willing to fulfill even your most absurd requests as long as you are his darling wife. Let it be cars, clothes or jewelries, whatever you wish for, Francis would always make sure you got the finest of them.  Not that is ever possible, but you could...get used to this.

However, you utterly despise this title, Lady Fitzgerald? No matter how much he pampers you or showers you with gifts, it would never make up for the fact that you only signed that marriage license under certain conditions. There are those sleepless nights, while you lay under silk quilts in his embrace in some exquisite mansion, you wish you were back in your humble Yokohama flat alone.

---a few months ago

Almost spilling your morning beverage due to running into one of your coworkers at the door, is surely a bad omen, but at the time you did not give it much thought. “Sorry, (y/n)-san. But there is an emergency.” Kirako Haruno?

Work has only just begun, and to your knowledge, there are no major events scheduled for today. Why is she in such a hurry?

Haruno is as terrified as if she just saw a bear in the middle of the street. Strange, since she is usually calm and collected. 

“What has happened? Are you okay?”

“There are foreigners here, they are demanding an audience with the president. (y/n)-san, you can handle them, right? Please, keep them occupied while I notify the president.” Looks like this is your problem now since you speak better English compared to any other in the ADA.

She said it quickly without any pause. Also walked away before you had a chance to refuse, so Haruno missed how the colours suddenly drained from your visage and your horrid expression. 

Oh, dear. Please do not let the foreigners be them… Although not many members of the Order recognizes you as you always don masks even at meetings, you still feel the world may have ended for you, as you wobble out of the office to the reception area with cold sweat. If Haruno had not hurried off, you would have found some excuse to get away from this troublesome situation. You should have called in sick today...

Are they speaking with American accents? Good gracious, you almost had a heart attack over this. You dealt with the Guild before, back when you were still in the Order when you still viewed Lady Christie as your older sister. She used to take you to negotiations meetings. You know how they are, so it should be a cakewalk to keep them occupied for at least a while. But...what if they identify you and report your whereabouts to the Order?! Would they be willing to do Christie this “favour”? The last time you checked, the two organizations were not on exactly friendly terms. So you should be fine as long as you act accordingly. Besides, the agency would not allow foreigners to harm one of their office clerks, precisely why you applied for a job ADA a year-and-a-half ago.

Get your act together, (y/n). Being this panicked is beneath you, everything will be alright as long as you conceal your fears. 

Finishing on your diplomatic front preparation, you greet them with a professional attitude. “Welcome to the Armed Detective Agency, ladies and gentlemen of the Guild.” You try to talk in the calmest tone possible, without stutters. “Now if you would follow me, I shall prepare you some tea. The President will be ready for you shortly.” Now that you have a chance to observe them up close, you had to dig your nails into your palms, pressuring yourself to maintain composure. Why is the leader of the Guild here?! You had seen him before, there is no way you could mistake that arrogant blonde for anyone else. Even though you are pretty confident he would scarcely recognize you without a mask, that tiny possibility feels like a sharp blade pressing against your throat, ready to strike anytime. 

Fitzgerald was not expecting someone who speaks flawless English to receive them. Not someone this cute, too. And here he thought this is just going to be like any other boring business discussion. But he cannot shake off this feeling of how he had seen your enchanting smile somewhere before. It was not easy to leave even a vague impression on the great Francis Scotts Fitzgerald, you must have been someone important. A business partner? A Government Official? Or perhaps a Socialite? You are someone with a high position, that he can be sure. But why would you Oh how he hates having blurry memories of something. As soon as he returns to the Guild base, Francis needs to look into their Database immediately. 

“Earl Grey, imported from England. Would you like some refreshments as well?” Taking out a can of cream biscuits from your desk drawer, you are glad to see the redhead young girl nodding excitedly. You return a genuine smile to her before bending down to fetch the plate. You were not sure if you were just being oversensitive, but you felt a burning gaze on your back when you turned. Your assassin instincts were almost always accurate, could it be that Fitzgerald had remembered something?

“Is there something wrong, Miss? You are sweating so much.” You do appreciate the ginger girl’s kind words, but could she not say it out loud for her boss to hear? You were planning on keeping your panics to yourself. Moving unnoticeable further away from the Guild leader, you gulped nervously. 

“My apologies. I am not feeling well this morning. Now, here’s your biscuits.”

“Aren’t they called cookies? They are truly delicious, thank you so much, Miss. I’m Lucy by the way.”

“In England, we call them biscuits. Would you like some more, Lucy? I have more if you’ll like it.” Her cheerful nature reminds you of a little sister, how could you say no to her pleading eyes. Unfortunately, this also made you forget how you are trying to remain incognito, and you let your hidden past out unintentionally. 

England? That certainly rings a bell for the bright mind of Francis Fitzgerald. And no, he was not eavesdropping. You are talking to his employee, after all. Francis even forgot to scold Lucy about being a demanding guest on cookies because he was so deep in thought, searching for any clue of who you might be. He was about to recall something when you received the president’s notice about the meeting. “The President is ready now, this way please.”

After they entered the office, you realized how you had accidentally exposed yourself while explaining about biscuits. No, now all you can do is pray Fitzgerald was not listening in to that whimsical tea-time conversation. Your stomach suddenly feels queasy, a sign that maybe you should request to go home early. You surely do not want to face those calculating blue eyes again. Heck, you never trembled this badly, not even before the toughest missions. 

He was planning on asking you some questions after that unsuccessful negotiation, but it would seem like you had taken a sick leave early. 

You seem to be rather nervous around him. Suspicious. 

Yet Francis cannot stop thinking about how you cared for Lucy. That consideration, if his little daughter is still around, she is bound to love you… It could just be professional kindness, but Francis had seen enough people to tell what is a facade or not. Zelda was like this too, in fact, it’s this admirable quality that had drawn him in the first place.

The great Fitzgerald had seen so many beautiful women, but your unparalleled warmth and grace outshine all appearances. 

Wait, Francis had finally cleared the fog now. Aren’t you that girl with Agatha Christie, the head knight of the Order of the Clock Tower? No wonder you speak of England. He was so shocked when Christie introduced you as one of her finest knights. You were so friendly and lighthearted, how can you be that notorious master Assassin? It does not matter whether you had a mask on or not, he remembers those lovely (colour) eyes too well. He had found you to be alluring back then, but at that time he was too busy to concern himself with amorous feelings. Going through the guild files, he found that statement from Christie about how you had defected from the Order and a bounty for your whereabouts.

So, you are hiding from your former Organization? That is unfortunate. Francis had heard a word or two about how the Order is feared for its gruesome torture methods, how they still implement the old ways without mercy. You would rather work as a low-wage secretary then continue being one of their most esteemed Knights, something must have gone terribly wrong. 

This is the perfect wager to let you, a kind, independent strong woman, bend to his will. 

Now that he had thought about it, coming back home to a loving wife once again sounds more than wonderful. Having someone by his side forever, to love, to spoil, to have a family with had always been what he wanted. But fate has been cruel to Francis on this matter and had taken them away way too soon. 

This time, he would make sure to do it right. Francis is determined not to let the tragedy repeat itself.

You were surprised by that clearly expensive gift box on your desk the next day you arrived at work. There is a letter attached to it? Your heart dropped when you saw the Guild's emblem embedded on the wax seal. What could they possibly want from you apart from...that?

“Dear Ms(y/n), Sir Francis S FitzGerald would like you to join him for dinner at (location). Please put on the dress in the box attached and be at (location) at seven p.m sharp.” 

What a condescending letter. Not even a polite invitation, just saying he wants you there? You knew how this Fitzgerald is, that arrogant and greedy type, who would value money above conscience. Well, you still got some savings left, if that could shut him up you would not mind emptying your pockets.

You can never let her find you. Suicide before she did is a possible option, but you decided to save that as the last resort.

That is why you decided to put on that dress and go to meet him at this high-end western restaurant. 

The hem of the dress is too short for your likings, but its sublime texture made you presume it costs a fortune. You cannot even recall when was the last time you had don such fine material. Life as a Knight major feels nothing more than a fever dream when Agatha was still your friend, your dear Commander.

What is Fitzgerlad’s intention of giving you such a scandalous dress? Is this some peculiar way to humiliate you? This is why you are better off acting as the blade, never as the tactician. Mind games were never your forte. 

You are wearing that dress as Francis asked, good. He knew you would look gorgeous in it. It’s such a shame you always covered yourself up. Why wear those cheap, conservative trash when you can wear this?

Someone like you needs to be cherished, to be coddled. You do not belong in the shades or some little office.

“Mr. Fitzgerald. How may I help you today?” God, you feel almost naked in this piece of cloth, but you know you had to grin and bear it as he has the upper hand for now. “If this is about that business permit, I am not the one to make decisions.”

“Why, you are not going to thank me for the dress? You look absolutely breathtaking if you are wondering.” Crap, he is wearing a suit of a matching colour. Has he done this on purpose?

You blush a bit at Francis’s generous compliment, but you did not foreget why you are here.

“Please, do sit. And call me Francis, Miss.” Pulling the chair out for you, Francis smiled politely before signalling the waiters to bring out the appetizers. He is acting way too nice if all he wants is blackmailing you. You were expecting a simple, cold business trade, not...whatever this can be called.

“So, how is Lady Christie doing?” You put down the wine glass, sensing his malicious intent and narrowing your eyes. Of course, he knows, you should have expected this much from the leader of the Guild and an accomplished businessman. Lady Christie must have sent out wanted advertisements, too. 

“If you know this much then you must know I am not a part of the Order anymore.” Just name the price already, then you can both go back to your respective businesses and forget your paths ever crossed.

Clever one, although Francis would expect anything less from someone like you. Not just anyone could be the Knight major of that Order after all. You sighed with frustration, clearly wanting to get this over with. “How much do you need? I still have a decent sum in my bank account.” It would probably be a large price, coming from this greedy man, but you are willing to pay for it as long as he stays silent.

You, trying to bribe him? How adorable. You must have been incredibly oblivious to not notice his intentions. Yes, normally a good check would silence Francis, but can’t you see he is not after your money here?

Instead of taking the pen, Francis shoved his smartphone in front of your face. 

You turn paler when you figure out the contents. It was an email draft, a draft intended for your former Commander. It tells how the Guild is doing her a big favour by returning her astray Knight major to her proper place. Did he type out an email already? You can already feel those cold dungeon bars on your skin. 

“Is money not enough? What exactly do you need?” Calm down, (y/n). If Francis did not send that email, it means negotiation is still possible. Just give him what he needs and be done with it. 

To your shock, the blonde smiled smugly and said: “I want you to join the Guild.”

Join the Guild? “As an assassin?” Of course, he is after your ability. It was what made you a high ranking knight, no wonder he would want that for his organization. 

“Not exactly. You see, I’m looking for a...personal bodyguard.” Hm, Francis is fond of the word “personal” in this context, it makes him feel like you are one of his possessions already.

“If you have any knowledge about my ability at all, you should know I am no good for frontal combat. With your status, fitting individuals would come running.” Is he toying with you? How despicable. Only a dastard would toy with someone’s mind, especially someone desperate.

Carefully taking your hand into his, feeling your soft skin and those light calluses on your fingers, Francis knows he has to do this the blunt way. You are such a fool when it comes to romantic relationships. 

“Be my wife, you don’t need to worry about being discovered ever again. Christie cannot touch you as long as you are by my side. You can have whatever you want, just say the word. ”

This has to be a hallucination. Be his...wife? “Mr. Fitzgerald, have you got hit on the head earlier?” Feeling his forehead with the back of your hand: “You do not seem to have a fever. Are you feeling unwell?” Is he out of his mind? You, his wife? You are a dangerous assassin with a high headcount, not exactly wife material. No one sane wishes to be involved with you romantically, or so you thought.

He was not expecting such an eccentric reaction. Most women would be over the moon with the mere thought of becoming his mistress, not to mention an actual wife. Francis knows you are different, but this is out of his wildest predictions. 

You are even harder to predict than the stock market of New York.

“This is a serious offer, love. Do you take my words as some jester’s joke?” He is not joking? Oh dear, you don’t want to marry this man. He did not even properly court you? And it is not like he is giving you a real choice either.

“What, are you going to refuse? That is fine, surely this email could bring a smile to Christie's face.” “No, please don’t send that email!”The way your pupils shrink suddenly gives him heartaches, but this is the necessary measure to make sure you are compliant. Francis had promised to spoil you, but sadly this is not a matter he can compromise with. He could make it up with gifts and attention later right? This life in exile is not fitting for a lady like you, so why don’t you let him take care of you? Don’t you understand what could happen to you had he not intervened?

That trembling little nod is all Francis needs for confirmation. As he brings your hand to his lips for a gentle kiss, he swore silently to himself how he would never repeat his previous mistakes.

“Now, let us go ring shopping. Pick the biggest diamond one if you like, but make sure to select it out with a matching one.”

----Back to present

After the fitting appointment, you decided to spend the rest of the afternoon with some confectionary practices. You remember well how Francis’s face would lit up like a Christmas tree if he comes home to the smell of your bakings. It disgusts you how much he loves your docile mask, how you are his perfect housewife, his Mrs. Fitzgerald. This bastard do take pleasure in others pain.

Still, you must keep your “husband” happy. Humming your favourite melody in a pink apron, you try to imagine you are just doing this for only your own amusement, in your own house to make this more bearable. 

Baking is one of the many hobbies you picked up after becoming Lady Fitzgerald. You could not work, neither as an assassin nor a secretary, as he is concerned about your “safety”: “Why should my lovely wife trouble herself with those headaches? You should spend your day doing whatever interests you, like painting or knitting! Tell me anytime if you need tutors.” Then Francis gave your head a few pats as if you are some cute puppy? You can never count how many screws he got loose.

What interests you? Well, stabbing Francis in his sleep could hardly count as a suitable hobby. Guess you’ll have to think of other ways to utilize those kitchen knives.  Since he forbids you to train with weapons, you are stuck with those pathetic feminine leisure activities. 

Placing the tray onto the preheated oven rack, you were cleaning up the mess from the process when two strong arms abruptly wrapped around your waist from behind. You knew exactly who it is since you had sensed his presence when he first set a foot into this ridiculously large kitchen. You also had to take deep breaths, reminding yourself why you shouldn’t just aim your fists at Francis’s nose then and there. These past few months with him had raised your resilience to an incredible level, you could tolerate his demanding physical affections without the urge to jump off a cliff now. 

Curling your lips upwards, you push yourself to leave a light peck on the tall blonde man’s left cheek. That is mandatory, you had learned that on the first day here. “You’re home early.” The way you say those words is so sweet, even sweeter than those sugary treats in the oven. Even though you have to be careful, not letting the venom underneath slip out.

This is what Francis S. Fitzgerald longs to come home to, the love of his life after a day of gruelling meetings and other work. Once a renowned assassin, a second-in-command Knight in a Prestigious Royal Order, but now you are just his little housewife. He could never find a shinier trophy to demonstrate his power and influence. The haughty Blonde knows you have not entirely given up on the idea of escaping, still holding a grudge towards him, time will tell whether you accept your place or not. But that does not matter now, right now the Guild leader just wants to watch some brainless tv show on the sofa, with you on his lap to unwind, some Bordeaux would be nice too. He could handle all those business meetings if that means holding you to sleep every night. The sight of your smile makes it all worth it. 

You belong to him now, his most prized possession, the crown jewel of Francis Fitzgerald’s collection.

And you have no say in the matter as long as you wish to stay in the land of the living.

It was only a sunny smile, and little it cost in the giving,

But like morning light it scattered the night and made the day worth living.

-F.Scott Fitzgerald

(Hey! Thank you for reading! Commetns and reblogs would be greately appreciated!)

[just-jammin]

Wandering Revelations… or Empty Guesses?

Word Count: 1111

Summary: As Jam writes a letter to the Angst Side, she finds out something about her recently newfound set of powers.

Well, she thinks she did.

(Or: The author is very unsure about how magic in this version of Fluff/Angst War works, and is probably wrong although she is happily willing to rewrite this to fit in the canon.)

Unofficial Tag List: @wherethehellhaveyoubeen-loca​ (you beta-read this bullshit and you loved it and ily for that— /p)

To The Angst Side:

Greetings to you all!

I’m not so sure if you have noticed (although, by the time this letter is delivered, you probably did), but I have left the group to wander in the woods. But before you jump to conclusions, I’m still on your side, no worries.

I’m writing this letter now to report any happenings on the opposition. This is the reason why I left: to spy on the Fluff Side & Team Switzerland, and take notes about their conditions & changes to report to you.

First, I have some info regarding the status of the members within the teams. I noticed that both the Fluff Side & Team Switzerland have one member missing from their groups since the last time we saw them. From what I remember of who the members are, the missing members are Keynon (I think that’s what they called them) from the Fluff Side, and… I forgot the name of the one from Team Switzerland. But they do have dark wavy hair that’s swept on one side if that helps.

Speaking of missing members, I bumped into one of our allies recently. I assume you remember Adri, right? If not, she was in the war with us for some time, though recently she hasn’t been able to meet up with us. However, we didn’t interact for long, but I did give her a parting gift before that, so I, unfortunately, don’t know if she still stands with us.

Oh, I also noticed something about one of the Fluff members. So, you know the kid with the goggles? Well, I may have seen him with Team Switzerland once. He was talking with… Rowan? The goat person, basically. I even caught a glance of a chainsaw on his person, which is quite unusual, because I’ve never seen him bring that in the battles.

One more thing, please do take this report of mine with a bit of salt, because my memory’s sort of… shitty, to say the least. If you’re wondering how I’m doing now, I’m actually doing pretty okay! Sure, they are some obstacles in survival that I have, but hey, I’m still here today! (as of the time I wrote this letter, hehe)

I hope that you guys can gather more troops for the next time blood is shed. And if you need me, just write to me and leave it in the woods, maybe? I’ll find it… probably…

Till we meet again!

— Jam

>> —^— <<

Right before Jam wrote her name (and, in extension, finished writing her letter), they realized that they needed to write the sigil she used. Rummaging through their knapsack, she tried to find her trusty red pen, only to come with no luck.

Damn, they thought to themselves, must’ve left it back there…

She paused and thought for a while until an idea formed in their mind. They grasped the hilt of their sword and unsheathed it in a not-so-graceful manner, due to the fact that she’s sitting down and leaning against a tree.

After picking it up on the grass & leaves where it fell on, she took one good look at the sword. The sword, as a whole, was quite long for them, measuring about almost as long as their arm. Its double-edged blade was quite strange-looking, decorated with smaller rectangular blades of a dark and deep purple obsidian on the sides.

The leather-wrapped hilt was arguably the hardest part to understand for Jam, because its crossguard is just two rhomboid pieces stacked on top of each other, with one pink and one blue. Even at this moment, they still don’t know what that part is made of; only that it looks like a metallic material.

Jam admired the sword—her sword—for a while. They reminisced about how it was created: by a light that she somehow managed to summon. In confusion and awe, slightly fueled by their stress. It was weird not seeing fire like they usually summoned, but hey, at least she got the Bi Vibes Sword.

(It was called that when she was still staying with the Angst Side, though she mentally changed it to “The Bane of Bad Vibes”; it seemed more badass for it in their opinion.)

She shook off from their tangent and got to the point of her idea. They carefully held it by the blade, cutting a tiny slit on her thumb to make it bleed. Then she traced their thumb onto the paper to paint her sigil: the sign of Gemini, a not very recent change from her usual X symbol before.

Putting down the Bane, she finally finished her letter. She also checked and double-checked for anything they missed or got wrong, but she noticed that it was getting dark out in the woods.

So they concentrated…

…and created.

Globules of golden light of varying sizes slowly started to appear around her and the tree she’s sitting underneath. One of them started to move closer to Jam, having her notice small tongues of flame reach up and retract on the light. To them, it looks like a miniature version of a Sun, being less hotter and more… reflective?

Wait a sec…

She focused on her reflection on the globule’s surface, which made the light dimmer for a bit. They didn’t expect that… nor did she expect that her eyes were glowing. Not that it was a new thing to them, she was just surprised at the fact that they were glowing gold.

Normally, they’d be glowing red when using her powers… but gold?

This is… very baffling for them right now.

As the mini sun shined brighter and drifted far from her, she also noticed that the globules of light looked very similar to the light when the Bane was created.

And then it clicked.

Sorta.

Is it… fluff?

It can’t be…

But the guess they had made sense. Making those lights had her feeling a sense of bliss. Happiness. That’s what Fluff was made to do: to make people have warmth in their hearts.

The flames made by her Angst didn’t give that warmth as well as now, she realized.

After this revelation, she read the letter once more.

“Eh,” she said to herself, “that’ll do.”

And with that, she looked up to see what seems to be a forcefield made of the same golden flaming light formed around her area. It doesn’t look discreet, but at least that’s enough.

As night finally fell over the woods, her area stayed alight.

[crispychrissy]

Intoxicating

Summary: Being a rare female Alpha, the reader comes across the Winchesters and decides to reveal her sub-gender. Hitting it off with Dean, she decides to get to know him a whole lot better, even if he is an Alpha, too. Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Alpha!Reader, Sam Winchester, other OC’s Word Count: 4687 Warnings: ABO dynamics, SPN canon violence, language, angst, fluff, smut, oral sex (both receiving) a bit of dom!Reader, knotting A/N: This takes care of the Alpha x Alpha square for @spnkinkbingo​ and it was a challenge! This ABO story has some differences between my other ABO stories, but everything is explained. This was beta’d by my lovely @dean-winchesters-bacon. This year’s SPN King Bingo Masterlist can be found here.

“Hey lady, watch out!”

The gruff voice that came from behind you was just distracting enough for the vampire to lunge forward and take a bite out of your bicep, making you yelp in pain and slam the heel of your palm into his nose with a satisfying crunch. Taking advantage of your stunned adversary, you swung your machete right as two sets of footsteps stopped a few feet behind you.

Not bothering to see who was there, you watched as the vampire’s head rolled off his shoulders and landed in the dirt next to your feet. Grabbing the bleeding bite wound on your arm with a grimace, you growled in anger and kicked his head, sending it sailing across the room and into the far wall with a wet thwack.

Spinning on your heel, you glared at the two flannel covered Alphas that were staring at you, their own machetes in their respective hands. “What the fuck?!” you screeched, making both of them flinch.

“Calm down,” the shorter of the two said, sheathing his blade in a thigh holster. “We didn’t know a hunter was on this case already. Thought you were a civilian.”

“Do I fucking look like a civilian?” you growled at him, wiggling your blood soaked machete and gesturing to the belt of dead man’s blood syringes across your chest.

“We couldn’t tell what was happening,” the taller one admitted, “and all we could see was you struggling. We didn’t know if he was feeding on you.”

“Well, thanks to you, he was able to get a last meal.” You pulled a clean bandage out of one of the pouches on your belt and wrapped it around your arm. Cleaning it would have to wait until you got back to the motel room. Raising a finger at the two of them, you continued, “And you’re lucky that wasn’t a werewolf. I would have killed you both just out of spite.”

The shorter one rolled his eyes while the taller one chuckled nervously. They were both attractive guys, but being an Alpha yourself, you didn’t need or want anything to do with them. While male Omegas were rare, female Alphas were even rarer, so you knew there was a low possibility of ever finding a mate unless you wanted to settle for a submissive Beta.

Good thing hunting was a solitary lifestyle.

Slipping your machete back into the holster at the small of your back, you walked toward the door to the barn, making sure to walk right between the two men, making them stumble out of your way. You heard both of them scent the air, but you doubted they could tell your presentation due to all the scent masking lotion you wore on a daily basis. It was made for Omegas, but it worked fine for you as well. It prevented the curious looks and whispering when you went out in public.

“Wait, what’s your name?” the shorter one asked.

Ignoring his question, you spun around in the doorway, pulled out a box of matches, and lit one before glancing back up at them. “You guys gonna come out or am I torching you along with the vamps?”

Their eyes went wide and they both sprinted outside, watching as you threw a match on the ground outside the right side of the door, then lit another match and dropped it onto the left side. An invisible trail of gasoline lit up in a circle around the entire building along with several trails that led up from the circle to the actual building itself, setting it on fire in a uniform manner.

“Several ignition spots… makes the burn more complete,” the taller one commented, obviously impressed. “Very nice.”

A single nod of acknowledgement was all you replied with before silently heading back to your car where it was parked in some trees about a half mile down the road.

“Wait, you killed that entire nest by yourself?” the shorter one sputtered. “That was like eight vamps.”

“Eleven,” you corrected him, turning around while still walking backward, “but who’s counting?” The heat from the fire fueled your instincts and you flashed your gold irises at the two men, smiling when both their eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Goodnight, boys.”

They were both speechless as you walked further away, but you heard the shorter one speak about a minute later and you had to strain to hear him. “Sammy, she was an Alpha!” He paused before continuing, “my dick is so confused.”

“Come on, Dean, gross,” the taller one groaned.

A smile twitched at your lips as you walked out of earshot. At least you had names to go with their faces in case you had the unlucky chance to run into them again.

Of course, luck was not on your side.

Striding into the local hole-in-the-wall bar for a nightcap before you took off tomorrow morning, your eyes scanned the bar and you scented the air. Alpha and Omega scents fighting for dominance made your nose twitch, but you didn’t scent any male Omegas. While female Omegas have a very light and fruity almost flowery scent, male Omegas have a scent that smells like rain, fresh laundry, and a hint of citrus.

At least that’s what you remembered of the only male Omega you’d ever met.

Shaking your head to rid your mind of unpleasant memories, you beelined for one of the few open booths near the bar, content to snack on some greasy bar food and drink your weight in liquor. The door opening drew your attention, and of course none other than the two hunters you’d met earlier strode in. The shorter one, Dean, saw you and his face lit up, pushing his way through the crowded bar over to your table with his partner in tow.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he drawled, both men sliding into the seat across from you.

“Well, it’s the only locally owned bar that’s not a chain restaurant so it’s really not that strange,” you countered, shoving a handful of fries into your mouth. Swallowing, you continued, “And I know you mean well, fellas, but I’m not interested in whatever you’re offering. I can handle my own.”

“We’re not doubting that,” the taller one chimed in. “My name is Sam, this,” he pointed to Dean, “is my brother Dean. Winchester. We’re hunters, too.”

You recognized the last name, what hunter wouldn’t, but you rolled your eyes. “Y/N,” you slapped Dean’s hand away from your fries before you continued, “and I figured you were hunters when you ran into the barn with machetes.” Downing the rest of your whiskey you slid up the sleeve of your shirt and pointed to the bandage wrapped around you bicep. “My arm is fine by the way, thanks for your concern. Hurt like a bitch in the shower.”

“Sorry about that again.” Dean dipped his head like he was a child being scolded. “Let us make it up to you. Can we buy you a drink?”

Rolling your empty glass between your fingers, you hesitated; there was a reason you worked alone and stayed away from other hunters. But… the Winchesters had a mostly positive reputation from what you’ve heard, and it seemed they were trying to be sincere. Nodding, you jumped slightly when Dean slapped his hands on the table and gave you a thumbs up before disappearing into the crowd, headed towards the bar.

You could feel Sam’s eyes on you, and he looked away when you met his gaze. “Can I help you, Sam?”

“Sorry,” he rushed out, “I’ve just never seen a female Alpha before.”

“Do you wanna take a selfie with me or something?” you said with a chuckle.

Sam laughed nervously and scratched the back of his head. “No… I just expected to scent you when we were in the barn, but I couldn’t. It wasn’t until you flashed your eyes we realized you were an Alpha. Thought you were a Beta.”

“I use scent blockers, the ones made for Omegas. It does the job.” Glancing over, Dean was on his way back to the table with a mid-range tier bottle of whiskey and two glasses. “Wanna see why?”

Sam nodded as Dean sat down, and while they were pouring drinks, you reached into your bag for the packet of wet naps you keep in case you get splattered with guts and are nowhere near a shower. Dean watched, confused, as you swiped the wet cloth around your neck, chest, and wrists.

“I thought you said you took a shower. What are you doing?” Dean asked.

“She’s getting rid of her scent blocking lotion,” Sam whispered. “Apparently she uses the stuff Omegas use. Wants to show us why she wears it when most Alphas don’t.”

Once the lotion was gone from your skin, you saw both brothers scent the air and straighten up in their seats, genetics and biology telling them there was another Alpha in their presence, a potential threat. They both visibly relaxed when you tilted your head and raised a brow, but when nothing happened, Dean raised his glass and gestured at you.

“So what was supposed to happen? I mean, I can scent it, but nothing crazy happened.”

Smiling, you turned in your seat so your legs were dangling off the end and continued eating your french fries, staring out into the sea of people in the bar. “Give it a few minutes.”

Like clockwork, you waited only three minutes before you saw people in the bar begin scenting the air. Several eyes snapped to you, and you heard a few low growls to accompany the glares you were getting. Some of the male Alphas were looking at you with interest, like you were a challenge that would earn them some kind of sexual conquest achievement, while others were eyeing you like you were a predator that was going to swoop in and steal whoever they were chatting up.

Towards the middle of the bar, you watched as a petite brunette pushed off the male Alpha that was pawing at her clothes and began making her way over to you, hunger and lust in her eyes.

Omega.

“Here we go,” you said under your breath, drawing confused looks from the Winchesters.

Once she got to where you were sitting, she flipped her hair over her shoulder, allowing you to get a nice whiff of her delightfully fruity scent, and looked up at you through her eyelashes. “Hi, I’m Amber.” She moved so she was between your legs, running her hands up and down your thighs.

“Hi Amber,” you purred, smiling when she shivered.

Amber didn’t wait for an invitation, she leaned forward, pressed her body against yours, and buried her nose in your neck, pressing soft kisses against your skin and taking deep breaths of your scent. Turning your head, you grinned at the completely bewildered looks on both Sam and Dean’s faces.

“She would be like… the best wingman ever,” Dean whispered to his brother, watching the Omega rub herself against you and practically purr with arousal.

You shook your head and pointedly looked back out at the bar, nodding at the very angry Alpha that was forcefully making his way toward you through the crowd. The same Alpha that Amber had left to come to you.

The guy puffed up his chest when he got within a few feet of you, which only made you laugh, and grabbed Amber’s arm, pulling her off you.

“Amber, we’re leaving,” he commanded, but she shook free of his grip and returned to continue scenting you. “Omega!” he shouted, making her sigh against your neck and turn around.

“You’re not my Alpha, Todd,” Amber said, crossing her arms across her chest before turning to look at you. “And… she smells amazing. I… I’ve never met a girl Alpha.” She pressed herself against you and nuzzled into your neck. “You’re intoxicating.”

You could practically hear Todd’s blood pressure raising as he clenched his fists at his sides. “So, what? Two years of a relationship down the drain because some fucking bitch with a synthetic Alpha spray wants to get in your pants?”

“Oh, boy,” Dean muttered.

Sliding off the seat, you stood to your full height, which was about the same as Todd, with Amber still clinging to you. Flashing your eyes gold, you watched as the color drained from Todd’s horrified face. “Synthetic, huh?”

“I don’t… you… how…” Todd stammered, taking a step back.

“We’re rare, not extinct,” you informed him, looking up at the suddenly quiet bar. Almost every patron of the bar was staring at you, and you allowed your eyes to return to their normal color. “I don’t want your girl, Todd. I was just proving a point to my friends here,” you gestured to the Winchesters, “so you can take Amber and skedaddle.”

Amber pouted and looked up at you. “But -”

“Sorry, Omega. You smell lovely, though, sweetheart,” you said, lips twitching up in a smirk when Todd growled at you and pulled Amber with him back through the bar. Sitting back down, you took another handful of french fries and glanced up at the Winchesters. “So yeah, that’s why I wear scent blockers. Female Alphas are apparently catnip to Omegas.”

Dean scoffed, looking out at the bar and noticing several other Omegas had taken interest in you. “I’ll say. Looks like you turned a few more heads after you ditched Amber.” Dean said her name in a teasing sing-songy voice.

When another Omega began making her way toward you, you saw the bartender getting yelled at by the Alpha she left, who was wildly pointing at you. The Beta bartender grabbed a baseball bat and began walking toward you, a scowl on his face.

“Here we go,” you sighed, quickly shoveling the remaining french fries into your mouth and washing it down with the rest of your whiskey.

“Excuse me,” the bartender said once he was at the table. “I’m gonna have to ask you to leave. You’re causing disruptions and several fights have almost started because of it. I can’t have Alphas gettin’ into fist fights over their Omegas.”

“Isn’t that a little sexist? You can’t -” Sam began, but you held up your hand to stop him.

“It’s fine. I’ll get out of your hair.” Standing up, all eyes were on you once more, and you were pleasantly surprised when the Winchesters both stood up as well and grabbed their jackets.

“Thank you,” the bartender said, pushing out a sigh of relief that you didn’t put up a fight. You were used to this, it was something you dealt with often before using scent blockers.

“I’m keeping the bottle, though.” Shooting him a wink, you grabbed the bottle of whiskey from the table and walked toward the exit, the sea of people parting for you like you were Moses as you walked.

Once outside the bar and walking back to your motel, the Winchesters asked you questions about being a female Alpha and how it was different from a male Alpha. When you arrived, you were actually happy to hear they were staying in a room a few doors down from you. Inviting them to your motel room to finish off the bottle of whiskey, they both accepted and joined you after dropping their jackets off in their room.

Surprisingly, you found it very easy to talk to them. While they were curious, none of their questions were disrespectful or crossed the line, even though you could tell Dean was wanting to ask some that would. After several hours filled with a lot of drinking, Sam tapped out and stumbled from the room, biding you and Dean a mumbled good night.

The two of you sat in silence for a couple tense minutes before Dean finally spoke up after downing the rest of his whiskey.

“So how does it work?”

Smirking, you placed your glass down on the table. “How does what work?”

“You know,” he wiggled his hand toward your crotch, “sex.”

Hiding your smile, you leaned in towards him. “Well, Dean. When a girl and a boy like each other, they get naked and -”

“Very funny,” Dean interrupted. “You know what I mean. Female Alphas were almost extinct when I was taking high school health class, so they didn’t bother to teach us the mating habits.”

“Are you asking me if I can knot Omegas?” you asked. Dean swallowed and nodded. “Yes, I can, but only during rut. It’s… it’s similar to how male Alphas do it, but instead of a knot at the base of your dick swelling, my vaginal muscles swell and lock the Omega inside me.” The blush on Dean’s cheeks made you reach for your glass of whiskey, using it to hide your smile while you sipped.

“So, do you produce slick?” Dean mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

“No. Male Omegas do if they’re with a female Alpha. It’s almost like precum, but a lot more of it comes out.” Setting down your glass again, you leaned towards Dean in your chair. “And while female Omegas might be really tight, I can control my pelvic muscles like they’re any other body part. So I can squeeze down on you as hard… as… I… want.”

Dean’s eyes went wide and he swallowed hard, trying to shift in his chair to adjust himself. You knew he saw the predatory look you were giving him, so when he flashed his golden irises at you and puffed his chest out, you leaned back away from him, unsure if he was showing signs of aggression.

“Oh come on, sweetheart,” Dean purred, “don’t tell me you’re not interested anymore. Ya ever been with a male Alpha?”

You smiled. Hook, line, and sinker. “No, I haven’t. But I think I should change that.”

It was as if someone shot a starting pistol. You and Dean were out of your chairs in an instant, fumbling with each others clothes. Dean pushed you backward against the wall next to the table, pawing at your breasts through your shirt and shoving his knee between your thighs. A small laugh escaped you before you grabbed Dean by the torso and spun around, pressing him back against the wall while you fiercely kissed him and worked on undoing his belt.

Dean growled deep in his chest at the challenge for dominance and tried to push you back, but you tightened your grip on him and pushed your body up against his, your lips right next to the shell of his ear.

“I am not some little Omega you can push around, Dean. This cock,” you gripped him through his jeans, “is mine tonight.”

Dean groaned as you palmed him, but his lust-clouded eyes snapped open and stared you down. “You might think it’s yours, but I’m not gonna give it up without a fight.”

He used his body weight to push you off him, making you stumble backward a few feet. Yours and Dean’s eyes were glowing gold at this point and you maintained eye contact as you both began to strip out of your clothes. When you were completely bare, you watched as Dean unzipped his pants and pulled them down along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, thick and leaking, and he gave himself a few strokes while you shamelessly stared and ran your fingers over your nipples.

Before you could make your move, Dean rushed forward and scooped you up, tossing you backward onto the bed and settling on his stomach between your thighs before you could get your bearings. With a low growl, he spread your legs further and licked a wide stripe up through your folds, flicking his tongue over your clit. When your hips bucked, Dean’s arm came down across your stomach, holding you still.

“Fuck, Dean,” you mewled as he continued to lick and suck at your pussy like it was an Olympic sport and he was going for gold.

Two thick digits prodded at your entrance before they slid inside, making you gasp as they immediately found your g-spot and began rubbing over the sensitive spot. It didn’t take long until you were screaming Dean’s name, squeezing down on his fingers, and trembling at the overwhelming sensation of bliss.

Dean sat back on his legs, his face glistening with your juices, a smug smile on his lips. You reached up, wrapping your hand around his neck and pushing your fingers into his hair… but when he leaned in, assuming you wanted to kiss him, you pulled him down and flipped him onto his back. His eyes flashed again, likely unused to being manhandled, but he was still a willing participant with his hooded eyes and bottom lip pulled between his teeth.

Since your sexual experience had only been mostly with Betas, you took time to admire how thick and long Dean’s cock was when you gripped it in your hand. You could see the thickening muscle of his knot at the base and Dean grunted when you ran your tongue along it. Licking all the way up his shaft to the tip, you sucked the head of his cock into your mouth, ran your tongue along the underside, and traced the several thick veins you could feel.

“Fuck,” Dean hissed through gritted teeth as you took as much of him inside your mouth and down your throat that you could, making sure to gently play with his balls as you teased him with your tongue. It only took another thirty seconds before Dean was gasping and writhing on the bed, showering you with praises.

Once you felt his cock begin to swell, you released him from your mouth and winked at him, allowing him to calm down and catch his breath. His hands were fisted in the blankets on either side of him and his chest was glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. When he sat up and grabbed your wrist, you straddled his lap and pinned his arms on either side of his head.

“Not so fast, cowboy. This is my rodeo.” Moving your hips back and forth, you slid your pussy along the length of his cock, smiling when Dean let out a shuddered breath that turned into a low growl.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” he taunted, one of his cheeks indented with a dimple from a lopsided smirk.

Lifting your hips, you grabbed his cock - maybe a little tighter than you should have based on the grunt he let out - and positioned the thick head at your entrance. Not being one for taking things slow, you dropped yourself down onto his lap, taking his entire cock at once and releasing his hands.

“Je- fuck!” Dean shouted, his hands shooting to your hips to steady you as you adjusted to his size. When you squeezed down on him, almost painfully tight, he gasped and jerked his hips up, pressing the tip of his cock against the entrance to your womb.

“Feel good, Alpha?” you purred, brushing your fingernails gently over his nipples.

Dean wasn’t used to being dominated like this, you could tell, and it was taking almost all of his willpower to not flip you underneath him and pound you into the mattress. “You gonna just sit there or are you gonna ride me...” he flashed his eyes, “Alpha?”

Growling at the use of your title, you began to slide up and down on his cock, making sure to swirl your hips occasionally and squeeze down on him. The sensation of having an Alpha cock inside you was just as intoxicating as it probably was for Dean to feel the walls of your pussy basically massage his cock as you rode him.

Dean tried to sit up and take control at least three times while you rode him, but you shifted your weight and pinned him down, much to his dismay. The lustful look in his eyes betrayed his frustration though; Dean was definitely enjoying himself. His fingers gripped you tighter as you came closer and closer to your climax, and you could feel the tug of Dean’s knot at the base of his cock as it began to swell.

“You wanna knot me?” you mewled into his ear, picking up the speed of your hips and ignoring the burning in your thighs. While you’d never been knotted before, the competing pheromones and scents in the air were driving you mad with lust and you ignored the likely discomfort that being knotted would bring.

“Y-yes,” Dean gasped, lifting his hips up to meet your movements, allowing his cock to slam into your g-spot with every thrust. “You feel so fucking good, gon’ knot you so hard.”

“Come on, Dean,” you panted, “knot me, baby. I know you wanna feel me squeeze down on you while you fill me up.”

With one violent jerk of his hips and a shout of your name, Dean slammed into you at full force, lodging his knot in your pussy while his cock twitched and filled you. The stretching sensation of being knotted sent you over the edge as well, holding onto Dean’s chest while you shook and spasmed around him, milking every drop of his cum from his cock.

Dean was still coming as you collapsed against him, both your bodies slick with sweat and pheromones as you tried to regain control of your breathing. Dean ran a hand up and down your back as exhaustion pulled at your consciousness, but you cleared your throat, shook your self out of it, and looked up at him.

“Well, that was interesting,” you said with a chuckle.

Dean laughed and kissed your forehead. “Yeah. Are you okay? I’m not hurting you am I?” A mischievous smirk crossed your lips as you fluttered your pussy around him, making him twitch and release another spurt of cum inside you. “Fuck,” Dean groaned, “don’t do that.”

“You weren’t complaining five minutes ago,” you mumbled against his chest, drawing nonsensical patterns on his skin with your finger.

“No, no I wasn’t,” Dean huffed a laugh before you felt his body go rigid. “Shit, we didn’t…”

Snuggling further into his chest, you waved your hand around lazily. “Relax, Dean. You can’t get me pregnant. Female Alphas are infertile unless they find their true mate, and since male Omegas are rare, too… I don’t think I’m getting pregnant anytime soon.”

Dean relaxed and wrapped his arms around you. “I’m sorry.”

You raised your head. “For what?”

“That you can’t have pups, or don’t think you see yourself having pups in your future. I know a lot of Omegas dream of it, and you’re an Alpha, but just because it’s rare doesn’t mean it can’t happen. Don’t give up. I can see if Castiel, our angel friend, might be able to help tomorrow, if you wanted to see if you had a soulmate out there.”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You’d do that?”

Dean nodded. “It might be unpleasant how he has to do it, but it’ll be worth a shot.”

Before you could answer, there was a loud knock at the door, making you both jump, and making Dean’s knot tug where you were both still locked together.

“Are you two finished screwing each other? You’re stinking up the whole motel,” Sam’s slurred and angry voice came through the closed door. “And there’s like… three Omegas in the parking lot out here waiting their turn or something.”

Dean glanced at you, and you looked up at him, before you both broke out into full-body laughter. You were bouncing on his chest as you cracked up, but you didn’t miss Sam’s mumbled curse nor his footsteps walking away from the door. Bracing your arms on the bed, you lifted yourself up so you could look into Dean’s eyes.

“Like catnip, man. Like catnip.”

The laughter continued even when Dean could pull free from your body, and you snuggled up into his side, excited what tomorrow could bring.

Forevers [CLOSED]: @katymacsupernatural @queen-of-deans-booty @your-modern-shakespeare @wheresthekillswitch @holyfuckloueh @just-another-busy-fangirl @growningupgeek @jensen-gal @mizzezm @there-must-be-a-lock @atc74 @pilaxia @supernatural-jackles @impala-dreamer @bambi95-blog @wonderfulworldofwinchester @batmmgray @brooke-supernatural16 @dwgrl1903 @hey-bxtch @turnttoverr @kittenofdoomage @leanbeankeane @emoryhemsworth @xalgaliareptx @mhnfatima @bi-e-ne @speakinvain @pebblesz892 @kararanae23 @kassablanca13 @mogaruke @tockettt @imagining-supernatural @wildefire @serienjunkiegirl @mrswhozeewhatsis @stars-and-seas @jaremish @ellen-reincarnated1967 @nyxveracity @andkatiethings @bamby0304 @deathtonormalcy56 @winchesterprincessbride @moonstar86 @missihart23 @mrs-meghan-winchester @miss-rebel-without-applause @dean-winchesters-bacon @curly-haired-disaster @supernatural-teamfreewillpage

Dean/Jensen: @akshi8278 @adoptdontshoppets @focusonspn​ @spnwoman

[andromytta]

Claire’s Nightmare

AO3 Link:  https://archiveofourown.org/works/16467038

SPN Rare Ship CC: Round 22 | andromytta vs. @otrera-kicks-ass

Prompt: Freddy Krueger

Ship: Claire Novak/Kevin Tran

Word Count: 10,200

Tags/Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Blood and Gore, Canon Typical Violence, Major Character Injury

Summary: Claire Novak goes to Hastings, Nebraska to investigate what she believes to be a werewolf pack eating it's way through Hastings' teenagers. What she finds is so much different than she expected, and her case leads her to an old house on Elm Street.  The question is, is Claire Novak hunting Freddy Krueger, or is Freddy Krueger hunting Claire Novak?

Author’s Note:  Special thanks to my beta, @vampamber, who I think is the only person who knows the Nightmare franchise better than me, and to @l8nit-l0vr for the fabulous aesthetic!

Claire Novak pulled her red Subaru next to the ramshackle house at 1428 Elm Street in Hastings, Nebraska. She chose this case because kids her age were being slaughtered by something unknown.  It didn’t hurt that it was only a couple of hours from the Men of Letters bunker, and she could spend the night with Kevin Tran if she wanted to.  But that was neither here nor there.  She had a monster to kill, and she had a pretty good idea of what it was.  Or, she thought she had when she first caught wind of the bodies piling up in Hastings.  

The official report stated exsanguination due to sharp force trauma as the cause of death.  The police thought they were looking for a serial killer with a penchant for knives.  When Claire saw the crime scene photos, and the slash marks all over the bodies, slash marks that looked like claws, Claire was sure the murderer (or murderers) was a pack of werewolves.  Her specialty.  

Her first stop was at the coroners’, to get a good look at the bodies and confirm what she already knew. Jody was always telling her not to jump to conclusions, so she needed to be one hundred percent sure these deaths were the work of werewolves.  So, she expected to find missing hearts to go with exsanguinated bodies.  What she found was nothing like what she was expecting.

“As you can see, the hearts are still there.  Mangled to all hell, but still there,” the coroner explained matter-of-factly.  “In fact, I don’t think this is a case for Animal Control at all, young lady.  You see these cuts?”  The doctor gestured to the newest body on the slab with her lollipop.  “These were most definitely made by blades, not claws. That means the police are right and this is some human whack job, not wild animals.”

“Do the police have any clues?” Claire asked, hoping the coroner wouldn’t just dismiss her out right.

The coroner gave her a once over, as if trying to figure out what she was up to.   She shrugged and answered her question.  “That’s the weird thing.  There were no prints and no DNA.  Not a single shred of evidence was left behind.  Either this serial killer is just that good…or something else is at work here.”  The coroner threw her a wink before adding, “But that’s not really our jobs, is it?”

“No, of course not,” Claire agreed hurriedly.  “Thank you for your time.  Guess I’ll be going.  Nothing for Animal Control here.”  She left quickly.

Thus, her real investigation started.  She had no idea what she was up against, but had traced all of the victims’ movements to this one dilapidated house.  She thought it looked vaguely familiar, like something in the back of her mind nagging at her, but whatever it was, she couldn’t grasp it.  Claire shook off that feeling, as well as the chills that were suddenly lodged in her spine and decided to investigate.

Claire made her way to the door and pulled out her lock picking set.  Before she could even begin to pick the lock, the door suddenly swung open. Claire looked around her, expecting a breeze to be the culprit, but all of the surrounding trees were still.  She shrugged and walked into the house anyway. As soon as she crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut behind her.  “Well, that’s not creepy.  At all,” she said to no one.

Steeling herself with a deep breath, Claire looked around.  It was quite evident that taggers had their fun, as the walls were covered in graffiti of all sorts, in all shades of the rainbow.  She took her digital camera out of her bag and started taking pictures of it, as she was well aware any manner of occult symbols could be hidden among the curse words and dick pics all over the walls.

Claire thoroughly explored the first floor.  In what used to be the living room, she found where the dead kids had clearly been using the place as a make out den.  There were sleeping bags and used condoms scattered about.  “Gross.”  After that, she made her way into the kitchen.  The wall paper was peeling and torn, the appliances looked like they had seen better days, but other than that, there was nothing of significance. One thing she didn’t find was blood, but she wasn’t expecting to, since all the victims had died in their own beds. Finding nothing on the first floor, she made her way to the second floor.

As she climbed the stairs, her foot fell through the rotting boards about halfway up.  Determined, she wouldn’t be stopped.  Claire continued her trek, her foot sinking into each stair on the staircase.  She made it upstairs, unscathed, and explored it one room at a time.  At first, she didn’t find anything that different than what she found downstairs; a home that had been abandoned by its owners and left as-is.  The master bedroom was just that, a master bedroom.  It had fallen into disuse and decay, but there was nothing sinister about it. It was the same in the bathroom and one of the other bedrooms.  That all changed when she reached the bedroom at the end of the hall.

She opened the door, and the room was covered in blood spatter.  The spatter was clearly several decades old, but it was crystal clear that this room had once been a crime scene.  Swallowing her initial shock, Claire entered the room, caution be damned. She slowly made her way around the room, taking in everything.  Other than the blood, it looked like a normal teenaged girl’s room.  There were pictures on the walls, and the brass bed was covered in soft blue bedding that looked like it might have been a floral pattern before it was blood covered.  The nightstands matched the dresser. She noticed the pill bottles almost immediately. There was an almost full bottle of what appeared to be sleeping pills, prescribed to Nancy Thompson.  Next to that was a nearly empty bottle of over the counter No Doz.   “Whoa, this poor girl had issues,” Claire breathed to herself.  That’s when an epiphany struck.  It had to be a vengeful spirit, most likely Nancy Thompson.  Her next move was clearly to look into Nancy’s life and see what she could find out.

Claire carefully made her way back down the stairs, avoiding the holes left when her feet were sucked into the stairs.  She made it to the front door without further incident, blinking into the sunlight once she was outside.  When her eyes finally adjusted, she looked across the street to where she heard chanting coming from.  There she saw three girls dressed in white dresses from another century jumping rope. “Three, four, better lock your door. Five, six, grab your crucifix.” They were jumping in time to the rhythm of their rhyme.  Claire would be lying if she said she wasn’t mildly freaked out.  She quickly got into her car and drove away without looking back.

Claire spent the rest of the day in the library finding out anything and everything she could about Nancy Thompson, so that it was well after dark by the time she made it back to her motel room with her to-go greasy diner food.  She could practically hear the lectures from Jody, Kevin, and Castiel as she dug into the gooey burger and crispy fries.  As she ate, she went over everything she had learned about Nancy so far. Nancy Thompson was killed when she was just eighteen years old, a promising high school senior.  Claire managed to get her hands on the autopsy photos (and if she had to flirt with the perky brunette coroner and take her out for a drink, well it was all just part of the job, right?)  What she found should have surprised her more than it had. Nancy’s wounds were exactly like the ones on the recent victims.  Claire also discovered that all of Nancy’s friends had fallen victim to the same serial killer.  It turned out, authorities were working on the theory that the killer from 1984 was back. They couldn’t account for the fact that that killer would have to be 54 years old, at the youngest, assuming he started killing when he was 20.  Considering the sophistication of the crimes, that seemed unlikely to Claire.  There was also the niggling in the back of her mind that if the current kills weren’t done by Nancy’s vengeful spirit, then there was something else killing kids, and it was most likely the same thing that killed kids 34 years ago.

All those thoughts continued to swirl in Claire’s head as she took a shower, and swirled still as she fell into a fitful sleep.  This case was already all consuming, and if she wasn’t already so exhausted, she might take a moment to be worried about that.  As it was, she even forgot to check in with Jody or Kevin or anybody to let them know she was alright.  Claire tossed and turned in bed for hours.

***

Claire walked up the immaculate sidewalk that was flanked on either side by a perfectly manicured lawn. The gray house and blue door were in pristine condition.  She opened the door and walked into the brightly lit foyer.  She followed the voices into the dining room just to the left. When she entered the room, her parents stood up from where they were having dinner.

“Claire!  We thought you weren’t coming home for spring break! I thought you were road tripping with Alex and Patience.”  Amelia Novak said as she wrapped her daughter in a big hug.

“I just decided to come home.  I missed you guys.”  Claire said with a shrug as she sat down at the table.

“Well, that’s great. We’re always glad to have you home,” Jimmy said.  “How’s school going?”

“It’s good.  It’s real good.”  Claire said, beaming at her parents.  “Changing my major to criminal justice was the best thing I ever did. My new advisor, Jody, I mean, Professor Mills, is fantastic.”

“That’s wonderful, Sweetie!” Amelia said as she passed the pot roast over to her daughter.  “Tell us all about it.”

“Not so fast, girls,” Jimmy chastised them.  “We need to say grace first.  Then Claire can tell us everything over dinner.”

The said grace, and as they started to tuck into their food, Claire began an epic tale about how great her classes were, how awesome her friends were, and how totally in touch her advisor was.  She was about to tell her parents about how she and Alex took Patience out for her birthday when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, everything came to a screeching halt.

A man appeared behind Amelia and slashed her chest open with his claws.  He gave the same treatment to Jimmy shortly after.  But wait, it wasn’t claws.  It was a glove, with knives for fingers.  The man looked at Claire from under his dirty fedora.  He pointed a knived finger at her.  “I’m coming for you next, Blondie.”  His burned and scarred face twisted up into a sinister grin.  “One, two, Freddy’s coming for YOU!”  He laughed maniacally.

Claire startled awake, the man’s evil laugh and the rhyme stuck in her head.  She couldn’t shake the image of her parents being slaughtered in front of her.  She grabbed the waste basket next to her bed and vomited into it.  Tears were streaming down her face, but she didn’t give in to the sobbing that wanted to wrack her entire body.  “No way, dude.  I’m coming for you!”  She packed up her belongings and left the motel, dropping her key card into the express check out box on her way out.  She made it the 66 miles to the Men of Letters bunker in less than an hour.

***

It was still the middle of the night, everyone at the bunker was likely still asleep.  Claire was still shook up and couldn’t get her key to work.  She started pounding on the door, hoping someone would hear her. Kevin and Charlie sometimes stayed up late playing video games, and Castiel didn’t sleep.  Dean barely slept.  Surely someone would hear her and let her in.  She needed to get in.  She could still hear the burned man laughing behind her.  “Come on, guys!  Let me in! Let me in!”

Charlie Bradbury opened the door, her curly red hair in disarray.  She took in the sight of Claire on the other side of the door, shaking, tears streaking her face.  She barely got the words “What the” out of her mouth before Claire stumbled in, almost falling into the other girl’s arms.  Charlie wrapped her in a big hug, and finally, Claire let the tears go and started crying for real.  Charlie led her down the stairs and into the library where she and Kevin had an epic game of Mario Kart going on.  Charlie said, “I think this belongs to you,” and handed Claire over to her boyfriend.

Kevin sat Claire down on the sofa.  “Babe, what happened?  What’s going on?”

Claire took a deep breath and told them all about the bodies that brought her to Hastings in the first place, and what she found once she got there. She told them about the house and what she found in the bedroom at the end of the hall.  Finally, she said, “At first I thought it was the vengeful spirit of that Nancy Thompson girl, but then I had this dream, and oh God, it was awful.  My parents were there, and then this man…or this monster…with burns and scars all over his skin and wearing this dirty red and green sweater…he-he came up behind them and slashed them to death with this…this weird glove-thing.  And he said I was next.  What was that rhyme?  Oh, yeah. ‘One, two, Freddy’s coming for you….” She trailed off, and Kevin and Claire were just looking at her.  “What? What?  Why are you looking at me like I have two heads?”

The two started talking at once, as if in sync.

“1428 Elm Street?”  Kevin asked.

“Nancy Thompson?”  Charlie chimed in.

“One, two, Freddy’s coming for you.  Three four, better lock your door.  Five, six, grab your crucifix.”  They sing songed the rhyme in unison, and that’s when it hit Claire.

“That’s what those girls were singing!”  She exclaimed.

“What girls?”  Kevin asked.

“These girls were playing jump rope in the yard across the street.  They were singing that rhyme while they were jumping.”

“Where they wearing white lace dresses?”  Charlie asked.

“Yes, yes they were!” Claire practically shouted.  “Do you know what’s going on here?”

“You mean you don’t know?”  Kevin asked in a placating voice.

“If I knew, I’d be kicking its ass, not here talking to you nerds!”  She snapped back.

“It’s A Nightmare on Elm Street,” Charlie tried to calmly explain.

When Claire stared at them with a blank look, Kevin filled in the blanks.  “It’s a classic horror film where this guy, Freddy Krueger, haunts people in their dreams and kills them.  Nancy Thompson was a character in the movie, she was his arch nemesis.  But he didn’t kill her.”

“Well, not until the third movie,” Charlie pointed out. “But by then, she was an adult.”

“Um, yeah, I’ve never heard of it.  Why watch horror movies when I live in them?” Claire asked without humor.  “And if this is a horror movie monster, how is he killing in the real world, and how is there detailed information about the death of Nancy Thompson on the internet?”

Charlie picked up her laptop off the coffee table, quickly hit several keys, and then turned it around to show Claire.  “See, nothing about a teenager with that name being murdered in 1984.  Lots of stuff about her being a character in the films and a bunch of Facebook profiles for people with her name.  All of whom appear to still be alive and kicking.”

“Ok, ok, ok!” Claire said more loudly than strictly necessary.  “So how the heck is this movie monster guy killing kids in Hastings, Nebraska?  And how did I find all of that stuff?  The coroner even had crime scene photos.”

Kevin and Charlie looked at each other and said, “Tulpa” at practically the same time.

“Could you guys stop doing that?  It’s freaking me out more than I already am!”

“Sorry,” they said contritely.  Claire leveled them with a death glare.

The sat in silence for a beat before Kevin spoke up. “You said there was graffiti all over the house and you took pictures, right?  Let’s put it on Charlie’s computer and look at it.  It’s likely someone painted a tulpa in that house. Someone who recognized the address and is messing with forces they do not understand.”

“Fine.”  Claire dug her camera out of her backpack and handed it over to Charlie.

Kevin looked over at Claire as Charlie downloaded the photos to her laptop.  “Babe, you look exhausted.  Why don’t you go get some sleep?”

“No, no I can’t.  I shouldn’t.  Not yet. Not until we know how to kill this thought form or whatever he is.”

“Why don’t you two go to bed?  No, Claire, you don’t have to sleep, just lie there and rest. Kevin, you go with her and keep her company.  I’m going to look at these pictures and see if I can come up with anything.”  Charlie said, and her voice brooked no room for argument.

“Good idea.  Let’s go.”  Kevin pulled Claire up off the couch and practically dragged her to his room.

Kevin tucked Claire into bed, curled up next to her, and Claire fell into a blissfully dreamless sleep.  Possibly for the last time.

***

When Claire and Kevin finally emerged from his room, where they actually were just sleeping, it was to the smell of bacon and eggs and waffles.  Dean, Charlie, and Sam were in the kitchen waiting for them.  “It’s about time you two love birds made an appearance.  Claire, there’s bacon, eggs, waffles, and some other stuff.  Kevin, you can join Sam on the vegan side of the kitchen and leave the real food to the real men,” Dean greeted them as he was putting the final touches on breakfast.

“Dean, it’s you and Charlie and Claire.  If any side of the room is the ‘real men,’ it’s us,” Sam protested with bitch face #9.

“Hey, just because we have lady parts instead of man bits does not make us any less real men,” Charlie quipped.  “Just because you’re three times the size of me doesn’t make you more of a man!”  She stuck her tongue out at the gargantuan Winchester.

Sam literally had no comeback for the feisty red head.

“Anyway,” Dean said as he sat down at the table.  “Charlie filled us in on what’s been going on in Hastings.  Is it really Freddy Krueger?”

“We think so,” Kevin said.  “From what Claire described, it would be really strange if it wasn’t.”

Charlie chimed in, “But that doesn’t seem logical, since I couldn’t find a tulpa amongst the graffiti in the house.  In fact, there were no occult symbols whatsoever.”

“Well, Cas should be back from Hastings in a little while.  We’ll see if he can sense anything demon-y going on,” Dean said.

“You sent him by himself?” Claire exclaimed.  “He’s not at full strength!  What if Freddy comes for him?”

“Cas still doesn’t need sleep.  It seems unlikely he’ll get attacked,” Dean explained.  “He’s actually the least vulnerable.”

As if on cue, Castiel came into the bunker and joined them in the kitchen. “I didn’t sense anything demonic, or any vengeful spirits at the house,” he said without preamble.  “But there is a very evil presence there, one I can’t identify.  And Charlie is right, there is no tulpa symbol or anything else remotely occult painted anywhere in or on that house.”

“Hello to you, too, Cas.”  Dean said with a grin.

“Hello.”  Cas replied sarcastically to Dean.  “Claire, I’m glad you are safe.” He added sincerely.

Dean turned his attention back to Claire.  “You know, you really should have come to us first, especially working a case so close to home.”

“I thought I was dealing with a pack of werewolves.  I think I know my way around them by now.”  Claire replied with a growl.

“Yeah, and if it was just a pack of werewolves, you still could have used our help.”  Dean stated.

“I’m not a kid anymore!  I can take care of myself!”

“If you two are fighting with each other, then you’re not fighting the monster,” Cas said with exasperation.

“Sorry, Cas,” Dean said.

“Yeah, sorry,” Claire added.

“Ok, so what exactly are we dealing with here?” Sam asked, desperate to get the conversation back on task.

“Well, if there’s no tulpa or other occult symbolism, we need to figure out how Freddy is coming to life,” Charlie said.

“We could just burn the house down, be done with it,” Dean suggested.

“No!  We can’t do that!” Claire exclaimed.  “That house is in a neighborhood, with other people’s homes around it.  We can’t risk burning down the other houses.”

“Also, there’s no guarantee it would even work,” Kevin pointed out. “Since it’s not a tulpa, we need to figure out what it is before we burn or destroy anything.”

Claire looked at her boyfriend like he hung the moon.  “Babe, you are so smart.”

“Hey, there’s folks eating here!”  Dean interrupted before the moment could get too mushy.

Claire took Kevin’s hand across the table and looked pointedly at Dean. “We don’t care.”

“Aw!  Young love!” Charlie exclaimed.

“Ok, you guys are even kinda grossing me out,” Sam said.  “Can we get back to the case?”

“I actually do have an idea about that,” Kevin started.  “In the original movie, Nancy pulled Freddy out of her dream and into the real world, and there she was able to defeat him. Maybe Claire can pull him out of her dream.”

“Yeah, but he only let her think he defeated him.  Remember, he created that dream where Nancy’s mom stopped drinking and all her friends came back to life.  We knew he wasn’t dead because of Glen’s car.”  Charlie pointed out.

Claire watched them, her head swinging back and forth between them. “What are you nerds talking about?”

“At the end of the movie, Nancy thought she defeated Krueger, and asked him to bring back her friends.  But really, they were still dead.  When Glen put up the rag top on his convertible, it was the colors of Freddy’s sweater, so the audience knew he wasn’t dead and it was all a trick.” Charlie explained.

“Ok, but that’s a movie and this is real.  And I’m sure we know a lot more tricks than Nancy did.  I can still bring him out of my dream and we can find a way to kill him, on our turf.”  Claire said.

“Not if he’s a thought form,” Sam added.

“Yeah, how do you kill a thought?” Dean asked, unhelpfully.

“We have to figure out what’s giving it its energy,” Kevin suggested. “We may still need to bring him out of Claire’s dreams though, even if we do find its energy source.  Hell, we may just have to do that to find the energy source.”

“What do you mean?” Claire asked.

“Like magic finds like.  If we bring him out of your dream, he might lead us to whatever it is.”

“No, we can’t do that,” Claire said, suddenly discouraged.  “We can’t risk bringing him into the real world. Think of how much more damage he can do on this side of the dreamscape.  It’s bad enough what he’s doing now.  And maybe, since he’s focused on me, we can keep him like that until we can kill him.  Keep him coming after me so he doesn’t go after anyone else.”

“I don’t like it,” Dean said.

“You think I do? It’s my nightmare.  But it’s the only way.  Those kids in Hastings can’t hold their own with him.  I can.”   Claire had a determined set to her features, one Dean recognized, from the mirror.  He knew there was no arguing with her.

 “Fine, but I’m coming with you.” Dean said.

“You can’t,” Sam said.  “We’re out of African dream root.”

“Then find some more!” Dean exclaimed.

“I actually have some on order from the herbalist in Topeka, but it’s on backorder, like, everywhere.”  Sam stated. Dean leveled a look at his younger brother.  “But I’ll call the guy and tell him to make it a priority.”

“Ok!” Claire said as she stood up and cleared her plate.  “I’m going back to the murder house.”

“What?  Why?” Kevin asked.  He already did not like this idea.

“It’s where this guy’s energy is the strongest, right?” Claire looked at Cas for confirmation.

“Yes, but it’s evil energy, Claire.  Very evil,” Cas said.

Claire rolled her eyes.  “Obviously. But if I’m going to keep him focused on me, and away from innocent high school students, I need to be where he can find me.”

“But you’re going now?  It’s not like you’re going to sleep now.” Kevin protested.

“I know, but I need to get his attention.”  Claire shrugged, “and maybe I can find whatever it is that’s fueling him.”

“I’m going with you.” Kevin said.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Claire smiled at him.

***

Charlie insisted on going with them, insisting she just had to see the Elm Street House, so a couple of hours later, they were pulling into the driveway.

“Holy mother of Chuck!  This really does look like the house! It’s the same address and everything!” Charlie exclaimed as she got out of the car and practically bounced up to the ramshackle house.  “I mean, clearly it’s seen better days, but it could be the same house.  Which is weird, since that house is in California.”

“Yes, but Freddy Krueger did say that every town has an Elm Street,” Kevin added unhelpfully.

“You’re right,” Charlie agreed.

“Could you two nerds stop fangirling over this creepy ass house and help me find a way to stop this bastard?” Claire said, slamming her car door and stomping up to the house.

As soon as they were through the door, Charlie took a look around and with a definitive nod declared, “Yeah, this place is disgusting.  We are not staying here.  We’ll spend time looking around to see what we can see, but then we’re going back to own beds at the bunker.”

“Fine, let’s get on with it,” Claire griped, stomping around the first floor.

As they explored the house, Kevin and Charlie decided to take more detailed pictures to see if they missed anything.  Claire looked around the living room and kitchen again, but didn’t find anything different than before.  

“There’s nothing new down here.  Let’s go upstairs,” Claire said after circling the first floor for the fifth time.

“Ok, come on,” Kevin agreed while Charlie continued taking pictures. “Charles, we’re going up stairs!”

When they started climbing the stairs, Claire kept looking down, clearly confused.  “Babe, what’s wrong?” Kevin asked.

“It’s the stairs,” Claire said.

“Yeah, what about them?  They look like normal stairs.”

Claire looked at Kevin like he was the one going crazy.  “Exactly.  When I was here yesterday, my foot fell through the stairs, all of them from about half way up.”

“That’s like what happened to Nancy in the movie!” Charlie exclaimed behind them, causing at least one of them to scream like a little girl.  It was Kevin.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!  You scared the shit out of us!” Claire chastised her.

“Sorry, my dudes.  But I was not about to be left alone down there.” Charlie shuddered at the thought.

“Fine, let’s get on with it then,” Claire said in an annoyed whisper.

“Why are we whispering?” Kevin asked.

“Shhh!” Claire and Charlie said to him.

They went from room to room, each one empty save for cob webs and dust bunnies.  There wasn’t even the dilapidated furniture Claire saw on her last visit.  “This is so weird.  These rooms were furnished, I swear,” Claire whispered in awe.  “What the fuck is even going on?”

“I don’t know,” Kevin whispered back as he took her hand.  “But we’ll figure it out.”

Finally, they made their way to the room at the end of the hall, Nancy’s room.  Claire gasped and slowly entered the room, dropping Kevin’s hand in the process. She walked slowly around it, touching things.  Everything was still there, Nancy’s furniture, her posters, even the blood spatter. The pill bottles were still on the nightstand.  “Do you guys see this?  Charlie, take pictures.”

Kevin walked in behind her and put a hand on her shoulder.  “Claire, Sweetie, there’s nothing here.  This room is as empty as all the rest.”

“He’s right,” Charlie agreed.  “There’s nothing for me to take pictures of, except blank walls and empty space.”

“No, you’re wrong!  How come you can’t see it?  Look, this is her bed, Nancy’s bed!”  She pointed at the bed.  “See her pictures on the walls?  Her furniture?  And the worst part, her blood.  It’s everywhere.”

Kevin took her hand again.  “Well, let’s just say it’s something you can see but we can’t. Charlie, take pictures.  Maybe something will be picked up on camera that we don’t see.”

“Good idea,” the red head agreed.

“So, you guys don’t think I’m crazy?” Claire asked softly.

“Of course not.  We’ve all seen stranger things than a room that only one person can see.” Kevin said.

“Ok, good.  Well, let’s get out of here and head back to the bunker.  I should probably go to sleep soon.”  Claire said.  “Oh, wait,” she stopped before heading out the door and grabbed something only she could see off of the nonexistent nightstand and shoved it into the pockets of her leather jacket.  “Now we can go.”  She nodded and headed for the stairs.

As soon as she stepped out into the sunshine, Claire heard it. “One, two, Freddy’s coming for you. Three, four, better lock your door. Five, six, grab your crucifix. Seven, eight, better stay up late…” And there they were, right across the street, just like before.  She also heard Kevin and Charlie whispering behind her.

“You see that, right?” Kevin said.

“Definitely,” Charlie replied, pulling out her camera and taking pictures.

Claire turned to look at them, her blonde hair whipping around with her. “You see those creepy girls too, right?”

“Yep,” Charlie said, popping the “p” as she continued to snap photos.

“Yeah,” Kevin said, his voice trailing off as he reached for Claire’s hair. “Um, Babe, your braid…it’s white.”

“What?” Claire asked as she grabbed her hair from his hand.  Sure enough, her “Viking warrior” braid she always had during a hunt had gone from blonde to white instantly.  “Let me guess, the same thing happened to Nancy?”

“Yeah,” Kevin said.  “When she brought Freddy’s hat out of her dream, her hair suddenly had a silver streak in it.”

“Whoa, wait,” Claire said as she pulled the two bottles from her pockets. “Look.”

Kevin stared at the bottles Claire held out in her hands, and Charlie grabbed them.  “Oh my gosh! This is a prescription for Benzodiazipine, for Nancy Thompson, from May of 1984.  This other one is No Doz that expired in the eighties.  This is what you found in her room?”

“Yeah.”  Was all Claire said.

“A prescription for a fictional character from an empty room in an abandoned house.  What the hell have we gotten ourselves into?” Kevin asked.

“I have no idea, but we have to stop it,” Claire said, taking a shaky breath and heading towards her car.

Charlie put a comforting hand on her shoulder.  “You will.  Freddy is always defeated by a young woman.”

“Yeah, but he always comes back,” Kevin added, unhelpfully.

“Well, I’ll just have to make sure that doesn’t happen this time,” Claire said with determination.

***

Back at the bunker, Kevin and Charlie dug into the research, trying to figure out what was tying Freddy Krueger to the real world. Their laptops clacking away like dueling pianos of data compiling.  Claire paced around the library, rattling the pill bottles she hadn’t been able to let go of since they left the murder house.

“Hey, Babe, can you sit down, you’re kinda making me anxious over here,” Kevin said after about thirty minutes.

Claire scowled at him.  “No, no I can’t sit down.  The only way I can get to Freddy is in my dreams.  In order to dream, I need to sleep.  In order to sleep, I need to get rid of this excessive energy.  So no, I cannot sit down.”

Dean appeared as if on cue.  “Come on, Kiddo, there are more productive ways to burn off excess energy.  Let’s let the nerds do their thing.”  He led her out of the library and down the hall.  “So, what will it be?  Shooting range or punching bag?”

“Punching bag,” Claire said.  “I would really enjoy hitting something right now.”

“Good idea.  Let’s go.”  Dean took her down to the ancient bunker’s somehow perfectly equipped gym.

Claire was just getting her rhythm going on the heavy bag, hitting and kicking it for all she was worth, while Dean was cheering her on from the chair in the corner.  “Great job, Kiddo.  Kick its ass!”  When Kevin came running in.

“We think we found something.  We might know what he’s tied to!  What’s tying Freddy to the real world!” Kevin said, clearly out of breath.

The interruption startled Claire out of her rhythm, and when she suddenly stopped her attack on the bag, it swung over and popped her hip causing her to stumble and nearly fall.

“Smooth move, Rocky,” Dean chuckled from the corner, earning a glare from Claire.  Dean turned quickly away from her and instead asked Kevin, “What did you find out?”

“So get this, and I can’t believe Charlie and I didn’t figure this out before, but after they filmed the third movie, the original prop glove, you know, the one with razor fingers, well, it disappeared,” Kevin said in one breath.  “Anyway, we think that glove is somewhere in that house, and the combination of that, along with all the psychic energy from everyone who is a fan of the films, well, it combined into one pretty powerful thought form that suddenly seems to have a taste for pretty blondes.”

“Well, that was a creepy way of putting it,” Claire said.

“She’s not wrong,” Dean added.  “Are you sure it’s not you?”  He chuckled.

“What?  No!” Kevin protested, levelling his own glare on Dean.

Dean looked appropriately frightened.  “Geez, did she teach you that?”

Kevin grinned and shrugged.  “Maybe.”

***

That night Kevin and Claire were getting ready for bed.  Claire was going to sleep while Kevin kept guard, which he was none too happy about.  “Babe, are you sure you don’t want me to go in with you?  Sam got a hold of the African dream root.  I can be there for you.”

“No, no way,” Claire insisted.  “If he kills you in my dream, you die in real life.  I can’t risk that.  I can’t lose you.”  She said that last sentence almost to herself.  “Besides, I need you here, awake, in case the shit hits the fan so you can wake me up.  And no matter what, don’t let me sleep for more than an hour, ok?”

“Ok, yeah, fine, got it,” Kevin said, and if he pouted a little, well, no one commented on it.

***

Claire walked up the immaculate sidewalk that was flanked on either side by a perfectly manicured lawn. The gray house and blue door were in pristine condition.  She opened the door and walked into the brightly lit foyer.  She followed the voices into the dining room just to the left. When she entered the room, her parents stood up from where they were having dinner.

Except, it wasn’t Jimmy and Amelia Novak having dinner at the dining room table.  Dean Winchester stood up and smirked at Castiel, who was at the head of the table. “Aw, look, Cas, our little girl is home from college.  They grow up so fast!”

“Dean, what are you guys doing in my dream?”

“Well, I used some of that African dream root, and Cas, well, angels can dream walk and he insisted I not go in alone.”

“God, Dean, are you really this stupid?  You know if he kills you here you die for real, right?” Claire shouted.  “This is my fight!”

Dean came around the table and steered Claire to sit down.  “Yes, but it’s a fight you don’t have to do alone.  Besides, do you know how many creepy creepers have tried to kill me?  It never sticks.  I’m Dean Fucking Winchester.”

Freddy Krueger always had a sense for the dramatic, and this time was no exception.  As if on cue, he appeared and gripped Dean’s face in his non-gloved hand. “And I’m Freddy Fucking Krueger, and what I kill, stays dead.”  He turned his gaze on Claire.  “I can take everything you love.”  He reached his knived hand up and drove it towards Dean’s chest.

“NO!!!!!!!!” Claire shouted as Castiel reached across like the angel he was and caught Freddy by the wrist.

“Wait your turn, pretty boy, you’re next,” Freddy said as he wrenched his wrist out of Castiel’s iron grip.

“You can’t kill me.  I’m an angel, you ass.”  Castiel retorted as he reclaimed his grip on Freddy’s wrist and punched him in the face.

Freddy stretched his burned face into a wicked grin.  “I can if these are angel blades.”  Before their eyes, his razor blades suddenly became smooth, silvery angel blades.

Dean, who utilized the distraction to free himself from Freddy’s grip, asked in a small voice, “How-how did you know about those?”

“I’m in her head,” Freddy pointed at Claire. “Whatever Blondie knows, I know.”

“Fuck this shit!  I will not let you hurt them!” Claire shouted, standing up and kicking the chair out from under her.  She grabbed his wrist just below where Cas maintained hold on it.  “I will find a way to stop you, and I’m sure this is the key!” With a burst of dream-induced strength, Claire pulled Freddy’s wrist free from Cas and slammed his glove into his face.

With a jump, Claire found herself back in bed. “What, what happened?”

“You told me to wake you in an hour,” Kevin explained.  “You were tossing and turning pretty badly.”

“Oh my God!  Dean and Cas!  I need to make sure they’re ok.”  She jumped out of bed and ran down the hall to Dean’s room and flung the door open. Dean was sitting up in his bed, Cas in the chair next to him with his hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“We’re ok, we’re both ok,” Dean assured her.

“Don’t you ever do that again!” Claire said, rushing into the room and giving them both a hug.  “Please, don’t make me watch him hurt you.”

“Claire, you don’t have to do this alone.  We can hold our own, you know.”  Dean tried to reassure her.

“But that’s just it.  I do have to do this alone.  He chose me for a reason, and now I’m going to stop him.”

“Claire, you’re not being smart about this,” Cas added. “Let us help you.”

“That’s just it, you can’t help me.  All you’ll do is distract me.  Next time, I have to go in alone.  But I won’t go without a plan, I promise,” Claire pleaded with them.

“So, what, you’re just not going to sleep again until you have plan?”  Dean did not like where this was going.

“If that’s what I have to do, then that’s what I have to do.”  Claire said with a shrug.

Dean realized there was no arguing with her, so instead he asked, “How can we help?”

“I’m not sure right now.  I guess just let me and Kevin and Charlie do our jobs and find out where that glove is.  Then, I can kill him.”  Claire said, hoping they would drop it for now.

***

Claire, Kevin, and Charlie spent the better part of the week at 1428 Elm Street searching for the glove.  They cleaned it up and set up a temporary command center. Kevin and Charlie would take turns going back to the bunker to sleep, with Castiel watching over them, just in case. (Angels didn’t need to sleep, so he was the best candidate for the job.)  Meanwhile, Claire, who refused to sleep until she was ready to face Krueger again, was eating No Doz like it was candy.

“You know, you could be drinking these delicious cherry flavored energy drinks instead of popping those little pills,” Charlie said, wiggling a blue bottle in front of her.

“Easier to pop pills,” Claire said absently.  She looked up briefly.  “Does your bottle say ‘Bawls’?”

Charlie nodded then said, “At least tell me you’re not taking those expired ones you found in the dream room.”

“No, I bought these yesterday,” Claire said without looking up from the book she was flipping through.  “They worked for Nancy, so they should work for me.”

“Guys, we’ve been all through this place with a fine toothed comb and we haven’t found a damn thing!” Kevin exclaimed suddenly, slamming his laptop down on the table.  He was looking over the pictures Charlie had taken for the umpteenth millionth time.

His outburst seemed to knock Claire out of her stupor.  She rounded the table to his side of it and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “We’ll figure it out, we have to. You’re exhausted.  It’s your turn to go back to the bunker, why don’t you get some rest.”  She kissed the top of his head just as Charlie’s phone rang.

“Elm Street Command Center, Queen of Moons speaking,” Charlie said, setting her phone on the table.  “You’re on speaker, Bunker Control 1.”

“You’re on speaker too, Charlie,” Sam said from the other device.

“Hey, why is he Bunker Control 1?” Dean griped in the background.

Claire rolled her eyes, even though Dean couldn’t see her.  “Hey guys. You got something?”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “Sam made me watch the Freddy movies…”

“No, Dean made us watch.  He’s the horror movie buff.  Why would I willingly watch a horror movie when we live in one?”  Sam interjected.

“That’s what I said!” Claire agreed.

“Anyway,” Dean spoke up again, “did you guys ever check the basement?  Remember, in the first movie, Nancy’s mom kept the glove in the furnace in the basement.”

Kevin, Charlie, and Dean all started talking over each other as they were discussing the finer points of the films before Claire and Sam’s sharp whistles brought them back on task.  “There’s just one problem with that,” Claire said.  “This house doesn’t have a basement.”

“Yes it does,” Sam said.  “I looked at the blueprints once Dean made his observation.”

“But we’ve been all over this place and never found basement stairs,” Kevin said.

“Of course we didn’t!” Claire exclaimed.  “It’s another one of his tricks.  Like Nancy’s room.  He makes us see what he wants us to see.  To mess with us.”

“Sam, email me those blueprints?” Charlie asked. “Claire and I will find it and we will find that glove.  Kevin is on his way back to the bunker.  It’s his turn to sleep.”

“Already sent, my queen,” Sam said.  “Good luck.  Talk to you guys later.”

“Later dudes,” Claire said before pressing “end call” on Charlie’s phone.

“I’m not going back to the bunker.  I’m staying here to help you guys look for the basement and find the glove,” Kevin stated, trying to stifle a yawn and failing.

Claire shoved the car keys in his hand.  “No, nope, no way.  You are going back to the bunker and you’re going to get some rest. We’ve got this under control.”

“You’re one to talk,” Kevin griped as he let Claire lead him out to the car.  “You haven’t slept in, like, a week.”

“Yeah, but I’m a hunter and we don’t need sleep. You’re a nerd.  You do.  Go home.” Claire gave him a quick kiss on the lips before pushing him into the car and watching him drive away.

“Welcome back!” Charlie chirped from her spot where she appeared to be hugging the wall.  “While you were saying goodbye and good night to your looovah, I was looking over those blueprints that Sam sent.  The basement should be behind this wall,” she stepped away and dropped her arms. “But all I can find is, well, wall.”

Claire strode purposefully up to said wall. “So, I guess the question now is, did this wall come from actual, physical renovation of the house, or is it a wall the same way Nancy’s room is filled with furniture and blood?”

“I’m going with door number two.  I researched the history of this house, and it has never had a permit issued for renovation.  I know, I know.  It’s possible the owners didn’t apply for a permit, but a psychic wall just seems much more likely.  And way cooler, if you ask me.”

“This Krueger creep does like to mess with our heads, that’s for sure,” Claire said as soon as Charlie paused for breath. “So, psychic wall it is.  How do we get past it?”

“I don’t think we get past it so much as you get past it.” Charlie replied.

“So what do I do?”

Charlie shrugged.  “I dunno.  I guess just focus on it and concentrate really hard and think ‘basement door’?”

“Oh, that’s helpful,” Claire said sardonically, but did what Charlie suggested anyway and put her hands on the wall and thought “door.” It must have worked, because before long, Claire found herself turning a doorknob and the creaky door opened, its rusted hinges protesting loudly.

“You did it!” Charlie said slapping her arm jovially. She led the way down the stairs, turning on her industrial flashlight.  “You know, it’s weird,” Charlie said as they started down the rickety steps.

“What’s weird?”

“Kevin and I have practically lived at this house for the past few days, and Krueger hasn’t come after us yet.” Charlie explained.

“Yeah, and your point?  This is a good thing.”

“Nothing, it’s just weird.  Not his M.O., you know?  Freddy likes to kill the protagonist’s friends and leave her all alone and scared.  So, it’s weird.” Charlie shrugged as they came face to face with the furnace.  “Oh, look, here we are!”

Claire reached a tentative hand towards the furnace, illogically expecting it to come blazing to life under her touch.

“You’re supposed to open it, not pet it,” Charlie helpfully supplied.

“I know that!” Claire snapped and turned the handle to open the furnace.  Nothing happened.  “Dammit! It’s stuck.”

“Ok, so go let’s get the crowbar and jack this sucker open!”

Claire looked at the furnace, then to Charlie, then back again for several beats before saying anything.  “I can’t.  It’s in the car…that Kevin drove back to the bunker.”

“Well, shit,” Charlie said.  “But this is a basement, surely there is something in here we can use to pry the door open.  Start looking.”

Claire nodded and headed to one side of the room while Charlie took the other.  As they looked, Charlie resumed their previous conversation.  “So, why do you think we’ve been spared thus far?”

“Huh?” Claire asked as she rummaged through a shelf.

“From Freddy.”

“Oh, that’s a good question.  Maybe it’s because he knows it will only piss me off more?  Or maybe it’s like that one where that girl had to bring the other kids into her dream for him to find them.”

“You’ve been doing your homework,” Charlie said proudly.

“Yeah, well, when you’re hunting a monster, you study all the lore you can.  Best lore on Freddy Krueger?  The Nightmare on Elm Street movies.  Also, gave me something to do since I’m currently not sleeping.”

“Good point,” Charlie agreed.  “Ok, so why hasn’t he gone after Dean or Cas again? They were in your dream.”

“Well, Cas is an angel and therefore doesn’t need to sleep, and Dean…well, where do you think I keep getting the No Doz?  He’s not sleeping either.”

“We really gotta get this guy.  Not sleeping is not healthy, and I do not want to see my people die from lack of rest,” Charlie said with determination.  That’s when she found it.  “Ah ha!  Crowbar acquired!  Let’s bust that sucker open.”

“Excellent!  Gimme!” Claire unceremoniously grabbed the crowbar from Charlie and went right to work on the stubborn furnace door. “Open says me!” She exclaimed as it popped open for her.  She reached inside and nearly jumped as her hand closed around a cloth wrapped object.  It practically buzzed in her hand.  “Charlie, I think this is it.”  She pulled it out carefully and unwrapped it with reverence.  What was revealed was the exact prize they were looking for. Claire held the leather glove carefully, trying not to cut herself with the blades that were where the fingers should be.  As she removed it from the cloth, the buzzing got stronger.  “Charlie, do you feel that?”

“Feel what?” She snatched the glove out of Claire’s hand.  “I don’t feel anything.”

“You can’t feel the power coming off of it?”

“No.  You can?” Charlie looked in awe when Claire nodded.  “That means this must be it.  And that you are meant to find it, and use it.”

“What?” Claire squeaked.  “What for?”

“To kill Freddy, obviously.  Once and for all.”

The girls made their way back upstairs to their command center to start strategizing about what to do next.  Before they even had a chance to start planning, Claire’s cell phone rang, followed closely by Charlie’s.  When Claire saw who was calling her, her knees immediately went out from under her, and her breath left her body in a whoosh.

“Castiel, what’s wrong?”

“It’s Kevin, I’m afraid—“

Claire cut him off.  “Oh God.  He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“Claire, calm down.  It’s just a coma.”

“Just a coma????  That’s even worse!”

Castiel sighed into the phone, sounding tired, even though that shouldn’t have been possible.  “How is that worse?”

“I don’t know, but it’s just as bad!”  Claire swallowed against a sob that barely escaped her throat.  Taking a deep breath she finally asked, “What happened?”

“He was sleeping soundly, and suddenly he started thrashing around.  I tried to wake him up, and I thought I succeeded, but then he suddenly went still. His body is whole and unharmed, aside from the coma.  I could dream walk again, see if I can pull him out.”

“NO!  Don’t you dare, Castiel.  Freddy knows how to kill you.  I won’t risk losing you both.  It’s up to me, I have to save him.  It’s what he wants, he wants me.”  Claire said with determination.  “Well, he’s going to get me.”  She hung up her phone and clutched the glove to her chest.

Claire turned to Charlie who was just hanging up her phone.  “Kevin is in a coma.  Freddy’s got him.  I have to go in and rescue him!”

“I know,” Charlie said.  “That was Dean on the phone.  He’s on his way to come get us.  He made me promise not to let you do anything stupid before he gets here. He’s taking us back to the bunker and we can figure out where to go from there.”

“No way, Charlie!  Who knows what Freddy is doing to him right now! Kevin may not have time for us to sit around the table contemplating our navels.  I need to go after him now!”

“And just how do you propose to do that? You’ve been eating No Doz like candy.  It’s not like you can fall asleep without some help.”  Charlie gave her a smug look.

“You’re right!” Claire said, reaching into her coat pocket and pulling out Nancy Thompson’s Benzodiazipine and shaking it in the other girl’s face.  “And look, I’ve got Nancy’s little helper right here.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow at her.  “Those won’t work.”

“Yeah, they will.”

“Dude, those aren’t even real.  Even if they were, they’re like, 34 years old.  You’ll be lucky if they don’t make you puke your guts out.”

“Of course they’ll work,” Claire said, as if in a daze. “He left them for me.  He wants me to use them.”

“Who?”

“Fred Krueger.”

“Well, that’s even more reason to not use them,” Charlie tried to reason with her, tried to kill time until Dean came to get them. She reached for the pills, but Claire snatched them away and held them close.

Claire came out of her daze and said with resolve, “I’m going after him, Charlie.  There’s nothing you can do to stop me, so you should just help me.”

“Help you, how?”

“Watch over me.  Wake me up if it looks like I need it.  Don’t let him take both of us.”

“There’s no way I can talk you out of this, is there?”

“Nope,” Claire said with a swish of blonde hair.

“Ok then, I’ll keep an eye on you.  But if Dean kills me, I’m coming back to haunt you.”

“You know, other people might find that funny, but hunters, not so much,” Claire said with a weak smile.

“Duly noted.”  Charlie returned her smile with a matching one.

Claire poured a handful of pills into her hand and popped them into her mouth.  Charlie handed her a water bottle to wash them down.  Claire hopped onto the coffee table they were using as a desk, slipped on the razor tipped glove, laid down, and closed her eyes.

***

Claire walked up the immaculate sidewalk that was flanked on either side by a perfectly manicured lawn. The gray house and blue door were in pristine condition.  She opened the door and walked into the brightly lit foyer.  The light flickered and sparked out, and suddenly Claire was no longer in her brightly lit childhood home in Pontiac, Illinois.  She was now in the dilapidated house at 1428 Elm Street, in Hastings, Nebraska (or any other Elm Street in America.)  When she looked down, she was no longer dressed like “Biker Barbie.”  Instead, she was dressed eerily like Nancy Thompson, in soft pink cotton pajamas with flowers embroidered on the lapels.  Luckily, she was still wearing her best weapon, Freddy Krueger’s original glove.

As Claire took in her surroundings, she realized this wasn’t the Elm Street house she had grown used to. The furnishings were still there, for one thing.  And they were oddly familiar.  After just a few moments, she realized that not only was she in Nancy Thompson’s clothes, she was in Nancy Thompson’s house.  “Really, dude?  Could you be any less creative?��  She said under her breath as she started to explore.

She found nothing on the first floor, but that’s what she kind of expected.  There was really only one room in the house where Kevin was likely to be.  Claire sighed and steeled herself as she made her way to the stairs.  By now, she thought she knew what to expect.  Freddy enjoyed messing with her.  He did it at the other house, and this one would be no different.  She gingerly stepped on the first stair.  It was solid, but she carefully continued her ascent.  Sure enough, by the time she got to the fourth stair, her foot sunk right in. What was freaking her out more than the sinking steps was the fact that she was not being chased, that she appeared to be totally alone in the house.  

“Get it together, Novak,” she chided herself.  She ran the rest of the way up the stairs, her foot sinking each time it hit carpet. She raced to the room at the end of the hall and flung the door open.

“So good of you to finally join us!”  Freddy cackled.  He was standing in front of the bed, holding Kevin off of the ground by his throat. His feet were kicking, seeking the ground, and he was barely breathing.  The boy did not look good.

“Ok, so you caught a boy. Good for you.  Why don’t you just toss him back?  It’s me you really want.”  Claire wasn’t sure if taunting an evil thought form was the best idea, but begging him to let Kevin go was absolutely not an option.  Claire Novak didn’t beg.  Ever.

Freddy looked over at Kevin and snarled, tightening his grip on the boy’s neck.  He turned back to Claire.  “Sorry, babe.  I don’t participate in ‘catch and release’!”  He started to squeeze harder when Claire dropped to a crouch and knocked him off of his feet with a sweeping kick.  Startled by the unexpected attack, Freddy dropped Kevin, who managed to roll under the bed.  Freddy looked up at Claire with a glare.  “Who the hell do you think you are?”  He rose to his feet without effort.  “You really think you can stop me?  Me?” He flexed his glove and advanced on her.

Having regained Freddy’s sole focus back on her, Claire flexed her own glove.  “Gee, I have one of those too.”  She spun around and sprinted out of the room, daring Freddy to take chase.  He took the bait and followed her down the hall.  Claire ran down the stairs, managing to avoid the foot sucking places, and before long found herself in the downstairs master bedroom.  She took in her surroundings and suddenly had a plan. She got herself into position and waited for a mad man to find her.

The door swung open, hitting the wall with a resounding bang.  “Freddy’s home!”  He looked around the room, searching for the girl, when suddenly Claire swung around the post at the foot of the four poster bed, kicking Freddy square in the chest, causing him to stumble backwards.  He regained his composure easily enough.  Freddy laughed.  “It will take more than that, little girl.”

“I know,” Claire said from where she had landed in a crouch on the floor.  She reached up with the glove and grabbed and twisted, the blades causing her to fully castrate the man, bile oozing out, all over Claire and the floor.

Freddy howled and reeled in pain.  He landed on his back on the floor.  Claire straddled his midsection, pinning him to the floor.  She thrusted her glove into his chest and ripped out his heart. She held the black, beating organ above his head.  “I kill monsters, that’s who the hell I am!” She squeezed and crushed the heart between her hands as Freddy faded from existence.

***

Claire awoke with a start next to Kevin in his bed, where he was still sleeping peacefully.  “How did I get here?”  Before anyone could answer, she looked at Kevin, then to Cas.  “How is he?  Is he..?”

“He’s fine,” Castiel smiled.  “He came out of the coma shortly before you woke up.  He’s sleeping now and appears to be having pleasant dreams.”

“Thank God.” Claire breathed a relieved sigh.  “But seriously, how did I get here?”

“I brought you here,” Dean answered from her side of the bed.  “I told Charlie not to let you do anything stupid, but you did it anyway.  She’s now in time out washing the cars in the garage.”  He looked down at Claire’s hands, where she was still wearing the glove and holding the remains of Freddy’s dark heart.  “Can we burn that now, please?”

“Fuck, yes!”  Claire said, removing the glove and placing into the bowl that Dean somehow had ready.

Kevin chose that moment to stretch into wakefulness.  He looked over at Claire.  “Is it over?”

“Yeah, it’s over,” she said, kissing him on the lips.

“I knew you’d beat him.” He said, kissing her back.

Dean made a motion at Cas.  “Um, we should probably leave them alone for a bit.”  He then looked briefly to them.  “Yo, the ceremonial burning of the bad guy’s stuff commences in five minutes, with or without you.”

Claire waved them off, barely acknowledging them as she continued kissing her now safe boyfriend.

***

Several days later, Claire was just waking up in her room in Sioux Falls.  She was taking a much needed break from the bunker and hunting. She needed time with her surrogate mother and sisters.  As she stretched, she felt something odd under her pillow.  Reaching under her pillow, she pulled out the last thing she expected, a leather glove with razors where the fingers should be.  She screamed and tossed the glove across the room.  In the quiet that followed, she heard a dark chuckle and a low voice chanting:

Nine, ten, never sleep again!

[some-cookie-crumbz]

New and Improved Fic Schedule

New and Improved Fic Schedule

Okay, gonna try and be brief with the nitty-gritty details here so I can get you all to the good stuff!

I’ll be going on a six-seven week hiatus starting the first week of April due to my school load getting heavier and the one-year anniversary of my dad’s suicide on April 21st. I will try to keep checking in on my account, but my activity is gonna be way less.

I will still be participating in Kidge Week. I have already written a good chunk of the fills for it and, as such, will schedule the posts ahead of time so they’ll release on the right days. The only day I will not be uploading ahead of time is April 22nd, since I want to take the time to make my post about all the other wonderful Kidge shippers out there myself. I will be aiming to still participate in Hance month, but I may only complete a handful of prompt fills.

All multi-chapters are being side-lined until at least June, due to school, but there are also a couple new projects in the work, so that also has an effect. Also, if I find the time to write up any additional one-shots, I’ll upload those as well. I’ll also need to see about maybe getting a Beta reader to look over the chapters for me before uploading - excluding LMv.tW, as I already have a Beta for that story – so I might make a separate post seeking one out as we get closer to June.

There are 3 categories under the “Read More”; Main Projects, Developing Projects, and Undefined Projects.

Main Projects are ones that I have already started writing/ completed the outlining process for and have defined start dates, plots, and release schedules. These are the projects that I’ll be focusing on most of the time and can be expected from me on a regular basis.

Developing Projects are ones that I would like to write, but as of now are more ghosts of a thought than concrete works. These have the potential to be scrapped or, should I decide I myself do not want to write them, will be offered out to any writer interested in taking them on themselves. If a project is dropped, I’ll make a post letting everyone know I’m offering the idea over to another set of creative hands.

Undefined Projects are projects I have every intention of writing, but are a bit wider in scope/range and I am unsure of how far ahead in development they’ll be when I start making them more public. These are projects that I have started to write/ draft, but I have done very little in the way of determining where to end the project off at. Basically, these are stories that have no end goal in sight. This projects will have no upload date or upload schedule, as such, and will be more sporadic in when I choose to work on them.

Main Projects (Fics will be listed in chronological order based on release date.)

Dress Rehearsal: Voltron (Kidge, sidelined Hance): After publically calling out the shady business practices of Galra Tech, acclaimed actor Keith Kogane finds himself the subject of both an attempted assassination and threat of blackmail. Undeterred, he feels no fear at the prospect of making an enemy of the powerful conglomerate. Worried about his safety, both physically and his privacy being violated, his agent, Allura LeAltea, calls upon the help of an old charm school friend of hers. Enter Katie Holt; renowned tech prodigy and secret hacker known as Pidge Gunderson, hired on to be Keith’s personal bodyguard. The only catch? The two must pretend to be dating to assure that Katie can tag along with him wherever he goes without cueing Galra Tech into knowing their threats have had an effect. Release Date: June 15th, 2018 Update Schedule: Bi-Weekly Note: Only thing changing for this story is that it has a finalized update schedule and a proper working title.

Lance McClain vs. The World: Voltron (Hance, sidelined Kidge): After getting involved with a charming young engineering student named Hunk Garrett after meeting at a bar, Lance McClain finds himself getting dragged into a series of events that seem to be ripped right out of a comic book. He is given a warning from the leader of something called “Team Voltron”; a group of Hunk’s ex-lovers and close personal friends, dedicated to determining the worthiness of Hunk’s suitors through various competitive means. Never one to back down from a challenge, Lance agrees to the terms and is forced to learn various new skills and talents in order to compete with the roster of powerful opponents he faces. Release Date: June 29th, 2018 Update Schedule: Weekly Note: Pushed this one back a bit but also gave it a defined update schedule, so there’s that!

Lowlife: Voltron (Kidge): Inspired by the song of the same title by Poppy. After being framed for the murder of her own brother, Katie Holt is forced to flee to the bustling metropolis of Marmora, a city where anyone can disappear in an instance. Assuming the new identity of Pidge Gunderson, she tries to settle into life, despite the constant feeling of being watched. After an evening snack run takes an unexpected turn, Pidge ends up with a roommate who goes by the moniker Blade, a young man with a story all-too-similar to hers. Together, the two set out on a mission to uncover the truth and clear their actual names… While trying not to kill each other. Release Date: August 17th, 2018 Update Schedule: Bi-Weekly Note: I decided to place a month between when any new multi-chapter fics will be coming out to avoid burning myself out. My plan is that I should be close to having finished both my other projects by the time this one drops. This project will most likely be a bit on the shorter side, as it will center almost completely on the two goofballs, but I’m really excited to work on it! Hopefully it’ll be a fun adventure for you all as well!

Story Time: Soul Eater (SoMa): Soul Evans has been struggling with life as a single father for roughly three years now; working two jobs and odd hours to support himself and his precious daughter, Harmony. Upon the announcement of his older brother, Wes, getting married, he is begged to return home to help with preparing for the ceremony and to be his brother’s Best Man. Feeling that he’ll have better opportunities with his family’s support and more time to spend with Harmony, Soul agrees to moving back to Death City. Through fate and circumstance, Soul meets Maka Albarn, the writer of his daughter’s favorite series of children’s books and intended Maid of Honor to Liz Thompson, Wes’ fiancée, and the two get along pretty well. And, perhaps from there, more will develop between them. Release Date: September 28th, 2018 Update Schedule: Bi-Weekly Note: Again, another one where nothing really changes. This story is mostly just going to be domestic, romantic fluff, but I think it’ll have some nice touches to make it stand out.

Twilight: Voltron (Kidge): One night, Matthew Holt disappeared from his room without a trace. In the time that he’d been gone, his younger sister, Katie Holt, has been frantically pushing for more action to be taken in bringing her brother home; believing he has been whisked away to the deadly mystery of the forest around their small village of Kerberos. With her brother missing, her mother’s health rocky in her grief, and her father away to help a neighboring village with a fast-spreading illness, she is struggling to maintain not only all effort to bring her brother home alive, but also keep the family farm up to its normal functionality. The Head of the Village Guard, Thace Kogane, insists that she accept the help of his two children, Keith and Allura, to assist her with the farm. Initially cold and distant, Katie slowly warms up to the duo and finds that they may be able to offer her more help in finding her brother, as well as unraveling the mysteries of the dark forest just outside the fences of their small village. Release Date: October 31st, 2018 Update Schedule: Monthly Note: Decided that I want to push this one back to Halloween for very specifics reasons. Also, because this is a project with a lot of world building and establishment to it, I want to give myself/ any potential Beta plenty of time to go over it to make sure everything makes sense.

 Developing Projects

Keidge Month Day 30 Prompt: Voltron (Kidge, potential other pairings as I develop it further): Not gonna say too much about this one, as I want it to be a surprise, but basically a canon-divergent story that would fall more inline with the headcanons I had in the very first Kidge fic I ever wrote, which Day 30 will also kind of expand on in a way. Note: If I do decide to pursue this project, it’ll most likely end up under the Undefined Projects category.

Starring Role: Voltron (Lanlura, mentions/hints of Lotura, sidelined Kidge): Inspired by the song of the same name by Marina and the Diamonds. Lance understands that, as far as things go, Allura doesn’t really need him. Gorgeous, confident, intelligent Allura Altea could have any guy she wanted at the snap of her fingers. They all trip over themselves to just catch a glimpse of her as she wanders the campus of Olkari University. But, for whatever reason, he’s the one she calls upon when the nights are cold and lonely. He knows that someday she’ll realize he isn’t worth her time, but until then? Until then, he’ll enjoy pretending that there’s more to their nights together. He’s always been a showman, after all. Note: I fell into Lanlura Hell and I am not sure I want to crawl out yet. I’ve been entertaining the idea of writing something a bit more on the bittersweet side of things (though I’d probably end up giving it a happy ending because I AM WEAK). Plus, Lance would give Allura everything, even if it could break his little heart.

A Mirror’s Edge: Voltron (Lanlura, sidelined Kidge): For centuries, the Galra have pitted the families of Altea and Terrain against one another, framing the other for assassination after assassination, hoping the two noble bloods would wipe one another out so that Galra may control the entirety of the city. Tired of the bloodshed and scorn on the streets, the Grand Duke Mage of Voltron creates a magic veil; a mirror made of illusion and incantation, to keep the two warring families from coming in direct contact with one another. But even magical bonds do not always hold against forces of a different kind, forces that songs and poems and theater have been written about. This is the tale of how two young children, belonging to House Altea and House Terrain, happen a glance through the mirror’s glamour and find the spark of something more enchanted in between. Note: I fucking hate Romeo and Juliet but damn if the stupid thing doesn’t give a lot of room to play and come up with some fun ideas! I have already started to develop a whole world for this one fic but, again, I am unsure if I want to do a full exploration of it (or, also, if I might want to use my own characters for this one).

Seashells and Scallops: Voltron (Plance or Lanlura, I swing both ways, with potential side pairings if I decide to pursue this project): After being saved from drowning by what can only be called a mermaid, Prince Lance of the Azure Isles, falls in love with his rescuer. Mermaids, however, are tricky and mysterious creatures, leaving him with almost no chance to meet his dream girl again; at least, not without taking fate into his own hands. In exchange for his voice, a witch on the outskirts of his city trades his legs out for a tail and gills. He has six months to woo the young mermaid and have his feelings reciprocated, or be fed to the witch’s pet sleeping deep in the murky depths. Note: A Little Mermaid AU with a twist! I like to subvert tropes, and this seems like something Lance would absolutely do.

 Undefined Projects

The Star Witch: Voltron (Kidge, potential others as I develop the story): A continuation of my Keidge Month Day 25 Prompt fill. Would further their relationship, probably get a little spicy, probably have an incredibly tragic end. Might warrant having a sequel series, or just being a really long running multi-chapter fic?

Copper and Indigo: Voltron (Kidge, potential others as I develop the story): It’s the Soul Eater!Kidge AU I’ve been planning out! Haven’t yet finished the finalization of everything, as I want to wait a little longer on the poll, but this will be coming! And it will be coming soon!

Time, Space, and Everything Between: Voltron (Kidge, potential others as I develop the story): A continuation of my Keidge Month Day 15 Prompt fill. I have an idea for a good chunk of the beginning, but it’s simply determining where I want to go through the middle and end. I want to have it still follow some of the series, specifically in regards to them all piloting the Lions, but then it becomes a question of to what extent and where I’d want to end things off at. But I am most certainly going to be doing more with this!

[unfolded73]

This Graceful Path (3/19)

Summary: Emma has just moved in with Mary Margaret and started working as a deputy in the Storybrooke sheriff’s department when she meets Killian Jones, the town’s introverted harbormaster. When a prominent Storybrooke resident is found murdered, Emma tries to juggle solving the case with new friendships, parenthood, and romance. A Season 1 Cursed!Killian AU.

Rating: Explicit per CSBB guidelines (violence, sex). If you are someone who uses my usual distinction between M and E to decide whether to read something I wrote, this is more of an M on unfolded73’s scale. The sex, when we get there, is not extremely graphic in nature. Same with the violence.

Content Warning: This fic contains two major character deaths, one of which is S1 canon (in this chapter) and one of which is not but happens in Chapter 2. This chapter contains descriptions of violence.

Total word count: ~ 75,000

Acknowledgements: Thank you to @j-philly-b for betaing this monstrosity. Thank you to @caprelloidea for all of the read-throughs and cheerleading; not sure I could have written it without your excitement early on. Thank you to @teruel-a-witch for the original prompt on tumblr which sparked this fic. Thanks to the CSBB mods ( @sambethe in particular, who had to look at my check-ins) for your support and for enduring my neuroses.

ART! The first of @pompeiiablaze’s wonderful art pieces accompanies this chapter and is included below in the text. Also go give her some love.

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 – AO3 Link

Chapter 3

The phone on Emma’s desk rang, the jangly sound of an actual bell inside the workings of the ancient telephone. She jumped, then picked up the receiver.

“Sheriff’s station.”

“Emma, it’s Graham. I’ve found… I need your help.” She could hear his breaths panting down the phone line.

“Are you hurt? Where are you, are you sick?” she asked, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. She should never have let him go, Emma thought. She should have followed him.

“Not me, I… There’s been a murder. We need to…” He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, he sounded calmer, more professional. “I’ve found a body in the woods. About a quarter mile west of trail marker 47. Bring a trail map so that you can locate me. Also, there should be some evidence kits in the storage room, do you remember I showed you? Pack up some evidence kits and get down here as soon as you can. Also flashlights; it will be dark soon.”

“Okay, got it.” Hanging up, Emma jerked up out of her chair, out of the comforting pool of light from her desk lamp, and made for the storage closet. Maybe it was a bear attack or something, she thought, and not a murder. Graham himself had laughed at the idea of a murder happening in Storybrooke. He’d found the very idea hilarious.

In mere minutes, she was behind the wheel of the squad car. Flipping on the lights and the siren for the first time since Graham had shown her where the switches were, she peeled out of the parking space.

By the time she parked along the side of the road at the closest hiking trail crossing to marker 47, the remaining daylight was gone and a damp, foggy chill had settled in the air. Shouldering the bag of evidence kits and clicking on her flashlight, Emma set off down the trail. At marker 47, she stopped and pulled her phone out, opening the compass app. “West,” she muttered, setting off in the right direction once she had confirmed what the right direction was.

She was so focused on the compass and not tripping over any fallen tree limbs, she almost collided with Graham where he was standing and waiting for her. His hands reached out and gripped her arms to steady them both.

“Over here,” he said, pointing. Emma stopped and reached into the bag, producing the other flashlight to give to him.

They made their way carefully forward. “Emma, have you seen a dead body before?” Graham asked.

She thought back to the days when she’d been living rough, on the run for jumping bail on a couple of minor thefts. She thought of Cleo. “Yeah, I’ve seen a dead body.”

“Just to warn you, the scene is bad.” He glanced back at her. “I’ve called the coroner, but we should have enough time to investigate before they get here to pick up the body.”

Heart racing, Emma continued to follow him. She didn’t know the first thing about a proper crime scene investigation; she hoped Graham did.

“Before you touch anything, put on gloves,” Graham said.

Emma rolled her eyes. Well, she knew that much. Dropping her bag on the ground, she stepped forward.

The first thing she saw were men’s dress shoes, the toes pointed up to the air. She walked closer, moving the flashlight up the body; when she got to the torso, her gorge rose and she had to swallow, breathing sharply through her nose. It was hard to tell because the suit was dark, but the entire front of the man’s suit appeared to be soaked with blood. Underneath the shredded fabric, she caught a glimpse what she feared were partially exposed organs. Averting her eyes from that sight, she jerked her flashlight up to the face.

(x)

“Holy shit, this is Mr. Gold.”

“Yeah,” Graham agreed.

“Could an animal have done this?”

Graham had put on gloves from the bag she’d brought, and he knelt down and carefully moved Mr. Gold’s tie aside before undoing a few of his shirt buttons. “These look like stab wounds to me. Definitely not claw or teeth marks.”

Her mouth seemed suddenly full of saliva, and she swallowed again. “Is there a weapon?”

“Not that I’ve found.” He gestured to the side. “There’s a shovel, but it didn’t do this.”

Emma went over and looked at the shovel where it lay next to a shallow hole. “Did you check to see if something was buried here?”

Graham shook his head. “The ground below seems to be undisturbed. Like Gold was in the process of digging the hole when he was killed, not that he was filling one in.”

“Or maybe the killer was digging the hole?” she asked.

“Perhaps.”

Emma pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of the shovel and the hole. “Should I take pictures of the body?”

“Be my guest.”

Trying her best for professional detachment, Emma took a series of photos of Mr. Gold’s corpse. “Did you find anything else?” she asked Graham.

He circled the small clearing, examining the ground. “Before I lost the light, I could tell that two people came from that direction,” he said, pointing.

“Wow, you’re quite the tracker.”

He flinched. “I couldn’t make out any clear footprints, though. The earth is too dry.” Graham began to work, wrapping one of the evidence bags around the blade of the shovel and another around the handle, despite dismissing it as a possible murder weapon. Emma looked around, at a loss for how she could help. There didn’t seem to be any other evidence, and short of pulling plants out of the ground and putting them in evidence bags, all she could do was stand there and continue to avert her eyes from the body.

“Are you feeling any better?” she asked Graham. “I really think you’re coming down with something.”

“I’ll be fine,” he grunted, but he still looked pale to her.

She heard a crashing through the underbrush, making her jump and swing her flashlight around toward the sound.

Two paramedics approached, carrying a stretcher with a black body bag slung over it. And with them—

“Regina,” Emma said.

“I expect to be notified when a dead body is found in the woods, Sheriff,” she said, addressing Graham and ignoring Emma completely. Regina wore an immaculate cream-colored suit and heels, looking completely incongruous as she stood there in the woods with her hands on her hips. “Why do I have to hear about it from Doctor Whale?”

“I was planning to let you know first thing in the morning,” Graham said, stepping forward and blocking her view of the body.

“That’s not good enough. Who is it?” Regina made to walk around Graham, and he stopped her with a hand on your shoulder.

“It’s quite gruesome, Madam Mayor,” he said, but she pushed him aside and marched over to where the paramedics were going through the motions of looking for life signs from the corpse.

It was Regina’s silence when she saw Gold that told the tale of how shocked she was, rather than any kind of exclamation she might have made. She was still as a stone, staring down at him, and when she spoke, her voice was like ground-up glass.

“Who did this?”

“We don’t know,” Graham answered. “But rest assured—”

“I don’t want your assurances!” Regina said, turning on a dime to white-hot anger. “Do you have any idea…?” She stopped herself and exhaled. “We have to find who did this immediately.”

“We will,” Emma said, trying to sound confident. She didn’t know if the source of Regina’s emotion was due to the loss of control of her town or some feeling she had toward Gold, but whatever it was, it was laced with something Emma had never seen from Regina before: fear.

Finally and mercifully, the paramedics began the process of putting the corpse inside the body bag and zipping it closed.

“The dag— the murder weapon, did you find it?”

“It wasn’t left at the crime scene,” Graham said, “but once Doctor Whale has examined the entry wounds, we should have a better idea of what we’re looking for.”

Regina opened her mouth, only to snap it closed again.

“You knew Mr. Gold pretty well, Regina,” Emma said. “Did he have any enemies?”

Regina laughed darkly. “Who in this town wasn’t his enemy?” She started to pace but stopped short after only two steps. “Killian Jones.”

“The harbormaster?” Emma asked.

“He hated Gold more than most,” Regina said.

The paramedics had the body strapped to the stretcher and started making their way back toward the hiking trail. With nothing left that they could do in the woods, Graham, Emma, and Regina followed.

“I’ve never heard of any bad blood between Gold and Jones,” Graham said.

“It was a long time ago, but it still festered,” Regina said. “Bring Killian in and question him. Search his apartment, search his office, search every boat in the harbor. Believe me, Killian Jones should be your number one suspect.”

~*~

“What can you tell me about Gold’s death?” Sidney asked in a rush, jumping in front of Emma as she tried to make her way through the crowd at Granny’s and get an infusion of caffeine. It was her second night in a row working late, and it was taking its toll. All she wanted was a simple coffee, but with the chaos currently swirling in the diner, there wasn’t going to be anything simple about it. She stared at the lapels of Sidney’s immaculate suit, feeling slightly nauseated by the overwhelming scent of his cologne.

“If you think I’m going to talk to you after—”

“Come on, Deputy Swan, this is the biggest story to ever hit this one-horse town. You have to give me something. What was the state of the body? Do you have any suspects?” Sidney tried to give her a disarming smile. With a glance, Emma could tell that he wasn’t the only one in the crowded diner waiting for her to speak.

“Sheriff Humbert gave his official statement earlier, and that’s all we’re going to say about it during an open investigation.” She pushed her way toward the counter, as the patrons around her grumbled and reluctantly moved aside.

“The question I have is, who’s going to inherit all of his property?” Granny said, both to her and to anyone standing within earshot.

“Did he have any family?” Emma asked.

“There were rumors of an estranged son, but no one in town’s ever met him, far as I know.”

“Well, someone that rich must’ve had a lawyer. Maybe more than one. I’m sure they’ll sort it out. That part of it’s not really my job,” Emma said.

“It’s your job if somebody killed him to inherit his money,” Ruby pointed out, tapping on the counter with a long, red fingernail.

She had a point. There was so little Emma knew about Gold that it was hard to know where to begin. She had hoped Graham would have some ideas of how to investigate this killing, but he’d been holed up in his office for most of the day.

Returning to the station, she eyed him through the glass wall that separated his office from the rest of the room. Taking a deep breath, she approached.

“Did you hear from Dr. Whale?”

Graham was staring into space and didn’t answer her.

“Graham?” Still no response. “Graham!”

Finally, he looked up. The only word she could call up to describe his facial expression was haunted. “What is it, Emma?”

“I asked if you heard from Dr. Whale about the medical examination of Gold.”

“Oh, yeah.” He picked up a report from his desk, almost as if he’d forgotten about it. “Cause of death, puncture of the right ventricle of the heart. Other stab wounds to the chest and abdomen, fourteen in all. Wounds are consistent with a short sword or dagger of at least a twelve inches in length. Markings on three ribs consistent with a curved or irregularly-shaped blade.”

“Wow, okay, that’s useful. Although, sword? Really?”

Graham shrugged.

She huffed in frustration. “Graham, I know you’re… I don’t know, going through some stuff and maybe aren’t feeling a hundred percent. But isn’t this kind of a big deal? Don’t we need to be out… investigating?”

He scrubbed his hands over his face, and then stood up and brushed past her, continuing through the station and out the door. Emma chased after him. She found him standing on the sidewalk outside, looking around in confusion at the darkened street.

“Graham?” Emma said, approaching him slowly.

“It’s my heart. I need to find it,” he muttered.

“What? Wait, is this another way of saying you can’t feel anything?”

“If I follow the wolf, I’ll find my heart,” he said, turning to face her. His eyes were fever-bright, she noticed now that she was close to him. She wondered if he would heed her if she insisted he go home and rest.

“Okay, you’ve lost me,” she said in as calm a voice as she could muster. “What does the wolf represent?”

He shook his head in frustration, his hand reaching out to grip her arm. “If I follow the wolf from my dreams, it will help me find my heart. I saw it in Henry’s book.”

“You’ve been talking to Henry about this?” She replayed what he had just said in her mind. “Hang on. Graham, you really think you don’t have a heart?”

“It’s the only thing that makes any sense. It’s the only thing that explains why I don’t feel anything.”

“Listen to me, Graham: you have a heart. If you didn’t, you’d be… you know. Dead.”

He shook his head as she spoke. “I don’t, she took it. She’s keeping it somewhere and I have to find it.”

“Look, I can prove it to you.” Emma reached for his hand, and as she took it she could feel him trembling. Bringing their joined hands together to his chest, she pressed his hand down, her splayed fingers fitting between his. There it was, the rhythmic thump-thump of his heart. Other than his pulse being quick, his heartbeat seemed normal to her untrained senses. They stood close, knees almost touching, and Emma looked into his eyes. “Feel that? It’s your heart.”

“It’s a trick.”

“Graham, let me take you to the hospital; you’re not well.”

A white flash of movement in the dark street caught Emma’s eye, and she turned to look. Staring back at her, at them, was a large white wolf.

“What the fuck.”

Graham’s gaze followed hers. “There it is, I’ve seen it before. I saw it in the woods last night.” “When you found Gold?”

“Come on,” he said as the wolf loped away. Graham chased after it, and there was nothing for Emma to do but chase after Graham.

“He better not lead us into the woods,” she muttered, glancing down at her boots. “I’m not exactly prepared for long-distance running.”

Pushing aside the thought that she was currently chasing an animal like this was some kind of Harry Potter story, she focused on what Graham had said about seeing the wolf in the woods the night before. She’d wondered how Graham had come across Gold’s body in the first place; now it seemed he’d come across it following a wolf. She wondered why he hadn’t mentioned it last night when she’d suggested an animal attack, not that wolves were in the habit of using twelve-inch blades.

The wolf led them across the grass of the cemetery, its green color fading as fall was beginning to turn into winter. The animal stopped in front of a stone crypt and sat on its haunches.

“This is Regina’s,” Graham said, still approaching.

“Graham, be careful.”

“The wolf won’t hurt us.” He looked up, seeming to focus on the symbol over the door. Was it tree branches? No, she thought, squinting at it. It was deer antlers.

“Why are we here?” Emma asked.

“Because of my heart. It’s in there,” he said, gesturing toward the crypt.

“Graham,” she said helplessly. How do you convince someone that their heart hasn’t been stolen from their chest? He was already pulling uselessly at the door to the crypt. “Okay, you know what? Let’s find out.” Maybe if she could show him there was nothing here, then he would let her take him to the hospital. Positioning herself at his side, she gave the door a sharp kick, forcing it open.

The inside of the mausoleum was small, dominated by a sarcophagus in the center. There really wasn’t much to the space: some recesses in the walls, one containing an urn but the rest with nothing in them. Emma turned on a flashlight as Graham fumbled around, getting more and more frantic.

“There has to be something here. A hidden door. Something.”

“Graham, there isn’t. It’s just what it looks like.”

“So, first you try to take my son,” came a steely voice behind them, and Emma whirled around to face Regina in the doorway, “and then you try to take my lover, and then you defile my father’s grave?”

“Take your who now?” Emma blurted. This hardly seemed the time or place to explain that she and Graham weren't like that, but it was tempting to do so.

“Don’t blame Emma, it was my idea. It’s my fault we’re in here looking,” Graham said.

“And what, pray tell, are you looking for?” Regina asked. Her red lips were a violent slash across her face in the dim light.

Graham seemed to shrink under her gaze. “Nothing.”

“Graham, you look unwell,” Regina said, taking his arm and steering him out of the mausoleum. “Let’s get you in bed so you can rest.” Emma followed, unsure of what to do.

Graham pulled away from Regina, taking two stumbling steps backward. “I’m not going with you.”

“Oh, but you’ll go with Miss Swan?” Regina said viciously, gesturing at Emma.

“Nuh-uh,” Emma said, her hands up. “Don’t bring me into this.”

“It has nothing to do with her.” He pulled himself taller, looking down at Regina calmly. “I thought the reason I couldn’t feel anything was because of me, but it’s you, Regina.”

Regina shook her head, her eyes narrowing. “And so you’re leaving me for her?”

“I’m leaving you for me. It’s over between us.”

“I don’t know what I ever did to you to deserve this,” Regina said, stalking toward Emma. “To have you keep coming after everything I hold dear.”

“I told you, Regina, it’s not her.” Graham sounded more lucid than he had all day, Emma couldn’t help but notice.

“None of this started happening until she got here,” Regina shouted, her hair whipping against her cheek as she jerked her head around from Emma to Graham. “Can you honestly tell me she’s not to blame for your sudden change of heart?”

Emma had had enough. “Regina, did you ever stop to think that maybe the problem isn’t with me, but with you? Henry came and found me. Graham asked for help from me. Both were miserable. Maybe, Madam Mayor, you need to take a good hard look in the mirror and ask yourself why that is. Why is everyone trying to get away from you?”

Regina’s eyes flashed with rage. “Both of you need to get out of my sight.” “Gladly,” Emma said, backing away. “Come on, Graham.” With one last look at Regina, he joined Emma and they walked out of the cemetery together.

They walked in silence for awhile until Graham broke the silence. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. I kind of lost my mind.”

“It’s okay. You were sick and stressed out… And kind of heartbroken.”

“I don’t know why I let myself get mixed up with her,” he said.

“Because it was easy. Not feeling anything’s an attractive option when what you feel sucks.” She crossed her arms over her chest, shivering against the chilly, damp air.

“I guess,” he said. “Still, it feels a little bit like I’m waking up from a nightmare, and none of the things I did in the nightmare make sense now that I’m awake.”

Emma chuckled softly. “I’ve been there.” She reached out and tentatively patted his upper arm, the sleeve of his leather jacket smooth under her hand. “You’re gonna be okay, though. You believe that, right?”

He shook his head. “I honestly don’t know.” They came to the sidewalk and started back toward the sheriff’s station.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand, though,” Emma said. “Hmm?”

“What the hell was up with that wolf?”

Graham shook his head. “I still have all these memories in my head, or what feel like memories. I have dreams that seem so real when I wake up. Dreams of this world where I’ve…” He stopped and turned to face her. “Dreams where Regina is a queen, and where she orders me to murder…” He frowned, his brow wrinkling. “I think it’s Mary Margaret, Regina wants me to cut out her heart…” His breaths have started to come quick and shallow, beads of sweat breaking out on his brow.

“Okay, calm down, let’s not go down this road again, not until you’ve had some rest—”

Graham gasped, his hand going to his chest.

“Graham? What’s wrong?”

He fell; Emma had never seen a human being topple over like a dead tree, but that’s what Graham’s body did. She made a grab for him, trying to slow his fall, but his head hit the pavement hard.

“Graham!” She dropped to his side, her fingers going to the pulse point of his neck, but she was too cold and scared to tell why she wasn’t feeling anything. “Graham, please wake up. Please.” Fumbling for the phone in her pocket, Emma pulled it out and dialed 911.

Chapter 4

[olet-lucernam]

A Hollow Promise [4] chapter i, part iv

{_[on AO3]_}

main tags : loki x original character, post-avengers 2012, canon divergence - post-thor: the dark world, canon-typical violence, mentions of torture

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summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of New York, the Avengers need a few days to build a transport device for the Tesseract. With the Helicarrier damaged and surveillance offline, SHIELD sends an asset to guard Loki in the interim: a young woman who sees the truth in all things, and cannot lie.

Even long presumed dead, her memories lost to her, Loki would know her anywhere.

And this changes things.

Some things last beyond infinity. And the universe is in love with chaos.

(Loki was never looking for redemption. It came as an unexpected side-effect.)

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chapter summary : awaiting his return to asgard after the battle of new york, loki unexpectedly encounters a familiar face.

recommended listening : lies, will jay

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The chamber stirred with a gentle, constant current, buoyed on the chafe and flutter of flipping pages, the rustle of shifting clothing, the occasional soft noise signifying another person's presence, blending into an ambiance as cleansing as seawater.

If Loki narrowed his vision purely to words printed on pages, and ignored how the fall of light was too even and too white, he could imagine that he was in his library- the mezzanine circling overhead, a coronet of darkly polished rosewood, tall windows thrown open to altitude-cold air and the rich, warm vanilla of the cordolium roses twining across the balcony, the glare of midday softened by a great fall of gossamer curtains billowing and sighing against the glass.

It was easy to imagine her reclined across from him, on a richly cushioned chaise instead of a cheap plastic chair that was turning her flesh numb, draped in lustrous silks and sunlight.

Predictably enough, Loki ended up altering the list that she had given him. Partway through the opening of Othello, Iago's speech- for when my outward action doth demonstrate the native act and figure of my heart, in complete extern, 'tis not long after but I shall wear my heart upon my sleeve for daws to peck at: I am not what I am- made him realise that he knew the play, opting to skip ahead into Much Ado About Nothing.

Benedick had just been tricked into believing Beatrice was in love with him when his guard emerged from her own book, popping out her headphones, trading her history of medicine in antiquity for Austen's final novel. Loki took the opportunity to comment on Beatrice and Benedick being as viciously witty and deliberately obtuse as each other- and therefore a perfect match, as they were the only ones in the world who could satisfy the other. She agreed laughingly, making a point about the couple being equals first and foremost, and they quickly fell into discussion.

With minimal nudging, she admitted that she considered The Merchant of Venice to be Shakespeare's best work.

"He wasn't a zeitgeist, by any means. He just wrote people, in all their petty dramas and their potential greatness, co-existing alongside the other," she argued, alight and impassioned. "The Merchant of Venice encapsulates all of it- serendipity and ingenuity, wit and idiocy, cruelty and compassion, all human passions, foibles, and faults. It's that timeless, endless waltz of humanity, circling back around to itself. That's what captures the imagination. It speaks directly to something immutable, in the soul of being alive."

Loki narrowed his eyes at her.

"You've rehearsed that, haven't you?"

She lifted one shoulder guiltily.

"I've been refining it for over a decade," she confessed, propping her chin on the heel of her palm. "What do you think?"

"Convincing enough that I am obliged to hate you slightly," he said briskly, eliciting a muffled giggle. "I dislike being outmatched."

"I hadn't noticed," she said, brightly sardonic, before abating, softening. "Would you settle for being equally matched?"

Loki arched an eyebrow. "You consider us equally matched?"

"Of course I do, I've heard you talk," she retorted, disarmingly candid even when he was expecting it. "I'm not too proud to admit that, if I were capable of lying to myself, you might have persuaded me that I actually did hesitate to come down here. Given half a chance, I think you could summon the stars from the skies, charm the sun into rising in the west, and sweet-talk the moon into releasing the tides."

Loki burned at her words.

They were spoken with the air of nothing less than casually stated fact, hitting his bloodstream like a shot of liquor and setting his heart pounding a demand of moremoremore in his chest.

"I think this is the most intellectually stimulating conversation I've had in months," she added absently.

"Surely SHIELD isn't populated entirely by imbeciles," Loki reasoned, silently willing the heat under his skin to cool and disperse. Myopic though they may be.

"It's populated entirely by spies," she replied, mouth slanting into a sickle of displeasure, "and I am a living lie detector. They all gravitated towards me at first, for the perceived challenge of it. I think they even had a betting pool. But once they realised that no, they can't get a lie past me, no matter how good a liar they are, the lustre wore off rather quickly. I'm kept quarantined, essentially. No one wants to risk a careless slip and have me collecting their secrets."

"Because you are an outsourced asset," Loki extrapolated.

"Because I am an outsourced asset," she echoed blandly, "yes."

"That, and people are often too eager to equate honesty with gullibility, thereby inferring stupidity. They make the assumption that your mind is not worth engaging, or only on their own limited terms, for their own limited purposes." Loki grinned, vulpine and unscrupulous. "More fool them. Unwitting opponents make for such poor sport, don't you think?"

Her tension began to unfurl.

"Fair sport, but in terms of fairness, it's not very sporting," she quipped archly. "Such a contest may be contested."

Loki felt the delight coil up through him, like paper curling under tongues of flame, blackening and glimmering ember-gold at the edges like calcified ribbons of lace.

"But where fight and flight are forbidden," he replied, "one may be bidden forth to bid for flyte."

Laughter spilled out of her, leaving Loki masking his own mirth through his fingers.

She gusted out a contented sigh, dipping her head back.

"Stars above, this is so refreshing."

Loki hummed his agreement, relaxing against the back wall of the cell. "My poor, clever darling. I can only imagine how bored and isolated you were, your wit wasted and blunted on them." He paused, calculating. "Then again, perhaps not. I would bet that you have as many of SHIELD's secrets tucked in your arsenal as I. Some, even, that SHIELD is unaware that they are keeping."

She levelled him with an unreadable gaze.

"Zhī bǐ zhījǐ, bǎizhànbùdài," she quoted.

Loki smiled faintly, remaining fixed on her as a compass needle drawn to true north.

"Somehow I doubt that SHIELD's commanders have studied The Art of War," he said. "I suspect that they prefer Nietzsche- as edited posthumously by his sister."

Her lips curled, her cupid's bow deepening.

"My copies are the more recent editions," she told him. "Post-sixties publications."

"Ah, I thought as much. Your taste skew towards the unfiltered versions."

"But if I hadn't read those versions," she pressed, "you would have made the recommendation?"

Loki indicated the stack of books she had given him- relocated from the hollow pillar, stacked next to him on the bench- with an elegant upwards flick of his wrist.

"It seems only right to return the favour," he said neutrally. "And I wouldn't want SHIELD's inferior tastes corrupting you."

She scoffed lightly. "Unlikely. But- I appreciate the sentiment. Although, speaking of brazen antisemitism," she made the transition with a clean pivot, posture shifting with the topic, "what did you make of Shylock's character?"

Loki took her cue, and they stepped away from the conversation, the metaphor wearing dangerously thin. She had said that surveillance in the room was intermittent, not disabled- and Loki would rather not risk one of the many heads of the serpent overhearing something that would put her within its sights.

Instead, they plunged back into safer waters. They debated heatedly over whether Shylock was written intentionally sympathetic, or whether that was the lens of interpretation, or whether it truly mattered thanks to the maxim of death of the author, birth of the reader. They agreed that Portia's speech in regards to mercy was almost satirically undermined once the tables were turned, but Loki was pleasantly surprised when she made a case for the court scene being less of a triumph of justice, and more of an even match between two ruthless, intelligent players, with the cleverer and more effective party claiming victory. They discussed how Shakespearean tragedy was rooted in the protagonist's virtue being turned to vice by circumstance- Loki sugared that were the titular leads of Othello and Hamlet switched, Hamlet's wit and introspection would have foiled Iago's machinations at the outset, while Othello's quickness to action would have seen Claudius dead without any collateral damage.

"You're familiar with Othello," she commented, eyebrows raised. "Hamlet, I expected, but not Othello."

"Exceptions to the rule," Loki admitted. "The sonnets and historical plays were always of greater interest to me." He thumbed the spine of the anthology, before flipping the front cover open to the contents page, printed in the historical font. "Speaking of which, I had hoped you might give me a substitute for Othello. What would you suggest?"

"Oh- let me think." She shifted in the plastic chair, twisting in a half-conscious, fruitless attempt to find a more comfortable position. "What about- maybe The Tempest? It's a revenge tale, almost a spiritual antithesis to Othello. And it's one of Shakespeare's last plays, often thought to be his personal farewell to the stage."

"Choosing one of the latest, rather than one of his earliest? Interesting choice."

"It seems fairer to me. He'd had decades to develop his craft by then."

"Ah, but I never said that I was inclined to be fair." Loki ran a finger down the first page of the contents, noting that the plays were arranged in chronological order. "And you know a person best by their flaws." He paused, brow creasing slightly. "Titus Andronicus. Did I miss one of the Roman plays?"

To his surprise, when Loki looked up, she was attempting to surpress a wince.

"Ah, no. Correct period setting, but Titus Andronicus is one of his fictional tragedies."

Loki raised his eyebrows at the suspiciously scant description. "That bad?"

She bit her lower lip, hard enough to whiten the flesh.

"It's not badly written. I just- don't enjoy it. Much like Coriolanus, it just- hurts."

It was a strange admission, almost childishly puerile, from someone with so much age in her eyes.

"I wouldn't think you the type to shy away from pain." Loki broached carefully. "You're too honest for that- to avoid it, or pretend that it doesn't exist."

"I know the value of pain," she said sharply. "I’ve used it as fuel, or endured it as the price to be paid, taken it as a lesson. But-" Her entire form clenched in a righteous fury, welling from deep hurt. "Gratuitous pain, waste of life- it's anathema, to me. It breeds despair, and despair is a paralytic. You stop feeling. Your soul dies. Because why care, if that's all there is? I witness enough brutal truths in reality. I don't need to experience pointless death and suffering through fiction as well."

Loki watched her- tenser than he had seen her yet, glaring past him, haunted and angry and achingly powerless.

"You value life."

She startled back to him.

Her emotions cluttered over each other, flipping to the fore and back again like the shuffle of a card trick, shifting too quickly to track or decode.

"I wouldn't be who I am if I didn't."

"And I wouldn't be who I am if I did," Loki concluded on her behalf, "yes?"

"I never said that-"

"But is it a lie?"

She clenched her teeth into the inside of her cheek, subtly hollowing the flesh around bone.

His eyes narrowed, lilting into mockery.

"Have I upset you?"

With a kick, she uncrossed her legs violently, her heel slamming to the floor with a rattling bang.

He thought, for a moment, that he had finally made her snap.

"You hurt something that I care for." Her voice was harnessed heatstroke. "You damaged a corner of this world, and I resent that."

Loki exhaled a cruel laugh.

"And what a world it is," he said, tone drenched in vicious contempt. "Ruled by hypocrites and tyrants, built on the profits of slaughter and exploitation, adulating killers and liars- is this the measure of humanity? The sum of its oeuvre, the culmination of its greatness? Yet the mortal heroes have the gall to think themselves better, to lecture and preach virtue from on high. What right have they to judge what is moral?"

"What gives you the right to disdain them?!" She exploded.

"Centuries of experience, beloved!" Loki snarled, his cadence dissolving into venom and shards of grinding ice. "Experience is a harsh teacher, but it is the most reliable one you will ever find! I have seen into the void. There is nothing beyond the chaos and pain. There is no grand scale of justice, no cosmic morality, no higher meaning. We are playthings of an indifferent universe, and even you, darling, for all your shining virtues, will not be spared. It will tarnish and devour that fierce, golden heart of yours until there is nothing left of you. Existence is empty. Life's meaning is but a shadow on the wall. It is an illusion. A comforting lie."

Her expression was hard.

"So what?"

Loki stilled.

"What?"

"So what if it's a lie?"

Loki stared at her, bewildered.

"You're right." She said calmly. "I've looked. As far as I can tell, life has no purpose. Nothing matters. There is no grand order, no destiny, no- burden of glorious purpose," she quoted, faintly derisive. "The universe is in love with chaos. Existence is a hollow promise. Take the universe and grind it down to the finest powder, and sieve it through the finest sieve, and show me one atom of justice, one molecule of mercy-"

"I don't know those words," Loki cut in waspishly.

“Pratchett,” she said. “From one of the books I gave you. He made a point about the stories we tell ourselves, the things we make ourselves believe in, even if they’re not true. Especially if they’re not true.”

Shoulders lifting into a shrug, she softened, achingly bittersweet.

“Not all lies are evil. And not all lies have to remain lies. So take the great cosmic lie, and make it true. Make it real. Make it matter because you have decided that it matters. The emptiness and the chaos is just- freedom. To take the hollow promise, and fill it in. To choose a glorious purpose. Confronted with that- why would you want something else?”

Loki pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth.

"It's a pretty concept."

"I've seen it too," she said quietly, "the abyss. I've seen it in me, like you, and it frightened me. But I've made my choice. What's yours?"

"That," he said scathingly, "ought to be obvious."

"Except it's not," she said, her expression ruthlessly bright. "The more I see of you, the more I am convinced that you are everything but obvious."

"You have nothing but wishful thinking, darling," Loki replied coldly. "Nothing more than the desire to create meaning where there is none."

"I have that fact that you lied to me."

"You will have to be far more specific than that."

"No I won't, which is fascinating in and of itself, by the way," she said briskly, "but anyway- you told me that I should be afraid of you. That was a lie. And given your exploits in New Mexico, Nevada, Germany, and New York- basic logic indicates that it really should not be a lie. So why isn't it true?"

She already suspected the answer. She would not have presented substantive proof posed as a rhetorical question unless she did.

There was no answer he could give that she couldn't use to drag herself closer to the truth, no lie he could speak that wasn't as good as a confession.

Loki neither answered her, nor lied.

"It's interesting that you mentioned Coriolanus," he mused. "As I said, tragedy makes what would otherwise be a virtue into a vice. For Caius Martius Coriolanus, his downfall was his refusal to be dishonest, even when it would serve his purposes. He wore his heart upon his sleeve for daws to peck at."

She straightened, mouth set in a concrete-hard line.

Of course. If she had understood his oblique reference to Nietzsche in less than a sentence, decoding such a flagrant gibe would be child's play.

Slowly, gaze never breaking his, she unfolded her left arm from across her body and drew the fitted sleeve up to her elbow, the skin of her inner forearm exposed, the inside of her wrist bared.

Loki wondered how such a gesture of surrender could be fused with so much defiance.

"It's a risk." Her fingers clenched, flexed, tendons shifting and rippling like shafts of light breaking through clouds. "Embarrassing yourself enough to ask for what you truly want, but- who could refrain, that had a heart to love, and in that heart, courage to make love known?"

Loki's heart seized up.

"So," she said, contemplating the delicate creases of her wrist through her lashes, "you could devour it in the marketplace-"

"Or?" Loki prompted before he could stop himself, daring her to complete the thought.

She raised her eyes to his with a steady blink.

"Or you could let your tongue slip and call me beloved again."

Loki knew how to read people. It was a necessity, a natural aptitude tempered to a keen edge over the centuries.

Her entire self was written on the surface of her skin, in high fidelity- a manuscript penned in shifting iridescent ink, wrought in poetic conceit, brimming with symbolism and equivoque. She offered herself candidly, in absolute, but remained impenetrable to anyone lacking the patience and motivation to parse the script and unlock the meaning.

And now, in that moment, where others might glance across her and read a challenge- for the first time since she had stepped into the room, Loki realised she had made herself vulnerable. He could see the fear and hope warring inside her, pulling her taut as a garotte, fastening her in place.

Loki looked away.

Weak, his mind hissed, venomous and taunting,

On his periphery, he watched the disappointment sink through her.

Or perhaps that was relief.

It was another stalemate. Neither of them had gained any ground. Or, if they had, it was pyrrhic.

Pulling back, resettling amongst the ashes, she tucked herself back up into her copy of Persuasion.

Inside the cell, Loki retrieved the Shakespearean anthology, and split it open to the first act of Titus Andronicus.

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[zatsy]

Amethyst could have beaten Jasper without fusing.

I will preface this post with the disclaimer that I have been following the show since the pilot, and I LOVE it. I encourage people to watch it all the time. But lately, I’ve noticed how Amethyst almost always gets the short end of the stick when it comes to character development. Rather than talking about all of the missed opportunities for character development, though, I’d like to talk about Amethyst and her fights with Jasper in season 3. It was a huge opportunity for Amethyst to get some serious character development, and, in my opinion, it was wasted on her fusion with Steven. I love Smokey Quartz, and their fight against Jasper was incredible, but...

I would like to start with the first Amethyst vs Jasper showdown in “Crack the Whip”. It’s one of my personal favorite episodes (mostly due to Stevonnie’s badass appearance), and it was building up to something great for Amethyst. We all remember Jasper’s chilling lines like, “You aren’t even trying! Is it because you already know you’re a failure?” and “You could have been me!” And let’s not forget the most chilling scene in the episode—

The way this is written, it’s shown to be a brutally one-sided fight. All of Amethyst’s attacks do virtually nothing to Jasper, while she gets absolutely curb-stomped. When she reforms and sees that Stevonnie has already defeated Jasper for her, it diminishes what little self-esteem she had. Everything Jasper told her seems true because she couldn’t size up.

This leads into the next episode, “Steven vs. Amethyst”, which is where I think things started to go wrong. In the episode, Pearl (accidentally) reinforces Amethyst’s feelings of self-loathing by suggesting that she’s losing on purpose to boost Steven’s confidence, and Steven does the same (despite his intentions) by losing on purpose in Lonely Blade. All of this is fine and dandy by me, but where things really went south is the fight between Steven and Amethyst. It wasn’t constructive, it was more of a way to indulge in their self-loathing in an incredibly destructive way. No progress was made towards building Amethyst or Steven back up.

It gets worse in “Bismuth”. I personally don’t like this episode because a lot of things were handled poorly, but for now, I’ll address Amethyst’s role. Or, rather, a lack thereof. Most of the episode centers around Bismuth’s appearance and disappearance, which completely disrupts the story of the last two episodes. Amethyst is seen, hardly heard, and no one even mentions the Homeworld gem causing havoc on Earth, or any of the events that have transpired in recent history. It halts the arc in an awkward way.

We get back to the story in “Beta”. Amethyst is still clearly upset with her loss, and she hasn’t made a whole lot of progress towards becoming a better warrior. She is discouraged further by her visit to the Beta Kindergarten and her discovery of Jasper’s perfect exit hole. Sure, Steven manages to pick her up, but all that really manages to do is get Amethyst even more fired up about fighting Jasper, which she’s ill equipped to do. Peridot’s little humdinger about how Amethyst shouldn’t fight her, the “ultimate Quartz”, wasn’t a big help either.

And then we get to “Earthlings”. Hoo boy. The fight is going about the same way it did in “Crack the Whip”, which proves that Amethyst hasn’t made any progress. “Is it sinking in yet?” stings because if Amethyst and the people around her had been making more constructive efforts to build her up, this fight would have gone much, much differently. In the end, Steven gives Amethyst a little monologue and they resort to what appears to be the only way to beat Jasper.

Fusion.

This further reinforced Jasper’s accusation that fusing is the only trick the Crystal Gems have. While the audience might know that isn’t true, Jasper doesn’t. So far, she’s only been shown to be defeated by fusions. While Steven and Amethyst’s fusion wasn’t a bad thing, it was a huge opportunity for Amethyst to prove herself, and she missed out on it.

So, I can talk and talk about what went wrong, but what would I do personally to change it?

1.) Eliminate “Bismuth” and put it at the end of this arc. The fact that this episode occurs right in the middle of this arc halts the story being told. Finish the story you’re telling before you start another one. I could rewrite that episode altogether, but that’s something for another day.

2.) Give Garnet a role in this arc. We haven’t seen Garnet and Amethyst interact very much throughout the show, aside from comic relief bits. This arc would have been the perfect opportunity to show what their personal relationship is like. Since this occurs after the Sardonyx arc (another bad arc I’d like to break down sometime), this would be a good point for Garnet to tell Amethyst that her strength isn’t her power, and that she needs to explore other ways to take down opponents. Even better, Garnet mentors her and helps her train. Not only does this give Amethyst a constructive way to build up her confidence, it gives Garnet something to talk about other than fusion and rounds her out.

3.) Show Amethyst’s progression from “Crack the Whip” to “Beta”. At the beginning, it’s obvious that Amethyst wants to be just like Jasper, so she tries to fight like Jasper. But it’s obvious that Amethyst isn’t like Jasper, and she needs to focus on her strengths, not what her strengths are supposed to be. We already know Amethyst has some kind of grasp on this because of episodes like “Ocean Gem” and “Catch and Release”, where she uses her weapon to grab things rather than strike.

Again, this is a good time for Garnet to step in and remind her that her weapon isn’t built around power, and there are ways to defeat opponents besides being a powerhouse. Hell, if you wanted, you could add in a Peridot moment where she reminds Amethyst how she’s captured her with her whip on more than one occasion. What’s important is that Amethyst learns that she doesn’t need to be like Jasper to be a great warrior.

4.) The fight in “Earthlings” should be even without fusion. It makes the end result so much sweeter when the “ultimate Quartz” is evenly matched with a “defective runt”. The dialogue here could be intense and moving, where Jasper hurls insults at Amethyst for being afraid to fight her honestly, and Amethyst retorts by saying she doesn’t need to be like Jasper to be strong. She could even turn it around on Jasper by saying that while Homeworld may only value one type of strength, Earth gems see value in all types of strength. This raises Amethyst’s confidence when she sees that she can beat Jasper fair and square, no fusion required. Jasper becomes so desperate to win that she’ll fuse with a corrupted gem monster in order to defeat her because if the Crystal Gems will resort to cheap tricks, why can’t she? It makes Amethyst feel better about herself as a gem, not just as a component to a fusion.

That about wraps up my thoughts on this. I know I can’t change what’s already been set in canon, but Amethyst deserved better.

[olet-lucernam]

A Hollow Promise [2] chapter i, part ii

{_[on AO3]_}

main tags : loki x original character, post-avengers 2012, canon divergence - post-thor: the dark world, canon-typical violence, mentions of torture

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summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of New York, the Avengers need a few days to build a transport device for the Tesseract. With the Helicarrier damaged and surveillance offline, SHIELD sends an asset to guard Loki in the interim: a young woman who sees the truth in all things, and cannot lie.

Even long presumed dead, her memories lost to her, Loki would know her anywhere.

And this changes things.

Some things last beyond infinity. And the universe is in love with chaos.

(Loki was never looking for redemption. It came as an unexpected side-effect.)

-

chapter summary : awaiting his return to asgard after the battle of new york, loki unexpectedly encounters a familiar face.

recommended listening : the devil is a gentleman, merci raines

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"Are you an Avenger?"

A sunburst crossed her features, teasing a flash of a true smile out her- the most emotion he had seen from her yet.

"No."

"SHIELD, then."

"Also no."

Brow creasing, Loki took a carefully measured step towards the border of his cell, the snap of it resounding in the quiet, his reflection washing against the glass like watercolour.

She leaned back against the control panel, heels of her palms braced on its edge.

"I did tell you that I wasn't an agent," she said.

"Not an Avenger. Nor an agent of SHIELD," Loki said, perplexed. "Then- what?"

"An outsourced asset." Loki was certain he wasn't imagining the bitterness in her voice. "SHIELD took an interest in me."

The statement was ominously vague, given her inability to speak an outright lie.

Knowing what he did about SHIELD's innards, Loki felt his stomach turn.

"Outsourced." Loki could read the subtext inked within what she was willing to voice. "You do not belong to them."

Her nail scraped across the surface of the controls with a faint rasp. Her smile lingered as her eyes hardened.

"In that case," Loki continued, "as you cannot lie, and your connection SHIELD is more tenuous than the others, I suppose you will answer honestly, if I ask if you were- reluctant to take this assignment."

"My instructions are not optional," she said evenly.

"That wasn't my question, darling," he said, gentling his tone. He carefully ignored how easy it was, to slip into tender coaxing, letting his guard drop just enough for her to glimpse past it.

Her steady gaze was like the press of fingers to the jugular vein.

Tension coiling up his spine, Loki wondered with a flutter of panic whether he had overplayed his hand.

The young woman breathed out slowly, shoulders dropping from their fixed frame.

"I wasn't reluctant, no."

Mouth twisting sceptically, Loki pressed closer to the transparent wall separating them.

"You didn't hesitate? Not even once?" Loki pressed softly, ruthlessly, affecting the timbre of a threat dipped in reassurances- he had recently become familiar with such things, with the way it tore in opposite directions like the shred of a serrated blade, how it hurt infinitely more than unadulterated, unpretending malice. "When they sent you here, to me- when you saw realised what they intended to do, what they foolishly attempted to conceal from you, under the hollow guise of a different task- when you made the long trek down, as a thrall to a funeral pyre- you didn't waver? Not even for a moment? You didn't consider running from the monster, instead of walking into its open maw?"

Her eyes slashed up to his, igniting.

"No."

Loki could hear that it was truth- the impact like a shockwave, the sensation like a key turning in a lock- a surety more disconcerting than any lie she could have told.

His hands clenched, working out the sensation.

"I wasn't reluctant." She repeated. "Am I lying?"

"No."

The admission formed on his lips unbidden, reflexive, unthinking and too quick and too direct.

Loki swiftly recovered.

"I suppose that begs the question why. Why you were not reluctant, when all good sense would dictate otherwise."

"Hm. Well, Director Fury once asked if I lack a fear response, or if I was just too stubborn feel afraid." The young woman lifted her eyes to the ceiling with a slow blink. "I'm fairly sure that was his way of either calling me stupid or insufferable, however."

Loki's estimation of Fur dropped a few notches.

"How uncharitable of the director," he said, unimpressed. "Intelligence has little to do with it. Seeing the truth in everything, you at least know that which you should fear- even if only in theory, rather than practice."

"And I should fear you?"

Loki laughed, pitching his voice low and liquid dark, like the plunge of oblivion.

"Oh, my darling. Of course you should."

He saw her shiver, a tremor rippling through her, drawing her spine taut as a bowstring.

Then she relaxed, all but the shallowest dregs of tension draining away.

If Loki didn't know better, he might have thought that she looked quietly exultant- as though he had uttered the words she wanted to hear most in the world.

"I told you that I see the truth in all things."

Loki's eyebrows contracted, steepling, bemused at the abrupt departure.

"You did."

Her fingers skimmed the edge of the terminal, closing the gulf between them with a few casual strides.

"So why are you trying to lie to me?"

The air of the chamber congealed.

Her question was simple, disarming and carving him open in one fluid stroke, not an ounce of energy wasted. It was a familiar sensation, too familiar, and his reaction was muscle memory, a rueful surrender, a defeat he was willing to accept because it was still a victory-

Loki grappled down the instinct to rear back on his heels, suturing the wound closed as quickly as it was made, lifting his chin imperiously. It would only demonstrate weakness, if he showed a desperation to be believed, or to shove himself out of her proximity, and he couldn't-

"Or," she murmured after a moment, her tone setting a heat in his blood like liquor, as though her lips were pressed against his throat as she spoke, "is it not me that you're trying to lie to?"

A hysterical laugh twisted up in Loki's chest, but he choked it before it could well out of him.

She was so incisive that it didn't even hurt.

Her sleek earpiece sparked with a crackle of static.

"Alethia? You there?"

The voice was tinny through the electronic filter, just barely audible to Loki in the quiet. The girl lifted two fingers to the earpiece, visibly irritated by the interruption.

"No." She answered tartly.

Loki suppressed a flicker of amusement.

The agent on the other end of the connection- Barton, he noted with a sting of recognition- huffed.

"Right. You doing alright down there in the lion's den?"

She smirked faintly, locking eyes with Loki.

"Haven't gotten myself eaten just yet."

Loki couldn't help himself.

Yet, he mouthed at her, playfully vicious.

Catching the swell of her lower lip between her teeth, she turned aside, creasing into a furtive warmth. Loki followed, keeping them in symmetry.

"Good. Because we've got no change on the surveillance. To quote Director Fury, you're going to have to babysit the God of Pain-In-My-Ass for the foreseeable," Barton informed her casually.

"You shock me," she intoned flatly, glancing towards Loki.

He ran a fingertip across the seam of his mouth, frowning in unfeigned sympathy. It was one thing for SHIELD to lie as often as they breathed, but to attempt to lie to an asset with the ability to see the truth in all things- whom they seemed to value for that specific trait- Loki couldn't decide whether they were stupid, arrogant, or callously comfortable in the knowledge that she couldn't do anything about the lie, even if she did call it out.

Barton didn't seem to hear her.

"Stark and Banner say it's gonna take a few days before the Tesseract device is finished," he explained. "We need eyes on Loki, after what happened before, and you're the only one he can't trick. You've got half an hour to grab your gear from your quarters, take a bedroll and a couple of MREs. They'll be a rotation of guards to relieve you for fifteen minutes every six hours, but other than that, you're in there solo, twenty-four seven. The fewer people around for Loki to manipulate, the better. All good? You clear?"

"Crystal," she enunciated with cloying obedience.

"Hey. I'm serious, Alethia," Barton pressed. "Stay on guard around Mr Tall, Dark, and Clinically Insane down there-"

"Dr Stark came up with that one, didn't he?"

Barton huffed in a manner that could only confirm it.

She arched an eyebrow.

"Look. Don't let him get inside your head, okay? You're the best choice for this assignment, we all know it, but you need to stay alert. We don't need you getting tricked or mind-controlled- his magic is still an unknown, and we don't know how you'll react to it-"

Something in her visage shifted, seething.

"To quote the Director- again-" The archer dropped into a rough impression of the director, matching his steady cadence and the open shape of his drawled vowels. "It took long enough and too much collateral for us to get him the first time, and I do not need him running around blowing up another city if he gets loose again-"

"Is that everything?" She asked, a touch impatiently.

"For now, yeah. Keep your comms on. And take care, sweetheart."

Her lip curled.

Barton didn't bother waiting for a reply. The connection cut, and her hand lifted away from the earpiece.

She turned towards Loki.

"I presume you heard all that."

Folding his hands together at the base of his spine, Loki hummed thoughtfully. A strange, lingering solidarity shimmered between them.

"Another question, if I may."

She gave a consenting flourish of her hand.

"Your distaste towards Agent Barton's parting comment." Loki drifted absently across the cell. "Was that because of the endearment, the sentiment, or the individual? Or perhaps an aversion to terms of endearment in general?"

She inhaled slowly, hazel irises unfocused into the middle distance somewhere over Loki's shoulder, visibly simmering.

"I have never given him," she stressed, "permission to call me that."

That gave Loki pause, and he coasted to a halt. "Ah. Forgive me."

The young woman looked perplexed. "I- excuse me?"

Loki swivelled towards her, smooth and blank as marble.

"I was presumptuous. I ought to have asked if there were any endearments you would prefer that I not use."

She stared at him, clearly blindsided.

He didn't blame her. But names had power, and Loki's knowledge and respect of magic ran too deep to risk abusing them, at least when his mind was his own and not the plaything of another.

Relaxing by another few degrees, she crossed her arms meditatively.

"I think pet is degrading. Little one is condescending. Honey sounds patronising too easily, and hun is just- ugly. As for sweetheart, I would- appreciate it if you didn't use that one."

"And what of darling?" Loki asked, watching her intently. "Do you have any objections to that one?"

Her teeth raked across her lower lip, dragging a blush of roseate colour into its wake. Light caught in the faint satin sheen, pooling in the dip beneath her cupid's bow as she took a breath.

Loki forced his eyes back to hers, swallowing thickly.

"No," she said quietly, fingertips tracing the wing of her collarbone. "You can call me that."

Loki felt a knot in his throat loosen.

"Thank you, darling," he breathed.

She shivered, chasing it with a quick shake of her head.

"Well. Despite what some here may tell you, I am capable of civility," she teased. Loki exhaled a laugh in reply. "And considering that we're going to be subjected to each other's company for a while- I think it may be in both our interests. Don't you agree?"

"Oh, darling, I daresay that there infinitely worse fates that being subjected to your presence." Loki said, his smile as quick and bright as a switchblade.

This time, she laughed outright, radiant as shattering light.

Loki felt himself thaw, seeping treacherously into his eyes, dripping across his skin in a stain of unadulterated vulnerability.

"Who would believe it," she said, breathlessly, combing a strand of pale blonde hair back behind the curve of her ear, eyes sparkling, "you're even being sincere."

"Despite what some here may tell you," Loki echoed her, dropping his voice playfully, stepping into the glass, "I am capable of sincerity."

Something fragile in his chest fluttered as she shifted closer unconsciously.

"Oh, I believe you," she said nonchalantly. "The best deceptions always have a kernel of truth."

"Does that mean even you are capable of deception, my lady?"

She sobered, but a glimmer remained, settling in the curve of her irises like gold dust.

"Secrets are not lies. Just because I can't lie doesn't mean I have to voice the truth. Especially if people are neither willing-"

"- to ask the question, nor listen to the answer." Loki finished in a murmur.

Surprise flashed across her. "Yes. Yes, exactly."

Loki saw the way she shifted, alight not with suspicion, but something incandescent and adjacent.

Her lips parted- then pressed together, whatever words were forming bitten back.

"I have to collect my things," she said, reluctantly. "Please don't try to escape while I'm gone, they will find a way to blame me."

Loki chuckled quietly. "Ah, well, we can't have that."

He exhaled soundlessly, before lifting his hands in acquiescence.

"Very well, then, darling. I will make no attempt to escape, you have my word."

"Thank you," she said warmly, without a trace of irony. She stepped back, primed to leave. "I won't be long."

With a parting smile, she turned on the balls of her feet and strode away down the steps, swiftly disappearing through the doorway of the control room.

Her fading footfalls faded, leaving the recycled air of the chamber as clean and clear as the calm after a midsummer storm.

-

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[olet-lucernam]

A Hollow Promise [6] chapter ii, part i

{_[on AO3]_}

main tags : loki x original character, post-avengers 2012, canon divergence - post-thor: the dark world, canon-typical violence, mentions of torture

-

summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of New York, the Avengers need a few days to build a transport device for the Tesseract. With the Helicarrier damaged and surveillance offline, SHIELD sends an asset to guard Loki in the interim: a young woman who sees the truth in all things, and cannot lie.

Even long presumed dead, her memories lost to her, Loki would know her anywhere.

And this changes things.

Some things last beyond infinity. And the universe is in love with chaos.

(Loki was never looking for redemption. It came as an unexpected side-effect.)

-

chapter summary : the morning after. loki and his guard play a game of twenty questions.

recommended listening : silvertongue, young the giant

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-

Somewhere in the small hours of the night, Loki slipped into a dreamless sleep.

He had every intention of staying awake through the night, reading until dawn, killing each hour until they bled into daybreak and gathered in grit under his lashes.

But in the low light, the hush accented by her breathing and the rustle of sheets, the smell of books adding texture to the recycled air, and the absence of anyone else inside his head but himself made it a losing fight. Exhausted from balancing on the edge of a knife for months, and finally on stable ground, his body overrode his mind and stole a few precious of hours of rest.

Loki awoke with a sharp jolt, eyes snapping open and whipping to attention, the back of his skull knocking off the glass.

A familiar voice, soft as feathers, drew him back with a gentle tug.

"Sorry- did I wake you?"

In a consciously unhurried motion, Loki pulled himself upright, refusing to wince at the numbness set in his flesh like hardening concrete.

His guard was awake and redressed, standing just beyond the turned-down sheets of her bed. Her skin was dewy from bathing, the low cast of light glimmering in the hollows of her collarbone and along her damp hairline, the nondescript cotton she had slept in traded for a rich purple camisole and pewter grey shorts, hemmed with fine soft lace, and black thigh-high socks. She was frozen where she stood, poised on the balls of her feet, treading softly, the curves of her long legs carved by the clinging wool.

Loki felt his eyes darken involuntarily.

She looked practically edible.

Distantly, Loki wondered if her clothing choice was engineered, another ploy by SHIELD.

With a sharp flick of his head, Loki tossed his dark hair out of his eyes, straightening.

"Not at all."

She dipped her head, grinning.

"Lie," she determined, reaching for the control panel at the terminal, "but a sweet one, so I forgive you."

Gradually, she dragged the lights up from their low ebb, back into full bloom, like an expedited sunrise.

Loki gave a measured blink, eyes adjusting to the brightened room. As his vision cleared, it bought her into full focus- any lingering trace of drowsiness sluiced away, leaving her looking as bright and fresh as a plot of roses after a bout of spring rain.

"Oh, stars above," he muttered as the realisation dawned, pinching the bridge of his nose, "of course- you're a morning person."

To her credit, she choked back her laughter.

"I was trying not to wake you," she said, apologetically, smothering a smile behind her hand. "I guessed that you were a night owl, so I-"

"The nightingale, not the lark," Loki quipped dryly, then sighed out a rueful smile. "Don't fret, songbird. I've always been a light sleeper."

Especially of late.

She cocked her head, slow and considering. Loki had the impression of his mind turning translucent under her observant gaze.

He tensed involuntarily.

Rather than comment on it, she visibly cast it off, like flicking water droplets from her fingertips, reaching for something on the plastic chair by the terminal.

"I have a peace offering."

The lilt in her pitch made it into a question. Loki thought she might have sounded faintly nervous, the sharp edge folded down into something closer to anticipation.

She turned with a thick trio of books clamped in a one hand, deftly balancing their breadth and weight in her splayed grip just long enough to turn the spines to face him. Loki spied the rocaille leaf of a collection of fairytales, a crisp-covered cinderblock chronicling the Plantagenet monarchs of the British Isles, and the scuffed Austen novel that she was reading the previous evening.

In the other hand, held with the same air of presenting for approval, was a cardboard coffee cup, conspicuously printed with SHIELD's eagle emblem.

Loki was beginning to suspect that the excessive branding was actually an in-joke between certain serpentine, many-headed agents within SHIELD.

He lifted his chin at the cup.

"Is that coffee?"

"Tea," she said promptly, catching the books in the crook of her arm and pinning them to her chest, fingers flexing out the ache in her strained palm.

"Black?"

"Herbal."

"Floral?"

"Leafage."

"Milk?"

"Do I look like a heathen?"

Loki broke into an unwilling smile. "Honey or sugar?"

"Unnecessary."

"Brewing temperature?"

"One hundred degrees Celsius, freshly boiled."

"And the steeping time-"

"Nine and a half minutes."

"You like your tea strong. Is that a general preference, darling?"

"I don't care for anything diluted."

"Ah," Loki exhaled, "be still, my heart. A woman of taste."

"Flirt," she accused, gunshot-blunt.

"Likewise," he ricocheted, with a grin like the rasp of sharpening steel.

She canted her head, her mouth forming a moue. "You think I'm flirting, prince?"

"Well, if you're not- you have but to say it, Æsanna," Loki challenged in a low purr, propping his chin on his fist, raking his gaze down her and back up to her eyes with brazen intent.

Biting the corner of her lip, she furled up into herself.

"I don't answer to you, Silfrtunga."

She was looking at him through her lashes, her lofty tone frayed with a coy, breathy edge that sent something ravenous spilling and sinking behind his abdomen, like a satiny sheet of molten sugar eating through glacial ice.

When her eyes sparked, quietly visceral as friction-heat, Loki knew that she had seen it.

Dangerous. The phrases playing with fire and running with knives sprung to mind, coalescing into a new game with new rules, and Loki wondered at the shift.

With a light step, loose curls shimmering like daybreak on glass, she stepped up to the hatch, dialling in the passcode with a flick of her fingers. Depositing the books and cup inside, the outer door relocked with an electronic trill.

Loki waited for the internal door to unlatch and flicked it open. He removed the books first, depositing them safely on the bench, before returning for the disposable cup.

Nudging the door closed, Loki carefully hulled the plastic lid from the cup- and was met with a plume of fragrant steam, humid on his skin and paradoxically cool on his sinuses. The scent was adjacent to pine bark and hoarfrost and boreal forests, the liquid within a clear, deep evergreen.

"Peppermint?"

She was watching him closely, a flask of glossed violet in her hands.

"I rook a guess. How did I do?"

Loki lifted the cup to his lips, taking a careful sip.

The tea was the perfect temperature, and richly steeped, scalding and cleansing and earthy as a dip in a wild hot spring.

"It's good."

She perked.

"It was a fine guess. I do prefer herbal teas, as a rule" he said, refraining from mentioning that most of his favourite blends simply did not exist on Midgard. The delicate, migraine-soothing íviðia blossoms that bloomed along Vanaheim's coastal cliffs might be persuaded to grow in the Nordics or Baltics, but the bioluminescent, magic-rich myrk-fælinn moss of Niflheim's cenotes resisted any attempt to cultivate it outside of its native biome. The cordolium rose, being a unique hybrid developed partly through sorcery, would be the most likely to thrive on Midgard, if the cutting was tended with a dose of magic. "Did you have the same?"

"Ah, no. Mine is matcha." She snapped the flask lid open with her thumb, taking a sip. "Powdered green tea- I have it blended with milk, into a cold latte."

"Your usual?"

"Mm-hm. It's an unusual flavour, so- I went with a safer bet for yours."

"I can't say that I've ever heard of it," Loki admitted, "but if it has your approval, then you have my interest."

She paused, gazing at him over the edge of her flask, her upturned eyes steady.

"Do you want a taste?"

Loki's eyebrow twitched.

Her features were neutral, as though the question was entirely innocent- but she was too sharp, too deft in twisting truth into simple words, not to have intended the entendre.

The tension of yesterday, like bared teeth and a bloodless grip around the hilt of a dagger, was absent. Her words were more relaxed, less carefully contrived to strike like vipers and knives.

Yesterday had been what he had expected, manageable within the role he was cast to play. This was different. And while- as she herself had said- a good lie always contained an element of truth, his natural response cut perilously close to a truth he should be masking.

"If you're willing."

The answer was softer than he had intended, aiming for seduction and instead striking intimacy.

Hazel irises deepened into honeyed gold.

"But you're killing," she quoted softly, faintly teasing.

Loki didn't know what to do with the part of her that was in earnest. It wasn't subtle, and it wasn't trying to be.

Straightening, she moved towards the hatch.

"And I wouldn't have bought it up if I was unwilling. Just- don't take too much."

"And deprive you of your share of pleasure? Never." His eyes narrowed, glancing her way appraisingly, unhurried and indulgent as a hand smoothing down her curves, from ribs to waist to hip. "Have others taken liberties where they were not offered before? Or been ungenerous in returning the favour?"

"I can't say I've been inclined to share my pleasures before."

"Then why this time?"

Her clement smile, as she snapped the door closed and re-emerged with empty hands, was adjacent to a smirk.

"Maybe I thought you'd be an appreciative partner. It makes sense- for a skilled tongue to have a discerning palate."

Loki laughed quietly. Clever girl.

"Ah," Loki breathed out on a sigh, "are you hoping I'll be vocal, darling?"

"I'm saying that if you were," she answered boldly, skimming along the flank of the cell, half-turned away, "I'd be inclined to return the favour."

He tamped down on a shiver, masking it with a grin.

"Well, I would certainly want to hear more about my skilled tongue."

"Oh, I can tell," she replied. She tilted her head back to look at him, and returned his appraising glance with parted lips and smoking eyes. "I have no doubt that you could have me singing your praises, prince."

Loki swallowed, feeling the heat in his stomach rise, incarnadine, flourishing across his cheekbones.

"Flirt."

She giggled, fingers covering her mouth. "Likewise."

With a quiet exhalation through his nose, Loki turned away and retrieved her flask from the column.

The resin was smooth as glass under his hand, the violet marbled with a liquid gleam like whorls in poured mercury. Her lip print was still damp on the textured plastic rim, a shimmer of saliva and lipbalm and the faintest trace of the tip of her tongue.

Loki aligned the mark with his mouth, lifted his gaze to her, and took a long draught.

He saw her twitch, abdomen tensing and thighs clenching, her flush as subtle as heated brass.

The taste that hit his tongue was mild, grassy, with a subtle sweetness- richer than he had expected, and pleasantly savoury.

"Not bad, right?" A genuine warmth fractured and dissolved the tension as she read his approval. "It's a good alternative to coffee- I take mine strong, but it always makes me feel sick. I don't have that problem with matcha, and its healthier in general."

"I like it," Loki admitted, reluctantly returning the flask to the column and closing the door.

She exhaled a smile, visibly pleased. "I'll bring you one next time," she said, dialling in the passcode and collecting her latte.

"You're determined to compound my debt, it seems," Loki commented as he returned to the bench, briefly leafing through one of the new books.

"Ah, haven't you figured it out yet?" She glanced at him over her shoulder, playful, buton the edge of an alarming sincerity. "That was the plan. I intend to bury you in it, until I can finally ask for what I really want."

Loki raised an eyebrow.

"I believe the Midgardian term for that would be loan shark."

"I'm not accruing interest. Just increasing the actual debt."

"Details."

She gave a short laugh. "The domain of the devil, right?"

Loki smirked from behind the disposable cup, steam fanning his face. "Are you a believer in the devil, darling?"

She whipped around on her the ball of her foot, strong and relaxed, the fine charcoal wool of her socks easing the glide. "Met him," she told him calmly. "Didn't end well for him."

Loki paused, processing her words. "Is that a direct metaphor, or generalised hyperbole?"

"Neither, I'm being literal."

That instantly had Loki's attention.

"Forgive me, you're saying that you've met-"

"The devil, yes. Or, rather, the interdimensional being that uses the identity most often."

"You've met Mephisto."

"Oh, you're familiar?"

Loki couldn't help but laugh at her light, casual tone, and the genuine dismissal on its currents.

"Every time you speak," he said, shaking his head slightly, "I come away with more questions than I have answers."

"You're more than welcome to ask, you know," she said, her wandering steps leisurely, golden skin glittering faintly through the weave of her socks with each motion, "so long as the questions are yours."

Loki's eyebrows steepled in mild bemusement.

"Who else might they belong to?"

She simply looked back at him, expectant.

"Very well," he acceded, "they are my own questions, and none other's. As is the debt that this will undoubtedly incur."

She took a swig from her flask, gaze sliding away into the distance for a moment.

"We could trade, instead," she proposed, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. "A question for a question. Does that sound fairer?"

It sounded perfectly, unexpectedly fair.

Loki felt the instinctive twinge of suspicion, already searching for the catch in the hook, for the loopholes in the translucent strings attached- but briskly packaged it away. They had both been utterly opaque with each other, starved of truths, and both of them wanted answers now.

And there was one answer in particular that Loki desperately needed- to kill the whispering uncertainty, one way or another, that had plagued him since she had first stepped into the room.

"You have the first," he said graciously, raising his palm in invitation.

-

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[olet-lucernam]

A Hollow Promise [5] chapter i, part v

{_[on AO3]_}

main tags : loki x original character, post-avengers 2012, canon divergence - post-thor: the dark world, canon-typical violence, mentions of torture

-

summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of New York, the Avengers need a few days to build a transport device for the Tesseract. With the Helicarrier damaged and surveillance offline, SHIELD sends an asset to guard Loki in the interim: a young woman who sees the truth in all things, and cannot lie.

Even long presumed dead, her memories lost to her, Loki would know her anywhere.

And this changes things.

Some things last beyond infinity. And the universe is in love with chaos.

(Loki was never looking for redemption. It came as an unexpected side-effect.)

-

chapter summary : awaiting his return to asgard after the battle of new york, loki unexpectedly encounters a familiar face.

recommended listening : can't help falling in love (light), tommee profitt feat. brooke

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-

"Darling."

"Mn."

"Darling, you need to sleep."

Her lashes fluttered, stubbornly unshuttering the glazed hazel of her irises.

"Not yet," she managed, visibly staving off a jaw-cracking yawn, smothered under her palm.

Loki sighed, watching her struggle to remain in the realm of waking. She had already startled herself out of a doze once, when her book slipped out of her lap, striking the mesh walkway like a gong.

"You're obviously exhausted," he coaxed, soft as shredded cotton. "You should rest."

"I've survived on less sleep for longer," she muttered churlishly, sounding almost offended- although it was difficult to tell with her hand still clamped over her mouth, leaning into her palm as a prop, wilting.

"I'm sure you have," Loki agreed, internally rolling his eyes, "but there is no need. I assure you, I won't disturb you."

"Not the point."

Loki was almost certain that she was pouting.

"I haven't handed off the guard yet. They'll be waiting for confirmation that I'm still alive in here."

"And then you will consent to end your duties for the night?"

"Mm, I'll still be on guard. Technically. Just- allowed to sleep. Just like pulling a twenty-something, thirty-hour shift at the hospital," she rambled, waving a hand vaguely, eyes sliding shut. "Call rooms. Still on call, but unless you're paged, you can catch a few hours."

Loki hadn't the slightest idea what she was talking about, but assumed it had some meaning to her.

She almost leapt out of her skin when her earpiece lit up.

"Alethia, this is Gamma Team, in position for shift change. Do you copy?"

Straightening, shoulders pulling back, she touched the pad of her middle finger to the earpiece. "This is Alethia. I copy," she said, abruptly sounding sharp and perfectly awake, posture shifting into a frame of Neoclassical grace.

"Sitrep?"

"Status is green. We're clear for changeover."

"Copy that. You're back on full duties at oh-six-hundred hours."

"Copy. Wilco."

The channel closed with an unceremonious spit of static.

Her professional demeanour creased and fell away, like a bolt of rumpled silk. She stretched herself out like a cat, arms twining overhead, a close-mouthed groan singing behind her sternum.

The corner of Loki's mouth ticked up.

"Relieved of your duties?"

Her hands dropped back into her lap with a satisfied sigh. "Mm-hm, close enough."

Reaching up behind her, she extracted the fistful of long steel pins holding her hair in place, the meticulous coil already beginning to loosen over the hours, like the fine construction lines of a base sketch showing through oil paint. Her braid unravelled, and she plucked out the elastic binding it, pulling it apart with a few hooks of her finger.

Ruffling her tresses at the roots, sending her loose curls scattering against the small of her back, she stood and moved to where she had stashed the trundle of waxed canvas. Unbuckling the straps, she unfurled the bedroll in front of the cell with a snap, letting it settle on the floor.

Loki eyed the  envelope of waterproof fabric dubiously.

"You're not sleeping on that, are you?"

She paused, looking up, raking back the fall of her hair with one hand.

"Of course not," she said blankly, "I just took it out for dramatic effect. In a moment, I'll be hauling down a swansdown mattress from a few levels above. The silk pillows and Egyptian cotton sheets will require a second trip, obviously."

"I thought you were incapable of lying."

"Sarcasm isn't lying. It's an alternate method of conveying a truth."

Loki huffed out a smile, then raised his chin at the bedroll.

"You are not sleeping on that." He informed her. "Step back, darling."

Her eyebrows twitched- but curiosity swiftly won out.

Taking several strides backwards, she leaned her hip against the edge of the control panel, one ankle crossed over the other.

Loki lifted a hand, fingers extended in a slight flare, and focused.

His magic surged to answer his will so effortlessly that it knocked the breath out of him, the rush of exhilaration and power leaving him almost lightheaded.

His captors were no great magi. They seemed not to grasp that his magic was not an appendage that could be amputated, or a mantle to be stripped- regardless of how it was depleted, his mana would regenerate, replenishing at his core like bone marrow restoring blood loss. Even then, with his innate power at its lowest ebb, long years of study had given him the knowledge and skill to tap into external sources.

They had, however, found a way to suppress his abilities, strangling its flow like a tourniquet, until only the faintest traces seeped through. It had been enough- Loki was a master of magic, which meant that he knew how to do a great deal with very little- but given that most of it had been channelled into mending the damage to his body and shielding his mind, while simultaneously making it seem as though he wasn’t, there was little to spare.

Regaining what was his was intoxicating, like the pain of an atrophied limb bound too long being abruptly unshackled and allowed to stretch.

Before his thoughts could spiral, Loki recentred himself.

Rotating his wrist- distilling his intent, conjuring his mana, reaching out and persuading the fabric of the universe to comply- he lifted his palm, with an almost flippant flick.

With a shimmer of green and gold, rinsing over the waxed canvas like the waterline of surf breaking upon shore, the bedroll demolished and reconstructed itself, frothing out and upwards.

It transformed, blosooming into a deep, plush mattress that engulfed the breadth of the walkway. Facing the glass cage, the bed was heaped with a thick duvet and a crown of pillows, appointed with ivory linens and blush-pink silks, marbled with a mother-of-pearl sheen.

Loki didn't hide his satisfaction at her shock.

"It's not swansdown," he admitted, "but you mentioned Egyptian cotton and silk, correct?"

Her eyes darted up to his.

"Prince Loki."

"Yes?"

"I was being facetious."

"I am aware of that."

"You- really didn't have to-"

"I am also aware of that."

She subsided into a surrendering laugh, folding her arms in across herself.

"Thank you."

Her voice was made ethereal by the echoing quiet, a sincere smile stealing away the tension of her surprise.

The moment held, soft and beautiful, a fragile bubble of perfection.

For a desperate, longing moment, Loki considered transmuting the thick glass of the cell into water, sending it crashing aside, and-

And what? His mind prompted, acerbic and scornful. And do what, exactly?

Loki glanced down at his hands, shuttering himself against her penetrating gaze, pressing his thumbnail into the crease of his palm.

With a nudge of her hip, she pushed herself off the edge of the terminal, reaching for her duffel bag.

"I'm going to get changed."

"And I am going to look at the ceiling," Loki said, fixing his eyes near the circumference of the sunken disk-light above the centre of the cell, tracing out the seams in the internal cladding.

She giggled, the sound echoing out through the chamber. "Then thank you again, my prince."

The possessive pronoun rattled something in loose in him, like cherry blossoms shattering, collapsing in a silken flurry.

He could hear the high rasp of zips, her footsteps, the shuffle of fabric, the quiet hiss of her breath as she peeled the moulded jumpsuit from her skin.

Loki swallowed, staring resolutely at the ceiling. The glare of the lights burned into the borders of his vision. Where the slight shadows were cast, the plating looked closer to shade of dust-blue or marine shallows than a near-white tone of grey.

Perhaps that was just his mind attempting to simulate nightfall, imagining colour on the empty canvas.

If it does not exist, make it.

"Alright, I'm done."

Loki blinked the phosphenes out of his vision, and settled his eyes level again.

She was stood by the head of the mattress, like a Canova sculpture. The mass of her champagne curls was pulled over one shoulder as she combed the snarls out, redressed in cotton shorts and a camisole and an aura of serene ease that split and rived away the last remnants of the SHIELD-applied lacquer.

She smiled as she caught his eye, winding her tresses up loosely.

"Will you be sleeping?" She asked, deftly securing her hair with a sturdy band of elastic, pinning it off the nape of her neck.

Loki conjured an appropriately loftily, indulgent expression.

"Unlike mortals, a full eight hours of sleep would be more of a luxury than an anatomical necessity."

"Is that a no?"

"It's not a yes."

Flicking her eyes up, she swivelled, activating the screen of the security control panel. "If you're going to talk in circles, Prince Loki, I will find a way to square it."

She pulled up a digital panel of slider controls, catching one tab and lowering it, the overhead lights dimming to a twilight ebb.

"Is that enough light to read by?"

Loki glanced at the ceiling, eyebrows hitching in mild surprise.

"Plenty. Thank you."

She locked the screen, returning it to an inert pane of electric glass.

"You might consider it repayment," she gestured towards the opulent bed, "a kindness for a kindness."

"If we were tally the debts, I believe I am still in arrears." Loki tapped the weathered paper cover of Hogfather, having completed it several hours earlier.

"Ah, well- my kindness isn't wholly altruistic," she admitted, padding closer to the glass cage and pulling back the covers in a swathe of white and pink. "So I'm not sure it counts."

"And you thought I was being wholly altruistic?" Loki purred through a wicked smirk.

She stepped over the pillows and onto the mattress, lips parted into a wry smile.

"Prince Loki, it's almost like you're trying to be indebted to me. I just gave you an out."

"Ah, but where's the fun in easy?" Loki asked, grinning.

Her eyes gleamed warmly in reply, confessing her agreement, as she turned to slip between the sheets.

The clean overhead light caught in the scars on her back.

Exposed by the low back of her shirt and her bound-up tresses, they extended below the cotton of her camisole, the mottled warped flesh like vitrified satin, bright as a knife against the gold of her skin and carving through the penumbra- two deep, ragged, crescent-shaped gouges on either side of her spine, the depressions echoing the wings of her scapula.

Loki couldn't breathe.

An uncanny resemblance could be excused as coincidence. A rare, innate ability could be written off as chance.

But those scars-

Loki knew those scars. He had watched them heal, tender open wounds glistening with metallic gold, sealing over with bloodless white. He had traced the corded tissue with trailing fingertips, trying to find a way to overwrite the horror. He had seen them flex and flutter when she finally threw her shoulders back, refusing to hide them, terrible and beautiful.

Loki knew those scars.

She slipped beneath the covers and collapsed into the bed with a satisfied sigh, the tension in her limbs deflating on her exhale.

"You said this wasn't swansdown?" She murmured, sinking into the pillows with an appreciative noise, gathering the duvet around herself.

Loki huffed a half-laugh. "Goosedown. A little easier to manufacture for the spell, otherwise I would have obliged you."

"Mm, you really didn't have to," she fought out through a yawn, tucking an arm under the pillows, settling. "Sweet of you, though."

He swallowed down the flutter in his chest. "Sleep, darling. You're already drifting on me."

She made a vague noise of acquiescence.

"Mn. Goodnight, then…"

Loki breathed out quietly. "Good night, good night," he quoted. "Parting is such sweet sorrow…"

"That I shall say good night 'til it be morrow," she answered dreamily.

There was a moment of stillness, before she spoke again.

"By the way, you can stop flirting with me now. I don't have the door code for the cell, so I couldn't let you out even if I wanted to."

"I guessed as much," Loki said mildly. "Do you have any objections to me continuing?"

She turned her face into the pillow, but Loki could hear her smile, see it written in the way she curled under the covers.

"Do as you please."

"Oh, I intend to."

Her short laugh filtered out into a steady, even tide of her breathing. Loki returned to his book, the rasp of paper echoing out into the dark.

For the first time in two years, the quiet of the night passed in peace.

-

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