#» character study — ⌜a burning fire and a violent tongue.⌟

[obsidianas]

nalice had one (1) daughter which is certainly not common for her kind but thinking about it, she probably somewhat actively refused motherhood before that. she wouldn't want to be a broodmother and have a bunch of children meant to die on the dozens and for who she wasn't supposed to care. and maybe deep down that shows how she was raised did leave some scars and regardless of how much she may idolize onyxia for a good portion of her life there are things she resents though I don't think that's conscious. I don't think she ever thought 'wow I hate how my mother was as a mother and I never want to be anything remotely similar' but there's still the visceral opposition to fulfilling that sort of role where it'd be expected of her to be just the same. it's simply not for her is how she'd justify but it is something else. and then with the one child she has... that is a choice. that is with someone who loves her. it is inherently rebellious when she's not supposed to care for the man she ends up loving, when this goes against so much of what her flight is and what nalice was raised to be like. even family is meant to be disposable. but she never managed that part, truth be told; it's obvious in the reverence she shows her mother and grandfather, in her attachment to her brother and the hurt when he disappears. she always made the exception for family, and then she did it again for the family she chose to have rather than the one tied to her from birth.

[claymoresword]

I Choose Her | Chp: 18

Hermione Granger x Slytherin Fem!Reader

Summary: You are the daughter of two known death eaters from one of the oldest and richest families in the wizarding world. Are you truly prepared to give up everything you know for Hermione Granger?

Pairing: Hermione x Reader

Wordcount: 4.9k

Warnings: smut, cunnilingus, g!p elements, fluff, mentions of gore and death, y/n & draco , atp it's y/n and hermione against the world

Note: hi! sorry this one took literal ages, I hope y'all can forgive me.. Initially I thought I'd be able to wrap this story up with 1 more chapter but I think rn it's looking like 2 more atleast lol

anyway this part pretty much kicks off with smut so be warned, I feel like I've written so many at this point I just hope it's not stale and still enjoyable to read, feel free to let me know what you think! <3 love you all and I will try my best to get the next part out asap

Taglist: @gvrsto @aweidlich @xxsekhmet @arielj @poppyflower-22 @scarleigh1989 @smut-religiously777 @cocoyeehaw @blackbirdv98 @arcturusseer @iamcapitalgbicorn8287 @lonewalker17 @karasonromanoff @httphayn @bigbadsofty07 @cherryflavoredcoke @dumpsapphic @idontwannabehereatm @js-a-writer @baylegend6 @puta1 @t-wylia @raven-ss @unexpected-character

Hermione unzips your slacks, tugging them down till they pool at your feet. By the time you kick them off, her hands are already roaming your frame, graceful and determined fingers disappearing into your hair as her tongue invades your mouth.

Your girlfriend kisses you with such fervent hunger, any feelings of apprehension on your end rapidly dissipate. 

Her hands continue their mission to undress you, and before you realize it, she has undone the buttons on your shirt, tugging the fabric off your frame. 

Hermione continues to be driven by careless want, her mouth finds your collarbone, and then the swell of your breast. Her palm gliding across your bare torso makes you shiver in anticipation.

“Hermione–” You try as she pulls away for an instant, but your chest tightens the moment your eyes meet.

She is eyeing you like a caged beast– as if you are her last meal on earth, and she plans to devour you whole.

You can see how violently her chest heaved with every ragged breath she took, her stare glazed over with arousal, it made you ache.

This can't be the last time. It shouldn't be.. but that wasn't up to either of you.

Her fingers find the back of your head once more, this time her grip is frantic– your breaths continue to mingle as she cleaves to you, coaxing you to kiss her again, to take her.

“I want you, please.” Hermione pleads, and you can't help but smirk, attentive eyes studying her features, traces of true desperation painted across them. 

Your girlfriend, now reduced to a creature of want and desire and you are the only being on earth that will ever hope to satiate her.

Hermione appreciates the way your hand halts at her rear, giving her ass a wanton squeeze.

Your bodies now flush against each other, your bare skin feels like fire against hers– Hermione would gladly burn to ash if it means you will continue to touch her.

“You have me..” Your assurance is sealed with a passionate kiss, pulling a whimper out of your girlfriend.

Hermione's lips move against your own, hard and eager, she tugs you down onto the floor with her by the nape of your neck.

Her legs immediately curl around your waist, and you can't help the feeling that sets over you. You were intoxicated, completely enchanted by Hermione, even from the simplest of gestures.

This can't be the last time.

Hermione gasps as you trail open mouthed kisses down her neck, a familiar liquid heat settles in between her legs as your mouth reaches her breasts.

You kiss her nipple over the fabric of her bra, and she arches her back reflexively to feel more of you.

She leaves room for you to reach around so you may unclasp the undergarment, discarding it to the side with practiced ease.

Hermione captures your lips with her own once more, as if it were a form of sustenance, as if she would lose herself if she did not steal every opportunity to kiss you.

As both of your lungs clamour for air, you pull away, once again your warm mouth finds even hotter flesh, and your intentions are shameless, you begin to bite and suck, leaving deep purple bruises in your wake.

You were only just getting started with her, and Hermione is already a panting, writhing mess. Her breathless moans are music to your ears. 

You proceed to suck on her nipple, hard, and merely revel at the feeling of her fingers tightening in your hair, the way she trembles helplessly underneath you.

Soon your tongue finds her navel, and it is a welcomed sensation, you nip at it lightly this time, Hermione squirms. “Y/n..” The sweet and perilous way she utters your name gives you no room to think.

You loop your fingers underneath the hem of her underwear, tugging them down, she lifts her hips dutifully, allowing you to take them off.

You look up at Hermione in the process, her stare is bright and demure, it fills you with pride. Your girlfriend remains to be the most comely specimen you have ever set eyes on. 

**

Then, Hermione impatiently grips a fistful of your hair, as you inch closer to her weeping center you catch sight of it, swollen and glistening, you can smell her arousal, and it makes your mouth water.

Practically dizzy with want, you just about maintain some semblance of composure, leaning in to plant an experimental kiss against her folds. 

Hermione whimpers at the feeling, the sight of you licking her arousal off your lips nearly tips her over the edge. She groans, but she does nothing else to rush you.

You find her compliance addictive, always as enticing as ever.

Finally, your open mouth makes contact with her sex, the sudden nature of it rips a cry out of Hermione.

Your tongue moves with bold strokes, you suck and kiss her repeatedly– however restless and greedy, it causes Hermione's legs to shake ever so slightly.

Her moans echo throughout the vast and vacant chambers, your girlfriend's fist tightens around your hair to the point of pain, and you make no plans to stop.

You shift your attention to her bundle of nerves, sucking, albeit slightly more tenderly as you bring a finger up to her entrance, prodding at it for a moment before pushing it inside, until you are knuckle deep.

And that does it– Hermione chokes out another loud moan, her body responding to you before her conscious mind can even catch up. She gasps despairingly as her climax washes over her. 

Her grip on your hair finally loosens, and you pull your mouth away, soon your face is hovering over hers. 

Slipping a hand underneath her neck, you hold her as she trembles, you observe as she attempts to catch her breath. 

Your other hand doesn't move from in between her legs, a finger still inside of her, you can feel her cunt squeezing at it indecently.

Hermione's warm brown eyes still darkened with arousal as she gazed up at you.

“That was the quickest one yet.” You quip, but Hermione doesn't respond to your smug remark, instead meeting your lips with her own with real anguish.

She wants more, much more, you can feel it.

You retract your finger from her sex slightly, only to re enter with another. Hermione's whine slips past her lips directly into your own. 

You pull your face away so you may look at her– watching her expression contort as you proceed to curl your digits inside of her.

Your girlfriend's hand flies to your bicep, her nails digging into your flesh.

Hermione mewls and whimpers pathetically with every tantalizing pump of your fingers, she begins grinding her hips against it, wordlessly urging you to move faster, but you don't comply, not yet. 

“Tell me what you want, sweet girl.” You coax, and even after an orgasm, your girlfriend still appears as though she is on the verge of tears.

“Please..” Her voice trembles. You continue to slowly pump in and out of her, Hermione is so wet she is dripping down your hand.

“What do you need, tell me.” Your lips graze the shell of her ear, you kiss it knowing how it would only weaken her further.

“I need you to fuck me.” Hermione finally says, she is still gripping your bicep, her words are driven by her frustration, and they were exactly what you wanted to hear.

You are incapable of containing your grin then, soon rewarding her with a deep kiss. A moment passes before you pull away, retracting your fingers from her core entirely in the process.

Hermione's breath catches in her throat, a flicker of panic as she watches you move off her.

“Let me fetch my wand.” You quickly explain, and she releases your arm before nodding, she consents to your idea.

You rummage through your clothes that are strewn on the damp stone floor, fishing out your wand from your jacket.

*

You can feel Hermione's eyes on you, observing as you removed your underwear. A familiar sensation overcomes you as you waved your wand over your pelvic area.

When you turn to look at your girlfriend once more, Hermione has propped herself up on her elbows. No doubt she has been watching you intently, her gaze soon falls to the length in between your legs and you take notice of the way her chest is heaving uncontrollably.

The look of near primal hunger she wore unabashedly across her face was enough to drive you to the brink of madness, you needed to take her now.

You settle yourself on top of her once more, and Hermione kisses you again, haphazard and familiar, she wraps her leg around your waist, and you quickly decide there is no more easing into it. You grab the base of your shaft, lining up the tip of it to her entrance.

Hermione is forced to separate her mouth from your own as she nearly falls apart, her head thrown back in pure ecstasy when you enter her– immediately setting a rhythm with your hips.

She gasps with every thrust, your cock hitting every inch of her in a way that never fails to make her see stars. 

Your own noises of pleasure are muffled against the crook of her neck, her grip on your back never falters as she holds you as close as she possibly could.

Hermione's cunt flutters against your girth, a sign that she was already approaching her peak, tightening around you with every stroke. 

You were drunk on the feeling, her eagerness to feel you, to take her pleasure from you. She felt so warm and wet, her walls molded around your cock as if it was made for you.

You are fucking her mercilessly, selfish and without reserve. It is perfect. It is exactly what she asked for.

“I love you– so much.” Hermione's admittance sounds closer to a whimper, so helpless and meek, it makes you groan.

“I love you.” You respond in between thrusts, her nails are digging into your back, it makes you wince but it also makes you move harder.

You continue rutting into her, wild and unchecked, until finally she comes undone once more, she cries out from the force of her peak, her walls clenching around you so tight that you are forced to halt as your own orgasm hits you.

It comes on so intense that you can just barely hold yourself up, Hermione welcomes you to rest some of your weight against herself.

“Fucking hell–” You curse breathlessly after a prolonged silence, and Hermione's chuckles in response.

You lift your head to meet her gaze, expecting your girlfriend to appear at least a bit satiated, but the glint in her eye suggests otherwise.

She looks starved, needy, and so damned captivating.

Hermione threads her fingers through your hair, guiding your face to her own by the back of your head. 

You attempt to bring your mouth closer, expecting a kiss, but instead, she takes your bottom lip in between her teeth, tugging on it hard enough to make you hiss in pain.

She only stops to glide her tongue across it soothingly, before dipping into your mouth. 

You moan at the sudden chain of motions, eagerly massaging your own tongue against hers. Hermione doesn't let you pull away until you were both gasping into each other's mouths.

“I want to go again.” She declares, and you stare at her in astonishment and delight, you tenderly swipe the pad of your thumb across her cheek.

“Let us keep going forever.” You reply, and you meant it. You desire nothing more than to remain in this chamber with Hermione, just the two of you, like this, for all eternity.

It is unrealistic, foolish, there is only a short time left until you are inevitably forced to face reality, but neither of you wish to focus on that right now.

You plant a quick peck on her forehead, thrusting your hips forward playfully, Hermione's giggle rapidly morphs into a light moan as you move inside of her.

“Get on top.” You commanded, albeit without allowing her a moment to decide if she wanted to abide. 

With a hand on the small of Hermione's back, you flip your positions with ease, your length still sheathed inside your girlfriend as she settles on your lap.

Hermione is now straddling you, and she doesn't require any further direction. Her hand rests against your chest in between your breasts as she starts to grind her hips.

You bite back a moan as your cock moves in and out of her at a delicious pace. You savor the feeling, allowing Hermione to set her own rhythm, however quick or slow she wishes to take you.

Your hand moves from the other woman's waist up to her breast, kneading in accordance with her movements.

Hermione's mouth falls agape, a sharp moan escapes her as you pinched her hardened nipple in between your fingers, tempted to feel them in your mouth once more.

She lifts herself up until only the tip of your shaft is inside before sinking down once more. Hermione does so repeatedly, chasing the feeling of your cock stretching her out, over and over. 

Her moans only increase in volume the quicker she moves against your lap. Your own breathing picks up as you watch her, utterly captivated.

“You are so beautiful..” You manage to choke out, and a faint smile covers Hermione's features as she glances at you, her movements becoming more confident and unabashed.

She guides your hand that was once on her breast up to her lips, she skillfully guides your thumb into her mouth with her tongue. As she sucked on it with purpose, you can't help the guttural noise that leaves you. Your own arousal heightens considerably due to Hermione's valiant actions.

Soon she removes your thumb from her mouth, now coated in her saliva, she guides it further south towards her clit, and you need no further instruction. 

You expertly rub at the sensitive nub, and Hermione arches her back, she allows the pleasure she feels to overtake her. Eventually letting go of your hand to brace herself against your chest once more.

All you can focus on is her deafening sounds of pleasure, and the sensation of her clenching purposefully around your cock, urging you to reach your peak with her.

Hermione sinks down onto your length once, lifting herself up before doing it again, and then she halts, crying out as her entire body tenses and trembles uncontrollably, you feel her walls fluttering helplessly around your girth, sucking you in even further. 

Your girlfriend soon collapses onto you, the bottom half of her body no longer capable of supporting her own weight. Your moans of pleasure blended together as you reached your own climax. 

You feel the rapid beating of her heart against your pounding chest as she lays on top of you. You could scarcely tell where Hermione ended and you began.

**

═══════════════════════════════════════════

Now, you and Hermione are clothed once more, but neither of you are particularly eager to face whatever might be going on outside the chamber.

The ground shakes again, Hermione clutches your forearm as you both attempt to maintain your balance. 

You recognize the sound of curses bouncing off and destroying the walls and structures above ground. The screams of pure terror that permeates suggest those curses might be bouncing off people too. 

No doubt, in your fleeting absence, things have only gone from bad to worse.

You want to flee, to take Hermione far away from Hogwarts and hide, but you know that isn't an option. If the Dark Lord wins the battle here today, there is no hiding.

Hermione tugs on your arm as you take a step forward, deliberately preventing you from moving any further. You shift your glance towards her, and the look on her face shatters you.

She doesn't say anything at first, merely throwing herself in your arms. For a while you held her tightly, glad of any diversion at this point. 

“I won't be able to carry on without you.” Hermione mutters against your shoulder.

Her words were blunt and conclusive, and yet so helpless, it made you want to weep. You couldn't imagine your life without her either.

“I know.” You respond soberly.

“But we can't stay down here. Harry needs our help.” You add, and at the mention of her best friend, Hermione seemed to gain her bearings, she pulls away, ending the hug.

Her stare is distant, you can tell she was deep in thought by the way her nose scrunched slightly as she chewed on the inside of her cheek– it made you smile.

“If we survive long enough to kill the remaining Horcruxes, we might stand a chance.” She states, with newfound determination.

You nod in agreement. “We have to try.”

Finally, she gazes at you, and just like that, her resolve falters. You felt compelled to grant her a knowing look before placing a lingering kiss on her forehead. 

“Come on.” You say, tugging on her arm to lead her out of the chamber. No longer allowing either of you a chance to dither any further.

═══════════════════════════════════════════

By the time you leave the Chamber Of Secrets, things are far worse than you could have imagined. 

The Death Eaters have infiltrated the castle, attacking from every which way. The air was engulfed in noises of various curses being thrown, structures being destroyed and people screaming.

Voldermort's followers have somehow managed to get through the protective barrier, and they are relentlessly attacking students and professors alike, no one is safe.

-

You catch a cloaked figure disapparating into sight just right above you. A knee jerk reaction urges you to extend your wand arm.

“Reducto!” Your careless move pays off as you deflect the Death Eater's curse. The now dead man, propels backwards into a group of students. 

The force of your spell blew him to chunks, the sight of it causes the students to recoil, a few of them putting hands over their mouths, trying not to wretch.

It all works to unerve you as well, but the feeling of Hermione grabbing you urges you to stay alert.

Your girlfriend guides you to a fairly secluded area, the west wing of the castle. The ambiance is a stark contrast to the main hall, but the distant sounds of battle continues to leave you on edge.

Hermione pulls out the Marauder's Map once more, hoping luck will be on your side this time.

Still, you find no sign of Harry or Ron.

“Bloody hell, we'll never find them on that.” You remark in frustration, but not a moment later, Harry’s name finally appears upon the parchment.

“There they are, just there.” Hermione points to the spot on the paper, but just as she does, her friend's name disappears into the page once more.

“They just vanished. Just now, I saw it.” Hermione gapes, and you remain silent, the both of you trying to make sense of it. 

Perhaps the map was faulty, but that doesn't make much sense considering how well it has worked before– Your mind reels, another beat passes, and then it hits you.

“Wait, maybe they've gone to the Room Of Requirement. It doesn't show up on the map, does it?” You suggest, and Hermione's eyes widen.

“That's right.” She says, then she is silent, as if thrown off balance, and you realize you have to take the reins this time.

“Let's go.” You grab her hand, leading the way this time, towards the astronomy wing.

═══════════════════════════════════════════

You overhear a bit of commotion as you enter the room, Hermione lifts a finger up to her lips, gesturing that you stand back for a moment to listen, and you give her a curt nod in compliance.

“You have something of mine, I'd like it back.”

“What's wrong with the wand you have?”

You immediately recognize Harry's voice, as well as Draco's. It makes your heart sink to your stomach, he is still alive. 

You have to see him.

You step forward past Hermione, and as expected she attempts to stop you. 

“Y/n, wait.” She scolds in a hushed tone, but you advance anyway. Hermione now has no choice but to follow closely behind.

“Draco.” You call out to him, making yourself known. You then notice that he was not there alone, Goyle and Blaise stood on either side of him.

Harry and Ron whipped around at the sound of your voice, a look of what seems like relief upon their faces.

Your best friend on the other hand appears stunned, he only glances between you and Hermione.

Although you couldn't quite make out his expression, whether it was fear or guilt, the sight of you manages to pacify him well enough as he starts to lower his wand, but Goyle had other plans.

Goyle retracts his arm in preparation to attack, but your girlfriend reacts quickly. 

“Expelliarmus!”

She doesn't manage to disarm the man, instead only provoking Goyle to re direct his wrath towards her.

In a fit of rage he throws another curse. “Avada Kedavra!” He shouts.

A flash of green appears, and your heart stops.

“Stupefy!” Hermione narrowly avoids the killing curse, and pure unfiltered dread overcomes you. 

Your girlfriend could have easily just been killed at the hands of someone you once called a friend.

This realization acted like a jolt to your system, igniting a patent fury within you.

It shows clear on your face as you advance forward, Goyle flinches, lowering his wand.

Blaise and Draco are first to remove themselves from the scene, disappearing in the opposite direction.

“Look, mate– I didn't mean–” He starts, but as you take another step, the man panics, turning around to bolt out of sight. 

Without a moment's thought you sprint after him, clutching your wand so tight that your knuckles begin to turn a shade paler.

“Goyle!” You shout, turning a corner, but he was nowhere to be found.

This only aided in infuriating you further.

“Don't hide from me, you fucking coward!” Your taunt proves effective, as a curse catapults your way.

In the throes of your rage, you manage to deflect it with ease. Goyle emerges from behind the large pile of discarded furniture, Draco and Blaise behind him.

“Crucio!” You shout without hesitation, the curse misses him by an inch.

Goyle's expression twists, but he doesn't attempt to strike back.

“Y/n!” “Come on, we've got the diadem.” Hermione's voice remains distant as you focus your attention on Golye.

“Sectumsempra!” You throw the curse, and then another immediately after. He deflects them one by one, but you are so relentless in your efforts that amidst the struggle, he inevitably loses his balance, landing on the ground.

You had a clear shot of him now, you extend your arm, but before you can decide which curse to torment him with, Hermione grabs you by the shoulder, forcefully turning you around.

“Stop, enough!” “Look at me.” She places a firm hand on your jaw, urging you to look upon her properly.

“I'm unhurt.” She reminds you, her tone now far more gentle as she wishes for her words to sink in.

“Please, we need to focus, y/n.” Hermione adds. Then, you avert your gaze, almost ashamed. 

Hermione was right, now was hardly the time to allow your temper to guide you, hurting Goyle can't be your priority.

“Come.” She coaxes, intertwining your fingers, but before you can walk with her, you hear a scoff. 

You turn to find no trace of Draco or Goyle, but Blaise remains standing, scowling at the pair of you in disgust.

“Pathetic.” He remarks, scornfully.

“I can hardly believe I ever considered you a friend.. you spineless fool.” Blaise hisses, staring directly at you. 

You felt as though your insides were burning with the force of your anger, your jaw tightens.

Hermione only sighs, she clutches your hand tightly.

“Y/n please. Just leave it.” She begs, and a more sensible part of you hears her, deciding to be the bigger person, you turn around once more to take your leave with her.

“I should have killed your mudblood pet when I had the chance.” Blaise revolts in order to tempt a reaction out of you, and he succeeds.

You whisk around with the intention to fight back but before you can do anything, Blaise has his wand pointed directly at you.

“Fiendfyre.” He recites, and a steady stream of blazing heat flows out of his wand, engulfing the atmosphere.

“Aguamenti!” Hermione rapidly waves her wand, and a barricade of water prevents the two of you from being burnt alive, you can only observe as Blaise flees the scene.

Hermione holds the barrier for a long while but the fire doesn't let up, instead it only grows bigger and hotter.

“We have to run, I can't hold it much longer.” Your girlfriend's voice is strained, and you can only nod in acknowledgement as you prepared to run with her in the opposite direction.

The large sentient flame chases you through the room, twisting and morphing into different variations of beasts. 

This was a curse you had never seen casted before, one you didn't understand how to subdue, and from the looks of it, neither did Hermione.

“Run!” You shout as you approach Harry and Ron, but it is too late. Fire has surrounded you on all sides. The room was going up in flames at a rapid pace, and you were bound to burn with it if you didn't act fast.

A bead of sweat rolls down your forehead, the sweltering heat making it difficult for you to think. But then, by a miracle, Ron stumbles upon a solution you were seeking. 

He tosses the discarded pile of brooms onto the ground, enough for each of the boys and one for you and Hermione to share.

“Come on, this way!”

As you took flight, your girlfriend clutched onto you tightly, at one point even burying her face into your shoulder.

You couldn't tell if it was the prospect of flying that frightened her, or the mere possibility of plummeting to your death into a sea of flames. 

Either way, you were terrified too.

“The doors!” Harry shouts as you approached the exit, and Hermione takes the initiative to force them open with her wand.

The four of you manage to escape the fire, stumbling out the room simultaneously.

Harry ungraciously sets Ravenclaw's diadem onto the ground. You manage to retrieve the Basilisk fang from your pocket, chucking it to him.

With one large motion, the chosen one stabs the Horcrux with the tooth, it flings up into the air violently, a screeching noise erupts, piercing and unsettling as it wailed in pain.

Harry kicks away the object mid air, and it flies into the Room Of Requirement, engulfed by the flames.

It is over– that is until the fire starts to take the shape of Lord Voldermort, three headed and angry, it charges towards all of you, but before it can cause any of you real damage, it is mercifully barred by the doors, the Room Of Requirement once again disappearing into the walls, as if it never existed at all.

You share a look of relief with Hermione, but it is shortlived at the sight of Harry suddenly collapsing onto the ground.

The man grimaces in pain, and you deduce that the Dark Lord must have sensed that yet another Horcrux had been destroyed, another part of his soul, gone.

By the time Harry opens his eyes to look up at the three of you, his chest is heaving violently, he speaks through heavy breaths. 

“It's the snake– she's the last one. It's the last Horcrux.” Harry states, confirming your suspicions.

But then you pause, searching your memory, you think back to all those you have destroyed. Nagini being another part of the Dark Lord's soul made complete sense, but to your knowledge, Voldermort had split his soul into seven pieces, and you've only destroyed five Horcruxes so far. 

There is one more you have yet to locate. 

You glance at Hermione, and her brows were furrowed in similar confusion. Half a beat passes, and her expression shifts in accordance to your own, the realization graces the both of you at the same time, but neither of you dared to speak it aloud.

Harry was the final Horcrux.

Ron kneels next to his friend, a reaffirming hand on his shoulder. “Look inside him, Harry.”

"Find out where he is. If we find him, we can find the snake.” Ron suggests the perilous tactic, but Harry does as he is asked, you need to take every risk right now if you hoped to have any chance at defeating the Dark Lord.

His face twists in pain once more, Harry doesn't speak, his eyes clenched shut. 

Soon, a worried Hermione kneels by him as well.

After several moments of tense anticipation, Harry gasps, as if it pained him every time his lungs fill with air, his eyes fly open before he speaks. 

“I know where he is.” He croaks.

[t3lltaleheart]

Analysis of the opening section of the lifted veil by George eliot

Section: page 1

"The time of my end approaches. I have lately been subject to attacks of angina pectoris; and in the ordinary course of things, my physician tells me, I may fairly hope that my life will not be protracted many months. Unless, then, I am cursed with an exceptional physical constitution, as I am cursed with an exceptional mental character, I shall not much longer groan under the wearisome burthen of this earthly existence. If it were to be otherwise—if I were to live on to the age most men desire and provide for—I should for once have known whether the miseries of delusive expectation can outweigh the miseries of true prevision. For I foresee when I shall die, and everything that will happen in my last moments. Just a month from this day, on September 20, 1850, I shall be sitting in this chair, in this study, at ten o’clock at night, longing to die, weary of incessant insight and foresight, without delusions and without hope. Just as I am watching a tongue of blue flame rising in the fire, and my lamp is burning low, the horrible contraction will begin at my chest. I shall only have time to reach the bell, and pull it violently, before the sense of suffocation will come. No one will answer my bell. I know why. My two servants are lovers, and will have quarrelled. My housekeeper will have rushed out of the house in a fury, two hours before, hoping that Perry will believe she has gone to drown herself. Perry is alarmed at last, and is gone out after her. The little scullery-maid is asleep on a bench: she never answers the bell; it does not wake her. The sense of suffocation increases: my lamp goes out with a horrible stench: I make a great effort, and snatch at the bell again. I long for life, and there is no help. I thirsted for the unknown: the thirst is gone. O God, let me stay with the known, and be weary of it: I am content. Agony of pain and suffocation—and all the while the earth, the fields, the pebbly brook at the bottom of the rookery, the fresh scent after the rain, the light of the morning through my chamber window, the warmth of the hearth after the frosty air—will darkness close over them for ever? Darkness—darkness—no pain—nothing but darkness: but I am passing on and on through the darkness: my thought stays in the darkness, but always with a sense of moving onward . . ."

Analysis:

This story starts off with a man talking about dying. He states that he's had bouts of severe chest pain. He states that he has hope that his life may not be drawn out for months to come; after which he says he hopes his physical constitution isn't as great as his mental character. He says life is bothersome and miserable and he doesn't wish to be here anymore anyway.

The second paragraph states that he is sitting in his chair a month after his chest pain experience watching the fire and still longing for death. He then suffers another heart attack only for no one to come to his aid when he rings for help. His two lovers squabbling amongst themselves when they try to go help him and the maid being gone already.

The rest of this section describes dying from a heart attack and suffocating. He describes dying alone in his study with no one around him. This sounds like more that he's looking forward to this happening and that he really just wants to die and get the suffering over with.

[our-flag-means-death-ao3feed]

the lighthouse in the middle of the deep end

by MajimasMadness

There was a fire crackling beneath Ed's skin, burning and spitting with every move he made. He could feel the acidic prickle beneath the surface, tongues of flame licking up and transforming into thick tendrils. It was a sick kind of metamorphosis, from tiny snags and irritations to fully awakening the age-old rage that he was capable of. He hadn't felt like this for years, the violent fury that bubbled in his chest and constricted his lungs with painful tentacles. He closed his eyes to try and force it down, stifling these feelings. But there was no undoing this.

The Kraken was stirring.

Ed's only thought other than the rising tide of fury was of Stede. How Stede was so gentle, and so good, and he categorically could not be exposed to the monster Ed could become.

But there are few places to hide on a ship, a mid-sized galley at that, and Ed was running out of options. Short of launching himself off the side of the boat and into the briny depths of the ocean, there was little that could be done to stymie the onslaught that was coming.

Or: Stede knows Ed better than Ed thinks.

Words: 6408, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Our Flag Means Death (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: M/M

Characters: Stede Bonnet, Blackbeard | Edward Teach

Relationships: Blackbeard | Edward Teach/Stede Bonnet

Additional Tags: Implied Ed/Izzy, Smut, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Top Stede Bonnet, Hurt/Comfort, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Sensory Deprivation, Blindfolds, Restraints, is it healing sex if it exorcises a part of you that you learned to need?, asking for a friend, Stede Bonnet is Good at Sex, Established Relationship, character study of sorts, Getting inside Ed's head and talking about the Kraken, when I started writing this I referred to it as my magnum opus of porn so, if you enjoy filth you'll enjoy this, Stede gets shot and Ed is mad about it

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/45158683

[warwaged-archive]

how would nalice look upon a recreation of the black dragon flight (assuming, of course, this was possible indeed). what would alexstrasza's opinion be?

QUESTIONS ABOUT THE MUSES // always accepting!!

It’s everything she wants, honestly. Even if/when she’s corruption-free there are things about her that just... won’t change anymore, possibly. With a clear mind, she might start to see some of her flights mistakes, but certainly not all of them, and far from it being enough that her primary goal would shift to something else entirely. 

Following Deathwing’s defeat and her own near death and her flight being almost entirely wiped out of existence, Nalice has a lengthy period of not really knowing what to do because in all of her thousands of years of life, she has been directly and indirectly working to further the Black Dragonflight’s interests --- not even the Old Gods, necessarily, though they certainly profited of it. Her life’s work was all to see something that at this point is unlikely to come to pass: the Black Dragonflight ruling undisputed. And if being the supreme rulers of the world is not happening when the black dragon population in Azeroth can probably be counted on one hand, I think she’s still too invested on her flight to change her goals to something else entirely.

It would make sense, then, that having some more clarity of mind and no longer having her survival as a constant worry (well, not as she had in the time following the assassination attempt, at least, but she’s always a bit paranoid in that regard after having to run away and/or fight for survival for such a great part of her life), her new goal would be in fact to find some way to reestablish her flight instead of just letting it die. How I don’t know, given they are so few, but she probably wouldn’t have many qualms about it either (though if at least somewhat cleansed of corruption, I do believe she would not want her revived flight to be similarly tainted, and would keep from that as much as possible --- she wants dragons to be their own masters, not to serve the void). 

Given her affinity towards research in general and arcane magic in particular, she might seek magical means to aid in that where possible. She might also do some digging to find any blacks still in hiding and who knows, maybe she can eventually learn Sabellian is still chilling in Outland or something aksjndfkjasndfkjnsfdjk

But yes, she’d look upon recreating the black dragonflight as a very desirable goal to achieve. Her first loyalty has always been to her flight, and in her own twisted way her strongest bonds have been to her family for better or worse (probably worse when your mother is Onyxia but). It’s each one for themselves to survive and succeed, of course, but there is still a bond to those she considers her kin, perhaps because even those few twisted bonds she had to family were really the only bonds she formed at all, given the other flights already regarded them as enemies when she was born, and their relationship with mortals was equally bad. 

Alexstrasza actively sought to have the Black Dragonflight restored --- but free of corruption also, and that was in fact the first focus of her effort to try to help them recover. She sent the reds out to look for ways to succeed in cleansing the corruption from the Blacks, which is in fact how Wrathion came to be, when one of those looking for ways to create an uncorrupted egg went way too far with what she was doing. 

Alex certainly has a lot of conditions to what she thinks it’d be acceptable, on top of them being free of corruption; if the means to achieve it are cruel as it was in Wrathion’s case, she will not approve of it (which is why Wrathion was the only one created in such way, too, because even if ultimately Rhea created an uncorrupted egg, to do so she did a lot of shit Alexstrasza only learned of later, but clearly refused to let anyone else repeat). If it hurts or endangers anyone, it’s sad but it’s a no from her. 

But her opinion on the Black Dragonflight being restored is (probably contrary to the most prevalent opinion) very favorable. She’d rejoice to see the Blacks thrive again, as they once did, before Neltharion fell. If she could help that happen, she likely would. But that’s all assuming they’re restored in some way that makes them closer to what they originally were, under Neltharion, than what they more recently were, under Deathwing.

Because just restoring them closer to the later is a nightmare and she has dealt with that shit for too long aksjdnkjnfkjdsfn Alex doesn’t hate them, and I think in great part she doesn’t even blame them for all the evil they may have done, rather blaming N’Zoth, but that doesn’t mean she can afford to just let them be or that she’d want to do that given how much destruction and death could come from that. Her heart is always heavy to fight them, even if it’s necessary; and if they were restored like that, her opinion would be drastically different --- death is kinder than what they were twisted into becoming, and their flight not existing anymore better than existing like that.

Still, she never entirely loses hope about one day restoring the Black Dragonflight. They were important defenders of Azeroth (and Azeroth is always in need of defenders), like all dragons were, and to some extension I can also see this as something she wishes to achieve to honor who Neltharion truly was.

[warwaged-moved]

in ffxiv verse:

nalice was born after ratatoskr’s death. she never knew a time of peaceful coexistence between man and dragon, and she grew up seeing humans as enemies.

in wow verse, she’s onyxia’s daughter, but in ffxiv I think daughter from one of nidhogg’s children suffices aksdjnfksnf

she fights for his horde, and does not agree to peace. after the dragonsong war ends, nalice is left without a purpose or somewhere she belongs.

99% of the time I write her she’s in her humanoid form, so I want to say she can shapeshift in this verse too. but she’d probably shapeshift into an au ra instead of a human, although an unusually tall one for a female.

wandering the world trying to find a purpose? maybe? idk

and also because I just really want to get to write her and dragons are versatile

in league verse:

she’s the daughter of an earth elemental dragon mom. maybe her dad is kadregrin. in this verse she’s also a little hater of humans 💁‍♀️

she’s not that old (for a dragon. she’s older than any human, but by dragon standards? young. a baby. ok maybe not baby but like, young!)

her purpose is to be chaotic. she’s not about to fly into a mortal kingdom destroying everything with brute force as much as she’s likely to pretend to be human and try to turn humans against each other from the inside. 

therefore, I maintain she’s a shapeshifter and her appearance is the same as wow. she’s not a human-dragon hybrid like shyvana, and she holds no sympathy for shyv. she’s just a mean little dragon that sometimes pretends to be a human through magic to cause chaos. 

she’s not... inherently evil, really, more so raised in a way that fostered hatred for mortals and learning to see them as enemies since they were never friendly towards her either, even when she was young and (mostly) harmless. 

in all verses, she has a twin/clutch brother, serinar, who she’s particularly close to. they learned to survive by having each other’s backs, and it’s how it’s always been --- until her brother disappeared. whether he left, died or something else is left open ended, and finding him will always be one of nalice’s goals

[foli-vora]

more than words, pt.4

A/N: Hello, angels! I hope you’re all safe and healthy! Next instalment is here, and I’m very excited for what’s coming. I really enjoyed writing this chapter so I hope you enjoy, too! Love to you all! (I hope I haven’t forgotten to tag anyone but if I did, I’m really sorry!)

Pairing: Francisco ‘Catfish’ Morales x f!reader, best friend!Benny Miller x f!reader

Word count: 4.1k

Warnings: SO MUCH FLUFF, swearing, brief alcohol mention, bit of spice (reminder: this fic is 18+), Frankie being the tease he is

pt.1 / pt.2 / pt.3 / pt.5 / pt.6

+

Your lips were still tingling when you woke the next morning, eyes fluttering open and a smile creeping onto your face as the events from last night replay through your mind for the millionth time. Frankie had been on your mind the entire drive home, the tenderness of his first kiss kicking your heart into double time, and the pure unrestrained passion of the kiss that followed hitting a far lot lower.

Was it possible for a first date to go as well as it did? There wasn’t a single moment in your time spent with Frankie that had you unsure about his character or intentions.

Benny had actually done it. He had found you a guy you really liked. Is Hell freezing over?

You reach for your phone as you slip from bed, stretching leisurely as you make your way to the kitchen, and finding Benny’s contact before pressing ‘call’. It takes a few rings, until his drawl finally greets you through the phone.

“Did you puke?” is his immediate answer and you roll your eyes, tucking the phone between your ear and shoulder as you putter around your kitchen putting some breakfast together.

“No, you asshole.”

He laughs. “He’s that whipped, he’d probably thank you.”

What? What does that mean? Has Frankie spoken to Benny? Did he talk about last night? What did he say? Did he think it went as well as you did? Shit. Calm down. You try to steady your suddenly quickening pulse, a pleasant flutter consuming your stomach as you attempt to sound casual.

“Oh? Has he said something?”

Benny’s voice is sly, teasing – he knows you far too well. “Maybe.”

“What do you mean ‘maybe’?”

“Maybe I’m sitting next to him right now. And maybe he’s sitting here blushin’ like a little –” Benny grunts suddenly, seemingly in pain, and the phone crackles as he shifts on the other end, “don’t fuckin’ kick me. Anyway, Fish wants to know what you’re wearing.”

You hear him then, raspy voice piping up in the background with an aghast ‘What?! No–’ and then there’s more scuffling, more grunts of pain, and Benny’s snort of laughter.

“What are you even doing up?” Benny redirects his attention to you after a few minutes of bickering with Frankie, words muffled as he talks around whatever food he has rolling around his mouth. He had noted the early time when your face had flashed over his screen, wondering what could’ve possibly gotten you up and out of bed so early on a day off.

You shrug lightly, even though he couldn’t see it, and prepare your pancake batter. “Just couldn’t sleep in.”

He’s quiet, chewing thoughtfully and then asking softly, “You okay?”

“Yeah – I’m fine, just bored sitting at home. For some reason, I wanted to see what you were up to and if you wanted to hang out, but you’re busy so never mind.”

Benny laughs, “Aw, you missin’ me, angel?” he teases.

“Ugh, I take it back. I’d rather sit here in silence and stare at my wall.”

You can hear him laughing even as you pull your phone away and press the red button, shaking your head and smiling to yourself.

-

A week passes by before you even know it, work taking over much of your week, and much to your delight, Frankie had eagerly organised another night to meet up. You had talked all week of course – a phone call every evening once Mena had been put down for the night, texts here and there throughout the day, and when he had asked if you were free at all over the weekend, you had agreed without a second thought.

Eagerness buzzes through your system the entire day of the date and the drive to the restaurant, a much welcome change from the anxiety riddled one before. It was a breath of fresh air.

Frankie was waiting for you, as he said he would, leaning against the wall of the restaurant and a smile immediately widening his features when his eyes find you.

This time there was no hesitation, no voice in the back of your mind wondering how to tackle the situation. As soon as you saw him – you couldn’t help yourself – you were in his arms and giving him a soft kiss in greeting. Pleasantly surprised, he smiles against your lips, arms winding around your waist, and the electric tingles that rocket up from your palm when his rough hand gently takes yours has your heart going wild in your chest.

It’s dinner instead of drinks this time, and the two of you squeeze yourselves into one side of the leather booths, instead of sitting opposite each other. You order quickly, and sip at your beer while you listen to Frankie talk about his week, the conversation soon moving in all sorts of directions as you wait for your food.

“How could you not?” You cry at one point, slapping a hand on the table and watching his shoulders shake as he laughs, stomach twisting at the pleasant sound of it.  “The universe is huge – like, huge. We are not alone.” You say ominously, and he laughs harder, head hitting the back of the booth.

“Where’s the proof?”

“What?”

“The proof! If it’s so big and we’re not the only ones here, where is everyone?”

“It’s a cover up.” You sniff indifferently, sipping your drink and fighting the twitches threatening to turn your pursed lips into a smile. “Oh my god, you were in the military – are you in on it?”

He’s struggling to breathe, cheeks aching under the grin stretching his features and stomach starting to cramp. “In on what?”

“That’s it! You’re part of the cover up!”

“Yeah, you’ve got me. I was actually a part of a crew chasing away UFO’s.”

No longer able to keep it in, you erupt into a fit of violent giggles, melting over the table top and letting the laughter shake your frame. Frankie watches you fondly, affection flooding his system and causing his insides to warm pleasantly.

He was still trying to work out how he was here, with a beautiful woman, having great conversations, fun conversations, and laughing more than he had in… shit… a long time. It was refreshing and, if he were completely honest with himself, slightly nerve-wracking. Nothing ever stays so perfect, and that thought had him ensuring he was enjoying every second he could with you before you inevitably realised you were incredibly out of his league and went looking elsewhere.

But… how could you ever? When you peak up at him, you can’t help but study the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, the way his dimples deepen in his cheek, and you honestly couldn’t imagine anywhere else in the world you’d rather be. It was… scary. You’d only known him a couple of weeks, and you were feeling like this?

The night melts away before you both even know it happens and soon, you’re snatching up the bill before he can move, and walking out onto the street, Frankie’s arm slung around your shoulders and keeping you pressed close up to his side as a sharp late evening breeze sweeps through you both.

“You’re not serious.”

“I am.”

“Chickens?”

“I’m sorry, but have you ever been chased by a rooster? Those things are fucking vicious, Frankie.”

He grins, shaking his head. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Okay, well what about you?”

“Heights.”

What?

You frown, “But you’re a pilot?”

“I can handle heights if I can control the situation. Flying is easy – I know what to do when I need to do it. It’s when something’s out of my control – falling off a cliff and shit. It’s just… a long way down.” He’s quiet, obviously dwelling on something before he’s shaking his head and smiling, “Do you have a favourite book?”

The short walk to your car takes longer with the leisurely pace you both had unconsciously set, wanting to milk the remaining minutes of the date as much as you could before having to part ways.

“Thank you for dinner.” He spins you into his arms and you laugh quietly, smiling.

“You’re welcome.”

Silence falls over you both as you regard the other.

Frankie… your voice is so quiet, the soft whisper of it dances in his ears, igniting a fire through his veins. He unconsciously presses himself closer, lost in the way your lashes flutter when you look at him. You raise a hand, fingers trailing softly against his jaw and he turns his face into your touch, chasing the feeling of your warm fingertips as they glide up and around his neck.

“Kiss me?”

He smiles, enjoying the way your face scrunches slightly as he nuzzles his nose against yours, “Say please,” he mutters playfully, grin widening when you breathe a quiet giggle.

“Please kiss me, Francisco.”

Oh shit.

You don’t miss the way his face slackens for a brief moment, eyes widening and breath seemingly getting caught in his throat. He swallows, the flicker of a flame that had been burning lowly in his stomach suddenly blazes red hot and then he’s moving, hands cupping your cheeks and claiming your mouth with an intensity that had your knees buckling the second his lips touched yours.

You melt instantly, unable to stop the small whimper that bubbles from your mouth as his tongue traces teasingly along your lip. You open your mouth automatically, tongue immediately sliding greedily along his. His mouth was hot, rough against yours, and the grunt he lets out when your fingers dig into the dark curls at the nape of his neck has a delicious heat shooting to your core, your hips rolling against his.

Fuck. Did you just grind on him?

The sudden stab of panic at potentially going too far is quickly extinguished when his hands fly to your hips, pulling you impossibly closer and keeping you tight up against him while his fingers dig hungrily into your flesh.

The sudden blaring of a car alarm has you both jumping apart and a mile high, Frankie’s hands tightening on you instinctively, and it’s not until you look around that you discover it’s your car making that God awful noise that is ripping your ear drums apart.

“Shit,” you fumble for your keys, quickly pressing the button while Frankie chuckles into the skin of your throat, hands softly rubbing up and down along your waist to calm you. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s my fault.” He grins, not at all remorseful for causing such a big disturbance. “It was probably for the best – any longer and we might’ve been arrested for indecent exposure.” The words are growled playfully against your skin, but you can’t help thinking he wasn’t far from the truth. You laugh, wrapping your arms tightly around his torso and placing a final kiss on the corner of his lips.

“Drive safe,” you say as he begins to pull back, and he smiles warmly at you.

“You too.”

You slip into your car, watch him disappear down the street and sigh dreamily, body working on auto-pilot for the drive home while your head remains firmly in the clouds. You could only hope you had actually somewhat paid attention to the road and didn’t miss any stop signs or red lights.

Your phone goes off in your hand when you eventually walk through the door to your apartment, and you read the text as you shrug off your jacket. Your eyes have to read it back and forth a few times before the words actually sink in, and then you’re holding it to your chest, delicately cradling the device while you rest heavily on your door, heat flushing along your cheeks.

I’ve thought about whether or not I should say this the entire drive home, but fuck it... miss you already.

Well, fuck.

-

Delivering a sharp little karate chop to the remaining flat cushion on your couch to fluff it, you place it with the others and then neaten the edges of the blanket hanging over the back, casting one final glance around your apartment and trying to imagine seeing it through a visitor’s eyes.

Clean.

Really clean.

Frankie was picking you up for a ‘mystery date’, which meant – naturally – you had spent the entire day scrubbing every surface in your apartment until it looked like you semi-had your life together. Did you inhale more bleach than what is probably considered healthy? Most definitely. Do you regret it? No. Will your apartment ever be this clean again? Also probably a no.

Checking the time, you’re startled to see how long you had spent fluffing fucking pillows and chant curses as you run to your room, kicking the clothes you rip off under your bed to deal with later and quickly pulling on the outfit it had definitely not taken you two hours to decide on. Your eyes dart to the alarm clock next to your bed when a knock on the door echoes throughout your small home.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, he’s on time –

God, why can’t he just show up half an hour late like the others? You immediately regret giving him the code to your building… that could’ve bought you an extra few minutes.

Stupid perfect face with his stupid perfect punctuality –

You open the door with a grin, hoping your forehead doesn’t look as sweaty as it feels, face softening when you find Frankie standing on the other side with a little potted houseplant cradled in his palms. He sees your eyes fall to it curiously and holds it out to you, your fingers brushing his when you carefully take it from his hands.

“You said flowers make you sad when they die, so…” he shrugs lightly, a gentle smile curling his lips.

Oh.

Emotion claws at your throat as your fingers trace the patterned leaves softly. Not only had he paid attention and actually listened to you during your many conversations, he had gone out of his way to find you a gift you could nurture, one that wouldn’t inevitably end up in the trash after a week or two of blossoming.

You swallow the sudden lump in your throat, clearing your throat quietly before glancing up at him, shy and overwhelmed by the wave of adoration that inundates you.

“Thank you, Frankie. I love it.”

And he knows you really do. He can hear it in your voice, sees the gratitude shining in your eyes. He follows you as you turn back into your apartment, eyes following you fondly as you walk around, eyeing potential places to situate your new addition.

“I think he looks good there.” You say, turning to confirm his approval over your shoulder after you situate it in the middle of your small dining table. He smiles, nodding his support and watching you turn back to look at the plant, taking his own little minute to admire you and the way you look bathed in the bright afternoon sun shining through your windows.

Fuck. He was captivated, completely infatuated by someone he had only known, what – three weeks? He should be nervous, should be alarmed that such strong feelings had developed so quickly, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything other than joy – hope. Maybe this could be it, you and him. Endgame.

Fuck. Don’t get ahead of yourself.

His arms open automatically when you saunter up to him, enveloping you into a warm embrace while you press an appreciative kiss to his cheek.

“So, this mystery date,” you say, pulling back to gaze up at him while your hands wrap loosely around his neck, “will I need a jacket?”

“Yes,” he nods, grinning when your brows pinch in contemplation. “You’ll never guess so don’t hurt you head trying.” Lips press against your forehead and you press back into the soft touch, heart jumping at the tender gesture.

-

“Minigolf?” You question, looking up at the colourful entrance.

“Is that okay? If not, we can go somewhere else –”

He’s nervous – you can hear it in his voice.

Easing his anxiety, you shake your head and grin, “It’s perfect.”

You watch him relax, a pleased smile curling his lips, and then your hand is in his as he leads you through the gate and to the reception area to pay. The both of you meander outside once collecting your clubs and balls, and you feel childishly giddy at all the bright colours and fun obstacles set throughout, bouncing slightly in excitement as you walk to the first hole.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” He asks around a grin, head tilting as he watches you set up and take your position.

“This isn’t my first time,” you hum, shifting on your feet and lining up your shot. Swinging the golf club gently, you watch the neon orange ball bounce along the walls and finish up teeteringly on the edge of the cup before falling in with a satisfying clunk.

“Oh, by the way,” you spin, smirking, “I kick ass at minigolf.”

“Good,” he returns your smirk, gently nudging you out the way, “I don’t have to take it easy on you, then.”

What had started out as fun, quickly becomes competitive, and with competition comes foul play. Frankie had pinched your sides when you went to hit your ball, your body jolting with a yelp of surprise as he exploited your ticklish spots. In return, you knocked his golf club when he swung, and giggled wildly when he immediately turned on you, wrapping you in a tight hold and raining scratchy kisses along your throat in punishment.

The afternoon melts into evening with mix of steady conversation, laughter and hidden kisses behind obstacles – Frankie stealing the breath right from your lungs when he crowds you against the side of the colourfully decorated windmill and claims your mouth, the crowds of other couples and families wandering around the course oblivious to the two of you hidden in the shadows.

If he was trying to work you up, it was working. He had to know what he was doing to you, had to know how all-consuming his presence was when he swept you up into kiss after kiss. You were so wrapped up in the touches he would caress you with, so focused on the feel of his moustache as it tickled the skin above your lip, that you were completely unaware you were losing… until you peaked at the card Frankie kept sticking out of his back pocket (totally not because you were checking out his ass) and the wave of vicious competitiveness shadows the overwhelming desire to jump him right in the middle of the course on the artificial turf.

Payback.

The next course, you took your short as normal, squirming as you feel Frankie come to stand right behind you. Focus –

Breathe, he’s not there. Breathe, he’s not there. Breathe –

Goosebumps rise along your arms in waves, the skin on the back of your neck prickling as he ghosts his curved nose down the column of your throat, your head tilting ever so slightly to allow him more access.

Fuck. No, breathe –

You swing the club, satisfaction rolling through you when the ball ends up in the cup perfectly in one shot. He’s slightly shocked, incredibly impressed, and presses a soft kiss of praise just below your ear. You watch as he takes your place, dropping his ball on the ground and readying his posture.

God, you need to stop looking at him like that.

The golf club feels loose in his grip, palms clammy from the fiery gaze locked onto the back of his neck as he hunches over for his turn. He feels a presence behind him but doesn’t pay any mind to it, and instead pays all of his attention to lining up the ball, mentally calculating what sort of angle he’d need to get it through the tunnel and around the winding corners to the cup a short dip below.

The cool puff of air suddenly blowing past and tickling his ear makes him fumble, the ball missing the tunnel and bouncing off of the sides and rolling back to his feet. He sighs, eyeing you over his shoulder with a playful frown as you blink innocently back at him.

He lines up again, tensing when warm hands work their way under his jacket, resting softly on his hips. He could feel the heat of your palms through his t-shirt and clears his throat, shifting on his feet and trying to focus back on the ball. You nuzzle your nose into his neck, teeth nipping lightly at his skin when he swings the golf club softly. Another miss. Frankie watches the ball return again, stopping at his feet with a light knock to his shoe.

“Yeah, that’s right, Morales – I’m onto you.” Your soft voice rings in his ear and he grins, knocking the ball into position with his club. “You may play dirty… but I do, too – try again.”

The words settle hotly in his stomach.

“You think you can win?”

“I know I can.” You all but purr into his ear.

He blocks you out then, focusing everything he has on getting that stupid fucking pink ball through the tunnel. He’s got it this time. This time –

Fingers dive under his shirt and his stomach jumps as they trace along his hot skin, slowly following along the waistband of his jeans teasingly. Fire shoots through his veins, muscles clenching under the feather light touches, your nails softly dragging along his skin.

Fucking Christ –

“Are you just going to stand here all day, Francisco?” You question slyly, voice soft and mocking. At your teasing, both verbal and physical, he hits the ball a little harder than intended and it bounces off the turf entirely and into the bushes lining the course.

You’re smug as you watch it disappear into the shrubs, “I’d say that’s forfeit.”

You go to step away when he starts to turn, but a hand grabs your wrist and keeps you flush against him, your insides somersaulting as his dark eyes burn through you.

“You’re trouble.” He accuses gruffly, heart still hammering in his chest while his skin burns from the ghost of your touches.

“You love it.”

He does.

Fuck, he does. Too much.

“Come on, loser,” you murmur, lips leaving a whisper of a kiss against his. “I’m hungry.” And with that, you turn, winking cheekily at him from over your shoulder, and he watches you walk away with a dumbfounded expression before he follows along behind you, jeans feeling a little tighter than what they did before.

-

The tension is stifling in the truck on the drive home. You feel your heart beating in your ears, the anticipation bubbling in your chest growing with every mile Frankie travels closer to your apartment. You were aching. Physically in fucking pain, and rubbing your thighs together was doing nothing to soothe the insistent throbbing from your core.

All that playful teasing, the touches and the rough kisses during the day, had caught up, and it was destroying you.

Frankie had briefly mentioned Mena staying with his parents for the night, and it had kickstarted your thoughts into overdrive. Was that a hint? Was he giving you a green light to potentially take this further? Was he saying he would be open to staying over? Was he asking to?

You were worried you were thinking on it too much, maybe getting the wrong idea and he was just expressing how nice it would be to have a night all to himself, but then his hand landed on your thigh and squeezed, and any inklings of doubt all but vanished.

He watches you from the corner of his eye, trying to focus on the road and not the way you keep shifting in your seat. He feels every time you squeeze your thighs together, feels the muscles move under his hand, and he physically has to stop himself from making a noise every time you do. Do you have any idea what you’re doing to him?

Your building comes into view and then he’s pulling up outside, removing his hand from your thigh and throwing the truck into park, letting it idle while you study the structure and get your thoughts together. Swallowing the sudden spike of nerves that settle in your stomach, you look to Frankie and find him already watching you quietly.

For a moment, you say nothing, and he doesn’t bother filling the silence. He lets you have all the time you need while you decide on your next move. Not that you need much time – you know exactly what you want.

“Do you want to come up?” You ask quietly, watching his eyes darken as they flicker to your building before returning to you. You watch his Adams apple bob as he swallows, and then he’s nodding, turning the keys in the ignition and the truck cuts out beneath you.

+

Tags: @anu-simps @seasonschange-butpeopledont @withasideofmeg @you-got-me-starry-eyed @emilykjh @peterhollandkait @sara-alonso @starlightsearches @bookishofalder @empress-palpat1ne @shadowolf993 @rosiefridayrogersunday @canyonmirrors @eoz-stuff @blackonemasie​ @layniapetrovnaaa​ @alberta-sunrise​ @betterthanbucky​ @linkpk88​ @afootnoteinyourhappiness​ @livilottie​ @hailmaryyramliah​ @kesskirata​ @blueeyesatnight​ @a-perfct-stranger​

[harcourtholmesii]

Heaven And Hell

I have finally caught up with the prompt list! Thank you to @connor-sent-by-cyberlife for the lovely list. It is not only a nice experiment but it is helping to motivate me to write, which I appreciate.

Pairings: HankCon / Hannor / Hank X Connor

Warnings: - Swearing - Graphic Violence and Gore - Implied Rape and Referenced Murder - Slightly NSFW - Implied Sexual Interests - Existential Questions - Hurt and Comfort

Words: 3368

Enjoy!

Connor was still young. Bright-eyed, by the book, and completely innocent despite his research into humans and the Earth’s violent and erratic history.

 Being that it was his first mission to Earth, his superiors had been worried to send such a young angel to the planet below. His job had been, put simply, to walk among humans and learn from his experiences. Adapt to their atmosphere and climate, and whilst present, deal out the necessary punishment to the beasts that walked alongside them. As a new breed, Connor was created to find and destroy.

 And they had not been hard to find.

 Executing them for their evil whilst being subtle, however, was another matter entirely.

 In order to achieve it, he had combed through the vast knowledge he had learnt over centuries of study. A vast mind vault within him, stacked high with books and parchment, informed him that the best path he might take would be to gain a career as a police detective or ‘cop’.

 In such a position, he would be more likely trusted by civilians, allowed to carry weaponry he could modify to destroy demons and fallen angels alike, and he would have the means to track them without strain on his own power. He had to build up to it first, of course.

 The police academy, where he excelled at all of his classes, took only a short amount of time to him; a mere couple of years. His superiors, though proud of his work, told him to slow it down. Take hits and failures every now and again, where necessary, to make it appear he was just as fallible as the average human. Even when he had graduated from the academy, he was top of his class by a mile.

 He had been immediately placed into the Detroit Police Department, and had been near delighted by his success. Well, as delighted as an angel was allowed to be. Too many human emotions were enough to cause an angel to fail and fall. Ones of his kind were able to fall into the throes of passion so easily, due to their physical inexperience, that it was often in a murderous rage or in the heat of sexual intimacy that the worst acts were committed. It doomed an angel to fall.

 Connor was certain such things would not affect him. After all, he was the best of the best; made to be more and above the other angels. Not that he wished to gloat, or be overly prideful, but he was better.

 And then he had entered into the precinct for the first time.

 There was the stink of human sweat and he could practically taste the sugar and coffee in the air, but there was the smell of smoke and the near taste of fire to accompany them that had Connor reeling. He restrained himself from immediately hurling himself forward and into the throes of battle, rolling his shoulders as if to shrug off the weight of sin in the precinct.

 There was a devil among them, and it wasn’t hard to work out which of his new colleagues it was.

 Captain Fowler had introduced him to his experienced partner, lieutenant Hank Anderson, whom he was supposed to follow and learn from. Connor had to grit his teeth so as not to roar at the other. The humans were blinder than Connor had initially thought. They would let a devil into their midst, one that would see them fall to doom and destruction.

 He fought back the scowl, replacing it instead with a kinder smile, offering the devil his hand. When their palms connected, there was a deep burn that seared through his skin.

 ‘It is nice to be working with you, lieutenant.’

 ‘It won’t be, I can assure you.’ The urge to let his wings loose and drive the devil through the wall grew, but he kept his smile up. This was going to be harder than he thought.

  ~X~

  Hank had been created from blood and brimstone. He was born to a world of darkness, the lick of hot flames and the sting of teeth and steel against his flesh. For centuries, he had grown and festered like the plague on humanity he had been made to be.

 His dark wings became a shield from the worst pain, and his teeth helped to defend him and tear out the throats of other devils that tried to hurt him. Survival was learnt from an early age, and when he was finally able to crawl free of the pit, he was greeted with the warmth of sunlight and the feeling of Spring dew.

 He had to learn fast, so that he might survive and not return to Hell itself.

 He studied parchments, scrolls and tablets from the dawn of human time, had followed human history and learnt the best and worst of it all. He had learned quickly how best to disguise himself from most angels, and had nearly died numerous times throughout history.

 Through it all though, Hank had grown and aged. He became harder to find, harder to kill, and he had come to recognise humans as less the worms that he had heard through shouts and tortured whispers. Instead, he came to recognise them as an intelligent species, who often made stupid decisions. Mistakes or choices that sent them to an early grave or simply added up until they were being ripped from the planet and pulled down.

 Down below.

 He had many jobs throughout history, had many backstories and different histories to suit his needs. His most recent character was that of a police lieutenant, where it was he that dished out punishment, not just on horrible human beings, but the occasional devil, demon or fallen angel that caused trouble.

 He had come to realise that long ago, humans were too often dragged to Hell for something that could be forgiven or looked over. The seven deadly sins may have been something ‘damning’, but they could be explored without being taken to the extreme like angels seemed to believe. In fact, in Hank’s mind, it was simply Heaven that was refusing to forgive, as was their (quote, unquote) ‘policy’.

 It had been a surprise to Hank when his newest partner turned out to be an angel. Not only that, but one that could immediately see through his disguise despite the centuries he had to perfect it. He never gave the game away, but the two of them had been forced to work side by side. It would have been comical, if Hank wasn’t constantly feeling the burn of ‘righteous fury’ whenever they were within close proximity.

 He had spoken with Connor, had even apologised for his rather rude introduction, but the angel had refuted his words. It was clear to him that Connor was just one of many angels that would never learn, the naïve little pricks that they were. Heaven did a brilliant job of brainwashing those that left it, and Hank was unsurprised Connor seemed furious, in some cases fearful, to be around Hank for any extended time.

 Though, there was one thing that shook their relationship.

 It was a case, one of a particularly brutal serial killer. As they were the investigators for the case, they allowed themselves more freedom in the crime scene once given space from other officers. When alone, Hank let his human visage drop a bit, to reveal the scarred features he held, two strong horns and a pair of white, bony, bat-like wings. When Connor had noticed his transformation, the other had released his own mirage, revealing dark, feathered wings and a neon blue halo above his head.

 ‘No need to get pissy. We’re alone here.’ Hank huffed, and though the angel didn’t relax, he didn’t attack. Hank allowed him to use his powers to help with the investigation, the little angel practically spitting out the blood when he tasted it. Hank already smelled that it had been a devil’s blood, but he smirked at the adorable face the angel had pulled when he found it disgusting.

 They returned to their human forms before another officer would show up, and through it all, Hank had noticed how Connor’s eyes kept diverting to him. Gazing at him not in anger or disgust, but curiosity, and perhaps an interest that made Hank’s spine perform a delicious tingle.

 He could work with this.

  ~X~

  A few months into their work together, they had started investigating a serial killer. Connor had done well to keep the devil away from him, though it had been easier than he initially thought. The devil seemed to pay little mind in attempting to tempt him into the worst kinds of sin, and to Connor’s surprise, actively assisted in the investigations. He didn’t attempt to get the wrong humans killed or framed for their actions, and helped to track down the murderers or rapists or whatever else as quickly as possible.

 Without revealing themselves, of course.

 When the other had dropped his human guise at the crime scene, Connor had been prepared to rip his head off, but when the other spoke so softly, despite his gruff demeanour, Connor had agreed to keep the peace. But he was confused, and more than a little curious in the other.

 He didn’t know what it was that he was experiencing, as he had little knowledge of what a human or an angel could feel. He had never experienced emotions in this way, but he became curious about his partner. He was curious if those wings were as sensitive as his own, whether his gruff behaviour was from boredom, or if he genuinely didn’t want to fight. He didn’t understand this enigma.

 During their investigation into the serial killer, it was at the third crime scene that Connor had taken note that not only did the place stink of his usual, devilish partner, but that the smell had intensified. As if doubled.

 Connor had been too slow to connect the dots, and had been ambushed by the devil. He was tackled to the floor, feeling the figure thrust their knee deep into his back, pushing against his spine. It hurt. Connor whined, a sound he didn’t know he could make, but the devil had just laughed above him. Lips leaned down and a forked tongue swept over his cheek, tasting him. Connor fought back, but from his position, he couldn’t grab his gun nor his sword. He was trapped.

 There were footsteps, and then Hank was in front of them both. Silver hair which had helped to curtain his eyes, was pulled back, revealing similar silver eyes. They looked down at Connor with some kind of gaze that he didn’t recognise. Then they turned to fury as they rose to meet the eyes of the devil.

 ‘If you want a piece of angel flesh, you’ll have to wait your turn.’ There was a tightening on Connor’s limbs, a burning sensation scarring his wrists. Connor twisted, feeling the grip change to grab a head full of hair and lift his head up at an uncomfortable angle. When that tongue came out to taste him again, the weight was released with one quick movement.

 Connor could breathe, and he had turned to see Hank without his guise. The two devils were in a tangle of violent clawing and limbs, wings sprouted and teeth bared. There was a loud ‘SNAP!’ as something was broken, and the killer shrieked. Connor leapt into action then, pulling out his gun. He raised it, and stopped.

 He trained it on the two of them, and through the burn of his halo, the voices of his superiors and guardians urged him to end it. He had both of them in his sights. He could do it. He could shoot and kill them both.

 There was a gunshot, and Hank peeled back as there was an explosion of red. The head of the devil had a hole clean through the skull, through the back and between the eyes. It left an alcove in the back of its head, brain matter and blood bursting into a bright confetti of colour. And beyond that, Hank was greeted with the sight of Connor kneeling on the floor.

 The gun had not lowered.

 Hank knew it was over. He could practically see Connor’s guise dropping, the wings unfurling and the halo gleaming as he was close to accomplishing his mission. Connor’s eyes flicked back and forth, his hands around the gun trembling. Suddenly, the gun dropped, along with Connor.

 There was a cry from the angel, a terrible, pained sound as he clutched at his head. The halo burned through his hair and deep into his flesh. Hank was to his side in a moment, bringing him into his lap as the halo withered away to nothing. His wings shook, feathers beginning to moult and though his wings seemed to have shifted a shade darker, they remained their beautiful, glossy colour.

 By the time it was over, Connor had been rendered unconscious, his wings shrinking back into his human guise, but he was missing the heated glow that would arc above his head. As Hank’s own body returned to its original form, he held the other close, and even carried him to the ambulance outside, after he called it.

 It was shock, according to the paramedics, with some bruising from the damage dealt by the now deceased criminal. He would be out of the hospital in no time, less so since he would still be healing at an angel’s rate.

 He met Connor outside the hospital, and instead of driving the both of them back to the precinct, Hank had taken the quiet fallen angel to an empty bridge where Hank had found it easiest to think. Few people came there anymore, the playground abandoned and the stink of the river causing people to feel far too uncomfortable to approach. It was the perfect place.

 ‘What are we doing here, lieutenant?’ His voice quaked, and wide, doe-brown eyes looked up at Hank with the most fearful expression Hank had seen the angel wear. It was more afraid than when he had been attacked by the devil in the first place.

 ‘I think, you being downgraded to a fallen angel, has earned you the right to just call me Hank.’ He half joked. It didn’t help the angel’s shaking. ‘Come on. I just want to talk.’

 He stepped out of the car, and over to a park bench that looked out over the river. He waited a few short minutes before he heard the car door slam and Connor’s approach, taking a seat beside him.

 ‘Why did you come out all this way to eat me?’

 Hank turned a confused gaze down at Connor, eyes to the hairline with shock. Now, that he had not been expecting.

 ‘Uh… I don’t want to eat you.’

 ‘The devil said you would have to wait for angel flesh. You have looked at me in a similar way before, so I am pretty certain your intention is to eat me. Especially since I can’t burn you anymore an-’

 There was a guffaw of laughter from Hank, and Connor felt his cheeks flush a great pink. He had never been able to blush before, and he felt more embarrassed and more shame when he realised he was exhibiting such human behaviour.

 ‘Tha… That isn’t what the little creep meant.’ Hank assured him, arm around Connor and bringing him close. Despite Connor’s immediate panic, he didn’t struggle when Hank pulled him into the half hug. He felt Hank’s warmth, and how it didn’t burn like when they first met. Instead it was a soothing sensation that heated his skin and the smell of brimstone had been clouded with the smell of sugar, the slightest taint of alcohol and something stronger.

 ‘T-Then… what are we doing out here?’

 ‘I just wanted to talk.’ It was a slight lie, but despite Hank’s growing interest in the tiny angel, Hank wasn’t like the devil serial killer. He wasn’t one to take that shit by force. Hank may have been a devil, but he had grown to become more than that, in his mind. ‘I just wanted to say, I’m sorry.’ Connor’s gaze was confused and disbelieving. ‘No, I mean it. I’m sorry you lost your grace. And for me of all people.’

 ‘It wasn’t for you.’

 ‘Then why didn’t you shoot?’ Connor’s lips were sealed, and he had turned away from Hank, that shameful flush giving him away.

 ‘Believe it or not, Connor, being so close to humans isn’t so bad.’

 ‘Of course you would say that. Just trying to rub it in that I have been released from Heaven?’

 ‘See, you say that like being released from Heaven is a bad thing.’ Hank hummed, turning his head and pulling Connor closer. He could practically hear the fallen angel’s heart racing and the slightest chatter of teeth in the cool night air. ‘But, think about it; Heaven had such control over you, in the end, your own decisions were considered enough to have you banished?’

 ‘I…’ Connor shouldn’t be listening to this. He shouldn’t! ‘I was placed here on Earth to hunt your kind, to protect the humans from sin.’

 ‘But see, you can’t protect humans from sin.’ Hank said in response. Connor tilted his head, like a little, lost puppy. ‘Humans cannot be saved from sin, in fact, it is in their nature to sin. And the small things should always have the option to be forgiven, and yet, Hell is being piled high with more and more souls each year.’

 ‘You’re just saying that…’

 ‘I’m not. Think about it, Connor. Is it so wrong to indulge? Certain things are out of line, of course, but is violence, when necessary, a bad thing? Is lying? Is sex really as sinful as Heaven taught you?’ Connor turned his head away, gaze pointedly to the pavement.

 ‘I… I don’t know…’

 ‘And that is the thing about human nature; no one really knows what is too far. Sometimes, someone deserves the worst that happens to them, but then there are those that are judged too harshly for something so insignificant. And they are humans, with lifespans shorter than ours by whole millenniums. They should be allowed to live as they choose without us dictating how they behave.’

 Connor didn’t seem sure how to react to such information. He felt Hank’s guise drop and let his own drop as well. When he met Hank’s eyes, he hid his gaze, shameful of his appearance. Instead, he felt Hank raise on of his hands, and thin, soft lips against the crook of his knuckles; a gentle tease of fangs against the skin of his hand. Wide eyes turned up to Hank, and even though there was something lustful there, Hank did not proceed any further.

 ‘You are beautiful, Connor. I don’t know if Heaven made you that way, or if this was your own design, but it was a good choice.’ The pink to Connor’s cheeks burned. He withdrew his hand, and Hank didn’t press further. The devil simply chuckled a gruff sound from deep within his chest.

 ‘Don’t worry, Connor. I may be evil, but I am not going to do anything to you that you wouldn’t want me to. I just wanted to indulge myself a little.’ Connor bit his lip, kneading his bottom lip between his teeth.

 ‘I… I d-don’t mind…’ Hank raised an eyebrow down at him. ‘I just… I’m not sure it is appropriate.’

 ‘In Heaven and Hell’s eyes, it never will be. But here, on Earth, things can be different. Connor…’ There was a quiet sound from Connor, and Hank felt his body burn and his spine quiver. ‘I… If you want, we can be friends.’

 Connor leaned into Hank’s arms, resting his head in the crook of Hank’s throat. Hank’s hands passed over one wing that twitched, and then relaxed beneath his touch. There was a hum from Connor, a sound so content and just a little bit nervous.

 ‘I… I would like that…’

[solynaceawrites]

End of Sanctuary

Fandom: Nanatsu no Taizai | The Seven Deadly Sins           Characters: Mael, Meliodas Tags: Post-Canon, Character Study, Canon Character Death, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort written for @nntzine​​ Summary: After the defeat of the Demon King, Mael returns to the only home he knows and engages in a festival to honor the ones who were lost.Originally written for Nanatsu no Taizine: Volume II and published in celebration of autumn.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

The sun is low in the sky when he reaches his home. Former home, he supposes, landing lightly in what was once the grand courtyard: the immaculate marble has cracked and fallen, the flowers overgrown by thistles and weeds. Mael tilts his head back, taking in the ruins of the spires of the Supreme Deity’s palace, listening to the wind whistle forlornly through the shattered windows and holes in the walls, and wonders if this is their punishment for their hubris. Dead leaves whisper through the grass, like the voices of so many ghosts; with a sigh, he kneels, sweeping dirt away from the walk. This is the place of his birth, and he remembers with a fond sort of ache the feasts and festivals that were held here, one in particular which was always dear to him.

The Feast of All Souls began as a prayer. To remember those who’d come before, goddesses lit candles within their homes and laid offerings of food and wine on their doorsteps. Eventually, with the war looming over their clan, the Supreme Deity had made it a public event, one which all were encouraged to attend. Private offerings were still left, yet the majority of the evening was spent in the city streets, buying masks and scraps of finest parchment upon which to write hopes, dreams, or words of remembrance. And, once the sun had set and the world was cool and quiet, in the grand courtyard a chosen member of their race would light the torches and dance, and those little bits of people’s lives would be fed to the bonfire, to reach the next life. Mael rubs a dandelion between his thumb and forefinger thoughtfully. There is no one here, and yet . . .

He has no place in Britannia, nor a reason to return there. Too much suffering is on his shoulders, too much grief for him to express his own. And with the role he played in Escanor’s passing — how foolish he had been to believe that Elizabeth could heal the damage inflicted by Sunshine, how naive to trust in Escanor’s words over his own understanding of the man’s life — he would no doubt face scathing ire from the Sins, who loved Escanor as a comrade and a friend. And the Celestial Realm is in ruins, hardly fit to live in. Mael is well and truly alone in this world, and he presses himself to his feet and lifts his gaze to study the first blooming stars. He does not know where he will go from here, but he decides that, before he meets whatever fate is in store for him, he will honor those who lost their lives in this senseless war. 

He will reignite the flames of the Feast.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

Mael stands in the center of the courtyard, watching as the sun begins its slow trek below the horizon. It is cold now, the seasons caught between autumn and winter, and the ivy that climbs the stone pillars is a vibrant, otherworldly green against the tawny hues of the rest of the world, and his breath condenses on the inside of the mask he wears. Only the Grace that had returned to him keeps him from truly feeling the chill; he is shirtless, his feet bare, and without Sunshine he would be trembling. Surrounding him are torches, burning brightly against the oncoming gloom, plates of food and wine at their bases, and a pile of dead branches waits for him to set it alight. His mind is as clear as it can be, his limbs tense for the dance he will perform. When the sun kisses the edge of the sky, he leans over and presses one of his own torches to the kindling, and the bonfire, soaked in oil, roars to life.

Then Mael begins to dance.

It is Ludoshel he thinks of first, the brother he had all but worshipped in his youth. He remembers his first flight—more of a glide, really, his wings too small and his feathers too new to hold him aloft for more than a few moments—how Ludoshel beamed with pride as he landed awkwardly on his feet and ruffled the hair that never laid as prettily as his own. Nights passed with stories, his brother tracing the constellations in the sky and telling them how they came to be: the Warrior, forever chasing the Queen he loved; the clever Fox that marked the beginning of autumn, the Saint and the King and the Dove, until Mael’s head was full of starlight and dreams. Ludoshel’s comfort when he was injured, his hands calloused yet soothing as he bandaged scrapes. Ludoshel, his voice hoarse with held-back tears as he clapped Mael on the shoulder and congratulated him on becoming an Archangel. His brother, and confidante, who had his flaws yet was always good to him. 

Mael flicks out an arm, the torch in that hand dangling by his fingertips. To my brother, without whom I would not be. I thank you.

Escanor comes next. Though they had barely known each other at all, the man had been full of kindness and love, the type of person Mael wished he had been three thousand years ago. Their meeting had been violent, to be sure, but even then, even as Estarossa, he had felt a genuine respect for the one who stood against his decree, and knows now that Sunshine did not aid him in that feat. Escanor had not been capable of hatred; his heart was too pure, his capacity for understanding too great. Even in his grief, he had not been cruel, each action meant to end Mael’s life as quickly and cleanly as possible. Well, perhaps that is too generous, but whether or not Escanor knew that Cruel Sun would cause a slow death, Mael does not know. They had been bound by Sunshine and Mael had found him, and Escanor had pleaded with him, not once but twice, refusing to accept the self-loathing brewing within Mael’s chest. 

He crouches, twisting the torches over his head in a shower of sparks. To Escanor, who was all that I hoped to be and more. I thank you. 

Sariel, who taught him to read the affection that lurked beneath abrasive words, and Tarmiel, the one who had never given up his hope that Mael was good, both dead by his hands. Sariel’s tongue had always been like sandpaper, yet he had been the one to teach him how to be agile, how to stay moving in the air so no one enemy could get close enough to do him harm. Tarmiel, gentle and sweet, had encouraged him, shown him the proper way to grip a sword and how he could use his size to make his opponents think he was slower than he was to keep the upper hand. Monspeet, an unwilling victim of the illness that had festered within Mael as the decree at away at his sanity; Derieri, who sacrificed herself in an attempt to save him; Oslo, who was Rou, a loyal companion that devoured Mael’s magic so that the Fairy King could live. 

Without that, without them, he would not have survived, and he lets the fire lick his shoulders as he draws the torches along his chest. To those who gave themselves so that I would be free. I thank you.

In one fluid movement, he lunges forward and places the torches atop the fire, his magic working to heal his hands even as they burn. Then he steps back, removing the mask he had carved from silver aspen and the ceremonial trousers woven from red-dyed wool before placing them within the pile as well, the flames devouring the hopes and prayers held within the objects, turning them into smoke that will hopefully reach the souls they are meant for. The sun is long gone now, the moon at the apex of its journey, and the sweat that had formed as he danced grows cold along his legs and back. Mael picks up the flask of wine he’d brought for himself and opens it to drink, uncaring of his nudity. He must watch until the fire dies, and then he can rest until dawn. Checking the offerings will come in the morning; so he sits and drinks and fasts till only embers remain, smoldering against the shattered stone.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

The next morning, he exits his makeshift home, exhausted and more than a little hungover. A quick Invigorate cures him of the latter, but his bones ache as he treks by to the courtyard to clean up the remnants from the Feast. It is an unusually bright day, the sky clear and free of clouds, and the sun warms his back as he kneels down to inspect the first of the offerings, finding it nearly gone. With a faint smile, he moves to the next, and the next, and the last, and each of them has been disturbed more than the birds are capable of, the gifts picked thoroughly and more than half-missing. The sign of a good Feast and answered prayers lifts a weight Mael hadn’t realized he was carrying from his shoulders. He knows that he is by no means forgiven for the atrocities he committed, yet the sight of empty baskets puts him at ease; perhaps now those left behind can begin their healing. He pauses next to the remains of the bonfire to tilt his head back, studying the clear blue stretching endlessly above his head. 

“Autumn,” Ludoshel says, placing a hand on his shoulder with a smile, “is a time of rest so that we can be reborn anew, like all that the Supreme Deity’s light touches.”

“I miss you,” Mael replies.

His voice echoes flatly in the air, and he closes his eyes against the grief that swells within him. Rest to be reborn anew. 

Footsteps crunch over the dirt, drawing Mael’s attention to the ruined stairs. To his surprise, Meliodas is standing there, his hands in his pockets as he surveys their surroundings, his brows furrowed with what can only be contemplation. Then his green eyes cut across the theater to Mael, and his usual grin slides into place. “I thought I’d find you here,” he says cheerfully, crossing to him. “Or hoped, actually, but Elizabeth said this is where you were most likely to go.”

Mael can only stare at him while his mind tries to comprehend Meliodas being in the Celestial Realm. “Why?” he asks.

He supposes it could have meant why are you looking for me, or why did Elizabeth send you, and Meliodas chooses to answer the former. “I have a proposition for you.” He scratches the back of his head. “Well, the Sins do. With Escanor gone, we’re short one, and all of us are used to fighting with Sunshine around. So we want you to join us. There probably won’t be much fighting,” Meliodas adds when Mael stiffens, “since the war is over, which means you’ll mostly be helping run the Boar’s Hat and keeping the peace when we have to.”

He isn’t sure what to make of the offer. “I’m not sure I’m suited to becoming his legacy.”

Meliodas waves his hand dismissively. “No one’s asking for that, or for you to become the Sin of Pride. We’re offering a home, and a chance to do something other than stay here, alone.” His gaze is calculating now as he looks at Mael, almost as though he is daring him to refuse, and he nearly smiles as the old, Estarossa-like desire to meet the challenge swells within him.

“Alright,” Mael agrees. “I’ll go with you. On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“Buy me a drink.”

Meliodas grins, holding out a hand that Mael clasps warmly within his own, and there’s a rush of fear, longing and hope that makes him tremble. Be reborn, he thinks. I’ll try my best, brother.

[moderndayportia]

Currents

A/N: This is based on a drabble prompt request from @bouncyirwin​. Thank you! I’m still warming up my writing after a long, long break, so if you have a prompt, feel free to drop it in my Ask box

Pairing: Kakasaku Rating: None Warning: Major Character Death

Katsuyu appears on his shoulder for the second time that day in a puff of smoke swept away by the acrid ash swirling around him. Kakashi shudders as he ruthlessly wrenches his hand from yet another chest cavity. Around him his Anbu guard are fighting furiously, their usually studied restraint corrupted by a desire for blood.

The village is in ruins.

The strike had been precise and planned. Strategic buildings flattened to charred rubble in a hot, pulsing instant. The Hokage tower is a firey tomb, its charred bones burning hot in the stark afternoon bright.

Kakashi dodges a barrage and ducks behind an Earth-release wall where he finds several Katsuyu lying on Shikamaru’s bleeding head. Relief washes through him.

Sakura had summoned them early on in the attack, layering the village in an instant net of healing.

No deaths, he tells himself as he sends a wave of purple lightning through the rubbled ground beneath his guards’ feet before it bursts out of the Earth with a violent crack, eviscerating the circle of enemies surrounding them.

Sakura is life embodied in the face of the reaper.

High overhead a hawk circles and cries—a message for him.

No time, Kakashi thinks as more enemies rush in close.

“Hatake-sama,” Katsuyu says softly on his shoulder.

“Leave me, I’m fine,” he grunts. Other than waning chakra reserves, he is fine now. She had completely healed his extensive burns earlier.

He is fine, they are fine, he tells to himself as he spins a kunai, dodges, and then jams it into the eye socket of a woman cloaked in all black.

Is he their target? He doesn’t know.

A loud, ear-splitting boom tears from the East, and Kakashi sees Gamabunta towering high into the sky, Naruto perched on his head like a glowing beacon.

They’ll be okay.

“Hatake-sama, I don’t have much time,” Katsuyu insists softly again.

Kakashi stops cold.

His heart beats once, twice, then the sick dread fills him like a roar.

He glances towards Shikamaru and watches the Katsuyu on him linger and then fade.

“Where?” he asks, his tongue like ash in his mouth.

“The school,” Katsuyu answers weakly, before she too disappears.

He is gone in an instant.

 ______________________

Sakura’s world is a flood of pain as she lies twisted and broken in the rubble.

Shizune is hovering over her, saying something, but she can’t hear anything but ringing. Sakura tries to follow the movements of her lips, but everything seems to be moving further away and slower. The pain is swelling in violent waves.

A cloud of choking smoke swirls overhead. Her world tilts and spins.

The school….

The school is burning.

Sakura tries to roll onto her side, but a violent agony tears through her and her mouth tastes of iron.

Are they all out?

Shizune is crying. Her hands shaking. The bright lantern of her chakra paints the ankles of Sakura’s guards, standing around them in a tense circle.

The school….

She closes her eyes and is inundated by the rising tide of pain.

A demanding hand presses gently against her cheek.

Kakashi?

He looks worried. His mask is down.

His lips move. Again and again. He is holding her face.

It hurts. She is confused. Her eyes feel heavy.

Kakashi says something to Shizune who argues with him briefly and then bites her lip and leans forward to press her hands over Sakura’s ears. Her hands are bloody. So bloody.

Sound roars in like a tsunami. The first things she hears is her own gurgling breaths.

It hurts.

“Sakura,” Kakashi says. “Sakura,” again, more forcefully. He is holding her face and leaning so close.

“Ka-“ she tries, but nothing else will come. Sirens are blaring through the air.

The school…..

“Sakura, activate your seal,” Kakashi says, his voice a sharp knife.

Her seal?

“Do it. Activate your seal,” he demands.

Her seal.

It comes back to her then, the world snapping into a bitter focus. The devastation. The fires. The bodies.

Her friends. Her family. Her village.

She had called Katsuyu early. The destruction was so wild and immeasurable. She had drained herself, and then activated her seal and drained herself again.

She was empty. The places left hollow by her chakra were now filled with searing pain.

“Sakura,” Kakashi pleads from above her. “Do it.”

Sakura looks up at him as he traces his fingers across her smoke-dyed cheeks.

She aches to reach up and run her thumb down his scar. One last time.

She shakes her head slightly. Her mouth has filled with blood.

“No,” he says. “No.”

He glances wildly at Shizune who has her bloodied hands pressed over her mouth as she holds in silent howls.

Devastation mars his perfect face when he turns back to her.

She is drowning in it.

The school….

“Sakura, please,” he whispers, his voice breaking as he clutches her face.

She gasps and tries to find words. “H-hurts-”she mangles in her broken mouth.

Kakashi’s head falls forward and his soft silver hair brushes against her cheek. He whispers quaking promises into her neck.

Sakura shutters and her chest strangles in one, two, three breaths before he rises again. His face is resolved.

Strong hands cradle her head. The tomoe of his Sharingan spins steadily as he draws her broken body nearer. She feels the unfamiliar tug of his eye dragging her in to a soft, quiet place.

‘The school….’ is the last thing she thinks as her world sinks into deep, painless black.

 ______________

Sakura awakes slowly in a bed of soft green grass. She sits up and looks in wonder at the world around her.

A river, broad and slow, stretches in front of her, dancing with the brilliant reflection of the sunset on the other side. Behind her, the stars twinkle in a vast expanse of velvet black.

The air is warm and quiet but for the cicada song carried through the lingering dusk.

She does not remember how she got here. Who she is feels like a distant dream. She is here.

She is.

She stands slowly to survey her surroundings. Her body feels weightless and pain free. She is wearing a soft white yukata, tied right over left. Her feet are bare and her hair loose.

She steps lightly through the green grass.

Down by the river is a dock. Next to it a small white rowboat, unmoored, bobs up and down.

Sakura returns to sit on the riverbank and watches the water pass.

She waits for a long while. Time seems different here. The sun never changes its position on the horizon. The river flows, the rowboat bobs, and the cicada sing.

Fireflies dance in and out of the reeds in the river’s shallows, their fragile glow mesmerizing.

Eventually—minutes, hours or days later—she stands and starts walking upstream. A well-trodden path leads her gently through the grass and reeds, past a swaying willow tree, and back to a dock.

Sakura tries again, walking downstream this time, and is returned once again to the dock. Was it the same dock?

She finds a coin in her sleeve and leaves it on the railing before trying again.

It is the same.

This world is a small circle, and every path leads back to the dock.

Sakura feels a deep tiredness wash over her. She walks down the path to the willow tree, lies under its swaying bows and closes her eyes.

She dreams of a man with shocking silver hair. He stands at a graveside and prays. Two solemn little girls scuff their feet beside him, the bigger one holding the younger one’s hand.

When she awakes, the air is heavy with incense.

Her world is a small globe and her consciousness condenses to the ever dusk. In her dreams, she finds more. Small windows open into the world that was. She watches the man and his daughters. Time is passing for them. He grows older and so do they.

She charts the passage of time via the lines on his handsome face.

Often when she wakes there are flowers drifting down the current. She sits on the dock, dips her toes into the water, and watches them go.

Sometimes small plates of food are balanced on the moss-covered rocks. She is not hungry, cannot taste, but she eats them and an energy glows warm from her belly.

She waits. Still and calm. Watches the water flow past. The sun never sets. The night never rises.

She isn’t bored. She just is.

One day she wakes and the man is standing on the other side of the river, silhouetted by the sunset.

His name swells up in her mind, a memory that had been held in the deep for too long.

Kakashi.

Her hand rises to her face and she feels hot, salty tears streaking down.

A damn bursts inside her, and it all comes flooding back in.

Kakashi!

She rushes to the white rowboat and steps inside for the first time. There are no oars, but it lurches and begins to propel itself across the river, pulled by some unknown force.

Her eyes never leave him. The time it takes to reach him aches.

The boat knocks against the sunset shore and Sakura tumbles into his waiting arms.

They sink into the sand and hold each other in a desperate embrace.

She is sobbing, overcome by the emotions that have been anchored to him for so long.

“I kept them safe,” he whispers over and over again as he holds her in his strong arms. “I kept them safe.”

She looks up into his face, young and unmarred by the passage of time, and he wipes the tears from her cheeks.

“I waited,” she tells him.

“I know,” he says and bends to catch her lips in a soft kiss.

They linger for some time—days, weeks or months or years. They make love in the half-night. He tells her the story of life after hers, of their daughters, of their grandchildren. Of the seeds they planted that grew big and spread.

Of a life lived for a promise made.

He holds her in his arms in the soft grass and they rest.

One day Sakura wakes before him. He finds her standing by the dock, watching the river’s constant flow.

She turns back, her green eyes burning brightly in the half-light, and holds out her hand.

He takes it.

It’s time.

The current catches the white rowboat and carries them on.

[full-hd-sun]

answer me

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationship: Dong Si Cheng | WinWin/Nakamoto Yuta Characters: Dong Si Cheng | WinWin, Nakamoto Yuta, Moon Taeil, Suh Youngho | Johnny, Wong Yuk Hei | Lucas, Qian Kun, Liu Yang Yang, Wong Kun Hang | Hendery, Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten Additional Tags: Awkward Flirting, Attempts to flirt, Fluff, Attempt at Humor, Firefighters, Phone Calls & Telephones, alcohol mentioning

The Japanese never paid strong attention to people’s voices.

  It started on a cool October season when a hotline operator called him. He reported that a few streets from the fire station, a flat was burning, in which, according to the victims’ neighbors, there were kids and two old humans. Nakamoto thanked him, writing the coordinates and some info on a piece of paper, and, calling the team, moved to work.

  A few days afterward, the same voice reported about a kid whose hand was stuck between the bars of the fence.

  “The injured kid is about nine years old. Previously, he got stuck till the shoulders, as the incident reporter struggled to help the child, but he did not move a millimeter.”

  “Did you find and tell his parents?”

  “No, but the informant told his parents, who know the victim.”

  “OK, thank you for the report. We will get there as soon as possible,” with these talks he instructs his colleague Jisung, who, after passing his eyes over the piece of paper, thanks Yuta and rushes towards the squad. Nakamoto is bad at granting first aid, so he is useless there. He leans back in his chair and stretches, crunching his back stiff because of long sitting. Then he closes his eyes.

  The first thing that comes to his mind is that he has not even started the edge of housekeeping, since because of regular shifts. To get into his room, he must complete a quest from uncleared boxes from pizzas eaten on the go in the morning and scattered clothes everywhere; in most cases, he justifies his job as a firefighter - if you want to take out somewhere on his day off, wake him up first.

  And suddenly the voice of the operator creeps into the image, which anyway attracted him. Usually, when the operators announce what happened, they have a panicked tone, as if it, God forbid, happened in their family. But the tone of this operator is entirely calm, and if the condition was fatal, he announced this in a quiet voice with slight hoarseness; probably talks a lot during the day.

  The loud sound of the phone brought out of his dreams, so Yuta had to open his eyes and in four steps be near the dial.

  “Well, already ... Are you firefighters or who?” he discovers a recognizable and somewhat annoyed voice on the other hand of the line. “Be more gathered,” the same voice reads, and the Japanese just grins. It delights him.

  “Did something happen again?” asks Yuta keeping a pen with a piece of note wide-awake.

  “I’m calling because of a child whose hand stuck in the fence. We called the parents. But they are a somewhat dysfunctional family because they just so violent to me when I told them of the event!” on the last words the operator’s voice breaks down a bit, which touches the firefighter. “So the boy will come to you, and there you will already call the guardianship authorities and all the cases.”

  “Ok, I found out. Thanks for the info.”

  “And be more responsive to calls. A person dies because of your delay in responding, how will you live after that?” the operator says in an instructive manner.

  “Are your parents not dragons by any chance? Then how do they explain that you are such a fire?” Yuta says in a languid tone, and, covering the mic with his palm, he giggles. There is a silence of the phone for a minute, accompanied by a deep sigh, and Nakamoto swears that he can feel the operator rolling his eyes.

  “Excuse me, of course, but did your grand-grandfather teach you how to tackle, or are you so ancient?” the tone is humbler - sweet and smooth.

  “It did not work?” expresses the firefighter in a somewhat agitated tone.

  “Of course not. You have to study and understand the art of a flirt,” here is a minute of silence, “but your voice is as sweet as honey, which I add to my tea.” Yuta hears a gentle chuckle on the other side.

  "Was it a tackle or are you teaching me to tease, mister..." - the firefighter stumbles, because he does not know the name of the operator, he never introduced himself. In response, there is the most magnificent and pure children’s laugh that a Japanese has ever heard.

  “I’ll tell you my name if the next time you pick up the phone when I call,” a voice murmured on the other side,” and now I have to go to accomplish my shift. So let’s try your luck, Big Time. See you.”  and the operator drops the call, leaving Yuta with an idiotic grin all over his face.

            He had never run-up to the phone so rapidly before when it called, picking up a call and holding his breathing, expecting, but it was not him. This was the second week. Some voices were regularly repeated, but the one he lacked so much was seldom on duty. It’s marvelous how much Yuta wants to hear this operator. He rushes headlong, even if he is standing at the other end of the hall, at the sound of the ring.

  When Nakamoto comes to the later shift, having already given up any confidence when the call sounds, he pauses to pick up, but something inside pushes him to receive the call, and he responds to the call.

  - Hey? - he is silent for a couple of seconds, and suddenly it dawns on him that the firefighters should not say in such a way. - Oh sorry. Fire station number one, what can I be ...

  - Well, hello, - the voice says with a laugh, making Yuta fell into a stupor.

  - You…

  - Me, - the firefighter hears on the other side a slight laugh in his voice. - What am I calling. There, several people were stuck in a shopping center elevator.

  Yuta writes all the details and the street and then gives the piece of paper to Doyoung. After making sure he’s gone, Nakamoto returns to the phone. - Well, honey, you were right, I am lucky.

  There is a chuckle on the other side, and the Japanese man quite closes his eyes.

  - You only thought about it all the time?

  - Well, really, you developed a reflex of Pavlov’s dog. I’ve never picked up my phone so immediately, - says the firefighter, sitting down on a chair and throwing his legs over the back of a nearby chair.

  - For a second I imagined you in a collar and with a chain which I hold at the end, - the operator laughs. Yuta just chuckles and looks at himself in the mirror - maybe it would suit him.

  - Why were you not on duty for so long? Probably fell from your home - paradise? - at least in the Japanese's head this tackle sounded cool, but judging by the silence of the operator, it was again a failed number.

  - Now you asked to teach you how to roll from your great-great-grandfather? - the operator imitates the stern voice and then laughs. - But tell him that this is much better.

  The firefighter is glad to understand that he’s already doing better.

  - So, tell me your name, I picked up the phone when you called.

  - Did I say that? - The voice asks in surprise.

  Yuta chuckles in response, straightening his red hair, which sticks into his eyes although he tied it in a ponytail at the back.

  - Well, then I want to take back my promise.

  - Why? Am I unpleasant to you? Don’t you like my voice? - tries to hide Nakamoto’s anxiety.

  There is a burst of sincere laughter that caresses his ear.

  - No, of course not. I just like to play, and you heartily accept my rules - the voice becomes languid, or does it seem so to a Japanese in love?

  The corners of the firefighter’s lips spread across his face in a grin, exposing his fangs.

  - Well, you may be right. I like to hunt you, - taking off his legs from the back of the chair and sitting down, he adds in a whisper: - But baby, take it down a notch, that I am not as simple as I look, - leans back and feeling unbearably good, says Yuta. The operator chuckles in response, and the Japanese involved in this game likes it. He likes that this kid does not so easily fall into the clutches of a predator.

  They were silent for another minute, and Nakamoto felt uneasy.

  - Um ... How are you? - Coughing softly, he asks.

  On the other side, he can hear a peal of chesty, rolling laughter.

  - Are you asking this to talk a little longer?

  - Stealing your time? - Yuta’s cheeky grin grows as he looks at himself in the mirror. - Yes, I’m such a thief. And you, by the way, are also a thief.

  - And why is that? - the operator is indignant, and it amuses the firefighter.

  - Because you stole a piece of my heart. - Now it’s Nakamoto’s turn to laugh out loud while the operator thinks about something.

  - Hmm, it was good, - the voice finally answers, and Yuta, burying his fingers in his hair, conducts through them, pleased with himself.

  - But back to the previous one. It was you who brought me into the game, so I’m running after you.

  - Well, I did not force you to do it.

  - Hmm. Here you are right. I’ll reformulate - I’m running after you of my own free will, - says the firefighter, stretching in his chair.

  - Did I interest you so much? - says the voice on the other side.

  - You don’t even know how much, - the Japanese grins.

  This seems, surprised the operator very much, as he became quiet. Yuta runs her tongue over her dry lips in anticipation of an answer, and when it doesn’t follow, she asks:

  - Are you surprised that your fabulous voice charmed my callous heart and envelops it with the desire to live on and continue your game?

  Nakamoto hears the operator on the other end speaking Chinese and then brings the phone to his ear.

  - No.

  Yuta bites her lower lip as she imagines that voice just got embarrassed.

  - Oh, the dear angel was embarrassed.

  - Not true! At the last word, the guy’s voice breaks again, and Nakamoto smiles triumphantly.

  - Yah? You flirt like a god, but here you were embarrassed by a compliment from me? The fireman purrs, teasing the operator.

  - Yes! I’m not embarrassed! Is a blatant lie, but Nakamoto rolls his eyes and runs his tongue over the gums under his lower lip. He senses how long it takes for the kid to answer, so he’s sure he’s blushing.

  - Good, good, red maiden. I’ve got things going on here, so I have to leave you. Until the next call, - without waiting for an answer, Yuta drops the call and grins triumphantly, exposing his fangs.

  If the kid wants to play, he will suit him. One: one.

          Their subsequent calls were purely working, with no game. During this time, Yuta manages to find out quite by accident that this is operator number 2810. Of course, this information does not bring him closer to revealing the guy, but it pleases him even more because the game continued.

  Unexpectedly, Taeil, their department head, after intercity meetings of all fire departments, decided to put several operators on the first floor of the fire department in which Japanese works. He explained this by the fact that the operator’s department has so little space that they almost sit on each other’s heads, and the first fire department has an empty floor idle. Everyone didn’t care if there were more people or fewer, but Nakamoto, deep down, hopes to see the operator who has been encrypted for three months now and has not been led into his bait.

  Closer to Christmas, some of them already have all the communications that operators need so badly, and somewhere the other day they should announce themselves.

  Everyone goes home, only Yuta and Johnny remain, who, alas, will not be able to spend this New Year with their relatives. They decided to pass the time by decorating the site with a Christmas theme. Youngho takes out garlands and toys from the attic, while Yuta cleans the snow tree in the courtyard to decorate it. Of course, one cannot do without a snow carnage, but Johnny, due to his height, is less agile, so Nakamoto throws snowballs at him from head to toe.

  Decorating something is a favorite of the Japanese. He pleases to create the everyday interior colorful, so on the table near the phone on which he speaks to the operator, there are always animal figures made of wood or any other material, and next to the desk there is a huge pack with Valentines. He works here not so long but has a lot of valentines for that time. He’s a local Don Juan in their little area.

  When Nakamoto helped Youngho get shit off the snow, they set about decorating the tree. Yuta does all, and Johnny only gets to the places where the Japanese could not get it. So for an hour of such friendly work, the Christmas tree lights with a sweet and gentle white light, without eating away the eyes, since this time. Suh took a garland with a less bright light. In a few more hours, the entire department is decorated with socks in which you need to put gifts, Santa Claus, which hang on the walls and, having asked the workers in advance not to close their lockers, Yuta and Johnny throw each a packet of sweets and a small handwritten card with wishes for a Happy New Year and Christmas. The guys also arrange a small concert, turning on New Year’s music for the whole department, and dancing their wild dances, because there is no other way how Yuta “flies” on a broomstick, and Johnny imitates playing the guitar, holding his leg. Suddenly Youngho seems to remember something and slaps his forehead, walks over to the speaker, and reduces the volume.

  - I forgot that we have a club where you can have a lot of fun every New Year’s Eve. My friends invited me there. I’ll go and call them back, ask if everything is still valid, and let’s go there, - without waiting for an answer, Suh went out the door.

  Yuta takes off the jewelry that the elder hung around him and puts them neatly in place. On this New Year’s Eve, he truly wants to call the 2810 operator, but how? Nakamoto slowly walks to the window, looks through the snow-covered window at the sky, noticing the shooting stars. Once upon a time, his parents told him that if you absolutely believe and wish, and when you see a falling star, make a wish - it will surely become true. Nakamoto only smiles with the corners of his lips at these memories, but the Devil may play any trick. He closes his eyes and makes his wish right before Youngho walks back into the room.

  - So, I will make you happy - we have a team, so come on, change from work to normal clothes, and let’s go hang out. You will remember this New Year, - Johnny smiles, mysteriously twitching his eyebrows, which annoys the Japanese a little, but it won’t hurt to try, so let’s go.

  Changing from suit into a fiery sweater that matches the color of his hair and thick black pants, he places a few jewels in his haircut, braiding them into a ponytail, and fixes his naughty bangs with several invisible ones. When Yuta comes to work in this form, he usually hears sighs behind his back about his amazing image. And the Japanese himself dreams of hearing this from his beloved phone caller, whom, though, he counts on to see tonight, because all these conversations of the elders are true, right?

  Johnny, looking at such a Nakamoto, whistled, and thumbs up.

  - Now, besides my boyfriend, you will also glow in the club, - he laughs with joy, picking up his bag over his shoulders. Yuta rolls his eyes at this.

  - There can only be one star on the tree, and that’s me, - he replies, running his palm through his hair and smirking. The Japanese don’t even need alcohol to be so confident and ready to roll.

  - Let’s go then, a taxi is waiting for us, - Youngho points to the exit, letting Yuta ahead.

  Saying goodbye to the few on duty who remained there, they disappear from the fence of the station and get into a taxi. Johnny gives the address and the car moves. As the Japanese one understood - they will go to the other edge of the city. They are silent all the way - Suh writes something to friends and seldom shows some memes to the boy, and Yuta looks at the night festive city. People walk in crowds on the street, having fun and wishing everyone a happy New Year. Someone is dressed in costumes, someone is handing out small gifts, street musicians are singing, there are many booths where you can buy hot mulled wine and warm up. In general, the atmosphere of a holiday is in the air. Nakamoto always spent New Year in his hometown of Osaka, Japan, but he was suddenly offered a promotion and needed to move to Korea. Leaving friends and family, he went to a completely unfamiliar country with great fear that he would not be accepted here, but fortunately, he came across such a boss as Taeil - a truly good person: he can be strict, but he never raises his voice and does not scold him for any then minor misses. He also got Johnny as his partner - just like him, a boy who came from America, who has been working here for four years, but this is their first joint New Year, which they spend together.

  As he thinks about his friends and family, he doesn’t even recognize how the car has stopped, and it is only when Youngho pinches his side that he wakes up.

  - We’re in place, getting out, - Johnny announces, extending his hand. Nakamoto looks around, sees the Neo Club sign, and after thanking the driver, gets out of the car. People around stand and smoke in large crowds, chatting about something of their own, but the entrance to the club is almost deserted, so, after standing in a small line of four people in front of them, they finally enter.

  Suh is already waving to people at the table, is almost at the other end of the entrance, and realizing that only he can see where these guys are, he grabs Nakamoto’s hand and drags him through the dancing heat. It surprises the Japanese to see how already drunken enough bodies are trying to move to the music, how everyone huddles together, and only grins at this - he likes this. Twice, someone tries to grab his free hand, but Johnny drags him along so quickly that Yuta, even if he wanted to, could not free himself from Youngho’s tight grip.

  When they are already leaving the crowd, Nakamoto sees a sofa where five “ready-made” guys are already sitting. Of all of them, he knows only Taeil - their boss and, in combination, the guy So, who, noticing his workers, waved to them and point to a place on the sofa next to him. Yuta is the first to let Johnny, who is near his boyfriend, kisses him nicely on the nose, and again on the lips, placing his hands on Moon’s hips. Later a Japanese man sits down next to him. All eyes at the table are looking at him, but he leans back on the back of the sofa, straightening his hair and showing with all his appearance that he is dad here.

  - This is Nakamoto Yuta, he is Japanese and works with me in the same department. This is the same legendary guy who, appearing on the doorstep, won the hearts of many firefighters. - introduces the guy Johnny, while everyone is looking at the red-haired one. He, it seems, is not nervous in an unfamiliar atmosphere, radiating all his sexuality and blinking innocently.

  -Nice to meet you, - he shakes hands with everyone, eyes shooting, making the two strangers blush slightly.

  -This is Lucas and Kun, - Suh points to the guys sitting opposite, - they were once in our department, but now they are a few streets away, in the third.

  Lucas and Kun smile as they shake the guy’s hands. Yuta realizes that they are only seemingly formidable, especially Lucas. Until he smiled, the Japanese thought he had squeezed something from Yukhei, and that he would now hit his face. Kun is calmer and looks like a bear, Nakamoto wants to pinch his cheeks.

  -And this is Yangyang and Hendery - our operators, - continues to introduce Youngho, pointing to the previously blushed guys. They shake hands and quietly squeak “Nice”, and suddenly Yuta recognizes the voice he sometimes heard in the background when talking to operator 2810; Sometimes Yangyang allowed himself to sing WAP in the background, which surprised Nakamoto very much if the kid knew about the translation, but his interlocutor did not seem to be surprised, because a few seconds after the start of singing this song, Kun appeared and scolded the boy. - They will soon be taken to our first floor. We will have about fifteen operators, right, Moonie? - asks Suh to the boy’s, who looks so sweetly at the American with loving eyes.

  - Yes, we planned more, but the electrician said that if we put them close to each other, this could affect the network and may not get through to the station, - the boss smiles, and Johnny pulls him into his bear hug under the enthusiastic sighs from everyone sitting at the table.

  Then a waiter walks up to them and updates the amount of booze on their table. Yuta hasn’t drunk for a long time, almost a year, but it’s time to remember what the taste of alcohol is.

  While talking about work and plans for this year, everyone is well intoxicated, and Lucas offers to play Uno for wishes. Of course, crazy desires come to a drunken head: Taeil, as the first loser, is told to lick alcohol from Johnny’s press; then Hendery loses and they told him to kiss with Lucas for a minute (as Johnny later explains, Hendery has been sighing for a long time towards Lu, but Wong does not see it, so they decided to bring them together). In the last game, Yuta loses, and having seen enough desires, which each time become more and more vulgar, he is ready to uncover. This time Kun makes a wish.

  -See the guy with raven hair? Come up to him and get his number, - Qian smiles, leaning back on the sofa. Yuta looks around and sees a lonely guy looking at the dance floor. His “victim”, even with his drunken misty gaze, looks great: a dressed shirt that bares a little collarbone, a harness worn over a shirt and lose pants - just a boy for sore eyes. Not doubting that he can easily cope, Yuta picks up from his seat, but sways, since he is helped by Suh, who is sitting next to him.

  Nakamoto walks over to the guy who is sipping a cocktail and just seems to be resting. A Japanese man approaches him and, using all his charm, says:

  - You, by any chance, are not a frying pan? Because you’re hot, - Yuta winks and grins. The boy hung, as he runs his eyes over the body of the fireman and rounds them. Shock can be seen in his eyes. He understood something, but Nakamoto is too drunk to find out, he only wants to fulfill the conditions of desire.

  The Japanese grinned with his trademark smile.

  -Did you swallow your tongue when you saw me, dear angel? - Yuta asks, grinning. The guy is down, as he shakes his head and only briefly asks in a voice a little rougher than his own.

  - What do you want from me?

  The firefighter smiles.

  - Just your number. By the way, your voice is so familiar ... but I do not remember where I could hear it, - at these words the stranger’s gaze becomes insane as if it had been opened.

  - Um ... It seemed to you. Have you heard a few similar voices in your life? - in neat handwriting, despite the anxiety inside, the boy writes his number and hands it to the Japanese, if only he dumped. He smiles triumphantly.

  - See you again, angelic creature, - Yuta says with satisfaction, hiding in the crowd and leaving Sicheng alone.

  “Oh no, it’s hardly him”, Winwin convinces himself. When Yuta is far enough away, Sicheng starts to run and quickly closes the door to the restroom behind him. After washing, he looks at himself in the mirror. He just happened to meet a man with whom he flirted so much, and could not even combine words into a sentence in his presence.

  He replays in his head everything that happened a few minutes ago. Dong recognized Yuta only from his tackle since his voice, in reality, sounds much lower than on the phone, which the Chinese like to goosebumps. This is unmistakably the firefighter with whom they have been communicating so sweetly for many months.

  Winwin imagined him, but not so fabulous ... He once again washed and dried himself with the napkins that hang nearby. This voice, this wink, this grin ... Sicheng is just an idiot that let him go.

            Taking the boy’s number, Yuta says goodbye to him and goes to the company, where everyone is already smeared on the sofa in pairs. He puts down a piece of paper loudly, drawing attention to himself, and sits down next to Lucas. He picks up a piece of paper and reads the contents, and only whistles, showing his thumb. The others clap their hands contentedly. Nakamoto, in his joys, hides the number, or suddenly they want to get drunk to meet his “victim” or call.

  They have been drinking and having fun for several hours, but the drunk guys do not have so much strength to have fun until the morning. And as the most sober, Kun takes them all home, calling a taxi. When the turn comes to Utah, he is already snoring on the sofa, and Qian cannot wake him up, drags him home.

  As soon as he opens the door of his apartment, he dumps the drunken body on a soft ottoman next to the door, closes the door behind him, trying not to make noise. But the Japanese, as luck would have it, wakes up and resents. Qian barely calms him down by sending him to the shower, he will not let him like that on his sofa.

  The firefighter, indignant and stumbling, drunkenly swinging from side to side, stomps in the bathroom's direction. He takes off all his clothes and gets up under a stream of hot running water. It’s very relaxing, but not right now. When he finishes the procedures, he realizes that he cannot get back into the alcohol-soaked things, and wrapping himself in a towel, he goes to look for Kun, who is looking for hangover pills in the medicine cabinet.

  - Kun-a, I have nothing to wear now. Maybe you can borrow something from yours? - asks Yuta, leaning on the corner. Qian clicks his tongue, surveying the Japanese from head to toe, and then walks into the room, returns with a shirt and shorts.

  - Thank you, Kun-a, - Nakamoto was about to climb with his hugs, but Qian stops him.

  - Your pills for the morning and water. I made a bed for you in the hall. Good night, - and leaves the kitchen, turning off the light.

  Yuta remains standing in the dark kitchen, and later, it looks that it reaches his drunken brain. He turns on his heel and stomps toward the audience. Turning on the lights, he puts the water and the pills on the coffee table next to him, while he looks for the phone. After spending ten minutes on this, he even finds him near the ottoman in the hall. From the cover sticks out the tail of a piece of paper on which he had previously written a number. The firefighter chuckles contentedly and calls this number back.

  He gets to the room, turns off the light, settles down snugly on the sofa and dials the number under the light of his mobile phone, but it takes an eternity before the subscriber answers the call.

  - Yes? - mutters a voice with a low tone from sleep, which gives Yuta a herd of goosebumps. He is silent for a minute, listening as the guy on the other side comes back in bed and yawns, emitting a kitty purr. - Are you going to speak, or am I ending the conversation? The voice says.

  Nakamoto wakes up immediately.

  - No. I’m that guy from the club, remember? - the Japanese asks with a heartbeat. Now the silence goes to the other side. The firefighter hears incomprehensible Chinese words, and he is ready to swear that elsewhere he heard it. -When I looked at you, I feel that I have known you for quite a long time. But I just can’t remember where I saw you.

  The second caller is silent and then speaks with a somewhat rougher tone than before.

  - As I said at the club, many people have similar voices. Maybe you imagined it. - Yuta hears how loudly his interlocutor swallows saliva. - Why are you not sleeping? Don’t you work?

  - Yes, I was going to sleep, because in a few hours on shift. - stretched out on the couch, Yuta whispers in a husky voice, which, as Winwin notes in his head, sounds insanely attractive.

  - Mmm ... - all that Sicheng answers. - And I’m going to go to visit my new workplace tomorrow, - says the Chinese, and then realizes what Nakamoto said. The Japanese smile from this.

  - So you are one operator who will now sit downstairs with us? - Yuta asks, remembering his mysterious operator.

  - You make it sound like you already know who’s going to work there, - Winwin says, stretching on the bed.

  - Well, I’m already familiar with three, - the firefighter grins.

  - I’ve only seen you with two, - Sicheng says in a surprised voice. Yuta raises an eyebrow at this.

  - So you saw me with Hendery and Yanyang? - Nakamoto asks. For a minute, his interlocutor is silent, and Yuta bites his lip in anticipation. And then, either from the past tense, or so the shower worked, the gears spin in the Japanese’s head, and he scrolls the vague, but events of the night. After that, his face lights up with a grin.

  - I’m ready to argue, my secret operator, I’ll find you tomorrow, - the firefighter whispers into the phone with the same insolent grin. The silence continues on the other side.

  - No! You won’t find me! - the voice is indignant with slight notes of panic.

  - You will discover, 2810. Sweet dreams, - dropping the call, Yuta has already thought through the plan for the morning.

  Two: one

            Yuta thinks about the plan to expose Sicheng so much that he falls asleep an hour before the alarm clock. Of course, he did not hear it, as did the next three repetitions.

  Only the disgruntled Kun could wake him up, who on his day off wakes up from the Japanese alarm clock at five-thirty in the morning, and to wake the guy up, he puffs water from the spray bottle and scolds. Nakamoto wakes up with the words “Well, if you don’t know how to drink, then don’t drink!”, after which Qian pauses and just glares at him, pointing to the phone.

  The firefighter rises on his elbows, straightening his hair, and reaches out to the glass - the events of last night make themselves felt. Having devastated him, he looks at Kun, who looks at him.

  - Good morning to you and Happy New Year, - Yuta mutters hoarsely as he gets out of bed wearing what his mother gave birth to. - And what happened?

  - Oh, I’ll tell you what happened. First - you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You couldn’t wait till I leave and after that did your striptease? Second - you drunks had very good fun yesterday, so I brought you back home. Third, - he points to the phone, - this devilish brat will wake up even the dead, but not you, and I, by the way, have a day off. Well, fourthly, now it is clear with whom our cute operator was flirting there.

  The Japanese almost falls as he tries to squeeze his leg into his trouser leg.

  - In the sense it is clear?

  - I have ears, I can hear, and I heard your conversation at night, and all the puzzles came together, - Kun smiles.

  Nakamoto looks around the room.

  - But how did you know about it?

  - Well, my boyfriend works with Winwin. And everyone noticed that he had a delightful conversation with someone and more than once at dinner said that he often talks with a firefighter with a charming, deep voice, - Qian shrugs. - And at night, when you were saying goodbye, you called him operator 2810, and I connected everything in my head.

  Yuta runs a hand through his hair, creating even more mess on his head.

  - Oh Qian Kun, oh Sherlock boy.

  He only bows.

  - And now it’s almost half-past six and you’re late for work.

  Today, a firefighter’s bowler hat cooks better, because the meaning of what has been said reaches him, and without even saying goodbye, he flies into the corridor with a bullet, barely putting on his shoes and grabbing a backpack, flies to the elevator. Taeil-Hyung, although his friend, even comes to work after noble celebrations, despite his condition. And after such a walk, he will check Nakamoto.

            After Yuta dropped the call, Winwin’s sleep vanishes.

  He spins in bed for another hour and a half, thinking about something of his own. Sighing, Sicheng sits up, shaking his head and driving away various thoughts. This is not the time to think too much. Then his gaze falls on the clock - only half-past five in the morning. It is very early, but if he lies back now, there is no guarantee that he will fall asleep.

  Winwin rises quickly, and from the sharp rush of blood to his head, everything floats before his eyes. Deciding that the morning shower can relax him, he grabs the phone from the nightstand and heads to the bathroom. By turning on his favorite dance playlist, the guy by any means tries to distract himself from what happened. But the year has just begun ...

  Today he needs to look presentable, as this will be an acquaintance with a new team, although Sicheng deep inside hopes that he will not meet Yuta among unfamiliar faces. The operators wear a loose dress code - a cute New Year’s sweater and black jeans. Examining himself in the mirror, his spinal cord catches someone’s gaze.

  -Aahh, Sicheng-a, have you finally emphasized your sweet side, and not dress like a bad boy? It seems that this firefighter flipped the right switch in your head, - Ten smiles, and then walks to the coffee table where Winwin keeps jewelry, and takes out a cute pendant with a star. He walks up to the guy and puts it around his neck, which makes Dong look so soft that he wants to be crushed.

  - You made a doll out of me, but I have to work, - Winwin mutters into his reflection, glancing at Ten.

  - I’m doing this so you can finally meet your firefighter and stop taking all the oxygen with your sighs about his beautiful voice, - Chittapon shrugs.

  - Oh, okay, it was only a few times, - Sicheng rolls his eyes, and then leaves the room.

  - Shall I count? Sorry, but not enough fingers. You started the game yourself, - says Ten following Winwin down the hallway and then looks at his watch. - Aren’t you too early? Only seven in the morning.

  - We need to familiarize ourselves with a new place, - Dong replies. I just came early to hide and not crawl out of my corner, rushes through my thoughts.

  - Good luck at work and don’t be as hidden as you can be. Especially in front of him, - Ten playfully twitches his eyebrows, to which Sicheng once again rolls his eyes and leaves the apartment.

          Having broken off with all his might to run, Yuta still arrives at the department before the chief. Nakamoto is thankful to himself for always keeping a spare set of clothes in his locker. Taking off his coat, the Japanese goes to the shower. It is an awful smell of alcohol on him, which needs to be interrupted with something. Fortunately, for the same reason, he bought himself a vigorous shower gel with a strawberry scent, which also works well as a shampoo.

  Changing into an elegant white shirt with puffed sleeves and not buttoning three top buttons, Yuta admires herself in the mirror. He twists and turns and then pulls her on his shoulders a little to reveal the view of the chiseled collarbones. He likes to radiate the energy of his grandfather, and everyone who works with him is already accustomed to such a Japanese, giving him a mountain of compliments every time, as if they are seeing him for the first time.

  Suddenly, the phone vibrates in the back pocket of his trousers, and it displays a message from Taeil in their work chat on the screen:

  Meeting in ten minutes on the first floor.

  Nakamoto closes his locker and, winking at himself in the mirror again, confidently leaves for a meeting with the operators, where he intends to reveal the identity of his beloved.

            The department is located not far from his home, so he walks slowly, enjoying the frosty winter air and the New Year’s atmosphere around. With a nice Christmas melody playing through the headphones, Sicheng notices a tree decorated by Yuta and Johnny. He has a well-developed sense of taste, so he has the right to dig into shortcomings because in the previous section it was he who decorated everything, for which their department was called the most elegant and ideal - it was simple and tasteful, nothing superfluous. He walks around the tree from all sides, looking at the multi-colored confetti, which is no longer in fashion, Winwin even manages to spy out among the branches a boot stuck in by someone and a used fire extinguisher, which is hung on a branch by a string. Shaking his head, he realizes that this will be a fun department, and just starts to wait for the others, sitting on a bench and taking out his mobile phone to while away the time playing another strategy.

  He does not know how much time passes, but he senses someone’s presence nearby due to the strong smell of alcohol and his gaze. Sicheng abruptly rises from his place, frightening the person looming over him, but it turns out to be none other than Hendery, but something in his form is not right - he does not push up, as usual, but looks happy and without the jokes on his face.

  - Can I wish you a good morning, or is it better to say good night? - asks Winwin Deri, who with all his appearance shows that he wants to share information about how he spent the night with the very Lucas, with whom they are spreading the site from the excess of stupid ideas that were in their dark heads. - Well, come on already, tell me ...

  - You can’t even imagine who I was with today! We first met at the club, then Kun sent us home, but Lucas told the driver to take us to that hill, from where the most charming view of Seoul opens. And then it turned out that we were both fat-headed fools who were embarrassed to confess their feelings to each other, but did not hesitate to create that crazy game for the entire department. And now we, as it were, are meeting, - the younger almost squeaks with happiness, and Winnie, pleased that everything worked out for his friend, approaches him with open arms.

  - And who are you leaving me to? Now, among all of us, I am the only loner left, - Sicheng says in a mock sad voice, moving away from the guy. - You, hike, warmed yourself too much because from you it smells of alcohol.

  - No, it was Yukhei-Hyung who gave me alcohol for the courage to give him… - Dery muttered embarrassingly, making Winwin touched.

  - Just go ahead without details. Of course, I’m glad for you, but I don’t want to be privy to such secrets.

  - Hyung ... - Kunhang nudges him lightly on the shoulder, and Sicheng just smiles his most innocent smile.

  - I would advise you to run home, change clothes, and drink something from a hangover, otherwise on the very first day Taeil-Hyung will regret taking us.

  - I have half an hour left, - Wong says, confused.

  - I think it will be closed for you to go to Lucas. - Winwin points out, playfully twitching his eyebrows. - If you hurry, then I don’t even have to cover your ass.

  - After what happened, soft chairs would not have interfered with me, otherwise ... - Sicheng interrupts the guy’s words, pushing him towards the house.

  - Save me from the details, feets in hands, and run, - Winwin laughs after the guy who is trying with all his might to walk straight, but God only knows how much alcohol he drank for the courage.

  Ten minutes after that, the meeting begins - slowly a small number of people from different departments meet and warmly get to know each other, so this helps Winwin to relax a little and forget about the call.

            Yuta loved to meet people, because connections, wherever they are, are never superfluous. He stands at the other end of the corridor and, leaning against the doorframe, drinks coffee, examining the newcomers whom Taeil leads around their department and introduces everything around. His eyes immediately lookout for the same guy, so all the time they walk down the corridor, Winwin nervously straightens the edges of his clothes, feeling the gaze on him. Sicheng madly dislikes being studied. “I’m not an exhibit”, he usually says. But here Nakamoto would argue: in the bright light in the corridor, Winwin’s skin looks like porcelain, his profile when he turns his face to Moon’s words “Look left”, as if the jeweler was doing because of these soft lines of his face, and the face itself is so childish and tender, that it is hard to believe that this guy can flirt and even give advice on how to do it right.

  Operators and Taeil walk down the corridor, and when they are already disappearing, then from the Japanese, as if a veil of charm falls. He remembers the gathering and, having made himself another portion of coffee, since he did not sleep, goes to a large hall on the second floor, where they usually have conferences.

  It’s a gigantic room with a lot of shapeless pillows to sit on and a big projector that their boss likes to display all kinds of statistics, graphs, and figures about the rescued or something. All seats are almost taken, but suddenly Utah notices Johnny, who waves to him on the other side of the “ocean” of people.

  Nakamoto sighs, “Could you take a seat in some other ass-place?”, he thinks to himself, but he’s also very grateful to Youngho that he didn’t forget about him. Having somehow reached, he collapses next to him, almost spilling coffee on himself. The familiar red top of Taeil comes out to the projector who congratulates everyone on the holidays, then he apologizes for disturbing those who, in theory, have a weekend, and begins to sum up the past year. All this lasts about twenty minutes, and when they reach the “sweet” - the operators.

  - This year we will have an amazing experience with operators on our site. I believe that they, as the main decoration of our department, will give a different look to the main department of the fire department and increase efficiency, we will be able to receive calls better, since now, so that there is no confusion, we will attach a firefighter to each operator to whom he will report accidents cases. For this, I give you a week so that you have time to make friends and choose your partner. This, of course, I do not by order, because I was told to distribute it myself, but it is within my competence to make your already hard work pleasant. So you have time, and I want you all to get along with each other. That’s all for me. Once again - all happy holidays and the beginning of the New Year, which, I hope, will change for the better for many, - with these words Taeil looks at Johnny, who smiles back with his soft smile and shows his thumbs-up: Moon is very afraid of performances, so Suh always sits down near the stage so that if Taeil gets scared, he can find his beloved face and calm down.

  The next to go to the projector is the operators themselves, who introduce themselves and talk about some of their interests. When it comes to Sicheng’s turn, Nakamoto puts his coffee cup on the floor next to the ottoman and, resting his face on his palms, looks straight into the guy’s eyes.

  Winwin tries hard not to look at this interesting face, but involuntarily he meets Yuta’s gaze, which is why a herd of goosebumps runs down his spine and he stumbles, and the Japanese at that moment innocently slaps his eyes and, covering his mouth, smiles disgustingly.

  Dong prays to all known gods that not all firefighters will be dismantled but noticing that most of the operators he knows are approaching their guys, while others are already openly flirting with unoccupied firefighters when he suddenly notices Doyoung who is trying to spy out the remaining guys.

  - Hey, what are you standing here for? Taeyong and Yuta are still free...

  - Who did you like more? - asks Doyoung watching Sicheng’s reaction.

  - What’s the difference? We don’t choose husbands… - Dong mutters as he tries to hide his gaze from the Japanese studying him, turning his back to him.

  - I suggest we must play rock-paper-scissors? - Young smiles. - Who loses - goes to Yuta.

  - Why Yuta? Why not Taeyong? - Sicheng’s lips are blowing, blushing at the mere mention of this fireman.

  - Sicheng-a, lose, for God’s sake. We want to see you two together, - Hendery’s voice suddenly sounds from somewhere behind, causing Dong to jump up and down and then roll his eyes. Kunhang comes up to them, hugging sleepy Lucas, who even looks like he is ready to go to be photographed on the cover of a magazine right now.

  - If you continue to shout so loud, then I will let you down the stairs, Yuta is close ... - mutters Sicheng, blushing.

- Let’s play, - Doyoung interjects. - Rock-paper-scissors!

  Do fall out scissors, and at Winnie - paper. A happy couple squeaks from behind, and Young smiles nasty and points to a Japanese who is standing and talking to some guy. Winwin gets a little angry with an unfamiliar cute guy near Nakamoto since he already believed that Yuta was in his chains. Sicheng sighs and blushes and heads towards the Japanese.

  Coming closer, Sicheng strains his ears to hear the conversation, but when he comes closer, the conversation stops abruptly, - Nakamoto smiles at the guy and nods, saying goodbye. Dong mentally hates him, because even when he smiles, it’s a smile with his whole face, and it makes him feel at home next to the Japanese — safe and comfortable. Sicheng hates to blush.

  - Did you want something, dear angel? - Yuta smiles and looks away so as not to embarrass the boy like that.

  - I wanted to ask if you are free? - stammering, says Sicheng quickly.

  - Alas, but no. One boy took my heart a few months ago, and it seems he has no intention of returning it at all, - Nakamoto shrugs.

  - Damn it, I mean, do you have an operator? - Dong blushes, trying to look only at Hendery, who stands in the background with his fingers crossed. Following the gaze of the operator, the Japanese smirks and, while the guy has not yet turned, wraps his arm around his waist.

  - Let’s go and discuss, - says Yuta hugging.

  If it had been someone else, Sicheng would have already run away and yelled at the entire site, but either falling in love dulls his brains, or is he so afraid - he allows the Japanese to take him to their call waiting room. All the way, Nakamoto holds Sicheng’s waist, stroking the thin waistline with his thumb and tapping with the rest of his fingers. Already just before the door, he releases the guy, opening the door in front of him and letting him in.

  The room is medium but quite cozy: Christmas decorations are scattered everywhere, various soft toys that were given by children for the firefighter’s day, and many photos of Yuta with his friends from Osaka.

  Winwin looks around the room with interest as his hands rest almost weightlessly on his waist again.

  - If you’re interested, you can take and look, - Nakamoto says, forcing the introvert Sicheng up to this point to run like scalded from object to object, looking around. Then he seems to remember his reason for being here, and Dong looks around absently.

  - Why did you bring me here?

  - So that you do not blush because of your friends, - smiles Yuta, - well, I need to find out how much more time you will play cat and mouse? I’ve already declassified you, operator 2810, - Nakamoto approaches the guy, runs his fingers over his hand. - Why did you start this game?

  - I thought everything would remain at the level of flirting. I was very afraid, - lowering his gaze, mutters Winnie. The Japanese man tilts his head to one side, gently pushes the guy’s chin with his fingers, lifting it.

  - What were you afraid of?

  - That in reality, you don’t like me, - Sicheng says, looking into the eyes.

  - Why? - Yuta’s tone of voice becomes more alarming, and his hand is already holding Dong’s hand, fingering the guy’s fingers.

  - Well then, in the club ... You were incredible. And you know, that day I made a wish to find my soul mate, but no one came up to me all evening. And when I was already drunk, but still thinking, you approached. At first, I thought it was just another guy for the night, but when you called me ... I sharply sobered up. I was scared to tell you my number, although the drunks remember little, - Sicheng says while Nakamoto listens to him intently, intertwining their fingers.

- And when I saw you, I realized that I would be like an ugly duckling - only I would spoil the whole impression of you. You look like a prince from a fairy tale, and I’m just a free... - unexpectedly, Dong’s confession is interrupted by a soft kiss on the lips from the Japanese, who gently crushes the lips of the guy opposite who have not yet closed.

  - Don’t talk about yourself like that, you’re wonderful. You are a little riddle that I have found and I want to solve the rest of my life. I want to love you madly, making you blush, because then your face takes on indescribably cute features, I want to fill you with love in every sense of this phrase; I want to hear your delightful voice; I want to take away every fear and anxiety you have; I want you to feel close it’s cozy with me, because I’m your home, - all this is accompanied by Yuta’s kisses on various parts of Winwin’s face, leaving not a single part of the skin without a gentle touch of his lips.

  Sicheng blushes at these words.

  - So you’re not mad at me for my stupidity? - Dong asks when the Japanese man stops kissing the operator and puts his arm around the waist, pressing him against the wall.

  - Of course not, silly, - the Japanese laughs. - I can’t be angry with such a miracle. By the way, can you teach me a couple of flirting tricks? Are you my operator now?

  - I’m yours for a long time, you just didn’t know about it, - Sicheng chuckles while gently kissing Yuta. - And you have not yet learned how to flirt with such a guy?

  - Well, why not? I need a professional opinion.

  Winwin chuckles, waiting for Yuta’s answer.

  - Can I borrow a kiss? I promise I will return.

  Dong blinks his eyes for a moment, and then pulls the Japanese into a kiss, biting his lip slightly.

  - Would such an answer suit you?

  - So ... I did well?

  - A kiss is not enough? I expected everything, but not this. It was powerful. You make me happy, - smiles Sicheng, reluctantly moving away from Yuta.

  They have a special love - they don’t need a lot of words, just a few touches or the light presence of the shadow of a kiss on each other’s lips is enough to feel loved and desired.

[obsidianas]

— “Yuyeh sesh: ‘despise your heart.’ But that’s the direct translation. The real meaning is more like ‘do what needs to be done—be cruel if you have to.’” “What’s the other part?” “Ni weh sesh? ‘I have no heart.”

[mysterioh]

The Ignorant Beauty & The Beast of New York - Ch. 18

PAIRING: MOB!STEVE ROGERS X READER

SYNOPSIS: You love biology. The study of life excites you. But you hate people. Especially the ones that like to stick their nose in your business. Too bad the King of Brooklyn didn’t get the memo.

WARNINGS: Light Depictions of Gore. Mentions of Child Abuse. 

MASTERLIST

An Eye for an Eye

You hiss at first contact with the alcohol wipe against your chin. 

“It’s deeper than it looks,” Steve stated, gently dabbing at the dried blood.

“Can you not press on it so hard?” 

“I gotta clean it, babe, or it’ll get worse,” he replies, his motions growing faster.

“But it hurts,” you whine. 

Steve rolls his eyes affectionately. “What are you two or twenty-two?”

“Don’t sass me, Rogers,” you warn him with a lovely pout. 

He chuckles in reply. “I wouldn’t even dare.” 

He throws the stained wipe into the trash bin and begins searching through the box of bandaids for a size suitable to cover the wound. 

Your eyes fall onto the newspaper, left on his desk in a hurry, and frowned.

“They’ve painted me as if I’m some whore,” you said. “Like I’m your mistress or something.” 

Steve stops his searching and frowns. “You know that’s not true,” he shakes his head. 

“I know,” you mumbled, “but the rest of the world doesn’t know that.” 

He lifts your chin with his hand. “Hey, don’t worry, alright? I’ll fix this,” he assures. “Everything’s gonna be fine and as time passes it’ll pass as well.” 

You smile with a nod, believing in him. 

“Quentin called,” you told him. 

Steve groans audibly, ripping the band-aid open. 

“He says, he’s going to break your pretty nose if he ever sees you again,” you informed him with a smug grin. 

He shakes his head in amusement. “Is my nose really that pretty?” 

“I don’t know,” you shrugged, “I think it’s kinda cute.” 

“I’ll make sure to never run into him again,” he pledges, aligning the bandage with the cut on your jaw. “Still don’t get why he hates me so much.”

“I think it has something to do with stealing away his best friend.” 

He shrugs his arms smugly. “Not my fault, he should’ve done a better job at keeping watch. Did he really think I was gonna let a girl as pretty as her slip out of my fingers?”

You punch him lightly on the chest. “You flatter me, really.” 

His chuckles fill the air as he presses his palms to either side of your seat on his desk and leans in close. “It’s not flattery if it’s true,” he crooned. 

You fall shy by his words, but not shy enough to not return his affection with a sweet kiss on the lips. You part from him and it leaves him hungry for more. He cups the side of your face in his hand and pulls you closer for another kiss. He stops when he hears his phone ring. 

He pulls it out of his pocket to find a message from Natasha. 

Found something. You know where to find me.

Steve’s jaw tightens as he slips the phone back into his pocket. He gives you an easy smile then a kiss. 

“I’ve gotta go,” he grabs his jacket off the chair by the fire. 

“Where are you going?” you asked, getting off his desk. 

“Nowhere, just some unfinished business,” he puts his jacket on while making his way to the front door. “I’ll be back soon.” 

Before he leaves he turns to you and takes your hands in his. 

“I want you to stay here until I figure things out. Do me a favor and try to relax?” he suggests, “It’s been a long day. Watch a movie and empty my fridge if you’d like.” 

You laugh at his words. “You act like I won’t do that already.” 

He opens the door behind him. “I’ll see you later.” 

Just before he leaves, you reach up and give him a kiss on the cheek. 

“Be safe.”

It was dusk by the time Steve reached the warehouse in the Bronx. Parking his car, he walks out to find Natasha waiting for him at the door. 

She gives him her signature smirk and a wave as he walks up to her. 

"How is Y/N?" she asks, entering the desolate building. 

"She's fine,” Steve informs. "Just a bit tired." 

Nat shoots a devilish grin in his direction. "I see you two have been getting along rather nicely,” she teases, "compared to before that is." 

"I don't know, maybe it has something to do with her being my girlfriend now?" he retorts with a playful lilt to his voice. 

Nat shrugs indifferently and shakes her head. "Still don't know how you managed to do it,” she cackled. "Personally, I find you unappealing,” she deadpans, opening the door to a room. "but hey? There's someone for everyone. Am I right?" 

Steve sighs deeply as he enters. "Some days you can be such a jerk." 

The room is sparse with nothing more than a single light hanging from the ceiling and a man tied to a chair in the center. He twists and turns in his chair, shouting incoherent words that were muffled by the duct tape plastered along his lips. 

She chortles at his remark. "I feel like you wanted to use a much stronger word." 

Steve smirks at the sight before him then turns to Natasha with a dashing smile. 

"I'm a gentleman, Natasha, and I treat women with respect." 

She rolls her eyes. "As charming as ever, Rogers,” she replies, yanking the tape of the man’s mouth mercilessly. His face stretches in pain from the sudden burn on his skin. 

"YOU ASSHOLES HAD ME TIED UP IN A WAREHOUSE FOR FIVE HOURS,” Pietro shouts at the two. 

Steve laughs heartily before taking his jacket off. 

Natasha brings her hands together. “Now that we’re all here. I suggest we get started,” she proposes, her skin glowing with excitement. This was her favorite part of being in the mob. 

"Ladies first,” Steve motions towards her and then to Pietro. 

"Hi, nice to meet you. My name is Natasha,” she introduces herself to Pietro. 

"I know who you are,” he snarls at her. He looks up at Steve fearlessly.  "You're the kingpin." 

"My friend and I would like to talk to you about your crimes against the Brooklyn Mob,” Natasha states. 

Pietro looks at them as if they’re crazy. He whips his head back and forth between the two like a mad man.

"Crimes? Against the Brooklyn Mob? You've gotta be fucking joking me!” he shouts "Let me go! I did nothing wrong!" He shakes violently in his chair. 

The two ignore his cries and continue. 

"Number One: Defamation of Character,” Natasha states. 

"I hope you've realized this but my "mistress" isn't a mistress,” Steve informs Pietro, rolling up his sleeves so he doesn’t get them dirty. He looks down at Pietro and his jaw tightens at the sight of him. He feels like ripping the boy’s head off. 

Pietro gulps involuntarily at his words. He knows he’s not going to get out of this one. His eyes boldly meet Steve’s but fall quickly. “She's my girlfriend and a top student at Columbia. So your garbage publication can be rather damaging for her future,” he jeers. 

"I didn't write the article!" Pietro explains. "I just gave the information!" 

"To who?" Steve takes a step closer to him. 

"I don't know who he was,” he shakes his head. "I met him at some bar. I swear. I didn’t do anything,” he rambles frantically. 

"I want a name, now,” Steve grits. 

"I don't remember his name,” Pietro repeats harshly. 

Steve’s fist connects with Pietro's jaw. He groans from the pain. Without a warning, Steve punches him again, this time in the center of his face, then another at his left. 

Blood pools inside of Pietro’s mouth as he sees stars in his vision.

"Stop!” he groans, “I think–I think it was Strucker,” he wails. "He's this bald guy with a scar on his face. I didn't know he would blow it up like this." 

Steve turns to Natasha and asks her a question with his eyes. 

You know who he’s talking about?

She shakes her head then continues. 

"Two: Obstruction of Privacy." 

"You had the gall to take pictures of us and spread them all over the city,” Steve barked, slamming his fist straight into his nose. 

The sharp sound of cracking bone bounces off the walls of the room. The only one that winces is Pietro himself. His head drops forward and he takes painfully heavy breaths, his mind spinning from all the blows. 

“Three: Exploitation." 

Steve holds his chin and yanks him forward harshly. Pietro whimpers in his grasp. Blood drips from the corner of his busted lip. Splotches of purple and blue cover his once clear pale skin. 

"You used my girl for a bit of extra cash,” Steve growls at him. “You put her on the map for everyone to see. How does it feel knowing you’ve put an innocent woman in danger?” 

Pietro looks at the kingpin through half-lidded eyes. His lips form a weak smile and it only pisses Steve off more. “Did you really think you could keep her hidden forever?” he drawls, “If I didn’t do it, someone else would.”  

Steve pushes him back. “And now that you have, I think you deserve retribution for your services.” 

Nat takes a step forward. She takes his bruised face into her hand and turns it left to right, examining Steve’s work. She stands straight and makes her edict. "After being found guilty by the representative of the mob, I allow Mr. Rogers to do with you as he pleases." 

Steve smiles wickedly. He kicks Pietro’s chair and it hits the wall, keeping him at a slant. 

"Wait! Stop!” He fights against his restraints as Steve hovers over him. “I'm sorry!" 

"You know what they say,” Steve said, tongue dripping with venom, eyes red like a demon’s.  

“An eye for an eye." 

Steve shuffles quietly in the garage, toeing off his shoes, he enters the house and heads straight for the laundry room. 

He takes off his bloodied shirt, throws it in the hamper, and grabs a fresh one from the closet of the room. Pulling it on, he exits the room and glides along the marble tiles of the manor. 

He follows the sounds of low murmurs and flashing lights of the television coming from the living room. The image he finds is more than endearing. You’re snuggled deep into the couch with Lucky digging into your side and a blanket over the both of you. 

Steve walks over, mindful to keep his movements quiet. He turns off the television then lifts the blanket gently. Lucky jolts quickly, growling lowly at the dark figured man. 

Steve chuckled quietly, calming the dog down. “Shh, Lucky, it’s just me,” he scratches the fur around his chin. The puppy yips quietly and jumps off the couch. “Good boy.” 

Steve slid his arms underneath you and took you into his arms. Lucky follows closely behind him as he walks out of the room and up the stairs. Moonlight streams through the grand windows that run along the curve of the grand staircase, casting a nightly shade onto your sleeping form. 

He walks into one of the many spare rooms and tries to lift the blankets to put you in. “Sorry for manhandling you,” he whispers while gently placing you on the bed. Lucky hops onto the bed from the other side and takes his spot next to you. 

“What about me?” Steve whined. 

Lucky simply shimmies closer to you, making Steve grunt indignantly. 

“Some “man’s best friend” you are.” 

Your footsteps grow heavy with every step up the stairs towards the house. Reciting a silent prayer, you open the squeaking front door and walk inside. 

Your lips curl into a grin when you find the living room empty. You tiptoe your way up the stairs to your room. 

“Where have you been?” 

A gruff, mean voice comes from behind you, making you stop in your tracks. You turn around slowly, heartbeat steadily increasing. 

Your father stands at the end of the stairs. A can of beer in one hand with the other holding onto the banister. His hair was messy, his flannel shirt unbuttoned to show his white undershirt underneath. Paint stained his washed-out blue jeans along with his boots. He lifts a brow at you, expecting an answer. 

“I-I missed the bus today,” you explained. “So I had to walk.” 

“Bullshit,” he growls.“You’re lying to me, aren’t you? You think you can fool me?” he barks, throwing the can away. 

Your eyes shut tight at the sound of the metal rattling against the floor. 

“I’m telling the truth,” you insisted, body shaking under his icy gaze. He pulls you down the steps roughly by the arm. You almost slip by the way he tugs on your arm. 

“You were with that boy again, weren’t you?” he asked, slamming you against the wall. 

“I wasn’t,” you shake your head, eyes plagued with fear. 

“Didn’t I tell you to stay away from him?” he scolded. 

“But he’s my friend,” you whimper under him. 

“You don’t need friends,” he hurls. The thick smell of cheap beer lingers in his mouth. “You don’t need anyone.” His grip on your wrist grows tighter.

You tug at his hand over yours, tears brimming at the edge of your eyes. “Please stop,” you choke out, “It hurts.” 

He takes your face into his hand and brings it close to his. “Listen here, you little bitch, when I tell you to come home on time. I mean on time,” he spat, “If I ever find you late again or with that boy, I will not be nice.” 

Your jaw tightens to keep yourself from screaming as tears start to stream down your cheeks. Your eyes part from his and catch the opened front door, tempting you to make a risky decision. You weren’t bold enough to retaliate against him. But with freedom only a few feet away, you had to take a chance. 

You bite the hand holding your face making him curse in pain and dash towards the door. Only to be pulled back by your backpack. 

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he barks, veins popping out of his skin. “You think you can get away?” he turns you around and shakes you violently. His face was red and all up in yours. “You can try running away all you want, but in the end, you’re coming right back to me,” he grits, emphasizing each word. “No matter where you go, I will find you!” 

You jolt quickly in bed, heaving deep breaths. You rub your face with your hands and sit still, trying to take even breaths to calm the rapid beat of your heart. 

It was just a dream. 

He’s gone. 

He’s not coming back. 

A soft whimper rises from your left and you turn to find Lucky by your side You smile at him and cup his face into your hands. “I’m fine, buddy.” You slip out of the bed and motion him to follow you. 

“Let’s go find, Stevie,” you whisper, opening the door and walking into the hall. Your footsteps are soft, careful to not make the floorboards creak. They don’t do that in this house and even if they did no one would yell at you for it, but habits are hard to forget. 

You open the door to Steve’s room slowly, hoping it wouldn’t wake him. Tiptoeing your way over to his sleeping form, you gently tap his arm. 

"Steve," you whisper, shaking his arm. "Steve?" 

His eyes flutter open. "Huh?” he whispers groggily, propping himself up with his elbow. “Y/N, is everything all right?" 

You tug and twist the end of your shirt, completely red. "Is it okay, if I sleep with you?" you asked, "I-I don't want to be alone right now. It’s just this house is too big and—” 

"I don’t mind." he smiles with sleepy eyes. 

You smile before running over to the other side of the bed and getting under the covers. You scoot over to him, closer than he was expecting, and snuggle deep into his side. A light blush forms on his cheeks and he’s thankful that the room is dark. You take his free arm and wrap it around yourself. 

"Good night," you mumble against his shoulder. 

He chuckles, getting himself comfortable, lips brushing against your forehead. "Sweet dreams,” he wishes before pressing a soft kiss to your head.  

The rest of your dreams that night were far sweeter than most others. 

TAGLIST (CLOSED): @ashwarren32 @rootcrop @siriusement @savedbystark @little-dark-empress @great-goddess-of-sin @boxofteenageideas @imsonick @scuzmunkie @achishisha @calwitch @chuckennuggets1213 @captainchrisstan @thirstybunz @littlebees-things @voltage-my2dlove @booktease21 @rinkashirikitateku @harleyscheekheart @allegra-writes @iced-capsicle @eliza5616 @bookgirlunicorn @murdermornings @fckdeusername​ @illbethethundertoyourlightning @kaetastic @windshieldlaughjin @mccrps @undiadeestos

[cozy-the-overlord]

Dances and Daggers

Summary: The Summer Festival is upon Asgard, as is the tradition of the dagger ceremony, where each unmarried gentleman chooses a lady to bestow with the honor of carrying his dagger for the night. As Prince Thor's betrothed, Teki's only goal is to accept his dagger with grace and hope that her violent stepfather doesn't find fault with her in the process. But Prince Thor is unpredictable, and when he ignores his engagement on a whim Teki finds herself in a desperate situation. Luckily, Thor isn't the only prince in Asgard...

Chapter 1: The Dagger

Next Chapter

Word Count: 6648

Pairing: Loki x Original Female Character

A/N: This is an idea that's been in my head for a really long time (like, for several years). I meant it to be a quick little oneshot to get my creative juices flowing, but I completely lost control of it and here I am a month later sitting on thirteen pages worth of writing. Sigh...I never specify the ages of Teki and Loki in the story, but if you're curious I pictured them as early teenagers, between 12 and 14 years old (or the Asgard equivalent).

TW: mentions of child abuse

Read it on Ao3

Teki held her breath as her mother laced her into the crimson ball gown.

“Oh, why did you have to upset him tonight?” she lamented as she pulled at the ribbons, ignoring Teki’s pained gasps. “Tonight, of all nights! You know how important it is for you to look your best tonight, and you’ve gone and made a mess of everything!”

Teki didn’t say anything. The subtlest of movements sent her chest on fire—it was not worth a bruising breath to attempt to defend herself. She was certain that at least one of her ribs were broken, but nothing could be done about that until her mother took her in to see the healer tomorrow with a story about how her clumsy little girl had fallen down the stairs again.

At least it won’t be a complete lie this time. Teki hated lying. Usually, the healers bought her mother’s story without issue and just set about silently fixing whatever she had broken, but last time they had questions. How did a fall down the stairs result in a black eye? Where did these bruises around your arms come from? And those gave way to a scarier question. Do your parents treat you well?

Teki had nodded her head enthusiastically, just as her mother had trained her. Of course they did! Her mother was loving and caring, the best in the world. She loved her stepfather more than anything. She smiled widely, hopefully masking the panic in her eyes. When the healers seemed to drop the subject, she wasn’t sure if it was relief or guilt gurgling in her stomach.

But she’d have to worry about them tomorrow. Tonight, she had bigger problems—like how she was supposed to dance the night away when it hurt to breathe.

If it were any other night, Teki might have been able to get away with playing sick. Norns know she had attempted that excuse time and time again. But tonight was the first night of the Summer Festival. Tonight was when the young men of the court would each choose a lady to hold their blade, and as Prince Thor’s betrothed, she had to be there.

Her mother often reminded her of how blessed she was to hold such an honored position, how lucky she was that her grandfather had negotiated such an agreement with Odin Allfather. No one was quite sure how he had managed it. But somehow, in the weeks before he died, he had convinced the king to agree to a marriage deal between Teki and Thor, thus turning his daughter’s greatest mistake into her most powerful commodity. Teki hated it. It was because of this “blessing” that Osvald had married her mother. After all, the promising of being the father to the future queen was quite the tempting offer.

But he wasn’t her father. He’d never be her father.

“There!” Her mother smoothed the silky skirt and stood up. “You look lovely! No one will ever know!”

Teki studied her reflection in the mirror. Did she look lovely? The gown clinging to her form did little to hide the tightness of her neck, the beads of perspiration collecting along her hairline. She shifted the wrong way and cried out as pain exploded across her ribcage.

“It hurts,” she whimpered, hands hovering over the throbbing area, afraid that touching it might make it worse. “Mama, it hurts so much.”

“I know darling,” her mother sighed. “Oh, why did you have to upset him tonight? Everything was going so well.”

Tears burned in her eyes. Sometimes, this was even worse than Osvald’s fists. She’d drag herself shaking and sobbing to her mother’s room, only to be fixed with her disappointed glare. She never seemed to understand that Teki didn’t mean to make him mad, she just… did. Everything made him mad. She couldn’t keep him happy, no matter how hard she tried.

“Hopefully, we won’t have to stay the whole time,” her mother saying, studying her in the mirror, “Once Thor gives you his dagger, we can probably find an excuse to leave. Maybe we can say that Brant isn’t feeling well.”

Brant was Teki’s six-year-old half-brother, so shy that many in the court thought him mute. Her mother had taken to using him as an excuse when Teki was hurt. It was better than Teki feigning ill herself—it wouldn’t do for the future queen of Asgard to be seen as too weak to stay for an entire dance.

Teki broke into a coughing fit. Her ribcage was on fire. The girl in the mirror didn’t look lovely, she realized. She looked like a corpse in a pretty dress.

“I can’t do it,” she whispered as the tears threatened to pour out, “It hurts too much. Please don’t make me do it, Mama, please.”

Her mother kneeled to brush a loose strand of hair out of her face. “There, there, none of that,” she cooed. “Of course you can do it! I’m sure Prince Thor can’t wait to dance with you!”

Prince Thor was three years older than Teki. He spent his days training in the courtyard with the Einherjar recruits and shadowing his father in the throne room while court was in session. He and Teki interacted only at festivals and balls, where they danced together silently until both sets of parents were satisfied, then went their separate ways. Teki doubted he’d miss her very much if she didn’t show tonight.

Her mother continued brushing through her hair. “I suppose I can give you something,” she said absentmindedly. “Not as much as last time, of course, but just a little something to help with the pain.”

The last time Teki had tried one of her mother’s painkiller drinks, she had passed out on the way back to their quarters, her evident laziness enraging her stepfather. She had sworn she’d never have any of it again, no matter how much she was hurting, but…

“Can you?” she asked, her voice pathetically small. “Please?”

Teki sipped on the concoction as her mother braided her hair into an elegant bun. The mug was only half full, but she was determined to limit her intake to even less. Just enough to make the burning go away for a few hours.

Her mother smiled and squeezed her shoulders. “Oh Tekla,” she breathed, “You’re going to be the prettiest one there!”

Brant and Osvald met them in the hall. Teki wanted to laugh—Brant was dressed up like a little warrior doll in his tiny leather armor—but she kept her face neutral. Osvald didn’t like it when children spoke out of line.

Brant, being his son, could get away with such disgraceful behavior. “Teki!” he squealed. “You look like a princess!”

“Not a princess, Brant,” her mother corrected. “A queen. And you know that’s not her name, darling—you can say her name, can’t you?”

Brant looked up at her with his big blue eyes, suddenly silent.

“Come on,” she continued prompting. “Tek-la. You can say Tekla, right?”

He gulped. “Tek-wa.”

“No, Brant. La. Tek-la,” her mother smiled down at him, but there was something strained at the corners of her mouth. “You can say it. Lalalalala!”

When Brant said nothing, she sighed. “You don’t want to look silly, do you?” she asked. “Do you want people to laugh at you because you can’t say your sister’s name?”

Brant’s bottom lip was trembling, the tell-tale sign that he was seconds away from bursting into tears. Teki forced a cough.

“It-it’s getting late, isn’t it?” she asked. Her voice was too loud and she cringed. “I mean—” Everyone was looking at her now, and she dropped her gaze to the floor. “I mean, I know mother wanted to get to the Festival right as it started,” she whispered. Her chest twinged, the last remnant that the painkiller had yet to take care of, and she bit her tongue to stifle the groan.

“Yes, yes, of course!” Her mother perked up, Brant forgotten in a second. “I’m sure Prince Thor will want to present his dagger early on. We mustn’t be late!”

“Of course,” said Osvald. “We wouldn’t want to embarrass ourselves. Would we, Tekla?”

Teki’s shoulder’s shook with the weight of his gaze. “No sir,” she whispered.

Her hands were trembling as they made their way through the palace. She clasped them in front of her skirt to mask the shaking. This was the first Summer Festival in which she was old enough to accept the honor of holding someone’s blade. It was an old tradition, but quite simple. When a man found a woman who pleased him, he could ask her to carry his dagger. It was a sign of respect, and of faith—he trusted her enough to give her control over his weapon for the remainder of the night. Who got to hold whose blade would be a topic of gossip for months to come.

For the past few years, Teki’s mother looked on with gritted teeth as Prince Thor handed his dagger off to a different girl every festival. Being older than Teki meant that he had come of age before she did, and that for a time he was unable to give her his dagger because she was too young. Tonight was the night her mother had been waiting for ever since she could walk.

Teki was terrified she’d forget what to say when Thor offered her the dagger.

The chatter of the ballroom enveloped her the moment they entered, and she allowed herself to melt into its anonymity. There was a strange kind of safety in knowing that she could be so easily swallowed up by the crowd.

Thor stood on the platform in the middle of the room, alongside his parents and younger brother. He was grinning at someone in the crowd, someone who wasn’t Teki. That was okay. She never quite knew what to say to the crown prince. Hopefully, they could just get their dancing and daggering out of the way quickly, and then he could go back to winking at whoever it was that he was currently winking at. Teki didn’t mind. She just wanted to lay down.

Odin welcomed the people to the first night of the Summer Festival in his booming voice, and with a bang of his spear on the ground, the festivities began. She got asked to dance soon after, by a stocky boy she knew from her Vanir class. At first, Teki wasn’t sure if she should accept—usually, she danced with Thor first—but she saw that her fiancé was already twirling a dark-haired girl on the dance floor, so she thought it would be okay.

Several dances later, Thor was still with the dark-haired girl. Teki didn’t know her name, but she thought she recognized her: she looked like the girl who trained with the Einherjar. With Thor. She swallowed the ball of anxiety climbing her throat and smoothed her crimson skirt. It made sense for Thor to want to spend time with someone he knew well, someone closer to his age. It was just… he had been with her a long time. And Teki knew that somewhere in the room, Osvald and her mother were peering at her intently, waiting on pins and needles for the prince to approach her with an extended hand.

A waiter came by with a tray of some kind of pastries, but Teki declined. The throbbing in her chest was beginning to return, along with a queasy feeling in her stomach. She hoped Thor would come over soon so she could go home and lie down.

A thin smattering of applause broke out over the music. Teki frowned. What happened? Should she be clapping too? She hadn’t been paying attention.

There was a stiffness in the air that hadn’t been there before. People were glancing back at her—why were so many people looking at her? And then she saw it.

Thor was tying his scabbard around the dark-haired girl’s waist in the middle of the dance floor. It took her a moment to understand, but once she did, she felt the color drain from her face.

Thor gave her his dagger.

Thor gave someone else his dagger.

Teki felt as though she had been doused in ice water.

Through the crowd, she felt Osvald’s heavy glare on her. She found him standing on the opposite side of the room, clapping with the rest of those around him. His features were emotionless, but his eyes glinted as they captured her gaze, hard and full of horrible promises.

We wouldn’t want to embarrass ourselves. Would we, Tekla?

Her breathing was coming fast now, so fast that it hurt, so fast that it felt like she wasn’t breathing at all.

Air. I need air!

Teki wasn’t sure how she made it to the balcony, only that suddenly she was outside, gripping the golden railing as if her life depended on it and gulping the cool, evening air.

Osvald was going to kill her.

A despondent wail slipped out of her mouth before she could stop it. She slapped both hands over her mouth in an attempt to silence herself.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Why did Thor have to do that? Why couldn’t he have danced with her first? Didn’t he understand?!

Breathe.

The balcony overlooked the royal gardens, lush greenery that stretched far into the darkness of the night. Teki stared out at it all without really seeing it. Had she done something to upset Thor? Was he angry with her? Osvald would certainly see it that way…

Oh Norns, Osvald…

“Are you well?”

Teki jumped, whipping around with a shriek. Emerald eyes peered at her through the darkness.

Prince Loki.

She had had even less experience with the younger prince than with her betrothed, even though Thor’s little brother was closer to her age. He had been in a few of her classes when she was much younger, back when they were both still learning to read, but they never talked to each other. He didn’t speak much then. As far as she knew, he still didn’t.

Had he just been standing there this whole time, watching her panic about Thor’s blade? Teki had never been so mortified in her life.

“I’m well, my prince, thank you,” she tried to sink into a curtsey, but with her ribs screaming in protest all she could manage was a little bow of her head. “I-I just needed some fresh air.”

For a moment, Loki only stood there, studying her with those jewel-like eyes. “I can understand that,” he finally said, cautiously joining her at the railing, “It’s quite stuffy in there, don’t you think?”

Teki gaped at him, belatedly finding the wherewithal to nod in agreement. He turned his gaze to the gardens, allowing the quiet to lapse over the two of them once more. Teki stood rigidly at his side, wondering if walking away would be considered rude or if it was expected of her.

After several minutes of the uncomfortable silence, he cleared his throat. “You look lovely tonight, Lady Tekla.”

The compliment only reminded her of the gown her mother had laced her into earlier, the same shade of red as the cape Thor wore as he danced with the wrong girl. Her eyes swam with tears.

“Thank you,” she only barely managed to whisper.

Teki could feel his eyes on her, but she couldn’t bring herself to look up. It wasn’t enough that she had failed to capture the favor of the boy she was promised too; now she had gone and humiliated herself in front of his younger brother.

Somehow, she knew she wouldn’t be sleeping tonight.

Loki shifted awkwardly. “My lady, I—” There was something in his tone that sounded almost apologetic. He cleared his throat again.

“Would you carry my blade for me tonight?” he asked quickly.

It took a moment for Teki to process his words, but once she did, she whipped her head to face him so quickly her braids almost slipped loose from their bun.  

“What?” she breathed. He had to be joking. Laughing at her failure. But the prince only smiled at her with a sort of hesitant eagerness. “You—” she stuttered, completely forgetting to use his proper titles. “You want me?”

He laughed nervously. “Well, you’re the only one out here, aren’t you?” When Teki just stared at him, he coughed, twitching uncomfortably. “Of course, if you don’t wish to, I understand completely. I know I’m not—”

“No! It’s not—I mean—” Teki’s head was swimming. Was she even allowed to carry someone else’s dagger? He was still a prince, even if he wasn’t the right prince… it might please her parents to know that the entire royal family didn’t find her repulsive…

She smiled. “I’d be honored, your highness.”

Loki exhaled. “Wonderful.”

He picked at the knot holding his scabbard to his hip, the black leather sheath that housed his dagger. She could just barely make out the intricate design of its handle in the moonlight: snakes of gold intertwined and twisting their way up the grip, their metallic scales shimmering like the stars in the sky. Teki could practically hear her mother wailing about how it would clash with the silver trim of her dress. Still, she stepped forward when Loki reached out to tie the scabbard around her waist.

He was exceedingly cautious as he pulled the leather around her, almost as if he was afraid she’d shatter like glass if he moved the wrong way. Osvald would’ve laughed if he had saw it (“Our prince, ladies and gentlemen, frightened off by a pair of hips”), but Teki was grateful for his hesitancy. She too felt as if she was prone to shattering.

He pulled the strap tight as he knotted it, unknowingly pressing the leather against her aching rib. Teki couldn’t stop the hiss of pain that whistled through her teeth. Loki froze, glancing up in alarm.

“Did I hurt you? Are you alright?” His voice was slightly panicked.

Teki’s face flushed. Couldn’t she do one thing right today? “It’s fine, my prince,” she said quickly, ignoring the renewed throbbing in her chest.

“Are you certain? Forgive me—”

“There’s nothing to forgive, my prince,” she smiled widely, hoping she looked calm and well put together and not as spastic as she felt.

He studied her, gaze laced with concern, but finished tying the scabbard. Her fingers traced over the scaly hilt that now dangled at her hip. Her heartbeat was loud in her ears, so loud she wondered if Loki could hear it.

I’m holding someone’s dagger.

Somehow, in all the times she practiced this interaction in her head, she never imagined the giddy rush that came with carrying the weapon. Of course she hadn’t! —in her head, it was always Thor tying the scabbard around her waist for appearances sake, because he had to. This was different. This was Loki, and Loki didn’t have to.

Loki held out his hand. “Would you join me for a dance?”

Teki nodded.

The dance floor was just as crowded as it had been when she had dashed off, but Osvald and her mother were nowhere to be seen. Teki breathed a sigh of relief as she and Loki slipped unseen into the waltz.

For a while, the two said nothing. Teki’s mother had drilled into her at a young age that to look at one’s feet while dancing was the pinnacle of discourtesy, but her stepfather gave her the back of his hand every time she dared to look a man in the eye. As a sort of compromise, Teki had fallen into the habit of focusing only on her partner’s chest during a dance. It was awkward, especially with someone like Loki who was basically the same height as her, but it kept both her overlords happy.

Apparently, it did not have the same effect on princes.

Loki, having seemingly overcome any anxiety he may have been feeling on the balcony, was quick adopt a teasing tone.

“Is my breastplate so terribly interesting, that you continue to study it so?” he asked with a hint of laughter in his voice, “Or am I just so hideous that you can’t bear to look at me?”

Teki started. “Oh, of course not, my prince. I—”

“It’s alright, my lady. I won’t turn you to stone.” Hesitantly, she raised her gaze to find Loki grinning at her. “There you are. You have such lovely eyes.”

Her eyes were murky brown, the same uninspired shade as her departed father’s. That Loki, with his sparkling gemstone irises, was saying hers were lovely was almost laughable. Cheeks burning, Teki dropped her gaze once more.

“Oh no! Not again!” Loki protested. When she continued to keep her eyes downcast, he sighed dramatically. “You continue to deprive me, Lady Tekla.”

Teki tried to bite back the smile that tickled her lips. This truly was the silliest conversation she had ever had with anyone, dancing or not. “My eyes are hardly anything special, my prince. It can’t be that great a deprivation.”

“Oh, you couldn’t be more wrong, my lady,” he said earnestly. “I’d go as far to say that you have the loveliest eyes in the room. They’re warm and inviting—like freshly roasted chestnuts on a winter’s day. Subtle, but subtle suits you, doesn’t it?” He reached out to tip her chin up, forcing her to look at him. “As I said, lovely.”

If her cheeks had been burning before, they must have been on fire now. “If you say so, my prince,” she murmured. Loki laughed, spinning her about to the music.

While he seemed blessedly content to drop the topic of eye color, Loki was quite clearly intent on carrying out a conversation. It was strange, to say the least—Teki had never known him to speak two sentences together at once, but now that he had started, he talked more than all of her previous dance partners combined. Even stranger was his determination to maintain a dialogue: he’d ask her questions about her family and hobbies and seemed to genuinely listen to her answers, however threadbare they may have been. Teki was shocked to discover that Loki knew her brother’s name and age, something Thor never seemed to remember.

“I suppose I just have a better memory when it comes to such things,” he shrugged when she said as much. Teki wondered if she was imagining the faint pink in his cheeks.

They had taken a break from dancing, standing huddled in the corner near a refreshment table as they sipped tiny goblets of wine. Usually, Teki tried to avoid the sickly sweet glasses, filled so carefully to their golden brims, but the pain in her ribs was getting quite severe and her mother always insisted that alcohol could mask any kind of ache.

Out on the dance floor, Prince Thor was twirling the dark-haired girl to whom he had given his dagger, laughing with an enthusiasm that suggested that he may have been drinking some wine as well. Loki had said that the girl’s name was Sif, and that she and his brother had grown quite close in the past year.

“It’s another one of his passing fancies. Nothing to worry about,” he had told her. “He has a tendency to forget that the universe doesn’t orbit him. His choice had nothing to do with you.” Teki wished Osvald would see it the same way.

She caught glimpse of her stepfather on the other side of the room, laughing gaily with a woman who was not her mother, and quickly averted her eyes. Her free hand caressed the hilt of Loki’s dagger at her hip. The younger prince may have granted her a respite, but it would not last. It was wishful thinking to hope that he would not blame her for Thor’s decision. He blamed her for everything. The outburst from earlier, the one that ended with her in a crumbled heap at the bottom of the stairs, had been over a book missing from his nightstand. Teki hadn’t touched the book, hadn’t even been aware of its existence, but Osvald still dragged her out of her room by her collar, shouting about harboring liars and thieves under his own roof.

Teki swallowed. No, he would be furious when they returned tonight. He’d wait until her mother went up to put Brant to bed, and then he’d turn on her.

“You had one purpose tonight. One singular purpose.”

Maybe he’d pick something up. A heavy book. One of the silver candlestick holders. He liked to hold things in his hands, liked the authority it gave him. Or maybe he’d just knock her to the floor with his fists.

When Teki had been little, she used to run from him. That was foolish. Running made him even angrier when he caught her, and he always caught her. She knew better than to try now. Now, when Osvald was mad, she knew to stay as perfectly still as possible, to muffle her cries and staunch her tears as much as she could, and to let him hit and kick and rant as much as he liked because then it was over faster. When he was finished, she could hobble to her parents’ room, where her mother would be pretending that the walls were too thick for her to hear the thuds.

A hand on her wrist made her jump, spilling her wine on the floor.

“Forgive me, my lady, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Loki smiled, but there was a sense of worry behind his eyes. “Are you well?”

Teki nodded, not trusting her voice. This was the second time tonight the prince had been concerned enough with her wellbeing to ask that question. She needed to pull herself together. But her hands were beginning to shake worse than leaves in the wind, and her breath was coming in fast little hiccups, her chest screaming. Somehow, she knew Osvald was watching.

Loki said something, but his troubled face was quickly fading into a blur of sound and color. She couldn’t have a scene. Not now, here, in front of the whole court! She couldn’t give him another reason to be mad! He was already so mad—

She cried out when someone wrapped their arm around her waist, pressing a little too hard on her injured ribs, but the grip loosened and she realized it was only Loki, guiding her out of the ballroom and down the hall to a bench. The sudden lack of the hum of hundreds of voices left her ears ringing, but somehow, the effect was soothing.

Teki was choking out apologies even as the prince helped her into the seat. He shushed her, kneeling before the bench and stroking her knee through her dress. That was soothing too.

“Breathe,” he murmured. “Just breathe. It’s alright. You’re safe.”

His words lulled her racing heart to a steadier pace. She closed her eyes and did as he said.

Breathe. In and Out. It’s alright. Just breathe.

She didn’t notice when his hand moved from her knee to her waist, but she did notice when his reassuring stream of words cut off abruptly. Teki opened her eyes to see him frowning at her middle.

“You’re injured,” he said.

Her heart jumped to her throat. “W-what?”

“This swelling by your chest. That’s not normal.” He looked up, his features distressed. “You’ve been in pain this whole time, haven’t you?”

Teki turned away. She couldn’t face him, not with him looking up at her like that. “I fell down the stairs,” she whispered when she realized he was waiting for an answer, quietly, quickly, all in one breath.

Loki said nothing. He brought his other hand to join the first at her waist and muttered something. A strange heat enveloped her chest, soft and safe, and suddenly the pain was gone. Just gone, as if nothing had ever happened. Teki inhaled. She had heard that the younger prince had his mother’s talent for magic, but never had she imagined he was capable of such healing.

“Thank you,” she managed to breathe. Then she burst into tears.

She shouldn’t have been surprised. It had been building all night, the panic slowly rising in her throat even as she fought to swallow it whole. It was only a matter of time before it came pouring out. Still, it was humiliating. Teki buried her face in her hands, as if she could hide her obnoxious sobbing from the prince.

He rose. Teki half expected him to return to the party: after all, he had done more than enough. There was no need for him to sit here and watch her bawl like a baby.

But he didn’t leave. Instead, she felt his weight settle next to her on the bench. Gently, he began stroking her knee again, just a feather-light touch that she barely felt through her skirt. He said nothing.

They sat like that for a while, the silence of the hallway pierced only by her wet hiccups. It was a pathetic display and Teki knew it, but she didn’t have the energy to pretend otherwise. Honestly, it started to feel rather nice after a bit. There was no staging right here, no role she had been trained to play. Lady Tekla of Asgard, betrothed of Prince Thor—that girl had washed away with the tears. Now, there was only Teki: battered and broken, but real.

Slowly, she got ahold of herself. Steadied her breathing, fixed her hair, wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand—at least, that’s what she was making to do when Loki held out a handkerchief. Teki took it with mumbled thanks. She tried not to concentrate on what he must have been thinking of all this. A bitter laugh tickled her lips as she dabbed at her nose: at least it was only Loki who bore witness to what a mess she was, and not Thor, or worse, Odin.

He was the first to break the silence, his tone measured and deliberate. “My mother is very protective of the ladies of the court,” he said, holding her in his gaze. “If she thought that one was being mistreated, she would not hesitate to take action.”

Teki swallowed. She knew what he was asking. Here he was, trying to throw her a line and pull her to safety. She just didn’t know if she could take it. For a moment, Teki imagined going to Frigga, spilling her guts to a sympathetic mother, watching as her stepfather was arrested and dragged away on the orders of the Queen. It was a lovely dream, but it soon faded into something quite different. Going to Frigga, telling her everything, only to have the Queen call in Osvald to check his story. Osvald would lie. So would her mother. So would Brant, if they had time to tell him what to say. And Frigga would shake her head and chastise her for lying and send her back with her family, and Osvald would take her by the arm and, and…

We wouldn’t want to embarrass ourselves, would we Tekla?

“It’s fine, my prince,” Teki said, twisting the wet handkerchief around her fingers. She couldn’t look at him. “It’s fine. It was just an accident.”

Even with her focus on her lap, she could feel the prince studying her. How was it, she wondered, that this boy’s gaze was so tangible that she always knew when his eyes were on her?

“Are you sure?” he asked quietly.

Teki nodded. Her eyes were burning again, but she had cried enough today and was determined not to start again.

“Lady Tekla,” he shifted, leaning closer to her. “Please. There must be something I can do.”

It wasn’t right, hearing the prince say her birth name so gently, not when it belonged to Osvald. It had never bothered her before, but suddenly, she couldn’t stand it. “You can call me Teki,” she blurted out without thinking. Gasping, she clapped her hands over her mouth.

But Loki didn’t seem offended at her direct tone. “Teki?” he asked, cocking his head. “Is that a nickname?”

Her cheeks were on fire, but she nodded. “In-in a way, my prince,” she stuttered. “Please, forgive my—”

“There’s nothing to forgive, my lady,” he laughed. “Please, continue.”

Teki inhaled, swallowing her embarrassment. “Well… I don’t really go by Tekla. Or, I do, but… my brother calls me Teki.” She was speaking far too fast and likely making very little sense, but now that she had started, she found she couldn’t stop. “He can’t pronounce his l’s, see, so he just calls me Teki. It drives my mother crazy. She thinks he sounds like a simpleton. But… I kind of like it. More than Tekla, I mean. My—” she stopped abruptly, before she ventured out into more dangerous territory.

Loki nodded. “Go on.”

Teki bit the inside of her cheek. She wasn’t supposed to talk about him. She especially wasn’t supposed to talk about him to a member of the royal family. But Loki was sitting there, smiling at her with an eagerness she had never seen from anyone else, and she found herself trusting him despite herself.

“My father called me Teki, too,” she whispered. “My real father. Before he… went away.” She sighed. Saying it felt like a betrayal. Her father had been a kind, wonderful man, a musician in the royal court. According to the stories she heard from the servants, he had been absolutely enchanted with her mother, who greatly enjoyed the attention from the court’s most talented bard. Teki had been the accidental result of a few minutes indiscretion between performances.

Once he found out, her grandfather had been in a rush to marry his daughter off to a respectable noble before the pregnancy began to show. But the musician wouldn’t have it. The child was his, he argued. By law he had the right to raise it as such. Teki’s grandfather offered him money, land, prestige, but he held his ground. In the end, Teki’s mother had no choice, and the two were wed.

Even as a child, Teki knew that her parents didn’t like each other. They slept in separate beds in separate rooms and spoke to each other only through servants carrying messages. When her grandfather visited for lunch, her father was not allowed to the table. But he didn’t care, and so neither did Teki. He was content to spend his days carrying her through the gardens on his shoulders, singing songs of dragons and warriors and brave little princesses who saved the day. She learned to play the piano before she learned to read, sitting on his lap and covering his tan hands with hers as they danced across the keys.

“My little Teki,” he’d laugh when they finished a piece together. “You’re going to put me out of work!”

She had just started her lessons when the negotiations between Odin and her grandfather began. At the time, Teki didn’t really understand what was happening, only that her grandfather was coming over more than usual, and that he was angry at her father more than usual. When she asked her father about it, he told her not to worry.

“The adults are just trying to figure some things out,” he said, tucking her into bed. “It’s nothing you should be concerned with.” He kissed her forehead. “I love you, Teki.”

“Love you, Daddy.”

Then one day he was gone. Just gone. Her mother produced a letter he had left behind, explaining that family life had just become too overwhelming for him and that he had formally dissolved his marriage. Within a week, everything had changed: his room had been cleared out, the piano sold away, her mother’s engagement to Osvald formally announced. A week later, Odin made public his agreement with her grandfather, betrothing his eldest son to Lady Tekla.

Teki was banned from talking about her father.

“He left us, dear,” her mother explained. “He didn’t love you. He’s not your father anymore. We have Lord Osvald now.”

Teki nodded, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand. He went away. He left. He doesn’t love you. He’s gone. She chanted the words in her head over and over again, trying to convince herself of their validity. But she couldn’t bring herself to believe them.

When her father first disappeared, a handwriting specialist was produced to determine whether or not the letter was genuine. He concluded that it was in fact written by Teki’s father and that the sentiments expressed within were completely authentic. But he was wrong.

At the bottom of the letter, her father had left a note for her. “My dear Tekla,” it said, “I hope you understand that this is all for your own good. Someday, I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me. Love, Daddy.”

Her father never called her Tekla.

Of course, Teki didn’t tell any of this to Prince Loki. Still, he seemed to be struggling to come up with a response to what little she had said. She wondered how much he knew about her father. Her family had done a good job of disappearing him from existence—most of the court believed her stepfather to be her biological father. Over the years, she had gotten used to being introduced as Tekla Osvalddottir, as deeply as it stung.

“It sounds quite special,” the prince finally said. “Are you sure you want me to use it? I feel as though I might profane it.”

Teki flushed at the reminder of how they reached this subject. “You don’t have to, my prince,” she murmured. “Only if you want to. I mean—I do prefer it to Tekla, but—”

“Well, in that case I shall,” he said softly. “Lady Teki. It’s quite sweet. I like it.” He grinned, his green eyes lighting up. “It’s only a few letters off from Loki, after all.”

She giggled despite herself. “Just… don’t let my mother hear you say that. I think she’d go mad if anyone else started calling me Teki.”

“Well, now I won’t be able to help it, will I? I do so love my mischief.”

Inside the ballroom, she could only just barely hear the notes changing to a slower dance. Perhaps it would be best if they returned now. Who knew how long she had kept the prince away from the festival with her wild, emotional nonsense. Someone was certain to be looking for him.

Loki seemed to read her mind. “If you’re feeling better,” he asked, standing up and offering his hand, “Perhaps you would honor me with another dance?”

Teki beamed. “I’d love to, my prince.”

The ballroom was just as they had left it, couples swaying, laughing, drinking. She noted Thor with Sif on his arm in one corner, her mother with Brant in another. Osvald was nowhere to be found, and Loki seemed to have no intentions of letting her search for him. He swept her into his arms, her gorgeous crimson dress fanning out around her, and pulled her out onto the floor. There wasn’t much to this dance: it was mostly just simply swaying, soft and soothing like her partner. Teki found herself melting into the movements, entranced by Loki’s smile.

“I’m glad Thor didn’t give me his dagger,” she whispered. She was surprised by how much she meant it.

Loki’s breath hitched. “Really?”

She nodded. Maybe Osvald could try to make her regret it, but she could feel the truth deep in her chest.

Her prince smiled. “Me too, Teki,” he whispered. “Me too.”

[warwaged-archive]

@holyforged​ said:🍒 / 🍌 / 🍓 - for whichever muse you want! 💕

𝐅𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒   ♡   𝐒𝐘𝐌𝐁𝐎𝐋 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄 // accepting.

🍒  :    how much does my muse value companionship?  do they constantly keep people around them,  or do they prefer to be alone often?  do they have or desire to have many friends?  do they see every meeting as an opportunity to make a new friend?  

Generally speaking, Nathanos prefers to be alone. That’s true regardless of timeline, too. Even while living, he wasn’t really a man of many friends, and neither did he ever sought to be. To be quite honest, I don’t think his grumpiness is something that came to be with undeath, I just think in life he was, well, kind and good and determined to fight for what was right, and respectful to people he had to be respectful towards, and that may have made his less than friendly behavior stand out less, at least a little. He despises being surrounded by many people, and I sincerely doubt he was ever the sort to believe one could have many friends and those friends be true, so he always had much more of a ‘have a few close friends is better than having many friends’ sort of mentality. He absolutely never in his life (or unlife?) saw every meeting as an opportunity to make friends. Alive, he surely wouldn’t be rude for no reason, but he was never actively seeking/trying to make friends, I think. Dead he just wants everyone to stay away 90% of the time.

Nathanos would, however, prefer the company of people he’s close to than being alone, though. It’s just not easy to get to that point, I think, but he would for example prefer being with his family than being alone (when alive), or Sylvanas’ company. I feel this is important because while generally speaking he prefers to be alone, he values companionship, he sincerely does enjoy spending time with people he likes and loves to be with them (he’ll deny, but that’s still true too). This is all very very important to him, those are things he cares about, so although he’s fine on his own he appreciates and prefers to have people he loves around. So how much he cares about having people around or how positively he sees it really just depends on who those people are and how he feels about them.

🍌  :    is my muse inclined to help others,  or will they only do it when it benefits them,  if at all?  what makes them this way?  has it ever gotten them into trouble,  or inconvenienced them?  

Kelantir will go out of her way to help others, even if puts her at risk, but it depends akndfkajsdfn She’ll do it to people she doesn’t know, and she’ll act on behalf of other people when she feels it’s the right thing to do/they were wronged somehow, but it still depends. Her impulse is often to help and protect, and towards those around her or on her same side she’ll act on it without a second thought. When it comes to other people, and here I’m talking about people she has no ties to (as in, not even of her race/faction but not enemies either) or people she’d see as enemies, I think she’s less prone to act on it on impulse, even though the impulse would still be there, and she might still end up acting anyways. Factors here include, but are not limited to, her position at the time in terms of hierarchy/authority, how it impacts people other than herself (specially if she’s in a leadership position), how serious the situation is and how much she can do to help.

She doesn’t care for how it’ll impact on her personally, and to a point her actions are guided by what’s best for 1. the sin’dorei 2. the horde. To a point, though, because she obviously does not condone mass murder ( hi garrosh) , but even on a smaller scale, she’s the sort of person who will go to war without a problem, but also who’ll refuse to kill civilians (or to let others kill them, because she really isn’t one to turn a blind eye to things either, so she won’t unless she absolutely has to). If it reflects badly on her or actually puts her in danger, neither is enough to stop her if she believes action is necessary; she doesn’t care for the consequences if she thinks they’re only hers and will not affect anyone else and what she’s doing is necessary and right.

I think how she acts in that regard is just a result of who she is. She’s very outspoken, and prone to just do what needs to be done, but she’s also deeply compassionate and very protective, so when someone needs help it’s just really hard for her to not do anything about it unless she has a reason not to, and even then it might still be hard. That said, if she thinks you don’t deserve help for some reason you can beg and she won’t move a finger. She is rather forgiving most of the time, though, so that’d be a rare occurrence and even then seemingly genuine regret might be enough to change her mind.

It probably got her in trouble a bit, since like I said she’d go out of her way to help others, and she might defy orders depending of who they’re coming from/what needs to be done/how strongly she feels about it, and that likely wouldn’t be without repercussion. But yeah specially when any inconvenience would be something she’d have to deal with alone, she really is prone to helping.

🍓  :    how is my muse typically seen by others?  does it ring true to who they really are?  does their reputation matter to them?

Nalice is typically seen as yet another murderous black dragon, I guess, which is not really factually inaccurate aisudfhuiashd She convinced other dragons she wasn’t just that, and that if she was bad it was their fault, for a time, but even then not everyone was convinced, and she dropped the act the moment Deathwing decided to fuck things up, so I believe it is true to say she’d be typically seen as any other member of the Black Dragonflight, in spite of her time as ‘Ambassador’ in Wyrmrest.

And it isn’t really wrong. Like most of her flight, she was driven to madness by N’zoth, and she was often cruel and malicious, traits that have permeated her actions for so long at this point it doesn’t really matter it it was naturally who she was or fabricated due to insanity and the influence of an Old God. She will scheme and plot and revel in violence, so for the longest time she really wasn’t far from what most people would typically see her as being.

I think it would be wrong in the sense she’s not just that. She is angry and resentful, and that I think made her bitter well beyond any outside influence. She is a deceitful Black Dragon who enjoys violence too much. But I think in spite of her insensitive attitude, she is also capable of caring deeply, at least in her own way, and of nearly boundless loyalty; I say that because those, too, are things I think were corrupted --- the first in that she came to see it as a liability, that it was best to get rid of it entirely for it was best to ensure her own survival (although she never succeeded on it entirely, because in a way she loved Onyxia and the Black Dragonflight, and she loved Serinar in a much more traditional, sibling like way); the second because everything she did was ever dedicated to those she was loyal to, so that loyalty became working for and defending her flight fiercely.

She’d never be trusting or kind, even if she’s freed of corruption and gets some degree of healing (and I use healing here speaking very generally of any recover from everything she’s been through this whole time). She’d never be the forgiving kind, and she wouldn’t be friendly. She’d probably still be prone to deception, and to hurt others without remorse if she thinks it furthers her cause (whichever such a cause may be, seeing as she hasn’t really found another yet). But I think she’s definitely capable of growth, of caring and of becoming somewhat better, and I think that would be in conflict of people’s perception of her because the typical view assumes she’s just a monster.

Her reputation only really matters to her when it influences what she’s doing. It mattered when she decided to infiltrate Wyrmrest, for example, because it was directly tied with that goal. If it doesn’t interfere on anything like that and it’s more of a matter of how she cares to be seen, she doesn’t care. Her entire life she was seen as someone to be hunted down and killed because she was a monster, and that was true both in regards to how the younger races saw her and how dragons saw her, because when she was born, the other flights were hunting down the Blacks. It’s not new and she doesn’t care. If anything, she often embraces it; makes for a good self defense when she needs people out of her way.

[warwaged-moved]

* tag drop: nalice.

‣ muse { nalice } —  ❝ BLACKWYRM. ❞ ‣ isms { nalice } —  ❝ THERE IS ONLY POWER AND THOSE STRONG ENOUGH TO SEEK IT. ❞ ‣ character study { nalice } —  ❝ A BURNING FIRE AND A VIOLENT TONGUE. ❞ ‣ in character { nalice } —  ❝ BLACK OF HEART. ❞ ‣ aesthetic { nalice } —  ❝ BLACK AND COLD OBSIDIAN. ❞ ‣ physique { nalice } —  ❝ BEAUTIFUL LIKE A FOREST FIRE IS BEAUTIFUL. ❞ ‣ dynamics { nalice & the black dragonflight } —  ❝ BECOME AS GODS. ❞