#the badass ranger among a lot of fantasy races

[andavs]

So there’s this long list of prompts, and I love all of them, so I’m going to do a bunch of them completely unprompted.

Number One: “The skirt is supposed to be this short.”

“I can’t believe this is your dirty secret.”

Boyd raised his eyebrows, adjusting his belt. “What did you think it was?”

“I don’t know, scrapbooking? Ballroom dance? Secret piccolo prodigy?” Stiles tried to shimmy the massive wedgie out of his buttcrack, but it just slipped in further. God damn it. He was wearing way too many layers to go after it, at least two of them chainmail.

“Piccolo?” Boyd’s tone itself wasn’t threatening, but picking up a broadsword and sheathing it on his belt certainly was. It was much bigger than Stiles’ sword, that was for sure.

“Come on, dude. Do you really not see the irony of a literal werewolf LARPing? And not as a werewolf? You wouldn’t even need prosthetics!”

“It’s not roleplaying if you’re just being yourself.”

“Okay, but why roleplay when you’re already a badass? Let’s face it, if anyone here should be roleplaying, it’s the pack human who doesn't have superpowers.”

“They aren't superpowers!” Derek’s usual reflex response came from behind the curtain, and then he added, “Are you sure you didn’t give me Kira’s outfit?”

Boyd rolled his eyes like they were the ones being unreasonable here. “Yes, I’m still sure. Come out.”

Stiles couldn’t actually hear it, but it was like a sixth sense by now; he knew Derek sighed before yanking back the crookedly hanging sheet that served as a dressing room in a corner of their massive canvas pack tent.

“So, the skirt is supposed to be this short.”

Stiles slapped his hand over his gleeful smile so hard he might’ve broken his own nose. Derek glared. Boyd was as unflappable as usual.

“Kilt. And yes, it’s supposed to look like that.”

Derek looked down at his outfit, at the stitched leather vest and gauntlets, the plaid kilt (that did look a little short over his knees), and very...rustic boots.

“I look ridiculous.”

“No, you don’t.” Boyd held out a small jar that said RED on the lid. “You just don’t get the full effect without the face paint.”

Stiles squeaked behind his hand, while Derek somehow managed to glare harder.

“No. No face paint. Stop laughing,” he ordered, pointing a threatening finger at Stiles that really wasn’t the least bit threatening while he was blushing up to his ears under that beard.

“Braveheart,” Stiles whispered giddily in response, and Derek’s eyes actually flashed red.

“Don’t think that fake chainmail can protect you from me.”

Stiles snorted. “Big words from a man in a dress.”

“It's a kilt,” Derek growled through his teeth.

“Guys,” Boyd interrupted with a sigh. “Derek, you don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to. I can try to find you something else.” He said it so sincerely that it was almost believable that he didn’t know exactly what kind of guilt trip he was laying down.

It’d taken five years for the pack to get an honest answer to, “What do you want to do for your birthday this year, Boyd?” and none of them were going to refuse him anything on this, admittedly, unexpected adventure they now found themselves on. At the Beacon County Fairgrounds, of all places. Even Lydia had joined in, looking like a flawless Joan of Arc in her armor, because if she did anything, she did it perfectly and with a shocking dedication to historical accuracy, apparently.

So no, Derek was not going to make Boyd find him something else. Stiles communicated this with his eyes, and Derek quickly composed himself.

“It’s fine,” he said with a little less attitude, while still looking a little like a pouting toddler. Stiles wanted to pinch his adorable pink cheeks.

“Seriously, we can leave, it’s cool,” Boyd continued, laying it on thick.

“We’re staying.” Derek grabbed the jar of face paint out of his hand and unscrewed the lid, frowning down at it. “What do I do.”

“Uh, I think you’re supposed to paint your face,” Stiles suggested shittily, and when Derek glared, he added, “just a guess.”

He felt a little bit bad when Boyd gave him a knock it off look. Boyd was usually the adult in the room.

“I’ll do it.” He took the jar back. “Don’t worry, it’ll look badass.” He dipped a finger into the paint, raised it to Derek's face, and then Scott appeared at the open tent flap, eyes wide with panic. His chainmail was crooked and all bunched up in some places, while still stretched near to the point of breaking in others.

“Dude, can you help me with this? I think it might be backwards, but I don’t know how to get it off without ripping it!”

Boyd was up in an instant, maybe actually supernaturally fast, because he'd put a shocking amount of work into helping them with their costumes, and he was meticulous about taking care of them. He dropped the jar of paint into Stiles’ hand without thought, and followed Scott outside their big canvas tent.

He just left.

Just gave Stiles that kind of power, and left him unsupervised.

“I'll do it myself,” Derek said, but Stiles was waiting for it and immediately countered with,

“Got a mirror hidden somewhere up your kilt?” The only mirrors on the fairgrounds he knew of were in the constantly-in-use porta potties across the field. Boyd was part of a hardcore LARPer guild-thing, no non-emergency tech or modern comforts allowed.

“I’ll take my chances without one.”

“And ruin Boyd's hard work? Just stand still, I got this.”

Stiles couldn't predict what he would do with that cheap shot, but apparently the value of Boyd's happiness on his birthday hadn’t dwindled, because Derek sighed and resigned himself to his fate. Aside from a growled warning of,

“Don’t draw a dick.”

“I’m not gonna draw a dick.” Stiles was almost offended by the assumption, but mostly disappointed that he was juuuust too good of a person to actually do that to Derek.

“And don’t do Braveheart.”

“I’m not gonna do Braveheart. Trust me, it’ll be cool.”

Derek didn’t look like trusted him at all, but Stiles ignored him, dipped two fingers in the red paint, and dragged it down the right side of Derek’s face, from his hairline down onto his neck. He held out his hands to signal that his masterpiece was complete, and that Derek could unclench.

Derek blinked at him, deadpan. “You did Thor, didn’t you.”

“Yeah, I did, and you look awesome.” He actually did look awesome, and Stiles was really hoping chainmail could hide a boner.

Derek considered it for a brief moment, like he was trying to picture it on himself and reluctantly agreed. Then he gave Stiles a shitty smile, and plucked the paint out of his hand. “Your turn.”

That took the wind right out of his sails.

“Actually, I think I’m good,” Stiles stammered, debating how embarrassing it would be to make a grab for the paint and miss when Derek inevitably pulled it out of reach with werewolf speed. Derek liked to pretend he was the unaffected adult when others were around to witness, but he had a pranking streak a mile wide where Stiles was concerned. He was petty and he was ruthless.

“Come on, don’t you want the full effect?” He asked patronizingly.

“I think the effect is plenty full enough already.” Stiles took a step back and Derek followed. Oh god, he was going to write kick me across his forehead, or virgin, he could probably fit ask me about my ED if he used his pinky.

“Look, I already look dumb enough, I don’t need a poop emoji on my forehead to make it worse.”

Crap, now he was giving him ideas.

Derek rolled his eyes. “You look fine, hold still,” he said, pressing his palm against Stiles’ jaw to hold his head, and Stiles realized just how much power Derek really did hold here. No mirrors, no way to check his face, he could only feel what Derek was doing and hope he wasn’t drawing daisies down his cheek.

“Don’t draw a dick,” he joked weakly, and Derek’s face softened.

“I’m not going to draw a dick. Turn your head.”

Stiles obliged and stared at the back of the tent, at the sun peaking through the canvas, while he waited for Derek to make up his mind. Whatever he was planning, it was taking forever, and Stiles was only getting more nervous about it. Oh god, it was going to be complex, and Stiles was going to look ridiculous.

“You know it’s not supposed to be the Mona—”

He couldn’t have finished even if he’d been able to overcome the shock of Derek pressing his right hand against the side of Stiles’ face, this time with something definitely wet between them; Derek’s thumb was laying across his mouth, and Stiles was pretty sure trying to talk would only get face paint on his teeth too.

Stiles blinked at him through his fingers, processing the fact that he was definitely going to have a giant red handprint over half his face.

Derek pressed a little harder, like he was trying to seal it, before letting go completely, leaving Stiles’ face cold where his hands had been. He stepped back, considering his work, and nodded to himself.

Stiles stared at him, still processing, trying to cobble together a reaction. Having Derek Hale’s hands on his face wasn't a situation he'd prepared himself to experience in this lifetime.

“I feel like that orc guy with the handprint,” he tried, and Derek blinked at him. “Lord of the Rings? Killed Boromir? Nevermind.”

Derek screwed the lid back on the jar of face paint, trying to keep as much red off the jar as he could when his entire hand was covered.

“Lurtz,” he said quietly. “And he’s Uruk-hai.”

This time it was Stiles who could only blink. “Wait, what?”

Derek looked up, clearly regretting his words and trying to look innocent.

“Oh, don’t give me that look, you just corrected my Lord of the Rings reference.”

This time Derek huffed, brushing it off. “It’s not hard to tell the difference, anyone who’s seen the movies would know that.”

“I didn’t even know you knew the movies existed!”

“They were everywhere when I was in middle school, how would I not have seen them? Everyone saw them.”

“Yeah, but not everyone knows the name of that one specific Uruk-hai who barely has any lines! Wait,” Stiles’ entire life was shifting, “did you read the books too?”

Derek looked back down at the jar in his hands and almost muttered, “He wasn’t in the books.”

Stiles gaped.

He knew Derek had lots of books, read constantly, but it was always historical stuff. Very specific subjects, like Russian playwrights of the late 19th century, or journals of a guy who owned a farm in Idaho in 1934, biographies of people who really didn’t contribute to any great change in the world—that kind of boring stuff. Never anything actually interesting. Never fantasy.

Derek continued to fiddle with the face paint, avoiding eye contact.

“Oh my god, you’re totally a fantasy nerd, aren’t you?”

He continued to avoid eye contact.

“This is totally your kind of place, isn’t it? Why didn’t you make your costume?” The only reason he was stuck with the kilt was that he’d been too stubborn and standoffish throughout the entire process for Boyd to get chainmail and armor that would fit him properly (and he refused to eyeball it, he was adamant that his pack not look sloppy among his LARPing peers).

“I didn’t want to.”

“You did. You totally did. And we are totally coming back next year so you can look like the badass alpha you are. Something about the kilt just doesn’t say power.” Stiles took a step back and squinted at him, trying to picture a quintessentially Derek outfit. “I think you need a crown.”

Derek huffed, but he looked like he was blushing again.

“Seriously, man, if you want to do this, you should. Boyd would be thrilled. Or, as thrilled as he ever is. It’s hard to tell with him sometimes.” Stiles was pretty sure he was having a good time with them all there, but Boyd’s happy smirk was pretty close to his you guys are unbelievably stupid smirk. Though with everything he’d put up with throughout this whole process, his current smirks probably fell somewhere in between.

Derek picked at the red paint on his hand for a second, then, “Maybe.”

“Not a no!” Stiles crowed, and Derek rolled his eyes, but Stiles could tell he was secretly happy.

Probably.

Stiles had his handprint on his face, the guy better be happy.

Hearing a break in their conversation (god, the entire pack could probably hear them outside), Kira shouted for them to hurry up, and Derek started to look a little nervous. Stiles clapped him on the shoulder, and handed him his sword.

“Let’s do this. I saw seven Highlanders on the walk from the car alone, you’ve got work to do.”

That got a grin out of him as he accepted the sword, even if it did have an eyeroll accompanying it.

“Get used to it, man, once we get your cloak on, you are literally a hotter Connor MacLeod. Like him and Thor in one. You’re going to have a fanclub of elven barmaids following you around.”

“My dream,” Derek deadpanned, clearly the last thing he wanted. Stiles couldn’t say that was a problem he’d personally had, but having witnessed it in Derek’s life, yeah, it did look like it got annoying when it wasn’t wanted.

“Don’t worry, my dear alpha.” Stiles unsheathed his sword with some difficulty—it was longer than he thought and it hit the top of the tent, then the main post, then his own knee. He would definitely be sticking to his bat and mountain ash for any actual fighting. “If anyone tries to touch you, I’ll challenge them for your honor. And I’ve fought a literal dragon before, all these nerds are going down.”

“It wasn’t a dragon,” Derek dutifully countered, as usual.

“It was basically a dragon.”

#sterek #ficlet #150 prompt #and you know there's going to be an actual supernatural threat somewhere in this situation #and the pack has to fight it off in armor #and they become celebrities within this crowd #welcomed back like kings every year #and derek eventually gets his perfect outfit sorted out #allison is a badass legolas-looking archery goddess #lydia continues to be joan of arc #kira makes some really badass samurai-inspired look #and stiles likes to think of himself as aragorn #the badass ranger among a lot of fantasy races

[verystupidrpgideas]

Why Warlock is the Objectively Best Class - A Critique on Every Class in Dungeons and Dragons

I will be listing the reasons why every class is bad, what strong points it has, and why it is inferior to the Warlock class. 

Barbarian - The barbarian is a relatively simple class, and basically “Hit it until it dies”. There’s definitely some room for creative choices, but the class itself is rather bland unless you find magic items or you spec in a weird way.

Bard - The bard, along with the warlock, is one of the two classes that will destroy campaigns singlehandely at least once in your life. While the bard typically goes for the route of “talk your way out of everything”, the Warlock’s route is “criminal your way out of everything” which has many more options. You can kill the guy, frame him, rob him, etc. when in a sticky situation, while the bard is limited by his ability to talk. 

Cleric - Clerics serve gods rather than making deals with gods. Tell me, who gets the better end of that deal? The god that gives a few of his powers in exchange for downright servitude, or the god that offers powers in exchange for a simple contract telling the user to carry out the god’s will? Plus, when you think cleric, you think healing, whereas when you think warlock, you think badass evil wizard. ‘Nuff said. 

Druid - Treehugging know-it-alls can’t even hold a torch to the awe-inspiring power of the warlock. If you go a natural route as a druid with vines and trees, you’re weak to fire, one of the most common things in the DnD universe (what with wizards, sorcerers, and warlocks running amok). If you choose to be a furry instead, you have versatility, but there’s a reason tigers and such aren’t commonly seen today. Anyone with moderate combat training (which is almost as common as fire) and a good set of armor / weapons (common among adventurers) can beat up nearly any animal that a druid of similar level shapeshifts into. 

Fighter - The fighter is probably the most versatile class, with archetypes ranging from the sellsword to the spellsword. You can have a nimble, speedy fighter, or you can have a goliath fighter donned in a huge set of armor that just yeets any foes. You know what other class is versatile? The warlock. Yeah, you can beat me up, but what if I just open this portal and summon M̸̀͝Y̷̨͠͝͡ ̸̸̕P̸̧̧̢͢Ą͘Ţ͟R͠͞O̷͟Ń͘ ҉̧̡̨͠Ǵ̶̛͜O̸̢̢͟D̀̀͢͜͠ ̷̛Y̢͞͡͞O̶̵͢͠G͟͡'̶̵̨S̢͠͏͜O̸̢̧T̨̧͡H̀͢ƠT̶̢̨̛͡H̷͏̨ and just vaporize you instantly? You might ask “what about a warlock that isn’t that powerful?” Well, in that case, they can just cast Eldritch Blast every three seconds while running away because fighters need close range. If you’re fighting a fighter that uses ranged weapons, or a speedier fighter, just use your highest level spell slots and they’ll fall like twigs. The dexterity required to run circles around an opponent or fire a bow comes with an inverse correlation with protection. 

Monk - As if a warlock could ever lose to a monk. Monk is the dumbest D&D class, hands down. Like, seriously. You hear of evil bards looking to seduce everything in sight, druids corrupted by the demonic taint of the land they’re in, fighters that simply wish to earn a quick buck with your death, clerics and paladins tainted and corrupted by evil magic, bloodthirsty barbarians, crazy wizards and sorcerers, evil thieving rogues, and warlocks that wish to take over the world. But when’s the last time you’ve heard of a monk villain? That’s right, never. Let’s look at other media franchises with monk classes. Diablo 3 has monks, but they’re painfully terrible, using their fists at first level (and later levels in some builds). Compare that to the necromancer, who summons bones from the ground at first level, or the wizard, who shoots missiles of arcane. Want another example? Warcraft. The three “specs” (for those who don’t play Warcraft, this is basically the three unique playstyles of the class) are Brewmaster, a tank that uses beer to take hits, Windwalker, a class that uses the air sometimes I guess but mainly uses their fists, and the Mistweaver, which uses soothing mists to heal their friends. Yeah, even in a game like Warcraft, that makes no sense. You’re telling me that by drinking beer, I can survive hits from raid bosses like Ragnaros, ruler of the Plane of Fire? Yeah, chug down a few beers and jump into a volcano, tell me how that goes. The other specs aren’t much better. Windwalker uses fists and legs, rarely using weapons at all. I highly doubt that even as trained as you are that you’ll be able to kill someone as fast as a guy with a gun (such as the Hunter). Mistweaver makes about as much sense as Brewmaster. Are you telling me that if I spray someone with Febreze it’ll cure their wounds? “Ah, yeah, found how to cure my patient’s bronchitis. Let me just spritz their lungs a few times”. The warlock may use magic and stuff, but at least it makes sense with the rules of the DnD universe. The monks are the laughingstocks of all the base DnD races, and that’s for good reason. Screw monk. 

Paladin - Paladins are like fighter clerics. They worship gods, but have the same problems as clerics (with weaker spells) and don’t have the versatility of fighters. Honestly, paladins are kinda dumb, almost as dumb as monks. Seriously, who even designed that dumb class? It was in the game since THIRD EDITION. Meanwhile, the Warlock got into the game in 4e. Are you kidding? Wizards of the Coast, this baffles me. You can’t seriously believe that some shirtless guy with fists and discount Jesus deserves inclusion over a class who gets their power through a demonic pact. Honestly, if Monk is still in 6e whenever that comes out, I’m going to be very upset. The class has no redeeming features, yet despite having two chances to cut the dumb idiot out, the monk continues to stay in the  game. 

Ranger - The ranger was one of the five core classes in AD&D 1e, along with the fighter, thief, magic-user and... oh fuck this.

Rogue - Turns out, the Monk was in the game since first edition and my 3e source was wrong. This is the dumbest thing ever. The sorcerer wasn’t in the game yet, the barbarian wasn’t in the game yet, Druid was still a subclass of Cleric, there were only around seven races, and there wasn’t a warlock yet. Hell, in Dragon Magazine 53 a D&D fan named Philip Meyers argued that the Monk was the weakest class;

“Of all the character classes in the AD&D™ game, the class of monks is the most difficult to qualify for. A monk must have exceptional strength, wisdom, and dexterity, and — if he or she wishes to survive for very long — constitution. The odds of rolling up such a character, even using the various “cheating methods” listed in the Dungeon Masters Guide, are not favorable. Given this, one would expect a monk to be a powerful character indeed. At first glance this would appear to be true. The Grand Master of Flowers can reasonably claim to be the most powerful fighter around, able to inflict 128 points of damage in a single round. This superiority, however, is more theoretical than real. In actual practice, the monk is the weakest of the character classes, not the strongest.“ - Dragon Magazine #53

This is downright insulting. They gave the monk overpowered abilties (128 damage in a round!!!!) and still the class was absolutely terrible, just like it is now. When’s the last time you heard of a monk that bards told tales about? Of the five DnD 1e classes, which of the five is not one of the four main archetypes in popular culture? 

Sorcerer - Hell, why would the monks even have the abilities they had? Clerics make sense, they have faith healings which originate in the real world. Bards are a stretch, but the idea of a song inspiring someone isn’t anything new. But fucking MONKS lived in monasteries in medieval England, and that’s what they’re most known for. What would a realistic monk have the ability to do in D&D? The ability to copy things from a book quickly? Oh, wait, the Printing Press kinda fixed the need to do that. Good party trick, I suppose. The ability to form a self sufficient house with multiple members? Alright, but you’ll need a lot of money, a lot of other people, and slaves. Did I mention monks were slaveowners? And they pretend to be a good force of light or whatever. 

Wizard - Wizards learn with books, warlocks don’t need to learn, they have patrons. Guess what other class reads a lot? Monks. Except they don’t get the cool benefits of Wizards, they just get “closer to god” or whatever. Unfortunately for you, MONKS, the D&D world isn’t your monotheistic fantasy world of Jesus. There’s multiple gods, and they’ll kick your god’s ass in a fight. 

(Sidenote about that last paragraph, I’m making fun of monks in the D&D world, not real Christians, and I don’t intend to be hating anyone for their religious views)

So I hope all of you liked my writeup! Sorry it took so long, it was hard trying to find objective reasons for a lot of these (and I had to rewrite the Druid class a lot of the time to avoid calling them “vegan pieces of shit” which is a lot harder than it sounds). Anyway, choose Warlock the next time you make a new character.

#dnd #dungeons and dragons #5e #warlock #monk

[ruffsficstuffplace]

Of Rocks, Romantic Rivalries, and Rune Rangers (Part 1): After Action Report

Note: This takes place in the “Avalon” universe, a fantasy/sci-fi world.

There are two races, Humans, who are immigrants from the “Old World” (Earth as we know it), and the Fae, a humanoid race with animal features like tails, ears, claws, and so on, who are vastly more muscular and speedy than humans, and generally have more powerful naturally occurring magical capabilities.

Humans (or appearing almost completely human) are Shiro, Lance, and Keith.

Fae are Allura (bunny), Coran (Weasel), Hunk (Wolverine), and Pidge (Chinchilla).

For @katieshirogane @ghostgenocide and @takashiholt

“I've been bested... by a rock...” Allura muttered, her bunny ears drooping in sadness.

The Core was deathly silent, the mood dark like they had just received information that the Galra had wiped out one of their most populated cities off the face of the realm, just like that. Lance sulked in his chair, face scrunched up in consternation, Coran drummed his fingers on the table, his weasel tail wagging in frustration behind him, trying to will something, anything from his mind to come screaming forth, but the only ones that did were of absolutely no use.

“I've been bested by a ROCK!” Allura cried, clearly on the verge of tears. “How, in my father's good name, have I been bested by a rock?!”

Lance and Coran looked uneasily at each other.

“Well, it is a very nice rock...” Lance started.

“One with an interesting pattern of moss growing on the side of it, according to the Lady Pidge...” Coran added.

“So what, am I going to have to go around all of Avalon looking for a rock more special than it to win her heart?!” Allura cried. “What even makes that rock so special? Is it an act of human courtship that you haven't explained to me, Lance? Have the Celestian Fae started giving rocks to each other as a form of affection during my 1,000 year slumber? Is this some sort of secret code from her days in Jahilliyah, where they gave their lovers rocks so none of their superiors could tell they were fraternizing within the ranks?

“You know what? Forget it! Coran!: what does my schedule look like for going around Avalon looking for rocks?”

Coran pulled out his tablet. “Well, your majesty--”

“No, no, no!” Lance cried, crossing his arms in the air. “You are not going out there and looking for rocks!”

“Because you're going to do it for me?” Allura asked, brightening up. “Oh, thank you, Lance, that'll be such a huge help!”

“No! I'm not going to go out there to find rocks for you!”

“Not even if I command you as your Rune Guardian...?” Allura asked, raising an eyebrow.

Lance paused, surprised that such a gesture could look incredibly threatening, before he put his arms up in the air. “Okay, first up: no, please, no, don't use your freaky Crystal Maiden powers to force me to go out there looking for rocks.

“Second: seashells are MUCH better, because they're not friggin' rocks, it reeks of desperation to try to one-up the other guy with the exact same thing they already impressed the girl with, and walking on the beach or diving for them is so much more exciting than walking around mountains and forests looking for rocks.

“And third: I'm pretty sure that Shiro's giving that rock to Pidge is totally a sentimental value thing. I don't know what the hell happened with them on that hike of theirs, but it's definitely gotta be something super romantic, super exciting, super badass, or knowing Shiro, all three at once.”

“But what could have happened?” Allura whined.

“Maybe a giant wild boar chased Pidge up a tree, then Shiro risked his personal safety leading it away with rocks, and he happened to have that one left over in his pocket when he finally came to save her?” Coran offered.

Lance thought it over. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Allura sighed. “I feel positively terrible for wishing that it was me in Shiro's position...”

Elsewhere, Keith and Shiro lounged in the Dining Hall, waiting for Hunk to work his magic with a nigh unlimited supply of fresh ingredients from all over Avalon.

The round table was unusually quiet, both because Shiro looked like he had just narrowly survived a suicide mission that shouldn't have worked nearly as well as it should have, and Keith was busy looking at him with a mixture of pride and smugness.

“Still can't believe it, huh?” Keith asked.

“I'm… I'm really surprised and pleased that your advice worked, Keith,” Shiro replied. “Is giving rocks some sort of traditional gift of affection among you Fae/Human hybrids?”

Keith shook his head. “Nah. You could say it was just a lucky guess.”

Shiro chuckled. “Luckier still that it worked so well.”

“So how'd it go down?”

“Well, we were hiking through Argus, enjoying the scenery...”

“Yeah, lots of pretty green things to admire there,” Keith said.

Shiro blushed. “Yes, the vegetation is indeed quite lush and impressive. Thankfully, the animals either recognized the both of us from our earlier fights there, or they just didn't deem us worth the effort of attacking, so we made it through the whole trip unmolested.

“Pidge got tired from all the hiking, so I offered to carry her on my shoulders. But, she said she didn't want to be a burden, so we decided to take a break on a large rock.”

Keith groaned. “Come on, Shiro, really? That was a prime opportunity you let pass, just like that.”

Shiro frowned. “I wanted to respect her wishes!”

“I can understand that, but sometimes you have to man up and take control! Girls don't like total pushovers, and Pidge doesn't strike me as the kind of girl that dresses up in tight leather outfits, and forces guys to kneel before her and call her 'mistress.'”

Shiro paused, blushing bright red.

Keith's expression slowly, slowly fell. “… Okay: let's just agree to forget I ever said that last part.”

Shiro nodded. “Agreed...” he muttered.

“So, you two were sitting on a big rock taking a break, and…?”

“I noticed there were many smaller rocks lying nearby, ones she could easily carry in her pocket,” Shiro said.

Keith raised his eyebrows. “And then...”

“I remembered your advice, so I think to myself, 'Here goes nothing…', pick one up, and offered it to her.”

“What'd you say?”

Shiro paused. “'Hey Pidge, look at this rock.'”

Keith blinked. “And…?”

Shiro looked away. “… That was it.”

Keith sighed and shook his head. “You're never going to win her heart if you don't take a chance, Shiro! Especially with Allura using all those shitty pick-up lines she got from Lance!”

“Have you even heard some of them?” Shiro countered.

“Unfortunately, yes! But the point here is, they still make her laugh, and I'm pretty sure you're aware that there's no better way to get a girl to fall for you than getting her to smile on a regular basis.”

Shiro blushed. “Well, she did say 'Oh, sweet, dude, thanks!' and smile when I gave her that rock!”

“What kind of smile? The polite, 'Oh, I'll just put this over here' smile? The 'I don't know what this is all about, but it's from you so that makes me happy' smile? Or an 'Oh wow, something I really like from a guy I really like!' smile?”

“… I really don't know.” Shiro said. “She was very excited about that rock, you see, examining it, noting that it had an interesting pattern of moss growing on it, asking me what I should name it, and I was…

“… Distracted.”

Keith sucked in a deep breath, and sighed. “Okay, I won't fault you for that. But you did make your move afterward, right?”

Shiro didn't answer.

Keith leaned in. “Shiro, please tell me you didn't waste that etherian opportunity to tell her how you really feel.”

“… She really loved that rock, you know,” Shiro muttered as he looked down. “I… I didn't want to spoil the moment!”

“Or you were just so distracted by her cuteness that it totally slipped your mind that you could have easily slid a confession in.”

“… That too.”

Hunk arrived with two steaming plates of food, with an extra-large one for himself. “Dinner is served, you guys!” he said as he laid it out in front of them.

“Thank you, Hunk,” Shiro said, smiling as he inhaled the delicious aroma of freshly cooked food.

“It smells great, and probably tastes even better!” Keith said as he prepared to dig in with his hands.

“Probably?” Hunk asked in mock offense.

Keith made a pleased noise as he bit into his food. “Sorry: definitely tastes even better.”

Hunk smiled, pleased. He sat down at a free seat, before he stopped. “Aw, man! I forgot the hotsauce!”

“I'll get it,” Shiro said as he got up.

“Thanks, Shiro!” Hunk said as he nibbled at the parts of his meal that could do without it.

“Don't mention it—it's the least I can do!” Shiro called back.

Back in the Core, Lance held up an ancient human tape measure, pulling it down to roughly where Pidge's head would be relative to him. “So then you say, 'Any guesses as to how long it'll take for you to fall for me?”

Allura was unamused. “Lance, that is one of the worst pick-up lines you have ever suggested I use.

Lance sent the tape back into the case. “Well how bad is it?”

“Let me put it in terms you will understand: I am sorely tempted to take that tape from you, smack you across the head with it, and find out how long it takes to beat the shit out of you.”

Coran was confused. “But the device measures distance, does it not? Unless I can't see how it can keep track of time...”

Lance wisely pulled the measuring tape out of Allura's reach. “No, no, it's a pun, you see? Pidge likes puns when they come from you, doesn't she?”

Allura sighed. “Yes, they do seem to delight her to no end, which is wonderful, especially considering I feel pieces of myself die from uttering those words, then come back to life with her smile...”

“You're exaggerating a little too much there, princess!” Lance said. “Hyperboles are all about knowing just how far to stretch the truth.”

“You assume I am speaking figuratively, you are sorely mistaken,” Allura said flatly.

Lance turned to Coran. “My pick-up lines aren't that bad, are they?”

“Well, I can't accurately say seeing as I'm not human, and myself and Princess Allura have been in cryostasis for the past 1,000 years, but I can say that all those witticisms of yours wouldn't have earned any positive attention from potential mates among the Fae in our time, even if they could understand Nivian!

“As you probably already know from your studies of Actaeon, we Fae are very fond and discerning of our puns!”

Allura sighed as the two of them started to argue about the merits of Nivian vs Actaeon when it came to wordplay and flirting. She got up, and the two looked at her and stopped.

“I appreciate the effort you two are putting into helping me win Pidge's heart, but I think we should concede defeat this time…” Allura said as she stepped out of her chair. “Now if you'll excuse me, I'm heading to the dining hall to make myself some tea.”

“You sure I can't just make it for you, your highness?” Coran asked as he got up off his seat.

“No thank you, Coran, I could use the walk,” Allura replied as she waved her arm in front of the doors, the runes in the ancient stone slabs glowing bright before they slid apart for her.

She sighed as she walked down the grossly incandescent halls of Rune Terra, completely lost in her thoughts. She could have made the trek asleep, with how many times she had made that same trip from the Core, the castle completely unchanged from the 1,000 year hiatus the Rune Rangers had taken from protecting Havalon—or as she supposed she was going to have call it now, Avalon.

She wondered just how different things would have been, if a different team had risen up before Shiro and the others.

Wondered if her father and his fellow warriors' sacrifice to defeat Zarkon and the Galra Empire the first time around had actually brought peace to the land like they thought it would, and hadn't opened up the gigantic power vacuum it did.

Wondered if the erstwhile alliance between the native Fae and the just-landed humans hadn't quickly dissolved when the loss of a common foe highlighted and exacerbated the many more differences between the two species, sadly not helped by the Fae's heavily conservative traditions.

So it was an honest surprise to her when she mechanically reached up to a cabinet and found it already open, and more so that she was right beside Pidge. “Oh, Pidge!” she cried, a light dusting of red appearing on her cheeks. “I'm so sorry, I was so lost in my thoughts I--”

She finally noticed that the vertically challenged Emerald Ranger hadn't noticed her either, too busy standing on her tip toes, reaching upwards to the top shelf, and tragically coming just short of the box of Rollio's she wanted.

Allura smiled at Pidge. “Need some help, Pidge?” she asked sweetly.

“Oh, no, it's fine, Princess!” Pidge said, her voice strained, her chinchilla tail stiff and shaking from the stress. “I can… almost… reach!”

Allura chuckled. “Oh, it's really no trouble, Pidge, I can get it for you,” she said as she began to reach out for it.

“Actually,” Shiro said as his artificial arm came into Allura's vision. “I can get it for you instead; I need to get hot sauce for Hunk anyway.”

“No, no, it's fine!” Allura said she grabbed one of the floating sections of rock that made up Shiro's prosthetic arm, pushed it down so hard the other pieces hung in the air for a moment before the magic keeping them together caught up.

“I've got it,” she hissed through a smile, eyes glaring daggers at Shiro.

Shiro glared at her right back, electricity crackling in the air between them.

Pidge slowly lowered herself back down to the floor, eying the both of them in turn, the ears atop her head pulling back in worry.

“Please, don't worry yourself, princess,” Shiro said with a forced smile of his own. He put one foot closer to the counter, prepared to move in and block Allura's way. “Let me just--”

Crack.

“Ngh--!”

Pidge looked down, and saw Allura had “accidentally” stomped on Shiro's foot as she moved in herself, blocking his way.

“You and the others have already done SO much for me!” she trilled as she reached up to the shelves, pulled down the box of Rollio's and a bottle of hot sauce. “Let me return the favour...” she growled.

Shiro quickly wrenched his foot back, wincing as he put it down on the floor.

Allura turned to Pidge, smiling sweetly as she held the box to her. “Pidge~” she trilled.

Pidge looked at Shiro, back at Allura, and slowly took it from her. “… Thanks, Princess...” she muttered before she scurried off.

“It's no trouble at all~!” Allura called out after her. She turned to Shiro, the smile on her face disappearing in an instant. “Shiro,” she said as she held out the bottle of hot sauce to him.

Shiro angrily snatched it from her hand. “Thank you, Princess,” he growled, before he limped away on one foot.

Peering around the corner from the entrance, Pidge watched as Allura turned back to the counter and began to make herself a cup of tea.

She sighed as she made her way back to her room, idly ripping open the box of Rollio's. “I guess Shiro's in the doghouse again...” she muttered as she dug in for a package of sweet, cream-filled cookies.

“Wonder what he did wrong this time…?”

#pallura #shidge #voltron legendary defender #fanfic #ORRRARR