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cozy-the-overlord · 4 months

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The Little Thrall Girl

Summary: A young Viking thrall sent out after dark to collect firewood finds herself hopelessly lost in the freezing cold woods. Desperate to warm herself, she turns to magic, but luckily for her, her inexperience ends up catching the attention of a benevolent god ...

Word Count: 4,874

Pairing: None

A/N: So I wanted to write something for Christmas this year, but I couldn't come up with a Christmas-y prompt that interested me enough to work on, so instead I decided to do a retelling of Hans Christian Andersen's "The Little Match Girl," which is something I've wanted to do for a couple of years now and is Christmas adjacent. Big thank you again to @lokislittlesigyn for doing all that pesky research for me and acting as beta reader <3 For reference, I pictured Drifa as around ten years old.

Also I wanted to shout out @maiden-of-asgard's A Thief In The Night, which I think I may have been subconsciously inspired by. Hers is a much different story than this (it stars a much older protagonist and is nsfw) but the opening concept is pretty similar and I realized about halfway through writing mine that that was probably where I got the idea lol. Also all of her work is absolutely fantastic in general, so I wanted to mention it <3

Thank you so much for reading, and happy holidays!!

Warnings: Slavery/references to child abuse

Tags: @lucywrites02 @gaitwae @whatafuckingdumbass @the-emo-asgardian @imnotrevealingmyname @electroma89 @lokislittlesigyn @moumouton4 @theredrenard @justdontmindmetm @lostgreekgod @naterson

If you want to be tagged, feel free to send an ask/message :)

Read it on Ao3!

Drifa is freezing.

It’s her own fault, because she—stupid, idiot girl!—forgot to fetch firewood before supper as she had been bidden, and now darkness had fallen and her mistress had discovered her mistake. The woman had beaten her bloody and dragged her by the hair into the cold, instructing her master’s guards not to allow her back in until she had collected enough to last the night. Drifa had cried and begged, but it was useless.

She stumbles through the snow, groping blindly in the dark for the feel of tree-bark against her fingertips. There’s a panic building in her throat, icy and sharp. She should have reached the woodpile by now. In the daylight, Drifa has never had the slightest issue navigating the woods around her home, but now, with the moon cloaked in a thick shroud of storm-clouds, she can barely make out the shape of her own hand. She turns to go back, but the flickering light of the longhouse has long disappeared into the black of the night. So dark is it that she can’t even find her old footprints in the snow to follow back home.

She’s lost. She swallows, trying to peer through the labyrinth of shadows for a sign of something, anything familiar. There’s nothing but blackness. Drifa thinks of the tales the old serving-women like to tell, about the bloodthirsty beasts with curling horns and daggers for claws that roam the woods after nightfall, hunting for some luckless little girl to drag back to their lair and slake their hunger on. You must never walk the woods after dark. She wants to cry. I didn’t want to walk them! I didn’t want to! I just want to go home!

A branch snaps in front of her and she shrieks, frozen in place for what seems like an eternity as she waits for something to emerge from the darkness. What does she do if it does? Could she run in the snow? Scream for help? Would anyone hear her? Would anyone care?

But the seconds tick by, with no other sound except the blood pumping in her ears. After a moment, Drifa takes a shaky breath (the cold feels like shards of glass in her throat) and continues trekking on.

Deep in the woods now, she shivers, so violently it makes her bones ache. Originally, she had taken a cloak with her – although really, it was more of a ratty cotton sheet than a cloak, something she tended to use as covering when she slept – but it had gotten caught up in the branches of a tree not long after she started out, and in trying to tug it free she had lost it in the snow. Now, she’s in only her smock, soaked through from falling against the ice.

Without anything to cover it, the metal collar around her neck has grown ice-cold, burning her skin everywhere it touches. She wishes she could take it off, but the collar designates her state as a thrall, and removing it would earn her an even worse beating than the last. Her forehead stings too, more piercingly than it ought to. She thinks she must have cut it when her mistress threw her out, although now, she can’t really remember. Everything seems hazy.

Warm. She must get warm. The need drowns out all other thoughts. If only she could make a fire. If there was wood, she might – one of her many roles is tending to the fire, and she’s usually very good at it. Usually. Drifa bites away the tears, the skin of her lips so cold it feels like glass against her teeth. She could do it, if she only had some wood, but she can’t find any – the ground is covered with snow, and the trees towering over her hold their branches above her head, far too high to reach. It’s as if they’re mocking her.

She cries out when her fingers brush against something brittle. It’s a rock, a large one, jutting out of the snow like a miniature wall. Drifa leans against it, her breath coming in fast little puffs of mist. She knows she shouldn’t stop – out in the cold, winter is liable to put you into a sleep from which you’ll never wake – but everything hurts, and her eyelids are so heavy. It’s only a moment before her legs give out entirely and she collapses on the ground against the rock. Her lower half has gone completely numb, and she wonders if she’s turning to ice.

Fire. I need fire.

Maybe … maybe she could magick one? Her master has talked about seidr before, how witchy women can spark up a flame with only a flick of their wrist and a click of their tongue. Drifa often listens to his conversations with his men while she kneels before the fire. He doesn’t seem to like seidr much – “cowardly and villainous,” he called it, something no woman deserving of respect would ever touch. He wouldn’t be happy if he knew one of his slave girls was considering it, but Drifa is so cold she can’t bring herself to care.

A flick of the wrist and a click of the tongue. Her mouth is so dry that the sound only barely comes out. The forest remains as cold and dark as ever. Maybe it needs a spell? Drifa doesn’t know any spells. She can’t feel her hands anymore. Her eyes are burning. She tries it again, whispering words that sound right. Fire, burn, alight, warm, please, please, please please please please—

“Oh dear, that’s not the right incantation at all.”

Drifa snaps up her gaze and shrieks – or she would have, had the sound not frozen in her throat. A shadow stands across from her, the slender form of a man looming amongst the trees, crimson eyes glittering through the darkness. Her heart jumps to her throat. It’s the monster from the stories. She tries to move, tries to push herself away, but her legs are leaden and heavy and won’t work properly, and so she can only sit paralyzed in terror as he approaches her, the snow crunching beneath his step.

He’s going to eat me … he’s going to bite my head off and carry me back to his lair and feast on my bones … she lets out a soft cry, squeezing her eyes closed as hot tears finally break free, running down her cheeks and freezing against her skin. Oh, why didn’t I remember the firewood earlier?

When the creature speaks again, Drifa can’t make out the words over the sound of her own whimpers. What she does make out is the familiar crackling that follows, a warm, pleasant sound that washes over her … no, it’s a warmth in more than just sound. She looks up, fear giving way to confusion.

The forest is awash with light. It almost hurts her eyes, so accustomed to the dark has she become. As for where it’s coming from – I must be dreaming. A man stands over her, a roaring fire burning in his outstretched hand. She blinks, but the sight does not change. His hand is on fire. It doesn’t seem to be harming him though – the man appears as relaxed as can be, his burning flesh untouched and unaffected, as if the fire wasn’t even there at all.

He’s a normal looking man too, aside from the flames dancing in his palm – no horns or talons or any of the particular beastlike qualities she had been bracing for. No, just a normal man, with his dark hair slicked back and a cloak of black feathers draped over his shoulders. Even his eyes are a green-tinted blue, not the red she could have sworn she saw in the darkness. They sparkle as he smiles down at her.

“Seidr can be quite the tricky little beast,” he says. “You ought to be more careful in your attempts with it. You never know what you might summon.” Drifa gapes as he kneels before her, holding the fire as though he expects her to take it from him. Instinct keeps her hands frozen in her lap, even as the heat beckons her with its soothing warmth. He can’t mean that, can he? Fire … fire hurts. She’s singed her fingers trying to start one enough times to know. You can’t just pick it up in your hand … and yet that’s exactly what he’s doing.

The man seems to sense her turmoil. Chuckling softly, he holds it closer to her, and Drifa nearly starts crying again from how good the heat feels. “Go on, little one. It’s quite safe.”

Biting her lip, she reaches out towards the flame, ready to flinch back the moment it hurts. But the pain never comes. Instead, it’s a warm, tingling sort of spark that travels up her arm, chasing away the cold as it settles in her chest. Drifa gasps as the feeling returns to her fingers, any sense of caution melting away as she reaches for the fire with her other hand. So warm …

She’s almost forgotten that the man is still there when he clasps her arm. She flinches – it doesn’t hurt, but his hand is large enough to wrap entirely around her wrist and then some, and her fear comes flooding back.

But he doesn’t yank her arm out of its socket. Instead, his voice is as soft as his touch.

“You’ll want to cup it,” he says, guiding her hands together to hold the flames as one would a cupful of water. “Like so. That way you’ll have the most control over the spell.”

Drifa pulls her gaze away from the flames to look back up at him, and he smiles at her again. He appears to be wearing leather beneath his cloak, but his leathers look different than any she’s ever seen. Intricate pieces of black and green interlock over his chest, with just the slightest glimpse of glittering gold. Gold on his leathers. This man must be wealthy – far wealthier than her master, at the very least.

If he’s really a man at all.

She inhales a trembling breath. “Are … are you a monster?”

The man throws his head back and lets out a merry laugh. “Oh my,” he chuckles. “I suppose that depends on who you ask.”

Her eyes widen – what does that mean?—and he must notice, because he chuckles again and shakes his head. “No, I’m no monster. Not in the way you fear. My name is Loki.” He reaches towards her and she tenses, but he only tips her chin up with a single tender finger, eyes intent on her neck. It takes a moment to realize he’s looking at her collar. “And who might you be, little thrall?”

Her voice catches in her throat. Should she tell him? Her instinct is to obey – if he is as wealthy as he seems, her master would be furious if she showed him any disrespect. Although Drifa somehow doubts her master would have much respect for a man who practices seidr. Goodness, she hadn’t known that men could practice seidr at all … that’s not natural, is it?

But Loki is smiling like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “It’s alright, lovely. I promise I don’t bite.”

The thought makes her glance at his teeth. They seem quite normal sized, at least. She looks back to the fire, then closes her eyes, her voice coming out in a shaky exhale. “Drifa …”

He hums, pleased. “It’s good to meet you, Drifa.” His finger drifts from her chin to her cheek, slowly stroking up the side of her face. She shudders, but it’s a pleasant feeling – there’s a warmth to his touch that feels nice against her cold-numbed skin. “You’re a small little thing, to be out so far on your own.”

She hiccups. “I had to get firewood …”

“Firewood?” He’s frowning – Drifa can hear it in his voice. The pinpricks of panic that the heat had melted away spring back in full force. Did she say something wrong? Is he angry? She opens her eyes. His gaze is dark – oh goodness, he is angry – but before she can determine what she’s done that’s earned his ire, he presses his fingertips to the bruised cut on her temple, and Drifa gasps as the stinging turns to tingling, then melts away entirely. She looks up at him in shock.

But Loki says nothing. He pulls away, eyeing her collar once more.

“Has your master sent you out on such a mission so late at night,” he asks at last. “With neither hatchet nor torch?”

Drifa stiffens. “I was supposed to get it earlier …” Her voice is hoarse. Even with the fire in her hands, she feels quite cold. “I forgot …” Goodness, how long has she been gone? Her mistress had told her to hurry – that feels like hours ago. Her vision blurs. Norns, she’s going to be in for the beating of a lifetime—

“Oh lovely girl.” There’s something soft about Loki’s voice as he shifts to sit on the ground beside her, something calming. Gentle. Drifa’s not used to gentleness. It makes her cry harder.

She hardly notices when he shucks off his cloak, only when he’s wrapping it around her shoulders like a blanket. “It’s all right, darling,” he soothes. “No need for tears. There’s nothing to be frightened of.”

Drifa inhales shakily. The cloak is warmer than any blanket she’s ever known, the feathers soft against her cheeks. She wishes she could burrow into it and never come out. “But I’m lost …”

“Well, that cannot be, as it seems I have found you.” Loki gives an easy grin. “One can hardly be lost and found at the same time, now, can they?”

She turns back towards him (how he’s not shivering without his cloak, she has no idea). She supposes he’s right – she’d certainly feels better here with him, with his cloak and his fire and his magic, than she had alone. At least it’s not as dark anymore …

A rustling in the bushes to her right slices through her thoughts, and Drifa shrieks, slamming her hands into the ground in a frantic attempt to push herself away. The fire hisses when it hits the snow, dousing the clearing in blackness once more. It’s coming. It’s finally coming. The monster finally found us—

She cries out again when a hand grasps her left shoulder, but it’s only Loki, calm as can be as he hushes her softly. He mutters the words from earlier and another fire ignites in his free hand. The bush is still moving – something’s trying to crawl out. Drifa whimpers, but Loki rubs her shoulder soothingly.

“It’s all right, dear,” he whispers with an eager smile, holding the light higher so that she can see better. “Look!”

Drifa can’t believe her eyes.

It’s a goose, feathers as white as the snow across which she’s waddling as she wriggles free from the shrubbery. She pauses, tilting her head as she considers them, then with a little honk! that makes Drifa jump, the bush rustles again and six grey, fluffy goslings come scampering out behind her.

Drifa gapes. How is this possible? It’s far too cold for any goose to be here, let alone babies. This can’t be real. And yet here they are, waddling past her like nothing’s wrong. The goslings scurry to follow their mother, letting out squeaky little chirps as they run past her. One stops at Drifa’s boot and pecks the leather with its beak. She giggles – it’s such a tiny thing, she can barely feel its beak on her foot – and it chirps again, stumbling back into the snow. Across the clearing, the mother goose lets out another honk, and the gosling dashes off to join its siblings as they slip away into the dark.

Next to her, Loki is smiling. “See? No cause for alarm.” There’s a playful sparkle in his eyes, as well as the dancing reflection of the flames, and she finds herself wondering if the unnatural winter geese were magic in the same way as his fire. But before she has the chance to ask, her stomach lets out a mighty growl.

Loki’s gaze flickers down to her torso. “When have you last eaten, little one?”

Drifa bites her lip and looks down, crossing her arms over her stomach. When had she last eaten? It was long before she set out for firewood – the mistress had pulled her away before she had a chance to eat her table scraps. Someone else has probably eaten them by now …

Her stomach rumbles again. She’s very hungry, she realizes. She was so cold for so long she must not have noticed it. It feels wrong to complain though … Drifa’s not sure what to say. “I …”

Loki lets out a huff. “On second thought, I believe I can glean the answer myself.” There’s the sound of something being stabbed into the snow – Drifa looks up to see that the fire is now a torch, firmly planting in the ground in front of them. Loki does a strange flick of his wrist, and before she can blink he’s holding out an apple to her.

She hesitates, gaze shifting from the apple to his face. Is he angry? He definitely sounded displeased, and he’s not smiling anymore. Did the sound of her hunger irritate him? Besides, fresh apples are a rarity in the winter – certainly not to be wasted on the likes of her. Is it a trick?

But he only holds it out closer. “It’s all right. You can take it.”

It feels wrong, but with his encouragement the demands of her stomach are louder than her sense of decorum, and so Drifa takes the apple in trembling hands. Her first bite is a small one, just enough to pierce the skin and taste the sweet juice on her tongue, and it’s nearly enough to send her into tears yet again. Oh, it’s heavenly – luscious and ripe and perfect, the most delicious fruit she’s ever brought to her lips. She chomps down hard for another bite and the juice dribbles down her chin but she can’t bring herself to care. The flesh is somehow crisp and soft at the same time, and she tilts her head back as it melts in her mouth, euphoric.

Loki smiles. “That’s a good girl.”

The apple does not last long—Drifa practically inhales it, slurping the juice off her fingers like an animal. Maybe under different circumstances she’d be embarrassed, but right now it feels right. Beside her, Loki hums in amusement. She glances back up at him. Now that she’s seeing him without his cloak on, his clothes look even stranger. There is gold on his leathers, a swooping curve across his chest, as well as matching shoulder plates and bracers. It doesn’t look like regular armor though – certainly nothing like the bulky breastplates she’s seen her master’s men wearing.

“Why are you dressed so funny?”

She freezes almost as soon as the words leave her lips – such an insolent question, what was she thinking?! But Loki’s smirk only widens, eyes twinkling with mirth.

“Not such a timid little mouse now, are we?” He shakes his head, grinning as he sits back against the rock. “I’m dressed in the fashion of my people, lovely. My clothes would be considered very normal where I’m from.” His gaze drops down to her collar. “Yours, on the other hand, would be seen as quite unusual.”

“Oh …” Drifa pauses. She’s never seen anyone dress like him before. Although she supposes she hasn’t seen many outsiders beyond visitors from settlements near to her master’s longhouse. “Is that far away?”

Loki nods. “Very far, I’m afraid. But it’s a far kinder land than this. Much more forgiving.” He lets out a soft chuckle. “Warmer, too.”

“Warmer?” she frowns. “But it’s winter.”

“It is,” he agrees. “But we have our seidr to weather the cold.” He nods his head towards the fire, still flickering brightly on its torch. After a moment, he grins softly. “Besides, you’ll find my home is … a bit more eternal than anything you’ll find here.”

Drifa is quiet for a moment. She imagines what that must be like, a sturdy house free of ice and snow, glowing with the constant warmth of magical fires. Maybe there were more cloaks like this one too, blankets that never let in the cold no matter how the temperature dropped. She allows herself a soft grin against the apple core.

No need for firewood.

It’s a nice thought. A scary one too, though – goodness, what would her master say if he knew she was fantasizing about living in a world of magicians? That she was sitting here with one now, enjoying his seidr fire and seidr apple? What was it he had said? Cowardly and villainous.

Drifa purses her lips. “My master doesn’t like seidr.”

“Your master is an imbecile.” Her eyes widen. He didn’t – he couldn’t!! She whips back to look at him, but Loki stares ahead, his features blank, as if he’s only made a statement about the weather.

“Besides,” he adds after a moment, turning to give her a wink. “I rather doubt you hold his opinion on the matter in very high regard. You were trying to work it yourself, when I came upon you.”

His voice is teasing, but Drifa feels as though she’s plunged into a frozen lake. “You … you won’t tell him, will you?” She inhales, throat tightening. “I wasn’t trying – I was just so cold, and—”

But Loki only laughs again and wraps an arm around her back, giving her shoulder a gentle pat. “Sweet thing. Your secret is safe with me.”

It’s a strange feeling, having his arm around her like that. Being held. It feels so safe, like a shield, protecting her from the darkness. She likes that. It’s nice to be protected. Warm too – that must be magic, how he manages to still feel so warm despite being out in the dead of winter in such thin clothing. Without thinking about what she’s doing, Drifa leans against his side, resting her head on his chest. Loki stiffens, but she hardly notices. His leather tunic is soft against her cheek. Warm and soft and safe. He relaxes again after a moment, his hand coming back to rub her upper arm in easy, gentle strokes. That feels nice too.

She’s nearly drifted off to sleep against his chest when he speaks again. “Do you have any family, Drifa? Brothers, sisters?”

Drifa shakes her head. As far as she knows, she’s alone in the world. “Do you?”

“I have a brother. A very loud one at that.” He chuckles. “You’d probably be frightened of him, skittish little mouse that you are. He’s well-meaning though.”

For some reason, the thought of Loki, with his soft voice and even softer step, having a loud brother makes Drifa giggle. “Can he do seidr too?”

“I’m afraid not – at least, not in the way that I do. He prefers a more conventional way of life.”

“Oh …” She wonders what conventional is, when you live in a magic land where everyone has seidr and it never gets cold.

The forest falls silent for a little while. She’s not sure for how long. Laying against his chest, she can hear his heartbeat, a faint, rhythmic lub-dup, and wrapped in the warmth of his cloak, it’s nearly enough to lull her to sleep. When Loki clears his throat, she can’t tell if it’s been minutes or hours since he last spoke.

“Now, darling,” he says. There are snowflakes in his hair, she realizes – when did it start snowing again? “As lovely as this little picnic has been, I fear the temperature is dropping even further, and you can’t stay out here forever.”

All at once, the panic returns. “What do you mean? Are you leaving?” He can’t leave, he can’t leave her here, if he leaves he’ll take the magic and the fire and the cloak and everything and she’ll go back to being cold and lost—

“Oh sweet girl, no need to fret,” he soothes, stroking her side. “I have no intention of leaving you here. I can take you back to your longhouse – it’s not too far.”

“Oh …” She … she should feel relief at that. Hadn’t she hoped he might rescue her from her peril? She should be overjoyed that he’s kind and willing enough to see her back home. Home. The word feels empty.

Loki is studying her, his eyes glittering in the faint light of the fire. “Unless you don’t wish to return?”

“I …” Drifa hesitates – why is she hesitating? Would she rather slowly freeze to death out here? No, of course not … But what will be waiting for her when she returns, hours late and without the very thing she was sent for? A shiver runs down her spine. She knows what will be waiting for her. But … what other choice does she have?

“I have nowhere else to go …” she whispers finally, looking down at her hands to hide the tears once again pooling in her eyes.

Loki lets out a low hum. “Well, there is an alternative.” He tips her chin up so that she’s looking at him. His features are serious. “You could come with me, back to my home.”

She inhales, so sharply it hurts. “Really?”

He nods. “You’d be safe and cared for and want for nothing. No more of this—” his hand drifts from her chin to her collar, slipping his fingers between the metal and her skin. He wrinkles his nose in disgust. “—mistreatment. This I can swear to you.” He pulls his hand away, looking at her somberly. “But if you come with me, you’ll not be able to return here again.”

She bites her lip. Is it bad that she wants it? He said he lives far away, but she has no idea where … she doesn’t even know if he’s even a man. Shouldn’t she return to what she knows? But she thinks of her mistress’ shrill voice and violent hands, the meager rations she receives, the hard floor upon which she sleeps … Drifa doesn’t like what she knows.

Her voice is hoarse, but strong. “I want to go with you.”

“Are you certain?” There’s a weight behind Loki’s gaze as he regards her. “This is not a decision to be taken lightly, little one.”

She nods. “I’m certain.”

Loki’s smile is as wide as it is warm. “Very well. Hold on to me, love.” He reaches forward, wrapping one arm around her back and the other beneath her knees before he scoops her up as though she weighed nothing more than a feather. Drifa gasps as he stands – he’s so tall, she’s never been this far off the ground before. She burrows into the feather cloak and clings to his shoulders, digging her fingernails into the leather as she hides against his chest. He chuckles.

“Just one thing more before we go..”

With deft fingers, he unlatches her collar, pulling it free from her neck with only one hand. Drifa’s eyes widen – she’s not allowed to do that! Except … she supposes she is, now. He drops the collar on the ground with a muffled thunk as it sinks into the snow. Drifa lets out a shuddering breath and reaches for her throat. Her skin feels raw and exposed, but free. She feels herself grin. When she looks up, Loki is grinning right back at her.

“You’ll want to hold tight,” he says. “Our method of travel is … rather unconventional, at least to you mortals.”

“Wha – Mortals?” Her head spins with sudden recognition. “You – you mean—”

Loki smirks. “I mean that we’re going to Asgard, darling.”

…

There were precious few awake at that hour to see the flash of color that lit up the sky, for it lasted only a moment. It wasn’t until morning, in the embers of the untended-to fire, that it was discovered that the girl sent out for firewood never returned. A meager search was attempted – the master was not one to take the loss of his property lightly. They found her cloak first, a torn, ratty little thing frozen stiff in the snow not too far from the longhouse, then her collar about an hour’s walk away from that. With the snowfall in the night, any tracks had been lost, but it seemed safe to assume that the child had been dragged off and devoured by some beast of the forest. The mistress was irritated. Why the little fool wandered into the woods, instead of sticking to the woodpile as she had been told, was beyond her.

None of them had any idea of the magic and glory with which she had been swept away to the Realm Eternal, or that she now lived amongst the gods as one of them.

#loki marvel #loki fanfic #hurt/comfort #loki oneshot #the little thrall girl #cozy writes

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discrunkled-twog · 2 years

Text

Chapter One

I'm Not Going To Say It No Matter How Much You Want Me To

Edit: Stuff has been changed. Nothing major, but this WIP has gone through a lot, and I would like to say there's more to it now. Just not yet, haha. It's the first chapter, what do you expect?

Tagging you two because you asked, so uhh... yeah. Finally have an actual working title for this! Very fun, very exciting. Two people showed interest in this while I was developing the story:@jezifster and @ae32156

Warning: This is VERY cartoony. The original concept for this was an animated series, but since I can't draw, let alone animate, this will remain in written form for quite a long time.

You can read it here, or on Ao3 or Wattpad if you choose to read it. :)

********************

The weather and specific yet unspecified location are of no importance at this point in time.

Unremarkable and insignificant, the narrative surroundings in which you might currently find yourself are kept for a later mention in passing, as they should be. Instead of a wide range, how about instead, I bring you to a small apartment in the suburbs?

Not inside, of course, because that would be rude, and it’s not like either of us has the keys anyway. But merely to the fifth door on the right on the second floor, room 205, at an affordable price of $575 a month.

The relative importance of these numbers and this address are mostly up to you, but if you take a look— whether through your mind’s eye or otherwise— you might find the forthcoming events to be of some sort of interest.

It’s unbeknownst to me, of course, whether or not you’ve ever been particularly fond of people-watching, but stay for a while regardless.

There was a knock on the door.

Oliver hadn't been doing anything. Granted, if he had been, he knew it wouldn't have been anything important. Besides, what was he supposed to do with so many bottle caps anyway?

He glanced over at his watch, which was resting on the table beside him.

4:48.

He probably should've been asleep, seeing how the slightest jolt would have woken him up anyway, but he was insistent on organizing the caps. By color. Maybe tomorrow, he'd do it by date—if he managed to remember the days he came into possession of said bottle caps. He decided a sweatshirt and shorts were acceptable enough to answer the door.

What the hell...

It was a superhero.

Now, slow down.

It shouldn't have been much of a surprise, all things considered. No, what was more surprising was his stupid costume. Now, superheroes' costumes had been silly before—supervillains were often worse—but this guy truly had no standards.

He was wearing a cape and bodysuit that were much tighter than anything Oliver ever cared to wear, but it was an almost irritating fluorescent yellow. He was much taller and much more well-built than Oliver, and wrapped from head to toe in bright yellow and white, with an insignia on his chest that appeared to be a badly disguised lightbulb. The worst part was, he had a hat on. A tacky, annoying, highlighter-yellow colored hat with the same insignia that couldn't help but remind him of the hat he was assigned at his old fast-food job simply because of the sheer ridiculousness of it.

Apparently, clothes told you a lot about a person—Phoebe had told him that countless times—and looking him up and down for a few seconds gave him a pretty good idea of the man standing in front of him.

This guy's an idiot.

"Hello, young man!" he greeted.

His voice was deep and booming, almost sounding like it was reverberating through the room.

"I've been watching you closely for about a year now, and I wanted to finally meet you in person!"

As he spoke with overdramatic pronunciation; a bright light shone behind him, while a chorus of angels sang, his cape flapping in the wind.

Now, what wasn't right is that the trees weren't moving. The wind seemed to be isolated to move his cape and only his cape– ridiculously adorned with the same insignia on his chest. Even his hair was still, which either alluded to insane amounts of hair gel, supernatural wind, or both.

I'm going with both.

"Well, look alive, son!" he yelled, patting him on the shoulder. "Can I come inside?"

Oliver was no stranger to unannounced house visits. He’d gotten a few visits from reporters, and occasionally someone trying to sell him something, but he’d learned how to evade them or otherwise get them to leave fairly quickly without being rude. What he didn’t know was if this guy deserved to be spared from his wrath.

"Why are you here at this time? And come on, man, I don't know who you are. Why are you asking to come in?"

"What do you mean, 'at this time?' It's nearly five in the afternoon," he said, grinning with his hands on his hips, cape still aflap.

Right, other people don't sleep at this time.

As if he was even sleeping.

"Son, I wanted to meet you! I thought it wise to-"

"Wait, wait, hold on. Who are you…?"

"Oh, you don't know me? I'm a famous superhero!"

He laughed triumphantly.

"How famous can you be if I, a civilian, don't know who you are?"

Immediately, the light switched off and the wind and music stopped.

What the…

"Hmm, you certainly are a feisty one. So quick to jest, too! Alas, I must inform you that I know for a fact that you are not a common civilian! You, my friend, are a superhero, like myself! And a fairly good one at that!"

Oliver playfully darted his eyes around.

"Who told you?"

"Son, you're all over the news! Well, maybe not all over the news, but I am fairly certain I have seen you somewhere in something before."

"Yeah, yeah, sure. Anyway, what are you doing here?"

"As I've previously mentioned, I am a famous superhero of sorts, whether or not your geeky little fanboy self has heard of me or not…"

Geeky little fanboy?

"...and I wanted to have a serious discussion with you. A meaningful heart-to-heart, if you will," he said, leaning as nonchalantly as he possibly could appear, what with his ridiculous getup, on the doorframe. "Now, can I come inside?"

"So, let me get this straight."

Oliver sighed.

"You came to some rando’s house– and I am a rando because we have literally never met– and thought it would be a good idea to have…?"

"A heart-to-heart, an inspiring discussion—even a manly convo, as the kids say."

Manly convo? Yeah. Right.

"Listen, uh… Who are you?"

"Well, I could tell you my birth name…" He chuckled. "But I suppose, since we’re talking as the grand heroes we are, I should tell you the truth."

A single note from a trumpet played in the background, in the rhythm of a fanfare.

"I am Lightbulb Man!"

The door creaked awkwardly as he grinned, his pride slightly faltering.

"Is that supposed to be some sort of hero name…?"

"What do you mean ‘supposed to be?’ It is my hero name, and I don’t see what’s wrong with it," he said, crossing his arms.

Oliver sighed.

There were so many imperfections and mistakes with his entire demeanor– not to mention his costume– that he would’ve loved to scold him about, but he decided that now was not the time to point them out.

"Look, ‘Lightbulb Dude-’"

"Lightbulb Man," he corrected.

"Alright, Lightbulb Man, I don’t expect you to know all about my schedule, so I’m gonna cut you some slack… But you can’t expect me to just let you into my house for no reason, especially when-"

"My, my, what a humble abode you have, son!" he shouted, pushing Oliver to the side and walking inside. "Definitely much smaller than I expected…"

"I-" He sighed. "Okay. Whatever."

Oliver closed the door behind the two of them and followed the man, hoping to keep him from bringing forth mayhem.

"This tiny, smelly apartment of yours is a bit too humble. Frankly, it’s strange," he said, lightly pushing around a piece of clothing with his foot. "I would’ve expected nothing short of a small mansion."

"A ‘small mansion’ seems like an oxymoron. Also, what?"

"What kind of little packrat are you? What are all these things?" he asked, gesturing to a wide array of bottle caps, lined up by color. "Do these have something to do with your powers, because-"

"Don’t-! Touch those…" He moved his hand away before he could grab them. "It doesn’t matter, okay? They’re just a stupid thing I like to-"

"Don’t worry, I have no intention of probing to find out what you do in your free time." He moved in closer to read one of the labels. "Though, it is still a surprise to me that your tiny room of a house is in such a disorderly state. Didn’t your mother ever teach you to tidy your things?"

Oliver scoffed.

"Speak not of my mother, you weirdo. I wasn’t expecting visitors."

"You should be prepared for anything the universe throws at you! How do you expect to be a decent hero if you can’t handle a little surprise…?" he asked, leaning on the edge of the couch.

"You mean breaking and entering?"

"A surprise."

Oliver rubbed his forehead as the superhero walked around the couch and examined the rest of the small room.

"Okay, what’s your name?"

"Lightbulb Man, I already told you," said Lightbulb Man.

"No, your real name."

He gasped dramatically.

"Though I am appalled at your distaste for my thoughtfully chosen hero name, I will set this aside and tell you my birth name," he said, grinning. "After all, since we are to be ‘chums,’ it’s imperative that we know each other’s names. I am Charles Green, born to Lyle and Maya Green, in the town of-"

"Okay, that’s enough," he said, gesturing with his hands to shut him up. "I don’t need to know your whole life story, geez. So your name’s Charlie?"

"Charles, son."

"Yeah, I’m calling you Charlie. So-"

"A nickname? I am honored that you consider us close enough to be so friendly!" he said, beaming. "Now, if only I could have your name, I could come up with one for you!"

Oliver was beside himself.

"What is it now, boy? You look pale-"

"You mean to tell me that you don’t even know my name? And you’re in my house? And you didn't know my name? How-"

"Alright, you don’t need to shout at me! Perhaps it might’ve been a wise decision to learn your name before my visit-"

"Perhaps?"

"-But now if you were to stop making such a fuss over every little thing, you could tell me your name and this little squabble could be resolved."

Oliver chuckled.

"Squabble, wow…" he muttered under his breath. "My name is Oliver Barrison, uh… born to my mother and father… in a hospital, my liege," he said, bowing and tipping an imaginary hat.

"Oliver Barrison… Not a very grand name, but it’ll do. Also, as for nicknames, there’s not much to work with…" He sighed and stroked his chin in thought. "No good…"

"So, Charlie, what is it that you wanted again?"

"Ah yes, that…" He was about to speak when a cat crawled out from under the couch, curling its tail around his ankle. "Oh! Who’s this little guy…?"

The cat was white with brown splotches trailing along its tail and torso, with a distinct marking over one of its eyes. It rubbed up against the base of his leg until he picked it up, cradling it in a rather maternal fashion.

"Amazing, son! You’re fighting crime consistently, and yet you’ve found a way to care for a small creature!" Charlie cradled the cat, petting its head. "I didn’t know you liked animals. Caring for all creatures is an important quality in a-"

Oliver looked back at him, grimacing.

"What is the meaning of that expre-"

"I don’t like cats," he said, scoffing in disgust.

"Oh? Then why do you have one?"

"It’s my friend’s stupid cat," he said, staring at it rather distastefully. "Her name is Missy."

"Missy? What a–"

"Stupid name? I know, but she-"

"---wonderful name for such a kind, loving kitten!" he said, bringing Missy up to rub their faces together.

"Okay, maybe you don’t want to do that—"

"Do what?" Missy appeared perfectly content with his touchiness.

"Oh, that’s not fair. Why does she like you?" He could’ve sworn the cat was giving him a dirty look. "She always tries to hiss at me, and screech at me, and mess up my things–-"

"Well, I don’t seem to have a problem with her at all!"

"---and pee on me, and stink up the place–-"

"Alright, that’s enough of your fussing! It’s your own fault for having the cat with you in the first place," he said, bonding pretty hard with said cat.

"I- It’s not my fault, it’s my friend’s, because she needs help with the stupid cat sometimes…" he muttered, "And then I want to strangle it and wring its teeny neck until its beady little eyes pop out of its skull and bounce on the floor, putting it out of its misery and me out of mine, but I can’t do that because then Phoebe would kill me…"

"I can’t understand a word you’re speaking; you’ll have to speak up," he said, showing no interest whatsoever in learning what he said, seeing as he was already putting the cat down and roaming the rest of the apartment.

"Do you have other animals living here with you, or is she it?" Charlie asked, kicking around clothes and other miscellaneous items strewn across the floor.

"Where are you-"

"This place is so small. And you were correct– it does in fact smell like cat waste."

"I- Okay, yeah, seriously, what are you doing?" he asked, walking after him as he walked into the small hallway, looking the place up and down.

"Which one of these rooms is your secret lair?" asked Charlie, about to turn the handle of the first door before Oliver grabbed his arm and pulled him away.

"Quit it or leave. I swear, I’m going to kill you…"

"That’s a bit overly hostile for a peacekeeping hero, don’t you think? What’s made you so angry?"

"What’s made me so angry? I don’t know, maybe it’s the fact that you literally came into my house- room- apartment or whatever, and you just started poking around at everything when you…!" Oliver sighed. "I swear, if you don’t tell me what the hell you’re doing here, I will strangle you."

"Unlikely!" he boasted. "You’re much smaller than me, and likely weaker, as well. But either way, I suppose I’ve been overly absentminded now."

"You think…?"

"My visit today was not without purpose. In fact, I came to offer an opportunity to you– a proposition, if you will. I wanted to offer you myself– as a mentor, to shape you into the best hero you can possibly be!"

"Huh?"

Charlie walked out of the hall and back into the living room.

"You’re a new hero, son. And for only being in this sort of business for a year or so… Started when you were eighteen, yes?"

"Uh… Yeah?"

Where is he going with this…?

"You’re so young, Oliver. You’ve already made a sort of name for yourself, even if it’s not a first-page, show-stopping appearance. You should be proud of yourself, but there are many things that you still need to improve on." Charlie faced him, starry-eyed but judgemental, and grabbed him by the shoulders. "You often deviate from the high standard that professional heroes such as myself work to maintain, and I want to help you remedy said situation."

"Remedy said what now?"

He let him go and motioned to the couch and floor.

"This is no way for a grand hero to live. Frankly, you fail to practice and hone in on plenty of techniques that heroes– such as myself– use daily when fighting crime. I am offering you the chance to work alongside a hero of my skill level. Just think of all the progress you can make! You can work with me, kid, and be my loyal sidekick!"

"Sidekick?"

"Just think about it! We can work as the fictional heroes once did! BearBoy and Ronan!"

"What- Wait, who?"

"You don’t know?" Charlie looked at him in confusion. "The famous fictional hero duo, BearBoy and Ronan? Y’know, that cartoon series in the 1960s? With the hero who’d been orphaned at a young age, and his trusty sidekick? They’re rather famous!"

Oliver snickered. "Wait, you mean like Batman and Ro-"

"Hey!" Charlie waved his hand at him. "Not them! BearBoy and Ronan! They’re much better than those other heroes you mentioned. You must watch out for copyright infringement, Oliver!"

Why would I have to worry about that in my own-

"Anyway, whichever you choose to see it as, I’m sure you get the point. I came here to talk to you about this, and see how soon we can arrange things to–-"

"No thanks," he said, walking over to the door. "Was that it? Because then you can–-"

"What do you mean, ‘no thanks?’" He cleared his throat. "Do you not realize what a great opportunity this is…?"

"Yeah, I’m good. Now, are you going to leave…?"

"But why not? Is there something stopping you?"

"Nope," he said, shrugging. "I really don’t care, honestly. I’ve been doing things just fine on my own, thank you very much, and I don’t need your help to make me… Well, more like you."

He held in a snicker.

"There must be something…!" He walked up to Oliver. "I’m sure you need to improve on something! There has to be at least one thing that can lead to me having to mentor you!"

"Look, have you been keeping up with the statistics? The crime rates have been declining, no?"

"Well, yes."

"And no ‘evil villains’ have hunted me or my family down, right?"

"A-Ah, right, but I-"

"And I haven’t made a big mistake, or gotten seriously hurt or anything, in the year I’ve been doing this… Right…?"

"Right…"

"So," he said, opening the door and motioning to it, "I can handle things just fine, and you can leave now! Thanks for the nice little visit, but I should probably sleep now."

"You really don’t-"

"Nope, I’m good. Bye-bye now," he said, practically pushing him out the door.

"I- well, if you truly aren’t interested in the slightest, I guess-"

"Okay, thanks!" And with that, he shut the door.

Finally. Thought he’d never leave.

Oliver sighed and sat back down on the couch. Though he didn’t need to wake up for work later, sleep was best taken during business hours, when the math had proven there was less crime to bust.

He laid down, staring up at the ceiling.

Now would be the optimal time for Oliver to actually sleep, but whether or not he does is beyond anyone’s control. We can only hope he will allow himself to succumb to his inevitable beddy-bye time, even in the light as it is.

He began to drift off into slumber…

A tap on his window awoke him before he could properly doze off. Charlie tapped on the frosted window above his door, his figure hardly distinguishable from the afternoon daylight. He yelled, “I’ll be back!”

His tactless surprise left Oliver with a sleepless afternoon, and himself with a pay dock.

#odd logic #oliver and his fantabulous friends #oliver barrison #charles green #original content #my writing #writeblr #writing #original fiction #comedy #writers on tumblr

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