Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If you had told me 2,000 years ago that I would be demoted down to the level of match maker from my lofty position as the goddess of love, beauty, fertility, magic, and war… I wouldn't have believed you. I am Freya, daughter of Njoror and sister of Freyr. I have half the warriors slain in battle at my table to feast in my afterlife.

Or at least, I did.

Back when I had a following. Back when people knew who I was. Back when I was powerful.

The belief in the old way grows less each year, and my power dwindles along the same path.

Which means, here, in the year of 2025 (which, to be clear, is NOT our year, but we must adapt apparently to the current belief structure. And no, don’t repeat that, I'm on thin ice with my boss as it is.) As I was saying, in the year of 2025 Anno Domini, a reference to yet another deity who came after me and has surpassed my power, I am expected to follow around chosen couples, and facilitate their meeting.

Like a damn cupid. Or at least like the pop culture reference to cupid. Actual Cupid is a bit of a dick, because every time you buy one of those saccharine Valentine’s Day cards with a picture of him, it gives him more power. He’s amassed so much power from cheesy mattress ads and chalk-tasting candy heart bags that he's become the fucking head of the “love” department. Him.

Where was I?

Right. In the year of 2025, follow around couples, yadda yadda yadda.

Look. I’m powerful. I can do this match-making shit in my sleep. They say existence is either about pushing boundaries, or figuring out where you can just be lazy, and with my current job its about 38% moderately easy work, and 62% watching Netflix reviews on YouTube. It’s boring as fuck, but at least I have time to catch up on Love Island. Which, by the way, I do not take credit for. It's too messy. Classic Cupid.

Today’s assignment should have been simple.

I open the dossier to the two unsuspecting targets. The manila folder opens with two metal prongs on the top holding in the stack of papers about each subject.

On the left:
Name: Nicholas Nelson
Age: 32
Profession: Year 6 Teacher at Truham Primary
Personality Notes:
- Dog lover
- Rugby lad
- Certified bisexual disaster

On the right:
Name: Charles Spring
Age: 31
Profession: Business Manager at Truham Primary
Personality Notes:
- Drummer
- Crushes on anyone who is nice to him
- Gay panic on legs

Scrawled across the bottom in red ink is a note from intake: ”Both already mad about each other, neither will make a move. Should be easy – assign to a beginner.”

I seeth. A beginner? Me? Sure, there haven’t been a lot of newcomers in the “god or goddess of love” department lately (unless you count Beyonce, but we’ll save that conversation for another time), but surely I’m not considered a beginner.

3,350 years old. That’s how old I am. Cupid’s fucking running the joint, and is only 2,700 years old, thank you very much. I can hear the notes of the “Cupid Shuffle” playing on repeat in the breakroom so I step over and slam my office door closed.

At least I haven’t been relegated to a cubicle yet.

Back to the dossier: Apparently both of these two spend half their time in meetings with each other, working together, and imagining each other in various compromising positions that have nothing to do with their work positions. If you know what I mean.

Well, the note was right about one thing. This should be easy peasy. All I have to do is lock them in a room together, or make them sit next to each other at a conference. Knock it out, and then catch up on the latest Love Island drop.

Piece of cake.

🍃✨❤️

Nick sighs heavily and sets his mobile aside on the dining room table in his modest flat. He’s meant to be marking these maths tests but his brain refuses to cooperate and he’s not sure how much time he just wasted, again, on this silly little phone game. Its name, All in Hole, makes him giggle or snort every time it flashes on the screen but the gameplay has proven pretty addictive recently. He just has to move this little void around the field like he used to maneuver across the rugby pitch, making it swallow all manner of objects. It’s extremely satisfying every time he finishes a level with time to spare and it floods his brain with dopamine.

It’s not his fault his transporter cells then remove it so quickly from his receptor cells, cutting that satisfaction and all resulting motivation off at the knees!

He rubs his hand over his face and stares resolutely at the stack of papers, his set of coloured pens and his sheets of assorted stickers. He just needs to gamify it. What if he gets another level of Hole, he smirks to himself, for every five scores documented? He nods, sips his tea and picks up his favourite purple highlighter.

There’s a small voice inside his head, where it is always loud, saying five rounds of fun after every page would be a better ratio. He grits his teeth and ignores it.

Chapter Text

I set the manila folder off to the side, and open my top-line heavenly computer, and begin to work.

I'm sure you’re wondering why a millenia old mythical being would use a computer, but I have progressed from scratching on clay tablets through soaking and boiling feathers to make my own quills and I have 3000 years of carpal tunnel syndrome. If you’d experienced that, you would also welcome the invention of typing systems and electronic editing.

I may be magical and mythical but tendonitis is tendonitis.

And a well-executed plan with foresight and organisation (and spreadsheets) can get just about anything done.

So, as I was saying, I queue up my screen and get to work. For me to convince Nick to make a move, I need to get him in the mood. And nothing works better to get someone in the mood than a dream explicitly spelling it all out for them. Emphasis on the “explicitly”.

And me? I specialise in dreams. If you know what I mean.

The outline is the same regardless of who stars in the dreams, but it’s the fine tuning of the details that really does the trick. Nick needs to wake up feeling fresh, anticipatory, and hopeful that he actually has a chance. Which he clearly does. I know it, you know it, and every person who is ever in a room with the two of them knows it; they just need to both get over whatever this speedbump is that’s holding them back from making the next move.

I start with an image of Nick already in the school office. It’s where he will likely encounter Charlie next, and we want this dream to flash back to him in minute detail when it happens in real life, so we may as well make that part realistic. Charlie walking in, trousers a little too tight, shirt a little more see-through than appropriate, curls glossy and an actual sparkle in his eye and in his dimple.

I sit and review the visual a bit, and then adjust the trousers a little more, to show a hint of an outline as to what lies beneath. It's a dream, we can do that. And I guarantee Nick has searched for that outline many times in real life.

Right, so Charlie walks in, immediately showcasing his consideration of Nick by bringing him his favourite pastry.

No, scratch that; it might remind him of his mother and that won't do.

Ok, so maybe a mug of tea exactly how Nick likes it. That’ll work. And he sets it down in front of him. Nick will express surprise, and then we lay in some of the magic.

“I’ve been watching you Nick and I know exactly how you like it.”

Charlie leans in, breath inexplicably minty. I make a motion with my fingers and direct the breath to curl around Nick’s ear like a tongue. Again, it's a dream. We can do that.

“In fact, I’ve been hoping to show you how I like it as well.”

A few shimmers and mirages and boom – they are somewhere non-descript falling onto a mattress. No childhood bedrooms or weird classrooms to distract him. Pan to Charlie pushing Nick onto his back, and, well, you get the picture. I’m sure I don’t need me to spell it out for you exactly how this dream will unfold, and if that’s what you were hoping for, you should have asked for a different rating on this report, which is decidedly safe for work.

My descriptive dream ingredients, on the other hand, are not. I toil a bit more, throw in a couple of “good boys” for the golden retriever in Nick, and by the time he wakes up tomorrow, he will be ready to go. After a longer than normal shower to get ready in the morning I suppose, but if I’ve built this dream correctly, his mind should be singularly focused on Charlie and Charlie alone.

Case closed by lunch. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

🍃✨❤️

Nick has a routine for bedtime. Meds, half a glass of water. Empty bladder, wash hands. Floss, brush. His brain exists on another plane, still caught on the latest plot twist from the show he watched as he ate dinner alone in his flat. His body goes through the motions, each activity paired so he completes them like closing a circuit.

Then he’s stripping to his briefs in his bedroom and settling under the covers. His phone is charging on the bureau, out of reach so he’s not tempted to scroll listlessly for hours and so he has to get up when the morning alarm sounds. Otherwise he will snooze the entire day away, chasing nine more minutes of a peaceful mind.

He gets comfortable on his side, arms propped just so around his spare pillow. He does his breathing exercises his former therapist taught him, trying to get himself in that zone where sleep can slip over him effortlessly. He’s almost there…

🍃✨❤️

Sometime around 60 years ago, our dream-loading system was upgraded to be state-of-the-art. Pneumatic tubes that run from office to office at what seemed like unimaginable speeds. These days, they are bumbling artifacts that have yet to catch up with the speed of a current electronic system.

What this means is that my finalised dream must then be printed out, rolled up, and carefully stuffed into a tube. The destination soul-number must be typed into a keypad, dream logged, signed and stamped by the sender, and then sent out into the mortal realm.

There is an order to these things. A finesse if you will, and I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but I am good at it. Toot-toot. Now, it does require a level of patience but there is something almost meditative about the rolling of each page, and placement within the tube, and knowing that this is it and yet another file can be stamped and completed.

My afternoon should be free. Maybe I can check out that mobile game that Nick was playing the other day…

🍃✨❤️

One moment from going under, Nick’s traitorous brain flickers like a dying candle. The memory of a recent terse exchange with the headteacher plays out in the span of a single second and Nick feels a wave of adrenaline wash down his back. He sighs as his thoughts rev their engines and then tear around the track of his skull.

It’s going to be a long night.

🍃✨❤️

I wait around a bit to watch the sign switch from “waiting” to “dream loaded”. I don’t want anyone to accuse me of not being careful with my job. Everything seems to be right on schedule, when suddenly I hear the long glass tubes shake, and see my carefully-packed capsule come flying back towards me, and before I can blink, it flies out of the delivery shoot, smacking me right in the head.

Wait… What?! I feel both dazed and furious, much like when Loki borrowed my feather cape so Thor could pretend to be me and marry that frost giant. If those bumbling fools are sneaking around here to mess with me again, I’ll carve their spleens out with a rostig sked!

Reaching up to the sore spot, I detect a bump rising on the side of my temple. It takes me a minute to catch up to what just happened. I look around and on the floor the capsule is cracked open, and my carefully planned and packed dream pages have unrolled and are flying around in the breeze emanating from the end of the pneumatic tubes.

I pinch my nose before gathering them up. Nick will have to wait for this particular kick in the pants. I need a break.