#so i settled for a shorter skirt but i think shadow would rock long skirts remind me to draw him in a long skirt sometime later

[sonic-adventure-3]

unmmmmm outfit concept or something

#the main thing qbout this is that i’ve been really wanting to design wrist guards for shadow #stil have no idea how to go about it #i wanted to make them look somewhere btwn real wrist guards and his boom gauntlets #I HAVE FINALLY DRAWN HIM ON SKATES THOUGH thats a win #these would be city skates or even rec skates ig. this outfit isn’t practical for aggressive skating #this is a fashion outfit not an activity outfit whatever whatever #i so wanted to give him a longer skirt but long skirts are not practical for skating whatsoever #so i settled for a shorter skirt but i think shadow would rock long skirts remind me to draw him in a long skirt sometime later #art is hard today this is mediocre and i didn’t draw it how i wanted to but it’s at least out kf my brain #ignore how i sketched the same exact thing thrice. well i guess it’s hardto ignore #uuuuuuuuuuuuuu whatever i’m sleeby i’ll hopefully revisit this someday later #doodles #shadow #action sport posting #my art #i GUESS. ppl seem to like it so it can go in my proper art tag. i guess.

[killingkueen]

Fic: Nooner

Summary: Belle wants to ask Gold something. It’s very important and can’t wait. Obviously. || A companion to Seeing Red, but you don’t need to have read it.

Rating: E (this is just porn); specifically mutual masturbation and a tiny bit of cum play

AO3 link

Thank you to the spectacular @paradigmparadoxical, who keeps the world turning.

OOO

“—but close enough in shape and color.”

“That’d be great! Honestly, whatever you have to do, you know? Mary would be devastated if nothing was salvageable.”

Belle closed the door behind her, the bell chiming merrily.

“A moment, dearie,” Gold called absently, bent over the display case inspecting whatever David Nolan had brought in. “Most of them aren’t,” Gold continued with David. “But if Mrs. Nolan doesn’t object to a couple glue lines on the ones that aren’t shattered, there shouldn’t be a problem.”

“That’s more than we expected, honestly.”

She hovered at the door, wondering if she should come back tomorrow—her lunch break was only so long—and perhaps she would have, if the view were different. Belle liked watching Gold in his element: behind his counter, the sun just missing him as it stretched across the floor of his shop. It left him in shadow, despite the lights overhead. He might not enjoy working with the public, but he was good at it, letting his knowledge and expertise guide him.

Gold wrapped the glass pieces back in the towel that David had brought them in, placing the bundle carefully in the shoebox. “I’ll dig around for the figurines I have,” he said. “They might be too small, but I have a few sources that would likely have more appropriate sizes. If it comes to that, I’ll call you with an estimate.”

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it,” Belle could hear the relieved grin in David’s voice as he reached out a hand to shake Gold’s.

Gold’s lips twitched into a polite smile. He let go and turned to greet his new customer, finally spotting her.

“Miss French,” he said, voice deepening. His smile became no less placid, but he looked more present than moments ago, his eyes brightening. “What a surprise.”

“Hey,” Belle sighed, smiling in return. There was no way there was enough time left on her break—even taking the rest of the day off wouldn’t suffice. 

David coughed, catching the changed air between them. “Well, now that I got the mobile squared away, I think I’ll be leaving. Thanks again, Gold.”

“You’ll be hearing from me,” he said automatically, eyes glued to Belle. He didn’t turn to watch David leave.

For that matter, Belle wasn’t inclined to do more than offer David a quick smile in goodbye when he passed her. She made quick work of flipping the closed sign and lock, before prancing up to the counter.

“Can you fit me in, Mr. Gold?”

“It’s quite short notice, Miss French. I’m afraid I have to charge a fee.” 

“And what would that be?” she asked slowly. She relished the way his eyes trailed down to her lips.

“Nothing too steep, I hope,” he said, leaning forward.

Belle happily met him for a sweet peck. When they parted, she bit her lip. No, there was not enough time in the world with this man.

“Tea, sweetheart?” Gold asked.

“I was thinking lunch? Maybe? Eventually.”

He raised an eyebrow, gaze darting to his locked door.

Belle cleared her throat. “Let’s talk in the back.”

“Talk, hm?” There was the beginning spark of mischief in his eyes as he swept the curtain aside, holding it for her pass by him.

“Yes. Talk.” Belle put on her most stern face. It was hard to keep up when he was smirking like that, when he popped his hip as he stood in the backroom, waiting for her first move.

She cleared her throat. “So,” Belle began. “I want to see your—cock.” 

She hoped she wasn’t blushing. It would be really silly if she were blushing, considering all the things they’d already said and done to each other. But Gold murmuring dirty things so sweetly into her ear while he moved in her felt vastly different when she tried to say the same things in the light of his backroom while they were still fully clothed.

Instead of cringing in secondhand embarrassment, Gold’s smirk deepened. “Do you, now?” He hooked his cane on the edge of the worktable and reached for her waist. Belle accepted the kiss, letting it deepen. She sucked his bottom lip until his wandering hands trailed to the zipper on her skirt.

Belle stepped away reluctantly, her hands running down Gold’s arms until she was loosely holding his hands—and it was with a huge amount of self-restraint that she didn’t abandon her plan right there and let him have his nefarious way with her.

“I mean, I want to actually see it.” Belle pushed her bottom lip out in a pout. Gold’s eyes strayed to her mouth longingly.

Gold turned their hands so his thumbs were rubbing circles into her wrists. The gentle movement belied his filthy smirk.

“You’ve seen me plenty,” he said.

“Yes, that’s true.” Belle trailed her eyes downward. “But, see, I had this completely random thought while I was doing something very important at the library,” she started.

“Reading on the job again, Miss French?”

“And,” she said, admitting nothing. “I realized I have never seen a hardening cock.” At least her  voice was steady, even if she had to dart her eyes away from his face.

Gold gave her a blank look, his thumbs pausing.

“I’ve seen you hard, but never how you got there,” Belle elaborated.

“Huh.” Gold thought on that as she took a deliberate step back, his hands brushing against hers as they let go. She then took another, until she could lean against his work table.

“If that’s what you want, I suppose I have no reason to say no.” Despite his confusion, he started to work at his belt buckle, so that was something.

“It really is,” Belle said, toes curling as she watched.

He got as far as unzipping his trousers before asking, “Do you mind if I sit for this?”

“Not at all,” she said, but Gold was already limping to the cot. He waved away her help as he settled, slipping off his jacket and placing it carefully on the pillow. He unbuttoned his waistcoat, folding it on the jacket. 

Next, he toed off his shoes, then toed them to the side so they wouldn’t get in the way. His fingers fidgeted with the top buttons of his shirt, not sure if that should go, too.

“The point is to be seen, yes?” He glanced at her, still against the table, but couldn’t hold her gaze. It dropped to his feet, and he focused on peeling off his socks instead.

“Do—do you not want to?” She thought they had gotten past his initial shyness; considering how often they’d seen each other naked, she thought this request would be easy.

Gold opened his mouth, but then seemed to think better of whatever he was going to say. “I guess you could say I’m not a fan of being scrutinized,” he finally admitted.

“I have already seen it,” she reminded him. “And I like how it looks when it’s hard. I only want to see how it gets there.”

“Do you?” Gold asked. 

“Yeah,” Belle said. If Belle were to rank the aesthetic appeal of a human body, a penis would rank near bottom—dicks were strange and beyond the obvious use for them Belle never understood their appeal. Not that she saw the point in mentioning that. 

She was still honest when she said: “It’s yours, that’s why I like it.” 

Gold, thankfully, believed her; he undid the trouser button, and lifted his hips so he could slide them and his briefs down his thighs, letting them pool at his ankles.

He smiled at her, and it was less the filthy smirk of minutes ago than the tender melting of his eyes, a soft tilt at the corner of his lips. A wonder (a privilege, an honor), that such a small assurance from her was enough to get him to look at her like that.

It was really, really hard for Belle not to walk over and straddle him. It would be the work of moments to push her panties aside and sink onto him like a rock at the bottom of an ocean. She just had to remember she wanted to see this through more. 

He spread his knees, welcoming her greedy eyes, but the tails of his silk shirt obscured his lap.

“You’re still hiding,” she accused.

He hid his grimace well with a smile that reached his eyes. Before Belle could offer an alternative, his hands were already sliding each button through the eyehole, and then his front was bared to her. 

Gold was a slim man by nature, his thin frame hinting at a wiry strength. His skin was smooth and tanned, framed by the shirt he left hanging off his shoulders, open. He was welcome to leave it on; the purple was a good color on him.

Belle was too far away. If she was going to watch the show, she needed a front row seat. Slowly, as if to keep from spooking a wild animal, she crouched to her hands and knees. Crawling was the work of moments in the cramped space of the backroom. She stopped as she reached the cradle of Gold’s knees, her eyes never leaving his cock.

He made a noise in his throat at her approach, and his cock gave an interested twitch, but otherwise stayed very pink and very soft.

Gold blew out a breath of air from his nose. She watched as he ran one hand down his stomach, over his hips, then cupped his sac underneath. Before his other could grab hold of the shaft, Belle stopped him.

“No hands,” she ruled, tapping his knee until he let go of himself. “I can’t see.”

Gold frowned. “How do you think this works?”

“I don’t know. It just happens, right?”

“Sometimes, yeah,” he said, shifting his hips.

A few moments passed.

“Aw, does he not like being put on the spot?”

Gold snorted. “Keep staring like that, it’ll perk up.”

Belle regarded his nethers curiously. “Usually you get hard so quickly. You’re almost always ready to go by the time I get your clothes off. It’s actually quite flattering.”

“Happy to please,” he murmured.

Belle had never been this close to his flaccid member before. It wasn’t exactly shriveled, but it was limp like a deflated balloon, pillowed on his balls, head pointed down. It humored her to see that it fit quite neatly on top of his scrotum, the dick being a little narrower, a little shorter—like nesting dolls.

Her gaze broadened slightly, taking in his spread thighs, the hair he kept trimmed, the V of his hips that stood prominent, despite the rounding belly above. Belle knew exactly how the skin below his belly button tasted, knew how he’d jolt in pleasure if she cupped his sack in her hand or trailed two fingers behind to tease at his perineum. 

“He is shy, isn’t he?” she said, her mouth feeling dry. She was getting impatient.

“Stop calling it a ‘he,’” Gold huffed, trying to smother his indulgent smile.

“Maybe I can help?”

“Your, ah, mouth, perhaps?” Gold said promptly, licking his lips. He spread his legs further, an invitation for her to settle between them.

It was a tempting offer. “I would feel it, not see it.” 

A fascinating sensation, surely—to put her mouth on his soft cock and feel it harden, lengthening against her tongue. How different would his skin-warm flesh feel before the blood warmed it further? Would the heat of him burn her? And if she palmed his balls, if he thrust his hips, how long until he grew too big to fit completely in her mouth?

Belle leaned forward on her hands, watching him twitch. “Next time, definitely,” she promised.

“Your breasts, then,” 

She realized then that she had him at a disadvantage, what with being fully clothed while Gold was very nearly naked. And that sent something through her, didn’t it, a heat that was as familiar as her hands. She was warm before, but now felt a blaze alight under her skin, right in her groin.

They could play with that later. Belle started to undo the buttons on her blouse, pulling at the fabric to release it from the waistband of her skirt. She’d leave it on though, like his was. Her bra was not front latching; she shrugged the straps down her shoulders, then pushed the cups down. She wished, not for the first time, that she was better endowed. Never would her breasts be described as being contained by her bras; they were comfortably blanketed.

From the look of rapture on Gold’s face, he didn’t mind. His hands were squeezing his knees, likely to keep from pulling her closer and ruining her game. His eyes were dark and hungry, focused entirely on her chest.

Belle bit her lip, cupping herself in her hands, pushing the mounds up and then together. At his groan of approval, she flicked her nipples with her thumbs. The welcoming pull that sent through her was almost enough to close her eyes, but she couldn’t forget her purpose.

Her eyes trailed down, back to Gold’s cock. Was it bigger than it was, moments ago? She pinched her nipples, pulling them out, then pushing in, leaning into the movement. The jolt was deeper than her belly; she could feel it right in her cunt. She couldn’t keep her mouth from opening in a silent gasp of pleasure, but her eyes stayed focused on Gold.

And there, finally—he began to swell, his cock growing and lifting off his balls as it filled with his hot blood. Slowly, it came to swing between them, long and hard. If he gave his length a pull or two (with a slight twist at the head that she knew he favored), maybe it would fall back against his belly, sitting as he was.

 And wasn’t that an idea.

“Did you know erections produced from oral sex are longer than erections without?” she asked without thinking.

His answering laugh was surprised, short. His eyes, still dark, still heated, melted somewhat into a look of complete adoration.

“If you want it longer, by all means,” he panted.

Belle hummed, eyes scanning up and down his length carefully. The skin was flushed like the sky at sunset; the tip darker than the peach at the base.

“You’re already perfect,” she decided, leaning forward to press a sweet kiss to the tip. Her tongue flicked over him, teasing inside his slit.

His hips twitched, and he released a rush of breath at the contact that turned into a moan of disappointment when instead of taking him into her mouth, she leaned back on her heels.

Belle gave him an encouraging smile, mischief dancing in her eyes. “Go on, then.”

He looked at her blankly. “What?”

“I want to watch.”

“Watch what?”

“What do you think?”

She hadn’t had a plan when she first walked into the shop. Nothing concrete beyond asking for what he so delightfully just delivered. But the view was too good to pass up, and ordering him around sent such a delicious thrill down her spine. Belle settled back on her heels, expectant.

Gold’s throat bobbed. His hand loosely gripped his shaft. He took to this request with a surprising but welcomed ardor.

“There’s lotion. In that drawer." He nodded to the cabinet by his chair.

“Unscented?” she teased, slipping off her heels before standing up. She didn’t trust herself to walk in a straight line in this state.

She found the bottle near the front, brandishing it proudly when she turned back to face him. “The question is—” she started.

While she was digging through the drawer, Gold had freed his ankles from his trousers, his shoulders and arms from his shirt. He now sat bare and hard on the cot. Belle froze—couldn’t help but stare.

“Take a picture,” he teased. “It’ll last longer.”

“Maybe I should,” Belle murmured. “Give me something to keep me warm when you leave me cold and alone in my apartment.”

Gold whined. He held his hand out for the lotion, and when Belle gave it to him, he grasped her hand in his, turning it so he could press a hard, needy kiss to the palm of her hand.

“I love your cock,” Belle said, getting comfortable at his feet. “I don’t tell you enough, just how much.”

He whined again, fumbling with the bottle. When he was lubed, he wasted no time wrapping a hand around himself. To Belle’s delight, he started slow, with firm strokes. His other hand cupped his balls, fondling himself as he stared at her with open want.

“It’s so hard and thick. I love how it feels in my hand, how it tastes in my mouth.” The words came much easier than before. Gold leaned forward slightly, desperate to hear them. “And especially my wet, hungry cunt.”

Belle was wiggling her hips before she realized she had started tweaking her nipples again. Fuck, but she wanted him so much. She could feel the moisture that had seeped into the gusset of her panties. 

She spread her legs wider, giving herself more purchase to run her hand up and down her thighs and then hike up her skirt. As Gold twisted his hand at his tip, she pushed her panties aside so she could swirl her fingers through her moist curls. 

Gold’s grip was firm as his hand gripped his cock and he pumped it a little faster up and down, watching Belle the entire time. “Fuck, Belle,” he moaned when she used two of her fingers to open her cunt lips, showing him how wet he made her.

Smooth and musky, she could smell her scent mixing with his, and she inhaled deeply, wanting more of it. 

He squeezed his erection, hand tightened on his balls, and Gold watched, rapt, as Belle slipped a finger inside of herself, where she desperately wanted him; his fingers, his tongue, his hard cock. 

He was leaking precum, could see it glistening on his fingers. She pictured him sliding against her labia, how it felt to grind against his shaft. Her thumb pressed gently across her hard clit, finger pinching and twisting her nipple. She watched his hand work himself, matching his pace as she added another finger.

“Belle, love,” he panted in answer, stroking himself harder and faster, listening to her sweet moans as she brought herself closer and closer to orgasm. She knew he was close, could almost see his cum boiling in his sac.

Gold’s eyes stayed trained on her cunt, to the gushy slide of her fingers and fuck, she can practically feel herself dripping on his hardwood floor. She gasped, cunt squelching at the image of making him lick it up.

She made a sound, drawn out and low, as her fingers curled in her just there. She desperately tried to keep her eyes open, to keep watching as Gold fisted his cock, and she nearly succeeded. Wave after wave rushed through her, and she felt electric and loved and beautiful. With a final gasp, she fell forward, catching herself on Gold’s good knee.

His movement had slowed at her orgasm, but picked up with a frenzy when she sucked her fingers into her mouth with a happy hum.

“Belle, please,” he cried, desperate. “Please, fuck.”

“Anything,” she promised, looking up at him with hooded eyes, mouth already watering at the thought of swallowing him down.

“Your chest,” he said. “Please, please, may I?—”

Belle blinked, surprised, but straightened enough so she could settle in front of his frantic hand. His eyes were glued to her tits as she bared herself, making sure her shirt and bra were out of the way.

The first ropey splash at her collar bone made her toes curl, the warmth surprising her more than it should. The second, the third, accompanied by a low groan. Gold squeezed his cock in one hand, cradled his scrotum in the other, making sure every last drop was wrung from him.

Belle felt the cum cool even as it dripped down her chest, but she wasn’t paying much mind to it, not when the lines had disappeared around his mouth, when he was so lovely and content, the sweat making his hair stick to his face. 

Their eyes caught, and he smiled. Belle let the laughter burst from her, and she ran her hands up and down the insides of his thighs, kissing his knee.

She was probably hours late to the library. Her clothes were disheveled and if she got cum on her shirt she was going to die of embarrassment, but she didn’t care. She was laughing with the man she loved, who loved her back.

“This is called something,” she said, when her laugh subsided. Her cheeks hurt from smiling, her knees felt a little raw from kneeling unprotected. She felt better than she had all week.

“Ah, a necklace, of some sort.” His hands found hers on his thighs. He laced their fingers together.

“Opal necklace, was it?”

“Pearl, I think,” Gold said. The crow's feet at his eyes crinkled. It suited him, this contentment. The blush of his orgasm was clearing up, his cock drooping down again, yet he kept the rosy glow, the liquid adoration in his eyes.

“That’s right,” she murmured. With her finger, Belle smeared some of the mess across her collar bone, careful to miss her blouse. “You’ve given me a pearl necklace.”

It was getting tacky. It’d dry soon. She wondered what it would feel like to have to peel it off her skin. She had to admit, the image was a lot less fun than how it was put there.

Gold watched her fingers, chest rumbling with a sound that wasn’t quite a growl. “I’ll buy you real pearls. As many as you want.”

He’d look at her the same, she knew; whether she was spread out on a bed wearing nothing but a dozen strings of pearls, or here in the back of his shop with her shirt hastily opened, her skirt hiked up around her hips.

“I’d rather you make me dinner,” Belle decided. She pushed herself up just enough to press a kiss to the side of his mouth. 

With an anchoring hand on the back of her neck, he took her hand—the one she’d used to finger herself, the one smeared with his cum—brought it to his lips and sucked them into his mouth. 

Belle could only sigh in approval as his tongue licked her clean. When he finished, he placed an open-mouthed kiss below her collarbone, sucking in her skin, their moans mingling as he cleaned her there, too.

Soon her chest was wet and sticky with his saliva and what cum he hadn’t licked up. She was quite pink, too, from his love bites. With a final kiss over her heart, Gold reached over to his suit jacket so he could pull the handkerchief from the front pocket and started in on the mess still on her chest.

“No, you’ll ruin the silk,” Belle protested half-heartedly.

Instead of answering, he flashed her a crooked smile. 

“I’m making fish tonight. With broccoli and potatoes. You should come.”

“But it’s your week with Bae.” She hadn’t been serious about dinner, at least not immediately so.

“The lad should get used to you being around, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think he likes me much,” she said, chewing on her lip.

“He doesn’t know you well, is all.” He kissed her temple. “You tend to flitter off every time he shows up. He thinks you’re avoiding him.” Anxiety had creeped into the corner of his eyes, dimming the warmth.

“I’m trying to respect his boundaries,” she said weakly.

She liked Bae; it was hard not to. But she was also keenly aware that Gold was the stable parent, and that the life of a single father and his teenaged son might not always have room for her. But perhaps that was a tad short-sighted. There would never be room for her if she didn’t stick around long enough to get comfortable.

“Come to dinner, Belle.”

She hummed. “What kind of potatoes?” 

“Roasted,” he said. He kissed her below her jaw. “With garlic and herbs.”

“And for dessert?” she asked, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, skin still bared and warm.

“I’m sure we’ll think of something when Bae goes to bed.” He caught her mouth in a kiss, swallowing her laugh as it bubbled from her chest.

#rumbelle fic #rumbelle #smut

[notoriousjae]

Love is a Little Box (For Home to Lay Inside) || Edeleth Fanfic (1/?)

Chapter Title: A Heart

Pairing: Byleth Eisner (F)/ Edelgard von Hresvelg

Rating: M

Chapter Description:

She’s read about Happiness: it’s the thing people lose in war; the emotion that sparks up the edges of their lips into a smile, or fills them with contentment when faced with something they’ve done that’s good ; it’s the emotion that everyone fights for and searches for as desperately as love, just as elusive and fickle, or so it seems in books and operas and plays.

Chapter 1 (Current) | AO3 | Below:

It's a peaceful day in Garreg Mach.

The sun catches along the lightly swelling waves of a familiar pond, wrinkles in blue caused by the light winds dancing Sothis’ fingertips along its surface. It’s hard to know whether Sothis was a Goddess but it’s  easy  to imagine that contradictory carefully carefree  smile full of restraint and curiosity as small hands skimmed along the ripples of the pond in the heart of Garreg Mach, feeling moisture beneath palms--learning what water might feel like, again, for the both of them.

You need to experience things, Sothis would say and Byleth would experience them, because she had never known to experience them, before. 

Or maybe Sothis would just...hover behind Byleth’s shoulder as she watched a line bob for an hour before she yawned, disappearing into the cold of a tomb she’s made in a baby’s chest that became the casket nestled in a woman’s.

It’s easy, too, to understand why people think Sothis is  everywhere , because Byleth feels her, still. In the air...and the wind...and the water--

They were both familiar with the pond at Garreg Mach and a sense of... something--easy; warm; familiar?--stirs quietly in Byleth’s chest as she watches the pond and thinks of green eyes and hair and soft fingertips before she hears paper rustle a little behind her.

The feeling transforms a little like that tomb had.

“You know, Edelgard,” Byleth hums, chin dipping over her shoulder to watch her--a rare moment where  both of them happen to actually be in the same place without a need for something sharp and pointy (or a strategic exit). “Fishing is a tactician’s game.” 

Edelgard chuckles quietly to herself but looks up from her book all the same. Edelgard having time to read is probably rarer than them sharing time together, at all, and pulling her from it makes Byleth feel--

Hmm…

Her chin tips up in thought. It makes her... feel …

Edelgard interrupts.

“Is that so?” 

Byleth nods, serious, and watches the way red fabric shifts as Edelgard turns to listen to her--to watch her--with the same rapt attention she had as a student, and still keeps to date in the war council. 

“They say it’s chess, but that’s not the case.”

“They say that because chess is the tactical routing of an opponent. It’s meant to  mimic  a battlefield.” The Emperor practically quotes from the  tactician’s guide and Byleth watches the breeze skirt over the surface of the water and wonders if Sothis would have fondly chuckled, but the only sound she hears is the water and the idle, far-away chatting of a few soldiers.

How would Edelgard feel, knowing a Goddess was so fond of her?

Byleth shakes her head.

“How many battlefields have you been on, El?” 

“Countless.”

“How many battlefields resembled the neatly-drawn lines of a chessboard, where everyone took turns and you could predict your opponent’s attacks with statistics and  math?” 

“...none.” Edelgard looks pained to admit, begrudging, sighing as she tucks her book at her hip. 

“Chess is just…” Byleth’s head tips, “...the memorization of strategies. You’re not creating anything new. When you’re facing someone in chess, you’re...just applying the most appropriate thing you’ve memorized that you can think of for that moment for the situation in front of you and hoping it works.” 

“Alright.” And Edelgard stands, then, setting her book upon the bench, armored boots clicking as she walks along the stone towards the pond with that same studious look, hands settling on hips. Maybe one of these days they’ll both be comfortable enough fishing and reading and relaxing to do it without wearing armor. “Then what is  fishing ?”

“Fun.” At Byleth’s amused look, Edelgard tutts and steps closer, obviously not having appreciated being  baited over to the pier. She likely also wouldn't approve of the pun a little too similar to Alois' (and Petra's, lately) so Byleth keeps it to herself. A little more serious, “Are you sure you want to know? You don’t enjoy fishing. But I'm always okay teaching you.”

“You are currently the most renowned tactician Fódlan has ever seen. It could be argued you are a key point in elevating the war campaign into a rousing victory. If I have a chance to learn  how that wonderful mind of yours ticks, I’d be remiss not to take it for the betterment of the Empire.”

“...you could have just said yes.” Brows knit, head barely tipping to the side--no longer teasing--and Byleth cuts off Edelgard’s undoubtedly annoyed reply. She doesn’t have to divinely intimate it’s coming to see it on parted lips, “Not everything needs such a complicated reason, El. If you’d like to learn, let yourself learn. You don’t have to explain your motivations just because people have questioned them in the past. And you don’t always have to do things to make you  better , it’s fine to just fish. Although," A thoughtful look, "You’ll probably learn something in the process, anyways.”

Maybe Byleth has spent too much time answering the notes in the confessional.

“You’ll teach me to the end, won’t you?” It’s fonder--softer. Edelgard purses lips before letting the criticism settle, nodding. “Then...yes, Byleth.” Byleth smiles and Edelgard’s shoulders visibly lose the last of their tension when she quietly smiles back. “I...suppose I  would  like to learn. Especially since it’s something you take such an interest in.”

Edelgard slowly unhooks gauntlets about wrists, setting them to the side, white gloves underneath catching the sunlight like melted snow.

“Fishing,” Byleth nods before reeling in the line. “Is a  real  battlefield. It’s long moments of waiting followed by sharp, tense moments of excitement. Everything is planning. You find fish like you scout your battlefield--” Once the line is reeled, she hands the pole to Edelgard, whose nose wrinkles only a  little at the feeling of her gloves getting wet. 

Unlike most nobles, after all, Edelgard doesn’t mind dirt and muck and mud--she had been covered in them for years. Battlefields weren’t glamorous.

(Neither was fishing).

And so Byleth feels her chest swell with... something  as the other woman totes up the rod, ready to learn, like she had picked up a lance in lessons. Not proficient with it, but  willing . 

A challenge.

“So we scout our enemies--what do you see in front of you?” Byleth steps behind her and scans the horizon over her shoulder.

“A pond. I see a ripple in the corner--” A true general starts, “The wind is shifting the current  towards  me, so I’ll likely have to adjust how I throw my line in order to hit my target.” Her chin tips backwards and looks to her professor, who nods, encouraging. “The light is hitting the right side of the pond, and will fade across it in an hour, creating warmth for the fish, and they’ll likely follow it. They’ll stay below the surface because they’ll want to avoid predators. Or my professor’s  infamous rod and net, which catches anything under its shadow.” 

“You approach things like a soldier.” There’s a knowing praise on her lips and Edelgard straightens just a little beneath it, “And a leader of troops. You’ve noted some important things, Edelgard, which are good to trap the fish in this moment...but we need to think of the bigger picture. What else do you see? What do you hear? What do you smell?” 

Light brows knit as an Emperor once more takes in the blue, glistening pit that’s become her battlefield. 

Byleth leans forward to gently wrap fingers around her wrist, guiding the shorter woman backwards so that she can mimic her eyes with her own, listening to the faint gasp of breath that catches on lips before Edelgard seems to focus, determined, now. 

A professor settles her chin on Edelgard’s shoulder, far more familiar in touching this student in particular, these days. 

Rare, but...familiar.

And the way Edelgard eases just a little into her reminds Byleth that sometimes the rarest of things are welcome. 

“What matters to people on a battlefield?” 

“The same as what matters to people founding cities: food, shelter, water, and safety.” Edelgard immediately replies. 

“So what matters to fish? Your goal is to trap the enemy and reel them in--what might stand in your way of that?” 

“I see…” Realization floods that calm voice, Edelgard’s head moving about as she takes in the pond in a seemingly new light. “The monastery. It’s...four o’clock, coming into five, and that path on the left will be tread by the church service let out. They’ll be noisy and their footfalls will probably disturb the pond. The squires like to come here to throw rocks on Wednesdays, and the washing happens in the corner. They’ll be pushed into the middle of the pond, even though the light will be on the West end of it. And I smell…” Edelgard’s nose wrinkles. “...fish soup? How is that relevant? Are they scared of their fate?” 

It’s... nice to hear Edelgard joke.

“Rain.” Byleth offers knowingly. “You can taste the condensation on the air, if you can't smell it.”

“How could you smell that over the kitchens?” 

Byleth shrugs, stomach idly grumbling because she  does smell the kitchens. 

“Is this...how you look at everything?” Edelgard is looking over her shoulder, now, close enough that Byleth smells far more of her hair than the rain and it’s a welcome change. She could smell the clouds over the food, but Byleth isn’t sure anything but Edelgard could ever fill her lungs, in this moment. “Is this how you see battlefields?” 

“Yes.” Hands curve gently over the rod, raising fingers to paint a grid in the pond where Violet eyes can follow, “It’s  real  chess. You’re good with strategy when you’re expecting it. You can plan in advance and are great facing adversity on the battlefield as a soldier--you’re always quick to react--but a battlefield is never as clean as chess. We both know that.” 

She feels fingers flex beneath her own, gripping the rod not out of being corrected, but vigor.

“I see.” And Edelgard  has  always been good with critique--with that infinite urge to  strive further --and there’s that tightness in Byleth’s chest, again. Warm and soothing, pressing herself against the flat of Edelgard’s back. 

She hadn't thought holding someone could be so comfortable.

“You shouldn’t be...picking a strategy to go up against whatever opposing strategy you  think  you're seeing on the battlefield, hoping the one you picked is better." 

“I... should  be thinking of how they respond, and naturally taking in the world and their needs. You’re saying I shouldn’t just assume they’ll react tactically--but...naturally and true to themselves?” 

“Exactly. Everyone has a primal urge--it’s true there’s...math and statistics, and we can always take two strategies and see which path people will be most  likely  to take, because the truth is that  most people are just as skittish as these fish. If I toss a rock into the pond, they’ll flee to the other side, because we know they’re scared of it--it’s something they’ll avoid. But not everyone is as scared as a fish.”

“Many enemies are...noble. Are fighting because they believe in the opposition of your own wants and desires.” Edelgard quietly agrees and Byleth nods. 

“So if you  identify  your enemy’s needs and desires--what they think is important, whether the rain will make them move, whether the light will keep them warm, whether the noise will scare them--you’ll know which way they’ll go, and you’ll know what they do. And then you go fishing.” 

“I see.” Edelgard repeats, quieter, now, watching the pond for a moment before she asks, “Is that why you--” A rare pause and it sounds like she might think over the question before redirecting, or maybe rewording. It’s interesting enough for Byleth to lean back and watch her, fully. “...spared Flayn?” A moment passes before she continues, “We were surrounded by soldiers with the city on fire and I  trusted you, I never hesitated to accept your choice in sparing her, but I didn’t understand, then, that it might have been…” She shakes her head, and this is one of those moments where she wonders if there’s a question behind the words. Edelgard is full of layers, she’s found, and while Byleth has learned so many of them, she feels there’s so many more to be found. A woman of secrets, all tucked away in a hidden box Byleth has yet to fully find. “Was it a tactical decision?”

A bare hand comes up to rest on Edelgard’s shoulder in thought, still pressed against her back as she thinks--lets the question settle before nodding. 

“Yes. And no. Our enemies aren’t the only fish.” Byleth offers, “Flayn...didn’t have to die. Neither did Seteth. The best battles are the ones where you minimize casualties on both sides,” Her head dips to the side, remembering the heat on her shoulders. Her back. Remembering the way she had barely cupped Edelgard’s palm in curling fingers after the fighting in a rickety war tent on the outskirts of the battle, the puckered flesh of hands beneath gauntlets singed through and burnt along the metal of Aymr in the flames. The healing waves from Byleth’s fingertips had turned them into slivers of scars beneath red grieves--two more to match thousands that litter ivory skin. 

She remembers the way Flayn had coughed, the smoke settled in both their lungs, fingers curled and bloodied into the tuft of a Pegasus’ quaking wings, matted with soot and blood. Both of them panting wisps of heat. Weak.

We’re family , she had said once, but looked at Byleth with nothing short of sadness, then. Not betrayal, just...sadness.

Perhaps that’s what family filled in people: hope, sadness, and loss in equal measure. That’s how Byleth remembers Jeralt. It's how she remembers Sitri.

It's how she remembers Rhea.

Byleth mulls over the words--the odd...ache that the memory fills in her chest--the worried gratitude that had settled on Edelgard’s features, after the fight. A look she’d seen several times, over the years, when Byleth had chosen  Edelgard and life over a church’s firm thumb.

The Emperor of Fódlan, cloaked in red and black and on her knees in the soot, didn’t want the world to die (despite what some apparently claimed) and the moment Byleth offered someone might be spared, Edelgard always took the chance with equal parts relief and trepidation.

Just because war had been the only way didn't mean death truly was.

This thought, it-- feels--

“They needed an escape route. They needed to know that our battle was righteous, not  wicked,  I guess. To use...whatever words the Church probably used. If we took them, we took the battle, and we would demoralize the troops. But it isn’t always about killing. If we killed Flayn, Seteth would have been...inconsolable. He would have become a danger to fight, and he was already dangerous--we didn’t  need  to fight him. Some fires are better to...put out quickly, than let them burn and spread. Some fires are  supposed to burn, but...not that one.” 

Her brows knit and she’s surprised when Edelgard turns Byleth’s chin towards her own, something unreadable in her eyes. 

And Edelgard waits, simply holding her for this brief moment, like she knows there’s more, because there is.

“ And  I didn’t want her to die.” Byleth says simply, only to her--only in this safe quiet of a courtyard--and the woman who she intends to spend  all days like this with, who nods as fingertips curl beneath Byleth's chin. 

“How did you know they wouldn’t retaliate when you let them go? That they wouldn’t go back to Rhea?” Edelgard quietly presses. 

“I didn’t, I guess...but I know my fish.” Byleth looks back towards the pond. 

“Which is why we won.” Edelgard surmises. “Our initial strategy was outmatched when we arrived. And your responding strategy on the battlefield to split up and focus our forces around the fire--sparing key combatants... that’s  what won.” And she sounds almost  praising  when she says, a little in awe, “You didn’t just choose a strategy or response, you...went fishing.”

“A tactician’s game.” Byleth’s voice skirts along her ear and Edelgard eases backwards against her enough that she can wrap an arm fully around a slim waist, now.

This information seems to cement Edelgard's drive.

“What do we do next?”

“We take all of that into account and cast the line.” 

And so Byleth shows her the technical aspects of fishing--of how to throw and cast and reel in, despite the elements of noise and wind and heat. Shows her how to tactically assume where the fish might try to escape upon being caught on a line--how to pull it and unhook it without harming it and kill it the quickest way possible. She tells her about bait, and how to read shadows, and how to choose a fishing spot--

“So you just...stand here and  wait for it to bite?”

“Like waiting for a charge on a battlefield. See? The anticipation--” Byleth lightly tickles her stomach and Edelgard chuckles and bats away her hands and Edelgard listens to every word, until she stands on her own and reels in a smacking fish that flops against her knee with no guidance, a few hours later.

Ever the quick study. 

The warmth spreads through a chest still so unaccustomed to it and settles in her lungs and fills her so deeply that Byleth has to pull away to look at the happiness on Edelgard’s face. 

Proud. Edelgard looks proud.

This feeling is...startling.

“I’ve forgotten how marvelous you were at teaching, Professor. Unorthodox, as always, but still so phenomenally proficient.” Edelgard  hums , careful to unhook the fish exactly as shown, shaking away water and the scent from her fingertips before slipping back on gloves. And then turns her attention up to said professor. “You look yalms away.” It’s softer and Byleth slowly looks up from fingertips to familiar eyes, that warmth pressing against her chest...consuming. Distracting.

Her face contorts in confusion and she shakes her head.

Does she look far away?

“...I’m sorry--” 

“Are you alright?” It’s even gentler, barely heard over the wind and the soft sound of the rain starting to gently patter about their feet and the fish in its bucket full of water in deep plops, and the pond where the fish scatter from its cold intrusion. Edelgard steps closer and Byleth nods.

“I’m...fine.”

“What is it?” It’s an invitation and Byleth must visibly hesitate because Edelgard steps closer, still, careful--

“I…” A huff of breath through lips, feeling-- feeling  -- “I just...  felt something, is all.”

“What do you mean?” Edelgard is rare with her affection on the grounds but fingertips raise up to gently brush ragged bangs from Byleth’s eyes. This is the closest she’s felt all month, even a moment ago in her arms, and an ache churns in Byleth’s stomach. It’s a testament to how much a student changed over the years, because she asks instead of assuming she knows the best recourse: “Are you in any pain? Do you want me to call for Manue--”

“No. No, it’s nothing like that. I felt--” Brows still knit and, words failing her, Byleth gently takes Edelgard’s hand and lowers it to her heart, where its weak thud aches (and aches) up towards the warmth of familiarity. Presses a palm of white against the black-cloaked, hidden place that used to be so  still. It stirs like coal simmering beneath ashes, vibrating fingertips and her chest and her throat. It beats so steadily that Byleth might think it would scare those fish away. “I  felt something. New.”

“Oh.” The realization settles deep in widening violet.

“Maybe not  new , just...different. It all feels…”

Different.

Edelgard’s fingers splay over heart and Byleth’s breath catches, looking away.

“Do you know what it was?” 

“No. It felt...like--” A tongue darts over lips before she tries-- “I’m still--” It feels so odd to say--to  admit --out loud.

“You can tell me.” El promises, leaning closer so that it’s just them standing in the soft, gentle rain, neither of them minding. For the moment, at least, their voices barely heard over the sky’s gentle cry. Byleth hesitates. “My teacher…” El whispers in her ear, “They’re  our  problems, remember? You’ve taught  me  so much, the least I can do is help you untangle  this.” 

“I’m…” Byleth eases tense muscles beneath Edelgard’s fingertips, wordlessly lifting up her cloak to shield them from the rain, “I’m still learning what all of them mean. It’s like...waking up and trying to remember a dream. I’ve...I think I’ve  felt  these things before. I’ve just never felt them so...” Her head tilts to the side, “...  strongly.” 

“And what do you feel now?” 

It’s started to rain a bit more, gentle, graceful drops. The kind that makes the grass smell like dew and hides the scent of enemies in a battlefield, even if it helps make their tracks clearer due to the mud their boots will sink into after it's settled, trapped.

The kind that makes Edelgard’s hair stick to her chin, if they’re out in it long enough, framing the curving edges of her smile on the unlikely occasion it’s only them en route to a mission or a skirmish or a battlefield.

Or fishing by a pond in Garreg Mach.

Byleth pulls up her cloak enough to block out the rain from Edelgard's eyes.

“I don’t know.”

“Alright.” Edelgard pulls enough away to see her in the shadows of the black cloak surrounding them, looking thoughtful and determined for a moment before she tries, “Then what...did it feel  like ? What were you thinking? What did you want, in the moment?” 

“I don’t know.” Byleth admits, trying to sort it through, calm and methodical, “...it was... good .” A little more certain, mulling it over before she repeats, firmer: “It was good.”

“Good.” El sounds relieved in a way likely only Byleth and Hubert would be able to hear of it in her voice. 

“Warm. I was watching you fish and I was thinking of how much you’ve  grown as a person, and into who I knew you could be, and how...” Her head tips upwards, thinking of the way Edelgard had looked at her own catch, realizing: “...proud of you I am.”

El blinks, rain tickling down cheeks to Byleth’s chin before she quietly...smiles. Beautiful. And the warmth is there but  different  , again. Spreading.  Aching . 

“You felt  proud of me?”

“I...yes. I  feel  ,” Byleth settles on, a little more sure--a little more confident and sturdy--meeting Edelgard’s eyes with her second resolute nod, “  Proud of you.” 

Byleth has read about pride. It’s the emotion that precedes arrogance in novels--the emotion that can heat someone’s palms to war; It’s the emotion that swells up in a lover’s chest when they watch the eye of their heart succeed, or a mother when their child writes a song and defies them to sing it to a nation; it’s many people’s downfall. Heroes. Villains. People.

It’s Byleth’s success, as a teacher. And...the woman who feels for Edelgard as she does.

“Byleth…” El softens and beneath the thin weight of Byleth’s coat, which must seem like safety enough from prying eyes and the scattered fish, she leans up to kiss her cheek, near the edge of lips, and the breath rattles in an Emperor’s lungs before it pushes out between them, steady and warm. Her voice rumbles like quiet thunder in the distance, but Byleth's never seemed safer beneath it, “Who I am, today, is because of you, I think you have  reason to be proud.” 

“You’re giving me  too much credit.” Byleth murmurs, dismissing, and Edelgard kisses her again, near the other edge of barely curved lips, the sound of a fish flopping in the bucket next to them missed beneath the rain.

“My love,” Edelgard doesn’t laugh, but she does  smile in her wry amusement, and that warmth burns and burns and burns in Byleth’s cool chest, “You don’t give yourself enough.” 

Pride

Byleth knows this word, but didn’t understand its meaning. 

Not until Edelgard taught her.

“Next time you feel something new, you should tell me,” El offers, “We can sort it through, together. However confusing it might be, certainly it’s no rival for our combined wits.” Byleth thinks on it for a long moment before she nods and looks down towards Edelgard's first catch. “For now...why don't we cook tonight's dinner?" 

The cloak lowers as Byleth pauses, an almost shy smile tucking up the edges of lips before it smooths into something calm, "Sure. We'll cook it together." 

There's many things Edelgard rouses pride in her Professors' chest. Her passion and compassion--her intellect and deduction--her triumphs and the way she's learned humbled, and with dedication, from her failures--her fishing and, perhaps, most of all...her smile. 

Edelgard seems determined to add  her cooking to that list and while Byleth has a staunch feeling that today will not be that day, she finds herself...excited(? Hopeful? Pleased?) at all the days they can spend finding out.

(Even if she always makes sure the Head Cook sets aside a separate meal for them, just in case).

Byleth leans over to pick up a small little wooden box off the bench and later that evening, slides Edelgard's first hook inside.

----

In truth to their vows to each other in the Goddess Tower, they become a unified front. Although Byleth is unsurprised by the fact that this means not much  changes in their lives (outside of winning a war) because they were a unified front, before.

In strategy, battle, and tactics--in facing their enemies and their friends--but maybe... some things are different.

Like the nearly shy looks Edelgard sends Byleth’s way when no one is looking--or their moments, after the long days have set to night and the war counsel empties to two, that they sit and discuss what future might await them on the horizon, just out of reach but growing closer by the day. 

‘I’ve always wanted to go to Albinea’  ,  El’s wistful hum is lost in the quiet of the room, echoing around them as she leans up against the table they once had lessons on. Byleth’s arms cross as she leans next to her, their hips resting comfortably side-by-side as they have for the past two and a half years.

Byleth wouldn’t be surprised if El insisted the past   eight    years.

Time has passed, since the war, but she’s learned it doesn’t stop. Not anymore. Then again, it never   stopped    for Byleth--it only ever folded backwards in on itself like a rumpled shirt or sifted through her fingertips like sand she’d intended to throw into the eyes of an attacker, but lost to the ground, instead.

‘Me too.’ Byleth’s hand idly scratches nails along her chest and she lets out a small breath when she feels Edelgard’s fingers barely skim along the inside of her wrist, both of them hovering over her heart. ‘Maybe we can go there, when this is all over with.’

‘Let’s.’ And El smiles and that feeling...   blooms    and Byleth’s hand stills along her heart and Edelgard stills along with it. A curious look must have settled on Byleth’s face, because the next thing she knows--

‘...perhaps you’re feeling...hopeful.’ Edelgard boldly offers, shifting a little closer and Byleth’s eyes flick down to her lips. 

‘Is   that  what I feel?’ 

‘That’s up to you to say.’

‘Hopeful.’ She tastes before the summoning bell rings above them and they pull away.

Edelgard’s fingers linger in her own before they untwine, walking down the hall hip-by-hip towards the tower, their knuckles brushing with each step.

The moments are still rare, but they seek them out, now, the light from the sky catching along Edelgard’s ring before a glove is slid over fingertips.

Hope.

(Maybe not all futures must wait until after the shadows are scattered by light).

And hip-by-hip is how they tackle a professor’s removed, textbook examination of her own heart with Edelgard’s life experience (what she  has of it), slowly sorting out the feelings that have begun to stir in Byleth’s chest. 

They’ve both been removed from emotions for so long, maybe it’s nice for Edelgard to find them, too.

What is this feeling? Byleth learns to murmur in the air by Edelgard’s ear, and they’ll arrive at a conclusion, together. 

‘Contentment’ in the early morning as Byleth sets tea down on the soft, rustling white cloth in the gardens, watching the steam curve around Edelgard’s smile like hair caught around her cheek in the rain, their wrists creeping towards each other beneath the chipped porcelain that’s survived far more than a war--something soft and settling like fresh linens on a bed Byleth is still getting used to sleeping on; 

‘Disappointment’ in the moments their fingers touch and are pulled away by duty, the sound of their quiet laughter lingering throughout the stone halls similar to how the cathedral used to catch Dorothea’s voice as it rang throughout--aching and quiet as Byleth watches Edelgard’s smile fade into something serious and resolute; 

‘ Amusement ’ Edelgard wryly comments as Lindhardt successfully spars Caspar by continuously ruffling his hair with a sleepy grin and a yawning, batting hand--fluttering like a bird’s wings against her ribcage, bouncing about bars waiting to break free; 

‘ Sadness ?’ She asks Edelgard in a guess when the Emperor finds her in the courtyard overlooking a great chasm, her father’s and mother’s gravestones stalwart bastions against its empty void, as if they’re holding Garreg Mach’s penetrable walls of stone and lost faith from falling into the endless dark gravel below--muted and constant, a dull ache. It lessens, somehow, when Edelgard’s rare open touch skirts along her hip and rests along her stomach, guiding Byleth backwards against her chest.   

Soon, Byleth has experience to back the names of emotions she’s read about and dully felt and Edelgard, ever one to rise to a challenge, has stepped behind her professor without a second thought, trying to answer the questions of a quiz before her. 

“Joy?” Edelgard tries as Byleth’s fingertips run along the edge of a flower, blue hair spilling over shoulders and head tilted to the side in thought as she calmly regards El’s determination. 

Thinks it through.  No. It doesn’t sound right.

“I don’t think so.” She shakes her head, fingers curving beneath the edge of a flower, not wishing to disturb the small bird fluttering around the surface, lips barely pursing in thought.

She’s been in the Greenhouse for an hour, or so, watching this small little blue bird bat from leaf to leaf of a plant she’s been growing, fingers scratching thoughtlessly at her heart.

Byleth hadn’t asked what the emotion was, but Edelgard took it upon herself to find out, regardless.

“Contentment.” Edelgard tries again, brows furrowed in deep thought, herself, the leader of a ruthless strike force and a now-impervious Empire. It’s a tactical strategy--Edelgard had initially tried to talk it through with Byleth to see what she was feeling, what it reminded her of--

‘It’s a bird. I just see a   bird  , Edelgard.’

‘That’s not exactly helpful, Professor.’

--before talking through some of the more base aspects of what was stirring in Byleth’s chest.

‘ Well...is it positive?’  

‘It’s...good, I think.’

When nothing else followed, Edelgard had sighed.

And then did what any leader might do: try to find a solution regardless of adequate facts, because it simply had to be done.

Peaceful?  No.  Nostalgic?  No.  Analytical?  No.  Joy?  No  --

And finally,  contentment , which like the ones before it, is met with a shake of the head. 

Edelgard frowns, the crease of it barely indenting between brows as she lays a hand against Byleth’s back, easing forward to look at the bird, herself.

At a loss and not admitting it, probably. Now  that  makes Byleth feel  amused . That fluttery little bird in her chest, far warmer than it had been watching Caspar and Linhardt. 

Most things are far warmer when she’s with Edelgard.

A cat by the doorway meows with what might be agreement and fingertips thoughtlessly curl around the stone of the planter’s box.

El hesitates before almost guiltily suggesting:  “...hungry?” 

“Hunger isn’t an emotion.” Byleth pauses, chin tipping up to look for Edelgard’s counsel, “It’s a need, isn’t it?” 

“Hmm, I suppose it is. And I might be disturbed if you wanted to eat a swallow you found in the garden.” 

“Mercenaries don’t have many choices, so I probably could. But if I  had to eat anything here, I’d rather have that squirrel up the tree.” Byleth’s lips barely tip upwards and the leader of Fódlan looks up towards the tree as if taking in the squirrel for the first time with a barely wrinkling nose.

“And I’m  still  disturbed by your sense of  humor  , my teacher.” But Edelgard smiles all the same, a hint of her competitiveness ebbing in light of the softness of the air in the garden as Byleth turns from the bird to brush a strand of hair from violet eyes--it had been tickling Byleth’s shoulder, given their close quarters, and was a little  annoying, but she doesn’t want it blocking Edelgard’s vision, either--fallen from a curving braid, tucking it behind that attentive ear. 

“Maybe some emotions don’t have names.” Byleth’s head tips to the side, palm warmed by the soft blush along Edelgard’s cheek from the gentle touch of fingertips as she leans into a cupping hand like it is both thoughtless and a very conscious choice, all in one. 

Warmth spreads from a clenching stomach to beating chest to curling fingertips, resting against El, who gently circles Byleth entirely in her arms, a little bolder every day.

Warmth.

Is  this contentment? Maybe it is. 

“Well...do you feel differently, now? Or is it still the same?”

Byleth’s head tips to the side, thinking it through before she leans close enough to taste El’s breath, wanting to be  closer , somehow, which makes no sense since arms are wrapped around her and there’s no real way to get closer, is there? Or maybe there is.

Oh, she thinks there  is.

Bergamot. Edelgard’s lips smell like the tea Byleth had brewed for her in the early morning, fingers curling around the ivory of a cup as a humming Emperor inhaled it through nostrils before taking a long, slow sip. The same tea likely sipped even when it grew cold throughout the day for a reason Byleth’s not certain of, and still doesn't feel the need to ask, because there's a certainty to the knowledge. This fact. That Edelgard is more than capable of brewing her own tea, but always seems to favor Byleth’s pot long into the afternoon, even after it grows cold.

Bergamot. 

It’s not the first time Byleth’s had the urge to kiss Edelgard and it probably won’t be the last. Even though they’ve tackled everything together, they haven’t had much  time  like this, alone. Fleeting moments for  months--

“I think I feel…” Byleth smiles--a little wider, however small it might be in comparison--gently guiding Edelgard closer as that blush spreads. “...distracted.” 

And that quiet laugh tastes as nice as it sounds and it dances up into the air like the flutter of the bird's wings below them and it fills all of Byleth’s lungs with it until that  content breath spreads through her and between them. 

Edelgard's laugh is as beautiful as her smile.

Bergamot, she decides, is a good scent.

“Oh, are you, Professor? What by?” A light tease despite that flattering blush, gloved fingertips smoothing out the rumpled collar of a dark cloak; work that’s ruined the moment Byleth’s other hand raises up to gently settle in the small of El’s back, pressing her up closer, and those gloves fist in fabric until suddenly white is engulfed by the shadows spread over shoulders. 

“What...do  you feel right now, El?” It's a murmur--curious and soft, letting out the smallest flutter of a breath when one of those tangling hands falls down to her chest and rests a palm against the skipping beat of a heart. It’s...soothing, now, how Edelgard holds her. It's been so seamless, how hesitation has slowly morphed into...familiarity. How Byleth's body seems to expect it as much as her mind might, heart pattering like soft rain and shoulders easing like knots of a ship that have been unmoored into calm waters.

“Maybe...some emotions  don’t  have names,” It’s a breathless recall, leaning just a little further up into Byleth until their noses brush and the words sink onto parting lips like a welcome drink of water. “But...if this one did, I suppose it would be--”

“Lady Edelgard.” 

Both of them tense, twisting around to see Hubert’s impassive face and devilishly twinkling eyes, voice monotone as Edelgard huffs underneath her voice--

“ Annoyance  .” To Byleth’s quiet chuckle, before she says much louder, “  Yes , Hubert?”

Surprisingly, Edelgard doesn’t pull away, although she does give Byleth a far more apologetic smile as those white gloves once more smooth out the wrinkles they've caused in fabric before facing Hubert and leaning into the palm settled in the curve of her back for just a moment more--just a moment more--before Byleth’s hand dutifully falls, facing the familiar stoic vassal, as well. 

“There’s word on the Slither’s movements on the outskirts of Hyrm.” 

Both of them straighten their spines, then, tender could-have-beens once again tabled for another day. Another tomorrow, brighter than the day before. 

They both have higher priorities.

“They’re heading towards Morfis?” Edelgard surmises and at Hubert’s nod, the Emperor sighs up towards her tactical counsel, something far more serious taking root in features. “It appears you were right, Professor.”

Neither of them take pleasure in this fact.

Those Who Slither in the Dark were not just slithering in Fódlan. 

“But unfortunately there’s been even more...unnerving developments than just Morfis.”

The war room is full within the hour after Edelgard and Byleth have both been briefed, their heads bent and hushed whispers bouncing along the high stone walls.

The map sits stalwart upon the table, crisp and loose around the pins keeping it stapled to the large desk centered in the room, holes widened from half a decade plus of wandering hands shifting it about as eyes took in a war front.

In the center of the map still sits proud Garreg Mach, whose conversion these past six months following the Won War from a Monastery to a genuine officer's school has not changed its current occupancy of forces. It's true that many hearts' hatred eased with each and every day of Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg's steady, firm rule--more compassionate than they had been lead to believe through the mayhem and tragedy that consumed houses for neigh a near decade--but not everyone was pleased.

While The Great Beast (as she's come to be called within the troops, propaganda and pamphlets continuous and circulated, still) Rhea was felled and Dimitri, Deluded King (a term Byleth frowns at in its use every time), put to rest, there is still upset in much of Fódlan. Uprisings and spattered, enraged, frightened villages fighting back against who they view as an evil conquering force, taking away their land and religion, combined with the nobles who clutched desperately to their power and riches and crests, insistent that equality threatened their livelihoods.

“Perhaps if your excess of...livelihood cannot exist with equality--if you believe you require the lesser futures of the men and women you swore to protect and serve as their noble leader to maintain it--then you do not understand the worth of human life, at all, and are not fit to hold your position over them, von Gideon.”

Edelgard had been cemented in history as a fierce leader, but her rousing speech at a large estate set ablaze by righteousness in the North East of what was beneath the Lions Snare, where a noble had tried to fight the Black Eagles by using his peasants for fodder, would likely go down as a key quote to attest to it. There wasn't a scribe in sight as Emperor Hresvelg held a glowing axe to the last noble nephew of Gideon's neck underneath his mansion's towering stone pillars, the disgraced man scrambling backwards in the muck he'd fallen into from the gallop of his dismayed horse, cowering on his back with sniveling pleas as his flee from battle was thwarted...but the story has been told time and time again by every soldier and in every tavern Byleth's been to since. 

All with such a great dramatic flair and liberty to storytelling that she wouldn't be surprised if Alois wasn't the first one to tell it.

Edelgard's amused face as they sat on a carriage heading back towards Garreg Mach a month later after quelling another uprising was well worth the bumpy ride and sitting next to a skew-eyed pegasus. 

'--that's not how it happened at all! Edelgard beheaded him on the spot after he spat on an orphan boy that was working for him!'

'Oh, is that so? I had heard him jailed 'n Enbarr with the rest of the noble filth, waitin' judgment.'

'Oh, yeah--yeah--had a friend there, took his head clean off! He's not jailed, he's a yalm under!'

'You don't have friends, Jaspard.'

Normally, they ride proudly, but given the Slithers’ spies having eyes in   every    hill, it would be better not to be caught unawares by a trap. It was wiser to sneak into a caravan than to take the entire group across the border when Ferdinand would already need to head Northwest and Petra and Dorothea South. At least, that’s what Byleth suggested off-hand to Hubert’s   sighing    assent, all of them breaking off to go separate directions in common clothes. 

Which is why Hubert sets across from them looking   unnervingly    threatening towards a Pegasus that’s just licked his jaw in the back of a rickety, open-top caravan for the next three days. Byleth and Edelgard have settled next to each other far closer than they might have been were anyone else there.

This, for some reason, does not seem to improve Hubert's always dour mood.

‘I’ve never had roast Pegasus before. I wonder, is it a delicacy on the outskirts of the mountains?’ Hubert's smile is something reminiscent of the tales told of Byleth, herself, in the taverns:   devilish . 

Definitely not improvement. If this is how Hubert’s doing, Byleth can only imagine Ferdinand’s fear at riding in the back of a straw-filled cart.

Maybe he’ll think it’s an adventure. Caspar certainly looked excited.

'It seems this new Emperor wants the best for   all    people in Fódlan.' Edelgard pipes up underneath a particularly rough bump, a hint of red that might be indignation or amusement creeping up her neck and Byleth is just glad the farmers didn’t hear Hubert’s dry musing.

The men look back from their conversation and tilt their heads, appraising, and ultimately nod. 

'Y'know, lady...you might be right.'

Byleth's sword easily tips underneath her nails to dig out the dirt, casually shrugging with a serious nod, stilling it underneath the next bump. 'She usually is.'

The red was certainly not ire, now, spreading further upwards and that same, amused smile twisting up Edelgard’s lips as lips brush along the dirt-scuffed cheek resting upon a sword's hilt, paying little mind to the weapon...or to Hubert’s heavy   sigh    across from them, it seems.

Byleth offers a smile, shifting to hold Edelgard beneath the next jostling bump so that she might steady herself against it. Out of the corner of an eye she catches t he Pegasus nosing beneath Hubert's chin as if trying to lift his scowl.

It's not a surprise it doesn't work.

'Oh, Hubert, we're just traveling companions. Wouldn't you say, Jaspard?' Edelgard's voice is practically sing-song over her shoulder and Jaspard, once more paying them notice instead of squabbling with his own companion about just how many nobles Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg has beheaded, furrows brows thicker than the stray dog that wanders Garreg Mach's coat. 

'Uh...yeah, sure?'

The pegasus licks Hubert's cheek and Byleth's head tips to the side, calmly noting:

'I think it likes you.' A thoughtful hum, 'I think you would make a good Pegasus Knight, Hubert.'

Hubert's scowl...thins. And maybe it's a trick of the eye--maybe the trees above them filter out the sunlight until it blinks--but she swears, just for a moment, she might see the hint of a smile.

Or, at the very least, Hubert no longer threatens to cook the pegasus for the remainder of the ride to town.

And thus thanks to word of mouth, the uprisings caused by nobles have been easily dealt with, and few nobles could find villagers to bolster their claims of outrage, these days.

Edelgard was fighting  for them, not against them, and they were starting to understand that. 

The uprisings regarding religion were...trickier, and Edelgard’s interference usually led to  worse outcomes than if she hadn’t shown, at all, something she’d been reluctant to admit, but nodded after their last quelling of an insurrection led to every member of a church being toted away in chains.

Even now, Byleth is aware that had it been Rhea, the insurrectionists in the church likely would have been dead, instead of sitting in a jail, but the indignation of being locked up for ‘believing’ was gaining far too much traction to not be taken a serious threat.

‘It’s my job to lead--we’ve spilled enough blood, perhaps someone else might have a solution.’

‘I agree.’ Mercedes looks hesitant in the corner, but hardly meek. They all agree there’s been too much blood spilled. But Mercedes ultimately looks away before Byleth steps forward, eyes set on a girl she knows well.

‘...I think there’s a solution.’

All eyes expectantly look up save for Mercedes, who nervously watches Edelgard.

At Byleth's quiet insistence, these uprisings have been dealt with with the head of the New Church, Mercedes von Martritz, who has ended many  of them before they started, establishing several Churches underneath Edelgard's  cooperation  , not banner. An organization subsisting  within  the Empire--alongside, not  over.

So far, the most radical uprisings where Mercedes has not been successful in quieting them, Jeritza has settled them shortly after. 

They’re thankfully far less prominent. 

'I might hate this false Goddess and 'religion', but people still have a   right    to it, Byleth. Why would they think I would--everything I have done has been to protect them!' A rare frustration is as clear as a scowl upon lips, highlighted by the flickering candles that fortify the long spindles burning within a restored Cathedral. It paints Edelgard’s features in a soft, passionate glow, but also showcases the dark circles beneath sunken eyes. ‘They’re only prolonging their own suffering.’

'Maybe,' A shrug, gently stepping up behind tight shoulders to gently curl fingers around them. 'People are...protective over things that matter to them.' 

‘That   is  true, isn’t it?’ Edelgard murmurs, shoulders tensing before they relax beneath scarred palms. ‘I  suppose I am protective, as well. I am protective of everyone here--I’m protective of   all    of them. No one else has to die, if they would just--’ 

Byleth’s fingers skim along a cheek that clenches and eases just as shoulders had--dip down a neck that swallows and bobs--before wrapping around Edelgard's waist, guiding those sharp muscles and edges the rest of the way against Byleth's chest. A welcome embrace.

Edelgard sags against her like a sack of flour that’s been cut open, all the air in her lungs puffing upwards into the sky. 

Because here, it seems, just like her muscles, she can hold on only so tightly before letting go. It's a feeling Byleth...can understand, now.

‘All you can do is...lead people, El. You can’t make their choices for them.’ 

Fingers hesitate for only a breath before they smooth along Byleth’s wrists along hips, pulling the taller of them closer so that arms wrap fully around her, twisting to raise her own arms around a craning neck before El's own head falls to rest there. 

El fits so nicely here, like the proudest token nestled safely inside a box.

‘Then I’m glad I have you by my side. What are you protective over, I wonder--’ 

Edelgard’s chin tips backwards and Byleth holds her until a messenger comes shortly after with an updated report on Ferdinand’s slim hold in the Northwest.

It hasn’t gotten better, the two months since.

The war room is full of a tense silence after the news is shared, all eyes in the room focused upon the map of Garreg Mach, and the pins of their strongholds littering its aged surface. To the southwest, a few weeks’ journey away, lay a new pin.

A plague has started to take root in Hyrm, on the outskirts of Ordelia, much to Lysithea’s worry, similar to what had overtaken Remire but far worse. The stronghold borders what used to be the Leicester Alliance and the Empire’s hills--a key position against the annoyed nobles rebelling in the East looking to ride towards Enbarr.

The plagues’ spread is showcased by black pins trending a noted path upwards, adorned by the clean parchment quill of Ingrid’s handwriting.

Names.

“It’s spreading to the  nobles with crests who sided with the Empire.” Ingrid concludes, face pulled downward as if a string had tied to her chin. 

Sided with the Empire’s successful  insurrection , as many people in Leicester would still claim. 

“How could a plague attack someone with crests?” Caspar frowns, eyes flicking up towards the few empty chairs of their usual Black Eagle Squadron. Two notable absences with crests missing: Ferdinand, who has been dispatched to the Northwest of what used to be House Kleiman, whose strategic tactical position near the coast of the continent will be  invaluable if Byleth’s hypothesis of the Slithers’ outreach stretching to their neighboring continents held true. Leonie rides with him, crestless. And the other was Petra, who had returned to Brigid to mend relations between the Empire and her country while assuming rule. 

Dorothea, of course, was with her, but bore no crest, as well, and Byleth’s chin tips downward in thought, fingers tucking beneath a working jaw. 

“Technically a plague  infects, it doesn’t attack. But I suppose those who bear crests  do have unique blood.” Hanneman offers thoughtfully, carefully cleaning a monocle with a handkerchief he tucks back inside his pocket. “It is likely attacking the unique signature of the blood that makes crests so extraordinary.” 

“And if it’s attacking the  blood  , the options we currently have to treat it are, oh...  nonexistent  .” Manuela  pouts in the corner, clearly disturbed, knuckles resting beneath her own chin as she takes in the map. 

“Hmm...yes,” Linhardt perks upwards, either clearly deep in thought...or clearly deep in sleep, “Fascinating, really. It would have taken a good bit of experimentation on live blood samples of someone bearing a crest to create a strand of plague that could infect crest-bearers.” 

Byleth’s eyes skim over Lysithea’s pale features before settling to her left on Edelgard’s stoic ones. 

“Indeed.” Edelgard agrees, darker than any of them know. “Which can serve as a reminder of how dangerous they are--and always will be--until they’re wiped from existence. They’ve ruled by fear and oppression for so long that they don’t seem to know how to fight a war with any other tool. I fear this was likely their contingency plan from the start.” The discontent waters of violet flick up towards Byleth before once more settling on the board.

“So...if they’re going to worst case scenarios--” Sylvain rubs the back of his neck, scowling. 

“It means we’ve got ‘em on the ropes!” Caspar pumps his fist and Linhardt sighs at the mere insinuation of probably how much effort it all sounds like but it’s Ingrid who steps closer. 

“I think we should be cautious.” Ingrid sports furrowed brows and tense lines about lips but she’s grown so much since Byleth first met her.

They all have, judging by Bernadetta in the corner, quiet but present. 

“Agreed.” Hubert nods, “They’re cunning beasts who have not yet revealed themselves to Fódlan for a reason. I would advise against underestimating them.” 

“I concur, as well.” The Emperor herself agrees before leaning up from the board. “I believe you all know your roles. This changes nothing from our current effort to solidify our defenses in key strongholds. Cementing our hold over the continent and against opposing forces by sea is a high priority not for just putting out lingering opposition from the war, but from  defending all of Fódlan. We need to keep an eye on our future as well as our present, my friends. The True War is still upon us. Be that as it may, Hubert, I’ll need you to notify Petra and Ferdinand of this immediately. We do not need to cause panic, but they need to be aware of the situation at hand in case it escalates. I do not want to send anyone to Hyrm until we’re positive the plague cannot be contracted by someone without a crest.”

“As you wish, your Majesty,” Hubert, with his ever-deep bow, departs shortly after. 

“Manuela, Hanneman, Linhardt--”

“Fine, fine,” Linhardt  yawns  , “I suppose looking into this will at least be  interesting  . Let’s go ahead and  solve it so that I can go back to bed.” 

“Not everything has to be about a  bed with you two,” Hanneman huffs and Manuela scowls, hands settling on hips. Indignant.

“ Excuse me--”

“Oh, that’s not what I meant and you  know it, Manuela. I simply meant you were late to this meeting because you were--”

“Alllllright. Let’s stop shoving our feet in our mouth squabbling and go kick some butt!” Caspar, surprisingly, is the one to shoo them out, much to everyone else’s relief.

The meeting that lasts after is another few hours before the light that had graced the garden has fallen and started to rise, once more, faraway on the horizon but close enough somebody might be able to touch the ephemeral warmth of it if they became one with the shadows on the edge of its reach. 

Soon enough, it’s just Edelgard and Byleth left in the thick of those shadows, candelight flickering above the edge of a map that’s slowly been stained red by blood and determination and time. White gloves had been replaced by a lightly-armored counterpart given the generals and commanders sifting in and out of the room and Byleth walks behind her, now, watching the way the light touches the dips of them and disappears in the red bend of knuckles above the map before calmly shifting. 

Knowing fingers slowly undo the left gauntlet, its ply metal creaking loud enough to cover Edelgard’s surprised gasp for any ear but her Tactician's, who’s close enough to feel it warm the air. Fingers run over the scarred ridges of fingertips--and knuckles--and a wrist--before she does the same with the right, fingertips tracing a map she wishes she were far more familiar with than the one of Fódlan and the Empire below them. 

Edelgard’s nose dips down, head hanging as shoulders barely shake and with a rattling, heavy breath. She leans back into Byleth’s arms, sagging just enough for those undressing hands to skim up fingertips to hips to arms to the other woman’s heart, nose brushing along the high rise of an Emperor's cheek. 

She can feel an Emperor sift like that sand of time into a woman left behind in the steady beats of her heart, strong and certain below Byleth's palm. Rhythmic. Soothing. Like a war drum. Like the bob of a fishing line against water. Like the sound of footsteps walking alongside her in the hall.

Edelgard unwinds a little faster against her, these days.

And Byleth quietly kisses the ring on Edelgard’s finger and wishes it was Edelgard, herself.

“I realized what it was, looking at the bird.” Byleth quietly offers in her ear, knowing Edelgard has never been content with mysteries and secrets unless they’re woven by her own hand. “During the counsel.”

“And what was that?” Barely a murmur, the tension still pulling that smooth voice as taut as the string on Bernadetta’s bow, thin and  sharp  and deadly. But shoulders ease a little more as one of Byleth’s arms wrap around her stomach, gently twisting in a slow dance to press Edelgard’s hips against the table and hold her up within the certain strength of her own arms. 

Byleth isn’t Hubert--she has no intention of taking Edelgard’s burdens solely upon her own shoulders so that she won’t feel them. Assuming her future wife is not capable of bearing the weight of her own life seems... undermining , somehow, after all Edelgard has accomplished and faced. No, Byleth is well aware of the Emperor’s strength.

Which is why she lets them stand together, instead, hand on a heart raising up to cup a cheek, instead. 

“Protective.” Byleth offers, thoughtful and quiet. “I had seen a cat out in the garden--I’ve been feeding it, so it followed me. I’d forgotten about it, because I stayed with the bird for...an hour, before you came, and it didn’t feel like it mattered. But it did.” 

It’s funny, that way. The strangest things cause emotions.

“Oh,” Edelgard’s features soften and it’s now that she seems to hesitate before she gently tucks her head in the crook of Byleth’s cheek, resting on her shoulder fully, once more. “You’ve always been far more compassionate than anyone knows. You have a habit of protecting little birds, don’t you? Animals--children-- students --”

“I know the bird can fly on its own, and it’ll see the cat coming.” Byleth wraps her arms a little tighter around Edelgard, then, whose hands smooth up the front of her shoulders, but this time they sneak boldly underneath the black of a cloak, flattening over biceps until the fabric puddles around scarred wrists. “But I couldn’t help but…” Brows knit as she tastes the word that follows, “...worry . I guess even though I had fed the cat, and I  like the cat, and the cat is just...hunting. I understand the cat’s motivations--” Byleth closes eyes and feels Edelgard settle in her arms and--

And it’s...warm.

It spreads through her and settles and eases the tension she hadn’t known existed in her spine. 

“You’ll fight for the bird, even against the cat. That’s...not the first time you’ve felt that way, is it? It’s a little bit of a heavy-handed metaphor, my love.” Edelgard murmurs, pulling away enough to look at her. 

Byleth's read about protection: it's the desire to safe-keep something from harm; it's the emotion that wraps around shoulders like a hug, fierce. Loyal. It's a knight, like Jeralt used to be, if a person could be an emotion.

What emotion would Edelgard be?

“I know you can fight your own battles.” Byleth nods, determination settling in, “But I’d rather fight them with you.” 

“As would I, Byleth.” El’s voice is quiet and her eyelashes flutter against Byleth’s palm, leaning...closer. 

Until her scent once more fills Byleth's lungs and her warmth spreads through fingertips and palms and a clenching stomach and suddenly all she can feel is Edelgard.

“What’s...this emotion?” A breath, leaning down to rest their foreheads together, brows knitting as Edelgard’s fingers hesitantly raise to brush over her cheek--her neck--push up through her hair, as if she’s careful of it. 

It’s the first time someone’s ever been careful of touching Byleth, outside of Rhea. 

(Byleth has a feeling Edelgard wouldn’t appreciate the comparison). 

“Hmm…” A thoughtful note sounds in the back of her throat as Edelgard leans closer in the earliest hours of the rising sun, light starting to creep up their bare hands and scarred necks and El’s soft, loving smile. “Anticipation,” Teeth tuck lips, “I would think.”

“Anticipation.” Byleth tastes with a smile and feels the thud of Edelgard’s heart in her throat and the shifting air between them and the feeling of fingertips growing a little bolder in their curl about her own craning neck, before leaning down and kissing her.

Love--

El’s gasp parts locked gates against lips and Byleth’s heart and the beating bird within as her fingers tangle in her hair and mutter  ‘finally’ against her before they inelegantly clatter against the table and knock half of the scrolls off the top of it, the map tearing a little at one of the pins, both of them giggling and chuckling and--

Embarrassed and Happy and Giddy and Light--

--as they clean up the mess before Edelgard’s teeth tuck her lips and she blushes as she brings Byleth closer, once more. This time guiding her far away from the long table into the corner, sheltered from the kalleidoscope light of the stained glass windows in this shell of a building full of  used to be’s  and slowly heralding  will becomes. 

Neither one of them have had much practice at this, but love is something they can learn together, as well.

“Let’s try again.” 

--Love--

Byleth hums as she kisses El again and again and again underneath the warmth of the sun until both of them part with flushed cheeks and knowing smiles and fingers that link until they’re forced to go their separate ways, a little more disheveled than they had been an hour before. 

Love through tense weeks and months and half a year of a slowly spreading plague and continued fights. Love through stolen moments and kissed rings and emotions offered up into the air and caught by Edelgard’s lips.

“ Love ”--Edelgard vocalizes and offers, herself, as they lay in the grass by the gardens months and months later, tucked away in a corner where no one would think to look save for  Hubert (because anyone who  would look isn’t nearly as bold). Her finger gently, fondly tracing down the line of Byleth’s cheek like a painting, eyes bright and bashful as she leans above her.

“Is that what you feel?” Byleth asks, leaning into that fond finger and wrapping arms around her waist. It’s the first time Edelgard’s offered an emotion of her own instead of being asked--or implying it with an answer of Byleth’s. 

They’re parting ways in a few hours--Edelgard to Enbarr and Byleth to the outskirts of Kleiman to help Ferdinand secure the territory after a surprising uprising in the Southeast of the fortress, near the coast. 

A little  too  close to the coast, and a little  too close to the spread of the plague that they’ve been monitoring since word of it rose. It’s convenient in the worst of ways that they’ve both come to expect, and it’s the wisest decision to send a tactician over the Emperor, however Edelgard desires to be on the front lines.

It was smart to send Byleth, they all agreed.

It’s funny, how time can move so  quickly . She finds it hard to believe Ferdinand has been gone so long.

‘Let me go fishing’ , Byleth had murmured against the curve of Edelgard’s neck above mussed sheets and biting lips before everyone had arrived a week prior, hand curving over her hip and Edelgard’s fingers falling down to her chin and her neck and her heart as she hovered above her, hair cascading like a waterfall of moonlight. It was the decision that made the most sense.

‘I hate this --’

‘...I'm sorry.’

‘I   hate    this, Byleth--’

A blink, coming back to the present. Do emotions always do this? Are they always so...heavily tied with memories and moments and the flutter of violet eyes like a blue bird’s wings?

“Yes.” Edelgard looks away--unusual, given she’s the type to tackle problems head-on--and Byleth shifts upwards on her elbows.

Byleth’s read thousands of books and nearly half of them mention love. People were  fascinated  with love and...Byleth was too, in a way. She’d never felt it, and never understood it, and could never quite grasp its importance. On a battlefield she had watched people kill for it and die for it and  live for it--

It’s something so complex to capture that it doesn’t have such a simple definition like the other emotions might--it’s like a...box. A wooden, rickety box tenderly made and nailed, full of emotions that are so cluttered and many that they all have to be contained so that they aren't spilled and lost and forgotten.

A box. Maybe this...cluttered thing made out of the wood of her chest filled with a dozen--a hundred--a  thousand  other emotions inside of it, carefully latched and closed and carried about in a rucksack from campsite to campsite, safely stowed. Hidden.

Yes, a box. This brittle wooden thing with  love  written on the outside of it.  Love...written in an elegant pen by a white-gloved hand. Signed like a letter--like a name--because Byleth would know that hand anywhere it pressed, branding wood and ink and life beneath its touch. A thousand keepsakes of  happiness  and  hope  and  anger and a million other things Byleth knows the definition to but has only recently fully understood tidied within its cramped confines. Love. Some people throw the word around so carelessly--

Manuela, who loves another person every week

--or have never quite found what was nearby them--

Dorothea, whose letters to her professor list Petra more than anything else

--or have never found its purpose--

Felix, who loves training, he claims, but loathes the taste of battle before sniping that Sylvain will waste away if he doesn’t join him

--and Byleth watches the way Edelgard says it as her chin dips. Certain and careful--like the word means more than she might know how to explain, herself, and Byleth thinks of the poems and the operas and the novels she’s read and imagines each of them on El’s lips before she leans up a little further, safely tucking the other woman against her chest. 

She watches the sun dance along her cheek as Edelgard looks up at her through long lashes, blush and nerves tucking up a thin smile.

When Byleth was as tall as his knees, her father crafted her a box, and she thinks Love might be like that.

“El…” Byleth reaches down to curling hand and untucks a glove where a ring has settled for nearly a year, now, hidden away safely out of sight like so many things are. “I asked you to spend your life with me.” She reminds, lips brushing over it in a quiet ceremony. “We’re engaged. You don’t need to be nervous.” 

The blush deepens and when Edelgard tries to turn away, Byleth catches her chin. 

"I--"

“Is it...so hard for you to imagine I love you, too?”

Edelgard is unusually silent for a long moment before her hand raises up to Byleth’s chest, resting over her heart. And she smiles. This broken, hopeful thing that reminds Byleth of the night she had returned from half a decade of sleeping, or something close to it, something she doesn't quite understand yet buried deep in those eyes.

“If you do, then it won’t be difficult for you to promise me you’ll do everything in your power to come back to Garreg Mach. Promptly. In a  month’s  time, not five years. No more  sleeping .”

“It’s not difficult for me to promise that.” Byleth immediately offers, voice calm, watching the way Edelgard’s features twist and contort beneath their own calm veneer like a fish beneath the pond's surface. “As long as you promise to keep up with your training in Enbarr. I would hate to have to come sooner to whip you into shape. No fighting is no reason for your axe work to get sloppy, Edelgard."

“ Professor  ,” Edelgard gripes, though there’s a hint of a smile in her eyes, “I’m being  serious  . You honestly joke at the  worst momen--”

Byleth kisses her, feeling tense shoulders ease beneath her touch as Edelgard’s fingers wind in her hair, pressing them both down into the red quilt they’d stolen from a student’s bed, its hue vibrant and harsh above the green grass that resembles a Goddess's eyes. 

“...I love you, too.” Byleth whispers when they pull away and sees Edelgard’s conflicting shock and contentment in equal measure--her happiness and  nerves-- but her smile seems to make the whole world feel...unimportant, just for a second. A moment. 

An instant and five years, all in one.

"Then I expect you to return to me...my Empress." Quiet so only Byleth might hear, Edelgard's knuckles skim down Byleth's cheek and the empress lets out a rattling, soft sigh.

All of those books had made love seem so  complicated, but it tasted right the moment Edelgard had offered it.

But Byleth doesn't have to ask what  this feeling is. They're both far too familiar with war.

An afternoon later, Edelgard’s fingers lingers in her own amongst the troops as their hands clasp to part--their eyes meeting and staying before they can't, anymore--and the Emperor sees her advisor off towards Kleiman, her own convoy heading the opposite way to Enbarr, a box tucked in her bag and a dagger on Byleth's hip. She leads the charge on a horse at the helm, never one to shy away from the front lines, Hubert’s look knowing and calm next to her. 

"Until we meet again, Professor." Hubert offers before turning about his own horse, both of them disappearing into the light cast off of the mountains as Byleth turns towards the darkness behind her, the beast she rides neighing appreciatively as she dips into the quiet shadows left by cascading trees into the sky.

“You look happier, Professor.” Ferdinand casually mentions offhand, the sound of their horses hooves sinking into mud accompanying them during the daylight. He had met her halfway towards Kleiman, their intent to set up another outpost on the outskirts hopefully not heard by anyone else in the Monastery.

There were shadows in every corner, after all. Or at least that's what Hubert liked to enigmatically drawl knowingly every time they talked about the Slithers having spies. 

“Do I?” Her head tilts to the side, remembering her father once saying the same, long ago. She hadn’t realized emotions could ease the knots of muscles until something softer could be seen underneath. Not until Jeralt had mentioned it. She’s getting a little more used to the idea. “And  your  hair is getting even longer. It suits you.” It's pointed out in kind and Ferdinand preens at the observation, offering a dazzling smile as he sits straighter on his horse. 

“Ah, yes. I had initially thought it was unbecoming of a noble to keep it unmaintained, but I find I like it far more.” His chin tips upwards towards the sun--command looks good on him, as well, their battalion following behind. Well-led and proud. “Edelgard, though my judgement would have been sound without her commentary, did  also  state that it complimented my eyes, a few years ago, and made me seem more approachable to commoners.” Byleth doubts those were Edelgard’s exact words, “It spoke great volumes that we both were of the same thought. There’s many things I never would have assumed I would have enjoyed outside of the nobility. Who knew hair could provide such a cautiously freeing sense of enjoyment? So I've let it grow longer.” 

“I’ll help you brush it once it reaches your hips.” Byleth helpfully offers and Ferdinand laughs, surprised and shaking it over shoulders. 

“That will not be necessary, Professor.”

“It can be very difficult to maintain.” Byleth seriously continues, pointing towards it off-handedly, “In a battle the last thing you need is a handle for someone to grapple you to the floor with, especially from your horse.” 

Ferdinand scratches at his chin in thought, humming.

“Ah, I had not seen that angle, Professor. Perhaps freedom does come with its costs.” He seems plagued by this for a moment before Byleth nods.

“Dorothea arrives next week, we’ll have her cut it for you. She’s cut mine, before.” After pouting that Byleth had let it turn into a mess, anyways. Which is strange because Byleth’s hair has  always been this way.

Was it messy?

‘Edie can’t run her fingers through a raven’s nest, Professor.’

‘I have no idea what that even means, Dorothea.’  

‘ Oh, hopefully you two aren’t too thick-headed to find out.’ Dorothea’s sigh could push mountains to the edge of Fódlan. 'No wonder why she never gives me any of the good stuff in her letters.'

'What?'

'Nothing~~'

"She can keep it long but still manageable. Then you have both freedom and functionality."

Ferdinand perks upwards. “She  does  seem to have a great amount of experience needing to cut her own hair and not having someone to do it for her.”

Byleth sighs. 

He’s making  progress , perhaps that’s the best they can ask of him.

Fondness --she can hear Edelgard murmur in her ear, a phantom’s touch as her smile might skirt along her cheek.

A smile, soft and quiet, graces Byleth's lips, in kind.

“It suits you, as well.” Ferdinand offers and Byleth tilts her head to the side to regard him, a little distracted in her thoughts as they continue on. “Happiness.”

Ferdinand just smiles and Byleth nods after a long moment, realization donning. 

She’s read about Happiness: it’s the thing people lose in war; the emotion that sparks up the edges of their lips into a smile, or fills them with contentment when faced with something they’ve done that’s  good ; it’s the emotion that everyone fights for and searches for as desperately as love, just as elusive and fickle, or so it seems in books and operas and plays.

Happiness is the word she thinks her father would have liked the most to hear she learned.

Happiness. It’s a word Byleth knew the definition to, but never quite understood. 

Not until Edelgard gave it to her.

Love suits me, El  --she can imagine humming along her shoulder, because for now the only emotion she can imagine settling in that sanded, shaped box labelled ‘love’ is the rattling, large one named  happiness.

#edeleth #edeleth fanfic #fe3h fanfic #fic #mine #catch me coming back to tumblr just in time to make cruddy graphics for questionable fics :') #well #coming back to my personal tumblr #>.> #this fic was longer than ever expected #but they always are #I know the fandom isn't dead on ao3 now #I hope it's not dead on here because woo boi I'mma bout to follow a lot o blogs about it #no ragerts

[reyxa]

can’t we all just get oolong? ch. 2

AO3

title: can’t we just get oolong? author: Reyxa rating: T summary: au where zuko and iroh settle in ba sing se post-banishment. when a pretty water bender start frequenting the jasmine dragon, zuko’s world turns upside down.

note: slightly shorter chapter this time around but the next one will be Beefy so stay tuned!!

Chapter 2: White Tea

Katara has spent the whole morning distractedly tugging on her braid, a little anxious at the notion of returning to the Jasmine Dragon.

It’s less that she thinks it’s dangerous and far more that she’s nervous to see Zuko. She hates more than anything the way he stirs her chest, the way his name is etched across her mind right now.

“Katara!” Aang jolts her from her reverie, calling her name as he emerges from their bathroom. “You wanna go looking for your mom’s necklace today?”

She searches desperately for an excuse. She just can’t take Aang with her to the teashop. She wouldn’t risk it, especially since it seems like those two firebenders had ties to Azula herself. It would be too dangerous touting the Avatar around like that.

And maybe a part of her really just wants to scope out the teashop again by herself.

“We can’t, Aang.” Sokka pipes up before Katara can even begin to form coherent sentences. “I really want to go talk to some more aristocrats and government officials around here. Knock on some doors.” he combs his hair into his wolf tail as he speaks, squinting into the mirror. “Remember that one guy across the street who warned us about the Dai Li after Joo Di left that first day searching for Appa? I’m sure there’s more people around here willing to talk to us and having the Avatar around won’t hurt.”

Toph is toying with her headband, using it to poke between her toes. “I’m with Snoozles. We should really try to get our plans to the Earth King as fast as possible. Then we can get the hell out of this city.”

Katara hops off the couch to refill her waterskins at the basin, trying to hide her relieved expression. “They’re right, Aang. We should focus on finding Appa and figuring out the invasion first. I’m sure my necklace will turn up! It always does.”

Aang nods. “Yeah, I get it. But we’ll find it as soon as we can, okay?”

She smiles reassuringly.

~

Zuko peers into the teashop from behind the counter, counting the amount of customers who need serving. Sure that his uncle can handle it on his own for a while, Zuko slips out the backdoor into the alley.

The alley is empty save for a few abandoned carts collecting dust. The bustle of the main streets can be heard on either side but hardly anyone glances into the dark cove.

The mid-afternoon sun is high and heavy, but Zuko relishes its presence. He draws on its heat, feels it burn through his veins. Breathing deeply, eyes closed in concentration, he slides into a basic stance.

Drawing on his inner fire, he steps and throws a punch down the alley.

He opens one eye, praying for some sort of flame. His fist smolders, prickling with a fire that won’t burst.

He grunts and throws a regular punch at the wall, hardly feeling the skin on his knuckles split against the brick.

The one thing he was born to do and he can’t even do that.

Okay, okay, what would Uncle say right now? he contemplates, holding his mildly bleeding hand against his chest. ‘Zuko, it is not your ability that is wanting but your ability to look within yourself to seek your true abilities.’ he groans internally. That still makes no sense.

Shaking his head, he commits to working through a few more firebending forms, at most producing short erratic sparks. He isn’t sure how much time has passed but sweat is pouring down his temples and drenching his Jasmine Dragon uniform.

He throws in the towel, mounting frustration turning his mind to shreds. Wiping sweat with the corner of his apron, he slides back into the shop.

As much as he wants to rush upstairs and wash the afternoon off himself, his uncle is waiting by the door, tapping his foot expectantly. “What were you up to, nephew?

Zuko sighs. “I was trying to firebend.”

Iroh’s brow lifts in surprise. “Firebending? Any particular reason?”

Bracing himself for another lecture, Zuko stalks over to the teapots, pouring himself a chilled glass. “How many times do I have to explain, Uncle? Azula is on our tails! She’ll be expecting a fight, you know how she is.”

“This again.” Iroh shakes his head. “Prince Zuko, I understand I cannot remove this notion that the Fire Nation is chasing you. I know it is both what you fear and what you desire. But, please, at least do not let my teashop become collateral damage to your ways.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Zuko storms out into the teashop, piling dirty cups angrily.

He feels like he’s teetering on the edge, like his mind is a hurricane thrashing away at his grip on reality. The last time he had felt so tumultuous, he was angry at being stuck here in Ba Sing Se, instead of being allowed by his Uncle to chase the Avatar. All he had wanted was to return home, Avatar in tow. He had been neglectful of his burn wounds, barely caring for his health and lashing out at his uncle who did.

It had taken a long time for that anger to turn to dejection to turn to acceptance of his circumstance.

But the sight of that girl, with eyes bluer than Ember Island oceans and fierce unyielding words spilling past her lips, had made him regress. She’s a curse, he knows it.

But something tells him she’s his answer too.

~

Katara knows breaking into an unsuspecting teashop full of firebenders in the middle of the night may not be her brightest idea yet but it’s too late to turn back.

The streets are emptied save for a few Dai Li posts but she fancies herself a master of stealth as she hugs the shadows. Her shoes are soundless against the stone-paved streets and she keeps half of her water tucked in the palm of her hand.

The gang still hadn’t really figured out what the deal with the Dai Li is quite yet but Katara does know she’d rather not get caught breaking curfew. She had noticed their piercing gazes and Joo Di’s tight smile when any Dai Li were posted nearby. Though the city was a refugee haven, something told Katara they wouldn’t care very much that she was the Avatar’s companion if she were caught breaking the rules.

The sound of feet slipping against stone whispers in her ear, sending her ducking into an alley until her heart stopped pounding in her ears. The patrol of Dai Li, marching in stiff lines to match their stern faces, pass by her hiding spot without glancing her way.

She steals further down the dark alleyway, not particularly sure where in Ba Sing Se she was. Navigation is Sokka’s thing and she’s only been to the Jasmine Dragon once.

Sighing, she heads back down the main street, still lurking in the shadows. Time passes her by but the moon remains high in the sky, lighting her path.

“Hey! You’re breaking curfew!” a voice shouts behind her.

Katara’s spine stiffens, heart pounding wildly. She draws the rest of her water from her water skin, its presence assuring her she would not be the captured one tonight. She pivots on her toes to face the Dai Li voice.

His rocks are poised to handcuff, feet already in an earthbending stance.

But it isn’t her he’s shouting at.

Dirt flies as she throws herself behind a vacant food stall. She counts her heartbeat as the altercation develops to blows.

“I need back up!” The Dai Li soldier shouts. Katara can hear the sounds of struggle but she isn’t sure who was on the other side.

Against her better judgement, she peeks over the dusty wooden table. The Dai Li soldier slides into his bending forms solidly, pushing rock after rock. Clearly trained well, he springs off the wall as he narrowly escapes the deadly end of twin swords.

Twin swords Katara finds a little familiar.

No way.

Scrambling on hands on knees, she crawls closer to the fight. Her head pokes out from the left side. Across the stone-paved street is the Dai Li agent, sweating under his green robes as he ducks under the reach of a broadsword. Two other agents run in from the far side of the street, faces illuminated beneath the street lamps. Between them is the swordwielder, a flurry of motion as he fights off the agents. A mask conceals his features, a taunting blue smile with tusks on each end.

The man hesitates just for a second before throwing one of his swords to pin a soldier against the wall. Katara can’t help but imagine golden eyes staring at her.

She wants to run. Go back home or keep skirting the streets to find the Jasmine Dragon but she feels glued to her spot as the swordwielder takes hit after hit. He remains soundless, even as a boulder to the chest takes him down. His last sword skitters out of reach.

The Dai Li wear triumphant smiles as they wrestle him to his feet to cuff him. The flash of Water Tribe lapis lazuli tied around his wrist winks at her for a second before rock binds his hands together.

Her heart stops, she blinks as if imagining it. Sighing, she rises to her feet, watching a Dai Li agent reach for his mask. I’m gonna regret this, aren’t I?

Adrenaline is already filling her veins as her waterskins pop open.

Feet pounding against the pavement, she encases her arms with the water and reaches across the street to the agent. The water stretches, wrapping around his shoulders. Katara flicks her wrist, throwing the man against the wall.

Her water splashes over the masked man and the other agent who takes no time to summon a few boulders.

She skids out of their path, throwing ice shards at the agent. His distraction with her loosens the grip he has on the man in cuffs. She watches the rock encasing crumble away from his wrists as he slams them against the brick wall. Katara can’t help a silent smile as he rushes to grab his swords.

Dai Li agents seem to double in numbers every second that passes. They emerge from the shadows and Katara finds herself fearing arrest. For every single agent she knocks out, two others replace him.

She sweeps her leg, water follows its trail and knocks back several Dai Li agents. A presence at her back sets her spine straight but it’s only the masked stranger standing at her back, swords a swift blur.

Instinct takes over. Her body moves through bending forms on its own volition while overly aware of the potential firebender at her back.

A streetful of Dai Li agents either lying unconscious on the pavement or pinned to several buildings are left when they’re done.

Katara’s panting wildly, her heart pounding out of her chest. So much for a discreet heist.

“Come with me.” the masked man grabs her risk and drags her off before she can bother protesting.

~

Zuko tears off his mask as they duck into the alleyway behind the Jasmine Dragon. He waits for surprise to flicker over the waterbender’s face but it doesn’t come.

She simply looks at him, arms crossed. “I have questions.”

“It seems like you always have questions.” he rolls his eyes, sheathing his swords.

Indignation fills her voice. “Yeah, well you owe me answers! Why do you have my mother’s necklace? You took it from me on purpose, didn’t you? Of course you did, why wouldn’t you stoop so low, firebender? You know—”

He grabs her shoulders, hushing her quietly. “Please, stop. You talk more than my uncle.”

Her blue eyes blaze. “Fine. Say your piece.”

He shakes his head. She really is something. “Fine. I didn’t take your necklace, you left it here.”

“And you decided to comb the streets of Ba Sing Se looking for me?! Why?” she’s straining to keep her voice low.

“Let me talk!” Zuko didn’t exactly have an answer as to why he thought taking the necklace and sneaking out would be a good idea. There was a very slim chance he would run into her or find where she was staying but he had taken the chance anyway. He can’t help but feel a little smug that it worked out. “I needed answers. I needed to know what you know about Azula.”

“I’m still not convinced you’re not working with her. Your uncle is nice enough but you, I don’t know.” she steps away from him, eyeing the necklace dangling from his wrist.

“I’m not working with my sister and I never would!” he chews his lip, eyes flickering over her face. He sighs. “I just want to keep my uncle and his teashop safe from her. If she found out we were in the city…”

Her eyes soften a little and something in Zuko’s chest shifts. He throws the feeling to the back of his mind. There’s no time to analyze that. “I— fine. But I have questions too.”

He nods, feeling the pit in his stomach dissipate. He’ll finally get answers. He can finally find peace.

“Are you two going to keep shouting in the alleyway or will you at least come inside?”

Zuko jumps back at the sound of his uncle’s voice. The waterbender is holding fistfuls of his shirt, equally startled.

Iroh grins at them, still in his pajamas. He gestures for them to follow, humming as he leads them into the teashop.

Zuko and the waterbender girl glance at each other before she yanks back her hands and follows his uncle.

Zuko shakes his head and shuts the door behind them.

#my writing #atla #cwjgo #katara #zuko #avatar the last airbender #my writing AND updating a fic???? #not me wrong bitch #i will finish this fic #even if it kills me

[docholligay]

Let it Lie

This is for the anon that asked for “Ruka and Mina brotp angst” I HOPE THIS IS SERVING. 2053 words, part of the Talismans rewrite, which is right here. OH YEAH IT’S THIS PART. BEEN WAITING FOR THIS

By all accounts, Minako Aino was having a bad day. Her shift got cut at work, the washing machine wasn’t working, she had no clue where the hell Haruka was, the fridge was empty because both of them had totally neglected to go to the grocery store, and now it was fucking raining, and she was being called to battle. 

A quick transformation, and then nothing but grumbling as she went to fight over another person, who would not be holding a talisman, which meant that the princess was never going to be fucking revealed which meant they were never going to finish what the moon had started all those years ago, which meant they’d never be rid of the burden that was having her jump from roof to roof across Tokyo. 

It was a huge, imposing building, and it seemed to be unsure itself what it was being built for, strange, twisted columns sharpening to points at the ends of them, like a castle built to a fairytale that was never going to be. What was Haruka doing here in the first place? This was the outskirts of Tokyo, not near anything she did on any regular basis. Had the enemy lured her out here with a car or something? 

Mina sighed huffily. She was going to go in, answer Haruka’s beacon, and tell her to get her ass to the grocery store like she said she was going to do, and fix their washing machine. And then, Mina was going to go get a drink. 

She crept in through a back door, quietly, but heard nothing. No fighting, no yelling (and if Haruka was fighting, there was always yelling), no nothing. She crept closer and closer, hand at her chain, and then her ears perked as she heard something. 

“Michiru, Michiru, c’mon, you can’t--”

MIna rounded the corner quickly. Haruka was on her knees in from of Michiru’s body, begging her not to die, not to be dead, both of Haruka’s hands around one of Michiru’s. She placed Michiru’s hand at her cheek. 

“Please don’t leave me here, Michi. You can’t just, you can’t do this, why didn’t--” 

“Uranus.” Mina stepped into the colored patchwork quilt of light. 

Haruka looked back at her, looking so much younger than she was in that moment, hair tossed around her circlet, eyes gleaming with frustration and tears. She just stared at Mina for a moment, allowing her to take in the scene. Michiru was dead. Whenever someone said a dead person looked like they were sleeping, mIna knew they had never seen one who wasn’t made up. Dead people looked dead, and Michiru was dead, a wine dark red spiling across her chest. Bad vintage, Mina thought darkly. Her fuku had vanished, and all trace of her senshi self was gone, replaced only with an heiress in fine Italian shoes and a neat black pencil skirt.

Mina’s eyebrow ticked upward in interest, just for one moment. We revert to human when we die. The power is a fairweather friend, I see. 

A sob from Haruka broke her out of the line of thought. 

Above her body, just a foot or two, was the talisman. Mina didn’t know how she knew it was the talisman, but the small whisper in her soul, the frightening one who was Venus, whispered it to her, and she knew that it was true. They had found one. They had one, in Pluto’s staff. Now they needed one more. 

There was a gun by Haruka’s side, some sort of creation that must belong to Crow and the entire crew who had been working so hard to stop the rise of the princess. 

“She saved me,” Haruka’s voice was cracking, “She died to save me. She said she wouldn’t….that she wouldn’t let me die.” 

Mina reached her hand out toward the mirror above Michiru. “The Aqua Mirror. It was her.” 

“Don’t touch it!” Haruka broke into tears. “I--she didn’t love me--she doesn’t, I’m so confused, and--” 

“Okay, okay,” Mina knelt by her side, keeping her voice measured. Haruka was starting to spiral, and she could see it happening in real time “This is a lot, I know. You two didn’t, “ she placed her hand on Haruka’s shoulder, “end on the best of terms--” 

“--Why did she do this?? I--she hated me--she thought I was stupid, and then she--I don’t get it!” 

“Buddy, hey, take a breath here, just take a breath.” But her eyes continued to be drawn to the talisman, the thing they had been searching for, fighting for, and it had been here the whole time, “Now we just gotta find--” 

“The Space Sword.” Haruka’s voice came curt, cutting off her tears immediately, “Let me help you. It’s in me.” 

“What?” Mina looked over at her, taking her eyes off the unearthly glow of the talisman. 

“Crow told me,” she gave a weak chuckle, “Uranus and Neptune were traitors, and cowards, so they were punished. Just like...candy wrappers, that’s all we are.” 

Mina rocked back on her heels and sighed. What a fucking day. 

“Okay, we gotta talk to Plu, I mean--” 

Haruka picked up the gun. “No. I can help. I can at least do this.” 

“Hey, no, just stop,” Mina took her by the shoulders, “Let’s at least ask, right? We’ve got time, and you can, you know, always kill yourself later. Let’s calm down first, I know--” 

She shook her head. “It’s the only way. Queen Serenity made it so we had to die.” She nodded. “I can die.” 

“You’re just fucking saying that because you’re upset about Neptune.” She made a grab for the gun, but Haruka wsa too fast, “Knock it off.” 

Why weren’t the others here? They could all stop her together, no problem. She made a mental note to express the need for haste when it came to this shit at her next meeting. 

“Uranus, we can find a way to do this, I know we can,” Mina touched her hand, “Pluto’s great at this kind of moon thing, we can do it without having to kill you. Just please, please put it down, okay?” 

“I liked living with you,” Haruka said calmly, “Thank you for being my friend.” 

She aimed the gun at her chest, and Mina took the moment to tackle her, wrestling against her. She was so tall, and it was hard to get away from her, wrangling together, but MIna wasn’t about to give up. She felt for the gun, fighting, wrenching, struggling, trying so hard to save Haruka while Haruka was trying so hard to destroy herself. It wasn’t the last time she’d feel that way, but it would certainly be the mst physical time. She felt for it, and she put her hands on it, and Haruka began to lose her grip, just a little. Mina closed her eyes and began to focus her power. It was going to hurt Haruka, but just for a second, and then she’d--

Her focus was shattered with a stiff punch to her jaw that set her reeling backwards, her face aflame with the heat of the hit. She was angry and scared and so many things she had little chance to organize as she looked at Haruka, who was sitting with the gun, a small, peaceful smile on her face. 

“I know you can do it, Mina. Get the princess, save the world,” she nodded. “Sorry.” 

“HARU--” 

She put the gun to her chest and pulled the trigger, the whole room streaming with light and a great crash. When Mina opened her eyes, there was the sword, wavering above Haruka, who was still in her fuku, but breathing hard, blood pouring out of her. 

Mina scrambled across the floor to her side. 

“Haruka, you’re so stupid, I told you not to do that, GODDAMNIT HARUKA I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU.” Tears began to prick her eyes, and she sniffled. 

“I don’t--” She gasped, “You won’t--” 

“Yeah I get it, you saved me the trouble.” She took Haruka’s hand, “Just fucking like you to do this, who the hell is gonna fix the washing machine now? Me? Be serious, Ru.” 

She tried to keep her voice lighthearted. There wasn’t much she could do for Haruka, now, having accomplished the terrible task Mina had tried to keep her from, but at the very least she could try to give her a little bit of happiness to carry with her, something to light her way on the dark road to Hades. Something to comfort her. 

Haruka coughed out a little blood, eyes wide, and took a wet, rumbling breath. 

“You know what?” Mina settled in beside her, and brushed at her hair with her other hand, “I’ve got some money laid away. I was gonna go to Los Angeles, ask if you wanted to come. So, I’m gonna pay for your funeral, and get you just, the biggest, gaudiest headstone, and anyone who ever sees it will be like, ‘wow what the shit, she must have been awesome’ and no one will ever forget you, okay? Because I won’t, because I really--” she gave a troubled sigh, the tears falling down her cheeks, “--I really do love you, you know? So, don’t ever think no one did. I do. I’m gonna miss you, so much, and I love you. You dumb bitch.” 

Haruka couldn’t speak, but looked up at her, and Mina thought, and hoped, that she understood, that she felt loved at least for one moment in her life, and just let herself feel it. Her breaths were getting shorter now. It couldn’t have been long, but it stretched out like a shadow along the floor, and Mina wondered if she had gone through this with Michiru, if she had watched her struggle and die in this horrible place. 

“It’s okay now. I’m not mad at you.” MIna rubbed at her shoulder. “No one’s mad at you. It’s okay. Just let go, Bud. Just go on. We had a lot of good times, didn’t we? Even though it wasn’t very long.”

She was talking to keep Haruka comfortable, she was talking because it was the only way to drown out the horrible sound of those terrible, struggling breaths, she was talking for reasons she didn’t even understand. 

“When we had pancakes for Christmas? I want to tell you that was my favorite Christmas of all, you and me. We could have done it ever better, if we got another chance. But it was good. All the time we spent at that shitty bar down the street?” Mina gave a weak laugh, “Trying to take home girls? You’d have done a better job if you weren’t afraid of anyone flirting back. It was fun. I had fun.” 

MIna looked off for a moment. “I promise you. I promise you, that’ll I’ll find the princess. I’ll be the one to carry the sword, and I’ll find her. She’ll know how to make all this right. She’s supposedly got messiah-like power. She’ll make it all better.” 

MIna wasn’t sure she believed any of that, but she wasn’t sure it mattered. Not now.

“And when,” the gaze in Haruka’s eyes was faraway now, her breaths so shallow that Mina wasn’t sure how she was still alive, “when that happens, I’ll make sure they build a big statue to you, and I’ll..make up some version of this story that makes it clear you died a hero. No question. I’ve been a liar all my life, and I don’t mind doing it for you. No one has to know it was just like this. You know what? You saved Michiru. That’s the truth, because I said it is. No one has to know.”

Mina clasped her hand in both of hers, and squeezed it. “So go on, Ruka. I got this.” 

And then Haruka Tenoh, a friend Mina had never expected, her own personal diamond in the rough, took one more hitched breath, relaxed, and died. The fuku fell away, and there was only Haruka, in her soft grey sweater and her little red tennis shoes, dead on the floor of a half-constructed palace for the princess that was coming, a cathedral to the gods of heartache. 

MInako Aino was having a bad day. 

[timeinabottle]

Danse Macabre | Jopper AU | Stranger Things

William Byers disappears into thin air in 1883. His distraught mother, Joyce must put aside her differences with the only man that can help her now. In their desperate search for her son, they uncover the dark world of the occult, a terrible haunting and something the Witch's daughter calls... the Other Side.

Stranger things have happened...

Read on AO3 {X}

Listen to the soundtrack on spotify {X}

Chapter One: The Vanishing of William Byers

Hawkins, Indiana October 26,1883 Sleep riddled James Hopper’s head like a dense cloud, letting him forget where he was for the foggy moment between dreams. He reached across the bed for the warmth a woman who was not there. His hands grasped at thin air instead, and the cold, twisted sheets that wrapped around him like a tourniquet.

When he finally stumbled out of bed and shook the cobwebs off, he caught a glimpse of the clock and cursed. He was late for work again.

He hastily made his way to the medicine cabinet and took a swig off a dark glass bottle. The bitter tincture burned on the way down, but he didn’t care. He looked forward to the sting every morning. And periodically throughout the day... And twice again before bed. Initially prescribed by a physician for a chronic case of melancholy and fever three years earlier, Hopper reasoned it was the only thing keeping him going at this point.

As he got dressed, he chased the tonic with a nip or three of whiskey and half a cigarette leftover from the night before. A touch of cologne was the finishing touch to mask the scent of his morning routine. He strapped his sidearm and fixed the crooked badge on his uniform before stepping out into the low autumn sun.

Fall had swept through the Midwest with a cold fury that year, turning the trees into an ocean of fiery yellows and reds as far as the eye could see. The clear cornflower-blue skies of summer had given way to brooding clouds. They hung over the town like a death shroud, a shadow veil hiding the sun, and bringing with it the acrid perfume of decay.

As the days grew shorter, so did Hopper’s patience. Once a loving and devoted husband and father, he felt dead inside now. Utterly devoid of human emotion. His wife Diane and his darling little Sara were taken within days of each other by a nasty bout of consumption almost four years previous. It wiped out half of Manhattan’s Eleventh Ward before he realized New York had left him with nothing, and he retreated to the comforting arms of his hometown.

Looking up from rock bottom, sleepy little Hawkins seemed like the only choice left for him. It was somewhere he felt safe enough to collapse; to mend a shattered heart and ride out the rest of his years in relative ease. After all he fought for during the war and carried with him still, the tragedy of losing his girls was too much to bear. It left him feeling empty.

More than empty; like a dark star, ready to collapse in on itself.

He found as the years passed by, and despite his best efforts, the broken pieces of his heart would not fit back together, no matter how hard he tried to make it work. He was watching himself turn into a lonely and embittered man in the mirror. He was slowly becoming his father and couldn’t think of a worse fate.

Just like his father, he only had a small circle of people who he could trust. His closest friends were former soldiers in the war, now his deputy officers, Callahan and Powell. He could barely admit it to himself, but he spent most of his time with those two fools either at work or at the tavern after work. His friends had their own young families to focus on though, so after he sent them home for the day, Hopper would spend the latter half of his evenings closing down the bar and chasing after the available women in town, breaking their hearts before they could barely get attached.

He was alone in this world and was starting to think that nothing would ever change. It was his lot in life. Eventually, he accepted his fate and stopped caring. He became lazy. Mid-morning arrivals to work had become the norm, but no one seemed to notice or care.

No one, except Florence.

The police department’s secretary was all but tapping her foot at his late arrival, waiting for him when he arrived. She took his coat from his arms and the still burning cigarette from his mouth disapprovingly. He nodded to the boys in the bullpen as he made his grand, yet fashionably late entrance.

Callahan piped up, “You look miserable, Chief.”

“Funny, your wife hardly looked any better when I left this morning,” Hopper didn’t skip a beat, smiling snidely to the young officer as he walked by his desk. Powell hid his chuckle behind his cup of coffee and watched Callahan struggle to find a suitable response for his superior.

“Thank you very much for gracing us with your presence, James,” Florence interrupted, handing him his day's work and a cup of steaming black coffee as he passed by her desk. A schoolmarm in her younger days, she played the part well enough around the office, making sure all of Hawkins finest were running on time. Her only problem child now… was the chief.

Her hands found her hips when he didn’t acknowledge her, “You have a visitor this morning.”

Hopper grumbled into his cup, “Already? It’s only… half past ten. Did I not make myself clear before? No appointments before noon; my mornings are for coffee... and contemplation.”

Yes, that sounded about right.

“I didn’t have a choice in the matter,” Florence explained with a huff, handing him the paperwork she had already started and following him through the bullpen to his office in the back of the building. “The young lady insisted she speak with you immediately and pushed right through to your office. She won’t budge until she sees you, and only you — stubborn thing. Of course, I’ve been keeping her calm while you took your time getting here this morning,” the older woman’s voice dripped with sarcasm. Hopper would have told her that particular tone didn’t suit a woman of her age… if only he were a braver man.

“Please tell me the pushy little lady that’s waiting for me is beautiful, or at the very least, eligible,” he grunted as he stuffed the paperwork in his uniform pocket, not able to muster enough care to look it over. He was confident the matter was a stolen purse or a civil disagreement, something that didn't require his personal attention — that's what he had the two buffoons sitting in the bullpen for.

“It’s Joyce Byers, Chief. She says her son is missing.”

That stopped him in his tracks. It felt like a lifetime since he had heard that name, and it sounded so foreign to him now as his secretary said it. A pang of nostalgia caught his attention, which quickly turned to hurt, remembering how much heartache that confounded woman had caused him in a previous life. He felt a burning agitation growing in his chest at the parting memory he had of her… or perhaps that was the laudanum finally kicking in.

“Did you ask the Widow Byers if she remembers where she left him?”

“That’s not appropriate James,” Florence tutted at him, giving him a stern look over her spectacles. “She’s rather upset.”

Hopper took a deep breath before opening the door to his office, preparing himself for a maddening interaction. His guard dropped slightly when he saw her sitting there, looking lost and forlorn. A small nagging thought played at him, a reminder that she had played this game with him before, and he was the one who lost; she could always play the victim so well.

As the door closed behind him and he stepped into the room, he got a better look at her under the dim light from the window. Her hair was a matted, frizzy mess tucked under the net of her fascinator, a futile attempt to look put together. Her hollow eyes stood out against the sharp pallor of her skin, betraying her weak constitution. She was so far removed from the young, vibrant woman he once knew. It was if a stranger was standing across the room from him now.

“Police Chief Hopper,” she curtsied as he walked around her to his desk, much to his chagrin. Her tone was polite, but he could hear an underlying hint of irritation as she spoke. No doubt for having to wait over an hour to see him. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“We can drop the formalities, Joyce. You know damn well you didn’t give me a choice in the matter. Safe to say we’re beyond pleasantries now,” he was stern, not wanting to play games with her, just wanting to get this over with and move on with his day. Yet, despite everything that had gone on between them in their formative years — and the resentment he felt thinking about it again — seeing her looking like this was pulling at a small part of him he thought was long buried.

“Oh, well. My apologies... Hop,” her head dipped at her slight and his correction, but she made a point of saying his name as only she knew it.

Joyce looked like an awkward little bird with a broken wing that needed mending. As he sat down behind his desk, she followed suit, and he observed her nervously plucking at her wrinkled skirts while she waited for him to get settled. It looked to him like she had been wearing the same dress for days and Hopper supposed that was very likely the case if her son was indeed missing. If he knew anything about Joyce, it was that she loved her sons more than life itself. He also knew her to be flighty and forgetful too, so it was hard to say if Will was truly missing or she had just lost track of his whereabouts in this state she was in. Regardless, he could tell that whatever had happened was clearly impeding her mental faculties — she was a vibrating, nervous wreck. Gazing at her pitiful form, he supposed he could give her the benefit of the doubt, one last time.

“All right then, why don’t you tell me what happened. From the start,” Hopper set out a pen and ink, and some paper to take notes as Joyce spoke.

She took a trembling breath, looking down at a small cabinet card with her son’s image on it, and held it tight in her hand as if in prayer. Steadying herself, she began, “My son, William -- Will was out visiting friends two days ago after school. He never made it back home.”

“Did he tell you when he would be back?”

She nodded, elaborating, “He said that morning he would be home for dinner. It’s not like him, but he’s getting older now. When he didn’t make it back, I just assumed he stayed with friends. I called on all of them yesterday, and all they could tell me was they had been at the river that afternoon, and he had left an hour before I expected him home.” Her words were clipped. She was trying her best not to cry.

He wrote down her answers languidly as he continued the inquisition, “And you’ve searched the property for him? Your house is at the edge of Mirkwood, isn’t it?”

“Yes. My oldest and I have torn the forest apart. It’s as if Will disappeared into thin air…” she wrung her hands in worry and bit her bottom lip hard as if willing herself not to think such things.

Hopper paused for a long moment to light a cigarette and offer another to Joyce, who took it as if she had been starving for one. Watching as she brought it to her lips with a shaky hand, he bided his time before he spoke again, wanting to choose his words with particular delicacy.

“Have you considered that he might have run away? Boys of his age will do that, you know. Do you still have relatives in Illinois? Is it possible he went to visit them?”

“No,” she couldn’t help but raise her voice at the underlying suggestion that she was a bad mother and couldn’t keep track of her boy. “I know my son; he wouldn’t do something like that without telling me. It’s been almost two full days! Even if he did, he would have contacted me by now,” she cast her eyes to the floor, the uncertainty starting to creep in. ”I’m sure of it.”

“I stole away when I was a teenager to go fight in the war, Joyce. I didn’t tell anyone until I had to,” Hopper spoke gently, confident she didn’t need the reminder of the abrupt end to the trysts of their youth.

“The war is over if you recall, and… and he’s not like you!" Joyce snapped at him and her face twisted, vexed at his words. He could tell she was holding her tongue to keep from insulting him.

She took a deep breath before she continued. Hopper was her only hope now, and he could tell she was desperate for his help.

“And he’s not like me. He’s not like most. He’s a sensitive soul, creative… and smart… the other children tease him and call him awful names.” She went back to wringing her hands, getting lost in her thoughts, “Something is wrong, I just know it.”

Her eyes locked onto his from across the desk, imploring. Hopper sighed. There was no getting out of this, was there?

“Well, the first thing we should do is organize a search party and get his image in front of as many people as we can. You have that picture card of him?”

She looked down to the card in her hands, tracing the grey image of Will with her fingertips; likely the only memento she had of her beloved son. Hopper only wished he had the same of his sweet Sara.

“Take that to the printers on the way home and have them draft up some posters with his vital information.” Hopper wrote down what she would need to give to the pressman and passed it to her. “I will organize the rest, but I have to be honest with you Joyce… Your reputation around town won’t help us much.”

Joyce’s set her jaw at his words and heaved a drawn-out sigh as if she had been expecting him to say it.

“I can certainly pay your department for the time if that is what it’s going to take to get this process started.” She stuck the cigarette in her mouth in a very un-lady-like fashion to open her coin purse with both hands, as if expecting his outstretched palm, but Hopper waved her off.

“That won’t be necessary. You’re entitled to public services as much as anyone. I’m just uncertain how many volunteers we can muster up for someone who’s known as the Widowed Witch of Mirkwood…” his voice trailed off, regretting the words, as he watched her face cloud over.

Joyce frowned at the ridiculous name the townsfolk had given her. She knew it all too well.

Her husband had died a mysterious and sudden death the year previous. Joyce never spoke of it to anyone, but they all knew. His body wasn’t even in the ground before she took advantage of the life insurance policy in his name at the factory. It seemed that dying had been the one and only good thing Lonnie Byers ever did for his family. And despite being given every opportunity to mourn, Joyce had refused her social obligation. How could she possibly be expected to grieve for the drunken brute of a man she had married? Someone who beat her and her sons if they stepped out of line. Someone who treated her like a dog when they were out in public and didn’t even bother to hide his frequent visits to the bawdy house. From the outside looking in, Hopper could understand why she couldn’t bring herself to mourn that monster of a man, but the community couldn’t ignore her disregard for societal norms, and she was quickly shunned.

Joyce only fanned the flames. Instead of indulging the proper grieving period, she splurged on a new wardrobe. She wore jewel-toned velvets and pastel chantilly lace loudly around town, just to make sure her true feelings toward her dead husband were well known. It didn’t take long for the townsfolk to start talking after that.

Did you hear? Joyce Byers murdered her husband. She only did it for the money.

Hawkins ran wild with whispers and lies: She went crazy and poisoned him. She cut his body up and buried him in the woods behind their house. A secret lover helped her do it, and they danced naked under the full moon… on his grave!

Soon, rumor had it she had summoned a demon to do her bidding. She was labeled an outcast. A scarlet letter. A particular kind of witch.

Of course, Hopper didn’t believe any of the rumors… but he did think that maybe she had it coming. After all, it was Lonnie’s arms she ran to when Hopper didn’t court her fast enough for her liking in the summer of 1863. It wasn’t soon after she broke his heart, Hopper left her and Hawkins behind to fight for the Union, severing any remaining threads that kept them bound together.

“Those rumors are completely unfounded,” she started, trying her best to contain the rage bubbling up inside of her. “And they have nothing to do with my Will.”

“I know they are, Joyce,” Hopper rubbed his tired eyes. “You’re right, it has nothing to do with Will. I’m just saying this might be a bit of an uphill battle for us if we want any information on the whereabouts of your son.”

Her face clouded over at the realization sunk in. Even though he was six feet under, Lonnie Byers’ was still causing her trouble in this life. That son of a bitch.

“I was awfully sorry to hear about your husband,” Hopper cleared his throat, though his voice betrayed him; Joyce picked up on his lack of sincerity immediately.

“Please, spare me your condolences,” she held her hand up to him to stop right there and save them both the discomfort of going through the motions. “We both know what type of man my husband was. My sons and I are much better off now…” she trailed off, a look of distress adorning her delicate, worn features. “Or rather, we were, until my poor b-” she choked on a sob, clutching the picture to her chest. Hopper passed her his handkerchief and gave her a quiet moment to lament her missing child.

He was all too familiar with the pain she was going through, and as she wept, he resolved to put the past aside. He felt compelled to help this broken little bird, despite himself and their history. At least there was still hope for her that Will would return home safely. He’d be damned if he let her lose the fleeting chance to bring him back; something he never had.

When she composed herself again and looked back at him, it was with glassy, pleading eyes, “I need you to find him, Hop.”

“We will find him,” Hopper hoped she would see the truth in his eyes, even if he didn’t feel it himself. “I promise.”

There was nothing more he could do right then but comfort her with a pledge that he prayed he could keep.

For the first time since he laid eyes on her that morning, a small smile graced Joyce’s delicate features. “Thank you,” she extinguished her forgotten cigarette out in the ashtray on his desk and stood up to shake his hand. The gesture felt strange coming from her.

He took her proffered hand with both of his and watched as her lips parted with the shock of his touch. He waited for her to say something more, but she never did; the space between them heavy with everything that would remain unsaid. He couldn’t shake the sudden feeling that they had done this all before. Déjà vu.

When the strange moment passed, he was the first to let go, and he guided her to the door, giving her brief instructions on her next steps.

“Take that picture to the printing press and then go home straight away. I’ll take care of everything else. Get some rest. I will stop by as soon as I have more information for you.”

She paused before leaving, her hand clutching his forearm. Her eyes searched his, one more time.

“You’ll find him for me?”

He nodded, “I swear.” That time it felt like the God’s honest truth.

She nodded solemnly, holding the slip of paper and image of Will tight to her chest, taking his promise and her orders with her as he escorted her out of his office. She seemed to float down the dark hall towards the station’s front door, and as he watched her exit, he wondered how he would manage this mess. Just when he thought he had enough of his own problems to deal with, she had to show up at his doorstep with a doozy.

How could he expect anything less from Joyce Byers?

As Joyce stepped out onto Main Street, the gravity of the situation finally hit her, along with the heavy door to the Police Department. It slammed shut behind her, clanging like a gong, waking her up to the sudden realization that this was all too real, and the dark, dreaded feeling, that nothing would ever be the same again. A horse tied to the hitching post outside the building whinnied, startling her once more, just as a young man walked by. He gawked at her until he rounded the corner, out of sight, as if he saw a ghost. It took all her strength not to break down right then and there. She couldn’t, not yet. Her heart was heavy with the weight of the tasks laid out for her: Visit the printing press, then home to rest. Miles to go before she could sleep.

Joyce felt like she was drifting above herself, tethered to her body, as she glided down Main Street like a ghost. Another woman caught her eye, her face twisted into a disgusted sneer. She imagined she was a sight to be seen, practically un-dead; a shell of the woman she was the day before last. Her reputation was preceding, and her current appearance didn’t help, but she didn’t give a damn about any of that anymore. If they only knew…

She could feel the townsfolk eyes on her. She could even hear them whispering. Her cheeks burned red from resisting the urge to lash out at the next person to point at her or titter to their acquaintance. Joyce bit her tongue, knowing that she would need these people on her side if she wanted even the slightest chance to find her boy. She kept her eyes down and focused on her steps, one foot in front of the other.

Printing press. Home. Sleep. Press. Home. Sleep.

It became her mantra as she made her way through the center of town. It was taking everything not to collapse on the street under the righteous scrutiny and the unbearable burden she carried. There was nothing else left to do but carry on.

When she got to the printers, the Pressman was waiting for her. She never thought she would say it in her lifetime, but thank goodness for James Hopper and his keen foresight to have the operator call ahead. Joyce was grateful for the small gesture saving her from having to relive the nightmare and explain herself again. It only took a quick moment to get the information organized for the poster and an estimate on when the prints would be ready. She left with the Pressman's kind word that the photo would be returned to her within the day in the same condition she gave it to him.

Once again, she found herself standing alone and feeling lost on Main Street in her hometown — a place she knew like the back of her hand. She was restless with the urge to do something, anything to help find Will. It felt wrong to head home to idly stand-by while others held her son’s life in their hands, but Hop was right. What good would she be to the cause when she was such a mess? His word's ringing in her ears, she turned around and began the long walk home.

#stranger things fanfiction #jopper #joyce byers #jim hopper #au #joyce byers x jim hopper #victorian pulp #danse macabre

[tiny-maus-boots]

Wild West AU pt 2

A/N: I dunno why. But here it is. So thanks for reading. Yes there is Staubrey in this. If this offends you sorry not sorry.

Stacie whistled softly as walked down the dusty road through the center of town. They were strangers and as such they were cause for staring. Even more so because she knew they were a pair to behold, Stacie doubted anyone in Penitence had ever seen women with all their teeth, let alone women bold enough to wear pants and guns. She nodded her head once in the direction of the jail as they passed by leading their horses. The familiar twang of Beca’s jaw harp echoing softly from the building. “Sounds like your girl is ‘round back. You know what to do?”

Chloe gave her a wink and held out a hand. Stacie slipped the tiny vial in to her friend’s hand carefully. “Yep. Far corner of the wall and shoot from cover. You just make sure you and Bree get out safely.” Stacie gave a nod and patted Beca’s horse on the shoulder as Chloe broke from their path and detoured toward the church singing Amazing Grace softly to the whickering horse she led. Rowdy bumped her shoulder with his nose and she smirked over at him, reaching up to stroke his long face. She tied him off at the post and took two light steps up onto the wooden sidewalk. From her spot she could see the length of the town, just one narrow track in the middle of nowhere. If it weren’t for the now abandoned Army barracks she was leaning against no one would have even known there was a town here at all.

She palmed another small vial from the padded pouch on her belt and slid it into an inconspicuous place on the ledge of the window. Stacie moved away from the wall casually, sweeping her hat from her head to wipe her brow with her forearm. A quick flash of light caught her eye and she smiled knowing that Aubrey had noticed and tagged the spot. Stacie moved along, taking Rowdy with her, ignoring the stares as she led the sturdy dappled pinto past the stable. She poked her head in noting that no one was inside. “Lucky me.” The horses barely made a sound as she moved between them, opening each stall and backing the horses out as quietly as she could. Stacie stopped at a big steel gray, appreciating the blue tint to his coat. There was a beat of hesitation when she questioned if she had time to take a horse when she was busy working but shrugged it off. Eh. It couldn’t hurt and she knew a girl that would look good on a horse like this.

It didn’t take her long to throw a blanket and saddle on the horse’s back. Carefully she made her way outside with the gray and Rowdy following placidly along behind her. Stacie held one of the two remaining vials in her hand, placing it ground behind the barn as she passed along the back of the buildings. When she was far enough away she mounted Rowdy and wrapped the gray’s reins around the pommel of her saddle. Strong legs tightened around her horse, keeping him still with the pressure, his head dipped almost in acknowledgement and he stilled. Stacie pulled her gun smoothly and sighted down the barrel and eased the trigger back nice and slow. Neither horse seemed bothered by the sharp crack of the revolver but they damn sure were bothered by the loud blast that shook and rattled the clapboards all the way down the row.

It took all her considerable skill as a rider to keep the gray from bolting and dragging Rowdy along with it for several long minutes. The horses bursting from the front of the stable caused a rash of screams and shouts that made her laugh. God forgive her for her sins but that was always gonna be funny. Someone had the wit to pull the church bell and she knew their time was just about up. The clang of it sounding off covered another echoing shot and she smirked, feeling the ground rock under them from another blast. Two down, one to go and Beca would be home free. Booted heels gently kicked her horse into light trot, bringing them swiftly to a wagon of hay behind the saloon just as the last and smallest blast shook Penitence to its knees. Both horses shifted uncomfortably when a clatter from above dropped heavily into the wagon of hay next to them. Aubrey popped up with a wide grin that faded in mild confusion. “Who does that horse belong to?”

“Yours.” Stacie raised a brow with a cocky grin when realization dawned on the blonde’s face. “Beautiful lady should have a damn fine horse, if ya ask me.”

There was a soft flush but Aubrey’s smile was pleased as she scrambled over the wagon side and into the saddle. “He’s beautiful.” Aubrey slung her rifle over her shoulder and gripped the reins firmly in her gloved hands reminding Stacie that beneath that soft smile was steel determination and skill. A combination she found entirely captivating. “Time to go, you good?”

Stacie chuckled as Aubrey drew her hat down further and kicked off ahead of her without waiting for an answer. They burst from the side of the building, scattering people back up onto the raised sidewalk. Stacie gripped the smallest vial she had and tossed it just as they passed the jail. It was only a drop but a drop big enough to take a man’s leg clean off if he stepped on it. The second it hit the door to the jail it splintered and blew forward. She and Aubrey raced forward neck and neck for a good half mile before Beca’s horse closed in and met their pace.

Beca didn’t look too worse for wear, a little banged up and dusty but grinning like the devil, hair blown back with Chloe wrapped tightly to her back. She chanced a glance over her shoulder to see how far back the nearest pursuers might be and laughed. People were still trying to corral what horses hadn’t run clear out of town. It’d be awhile before they got a posse together but not long enough to get to the border. “Caverns?”

Chloe gave a thumbs up and they split in two different directions. A posse could track them if they had a good enough tracker, but the closer they got to the foothills the harder it would be. With the sun dropping low and fast it would be too dark to even try to track in the mountains anyway. Aubrey’s horse edged ahead of Rowdy, stretching his legs in a longer stride, his rider adjusting her hips and leaning into it effortlessly. Aubrey tossed her head, flinging her long hair out of her face as the wind changed direction. There was something so unselfconscious about the gesture, so natural that it squeezed the heart in Stacie’s chest.

It was a change from the Aubrey that was constantly aware of the light and positioning of her head and face, always easily dropping into the shadow of her hair to hide the long scar that ran from forehead to jaw straight down over her cheek. Stacie really didn’t notice it, Aubrey was beautiful and that’s all she saw. Aubrey caught Stacie watching her and gave a wide challenging smile as she gave another kick to her horse’s flanks breaking past Rowdy in a plume of dust. Damn if she didn’t love that woman, Stacie shook her head and raised up in the saddle as Rowdy leapt lightly over a narrow dry ravine.

The spent the next hour pushing each other, racing across the landscape with only the sound of Aubrey’s delighted laughter breaking the steady pound of hooves. It had taken time doubling back and pressing forward again until finally they were thundering through a low pass only wide enough for their horses to skirt through just as the sun sank low bathing them in a soft gold and violet haze. Stacie swung one long leg over her horse and slid to the ground, her steps taking her to Aubrey’s side to help her down. Aubrey landed with a giggle and turned to face Stacie, her smile growing quieter at the closeness between them. “Thanks for the gift, he’s wonderful.”

“You’re wonderful.” Aubrey lightly pushed Stacie away with a rolled eye but she knew it was just for show when Aubrey didn’t actually move. “Come on, lemme buy you a drink then you can thank me til the sun comes up.”

“Tsk. Dirty.” But that was the only complaint she got as Aubrey laced their fingers with her free hand, leading the big gray to a large open cave mouth where the sounds of other horses echoed softly. Laughter and music spilled out of another much smaller cave mouth and they detoured there after rubbing the horses down and settling them for the night. They were greeted by shouts and raised mugs and although she dipped her head to let her hair hang over her face Aubrey smiled and waved back at the varied acquaintances and former riding partners. The Caverns were filled with just the right kind of folk in the wrong kind of business and to be honest it just felt like home.

Aubrey nudged Stacie gently with her elbow and nodded to the far back table deep in shadows. Stacie snagged a bottle of rot gut whiskey that was slid to them from across the rough bar. One arm slung over Aubrey’s shoulders and she guided them to where Beca and Chloe were watching the crowd, Chloe resting comfortably in Beca’s lap.

“Goddamn, we actually did it.” Beca gave a slow nod that was uncharacteristically serious before she took a breath. “But there’s no way we’re getting cross the border with all that gold before someone catches up to us. We need a new plan….”

Aubrey sighed as she settled furthest in the shadow. “We need a miracle.”

Chloe raised her head from Beca’s shoulder and gave them all a wink. “We just need some time to catch our breath. We can still get through if we go through Zachary’s Pass.”

After a second Aubrey took the bottle from Stacie and tipped it to her lips, pushing it across to Chloe and Beca. “Like I said, we need a miracle.”

“We’re runnin’ short on those, Bree. Not that I’m ungrateful but you all could have gotten yourselves caught.”

“If you don’t want to be ungrateful stop flapping your gums, Beca. You know the rule. Where one goes, we all go.” Aubrey gave Beca a mild glare that the shorter woman couldn’t meet and Stacie realized this might actually get heated if Beca chose to keep arguing it.

“I maybe have a plan but it means we need a lil help…”

“You think they’ll come?” Chloe bit her lip in question as she sipped from the bottle and coughed a little. It wasn’t great whiskey but it was strong. It could probably blind a horse though.

“You heard Bree, where one goes we all go.” Beca gave a slow nod and took the bottle taking a long gulp before handing it to Stacie. “They’ll be here, for now let’s just enjoy the fact that we’ve got tonight for ourselves. Chloe slid off Beca’s lap and tugged her hand gently.

“C’mon Cowgirl, let’s go for a ride.”

Beca’s smile was slow and cocky as she stood and followed after Chloe. It took Aubrey a full five minutes before she turned to Stacie with a slight frown. “In the dark?” It was so dang adorable that Stacie only smiled and pulled Aubrey closer to her, nuzzling her temple.

“Aubrey Anne Posen you are just too precious for words.” Aubrey’s body shook in silent laughter and Stacie reached out a hand to tug the blonde along after her. They needed to find a place of their own right now. Tomorrow would bring tomorrow’s problems, tonight they had each other.

#wild west au #bechloe #pitch perfect #staubrey #wlw

[appleoctopie]

Title: meet me in the woods Summary: Cana meets a stranger in the woods and maybe falls a little bit in love.

AO3

Something rustled in the trees and Cana had to bite back the scream that threatened to explode from her lips. She didn't often scare easily, hell she loved watching horror movies and laughing at the ridiculousness, but anyone would be scared in her situation. She was practically living a horror movie and it was all Gray's fault.

He'd said there was a party. He'd said it was epic and amazing and she was really missing out. He'd told her to get her ass down there immediately.

He'd forgotten to mention that the supposed party was in the middle of the fucking woods .

She scowled and curled her fingers tighter around her phone, the only source of light in the otherwise dark night.

“So much for meeting me at the road,” she huffed, kicking a rock into a nearby tree with a woody thunk. The silence of the woods was unnerving, making the hairs on her arms stand up. It almost felt like the trees were holding their breath as they waited for something to happen. What it was, Cana didn't know, but she wasn't gonna hang around to find out.

She knew she should have just gotten back in her car and turned around when she got his last text. She might as well have been asking to get murdered, wandering through the dark woods alone as she was. Plus any party in the middle of the woods was clearly a front for a satanic cult. She wouldn't be surprised if they were sacrificing virgins to the dark lord right then. Maybe her lack of virginity would actually keep her alive in this situation ...

Unless it was actually a slasher movie she was walking into, then she'd be the first to die.

She sighed and shook her head. She should just go home, no party was worth getting murdered over, not even one as epic and amazing as Gray claimed it to be.

A twig snapped and Cana froze, breath turning to ice in her chest. She'd just been kidding when she'd worried about about a murderer lurking in the trees. There hadn't been a murder in Magnolia for ages , but … maybe that meant it was long overdue.

A rustle of leaves had her head whipping to the left as she scanned the area with her light. No shadows lurked, no knives flashed in the light, there was nothing there.

“I'm just imagining things.” She shook the paranoid thoughts out of her head and kept moving. Gray had told her that the clearing they were in was just a straight shot from the road. That it wouldn't be too hard to find. That she would be fine.

Gray had told her a lot of things she was beginning to doubt.

Another twig snap had her spinning on her toes to scan the area. Again there was nothing, and again she told herself she was just imagining things. She almost believed it too, until she heard the breathing. It was nearly silent, but it was unmistakable in the silent night. A soft inhale, a breathy exhale. Someone was in the shadows.

She wasn't alone.

She licked her suddenly dry lips, slowly scanning the area with her phone. On one hand she didn't want to alert the killer to her location, on the other she didn't want to be caught by surprise when they slammed into her. She'd rather see the attack coming, even if she could do nothing to stop it. Yet once again her search came up with nothing. As far as her eyes could tell she was alone.

“I swear to god if that's you Gray ...” She trailed off, eyes narrowing as anger burned away the fear. She'd rather be angry, at least then she wasn't frozen.

“Hello?”

Cana wasn't ashamed to admit that she screamed, throwing her phone in the direction of the noise. Of course she immediately realized by doing so she'd just thrown her light and was left in complete darkness with what was probably a murderer, but at the moment she'd thought it was the best option.

“I'm sorry! I didn't mean to scare you!”

The voice was … far too sweet to belong to a murderer. There was a rustling and then Cana felt someone touch her hand. She shrieked and yanked her hand away, only to realize they were holding her phone, the light was pointing at the ground, but she was able to make out the figure in front of her.

A woman, about the same age as her, with long golden hair and wide dark eyes. She smiled and offered up the phone, this time waiting for Cana to take it from her hand. Cana eyed her, sliding back a step as she clutched the phone like a lifeline. At least now she could call the cops or something.

“I didn't think I'd see anyone else out here.”

She was watching Cana, eyes appearing almost black in the dim light. She wondered what color they really were and shook her head. She shouldn't be wondering about a murderer's eye color, assuming she was dealing with a murderer.

She was beginning to doubt that she was.

“Do you often walk around the woods in the middle of the night?” Cana hadn't meant to sound so accusatory, but her heart was still racing and she figured she had a good reason to be suspicious.

The stranger blinked and chuckled. “Actually, yeah I do. It helps me clear my head and sleep easier.” She arched a brow and looked pointedly at Cana. “What's your excuse?”

Cana flushed. “I … well ...” She shook her head with a sigh. “I'm looking for a party.”

“In the middle of the woods?”

“... yeah.” Cana realized her excuse sounded like a lie and she rushed to explain herself. “My friend texted me about it and had promised to meet me at the road, but when I got here he claimed he was too drunk and told me I would be able to find it alone, which he assured me would be easy, yet here I am stumbling lost with no party in sight.” She took a deep breath, realizing she hadn't stopped to breathe once, and the stranger stared in silence.

She worried for a moment that she'd said too much. That she really was dealing with a murderer and had just painted a target on her chest.

Then the laughter started. It seemed to echo off the trees, making her feel like she was surrounded by a singing creek. It was contagious, and although she was slightly mortified, Cana found herself laughing along.

They fell silent, the sounds of the forest rolling in to cover the last echoes of their laughter. An owl hooted off in the distance and something small ran through the bushes nearby. Although the forest around them was still, the air between them seemed to crackle, reminding Cana of the calm before the storm.

This stranger might not be a murderer, but that didn't mean there wasn't one out there.

“I uh, think I'll just head back.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder in what she hoped was the direction of her car. She hadn't been kidding about being lost. Even though she'd tried to walk in a straight line there had been times she'd had to zig and zag around big rocks and fallen trees. There was no guarantee it was a straight shot back to the road.

She glanced around, uncertainty curling around her stomach. She had her phone … even if it was beginning to lose battery fast. She would just text Gray that she wasn't going to bother with the party and yell at him about it tomorrow.

“You're closer to the party than the road.” The stranger shrugged when Cana shot her a suspicious look. “I skirted around it on my walk. They're kind of hard to miss when you get close enough.” She nodded off to the right. “I can show you the way. I know these woods pretty well.”

Cana pursed her lips and stared. She might be dealing with a murderer, or she was just dealing with a very helpful (and cute!) girl in the woods. One of them might get her killed, but the other …

“Yeah. That would be really helpful.” She smiled and held out her free hand. “I'm Cana, by the way.”

“Lucy.” Her fingers slid into Cana's open hand, pale against her darker complexion, and surprisingly cold. Her heart stuttered as she squeezed Lucy's fingers in a quick shake, but before she could let go Lucy slid her fingers between Cana's, using her grip to tug her through the shadows.

Lucy didn't seem to need a light to navigate the branches and stones that littered the nonexistent path, but Cana wasn't about to risk it. Even with her phone lighting the way she managed to stumble over everything, Lucy being the only thing keeping her from falling flat on her face. More than once she'd had to reach back and catch Cana before she could fall.

After about five minutes of walking Lucy stopped so suddenly that Cana found herself smacking against her back. She froze for a moment, face pressed against Lucy's silken hair that smelled faintly of vanilla and lemon. It was an intoxicating scent and she found herself almost leaning in to get more, managing to catch herself at the last minute and step back.

“What is it?” She kept her voice down, eyes darting around at the surrounding trees. Had Lucy seen something out there that she'd missed? Had she been right all along about the murderer hiding in the woods?

Had she been wrong about Lucy?

Cana glanced at her, but with her back to the light she couldn't make out any expression. Lucy seemed to be scanning the area, her head swiveling ever so slightly as she searched for something.

“Someone's coming.”

Cana strained her ears, trying to hear what Lucy heard, but she'd clearly destroyed her hearing with too much loud music. The forest lay silent around them, not even the leaves seemed to be moving.

The fear that Cana had nearly forgotten settled like a weight around her shoulders and she found herself moving closer to Lucy, fingers curling in the fabric of her shirt. Even though Lucy was technically shorter than her, she moved in front of Cana, muscles shifting under Cana's fingers. She hadn't looked like a fighter, but there was no denying she was prepared to do just that if she had to.

Fire flickered in Cana's stomach, a warmth that spread slowly, melting the fear like ice slower than her anger had. She was glad Lucy was there, she felt protected .

Then she heard it too. The rustling and snapping, growing louder with each breath. It sounded like someone was running, almost like a herd of startled deer. Except they weren't running away.

The scream crawled up her throat and touched her lips as the shadowy figures burst from the trees. Branches snapped and birds exploded from the leaves as the group came to a stop, a few panting for breath. The figure in the lead was half dressed, head held high as his eyes swept the area, landing on Cana and Lucy.

Cana's scream died before it truly had a chance to live, becoming a strangled shout instead. All of the anger and fear bubbled up when she looked at Gray and she found her body moving of its own accord. She stepped away from Lucy and walked up to Gray.

“Are you okay? We heard a scream—“

She hit him.

It wasn't a slap across the face, although later she would wish she had slapped him, just to hear the sound of it ringing through the silent trees. She'd never really been a slapper though, never understood the point when a punch to the gut worked so much better.

The breath left Gray with a hiss, his words dying on his lips as he pressed a hand to his stomach. She glared up at him, hands curling to fists at her sides. She was faintly aware of the people around them—Lucy behind her, Erza, Laxuz, and Mirajane behind Gray—but she didn't care.

“You motherfucker!” The word was a snarl and she threw herself at him, pounding her fists against his bare chest with more force than necessary. “You don't fucking text someone to come to the woods in the middle of the night and then abandon them!”

Cold hands with long nimble fingers closed around her shoulders and tugged. She let Lucy pull her back, grounding herself with a deep breath and finding comfort in Lucy's grip. She closed her eyes and took another breath, letting it out through her mouth. No one said anything as she took another breath, this time opening her eyes on the exhale.

Mira was standing next to Gray, concern clear on her face. Cana realized she could see everyone clearly, far more clearly than her phone light would give, and noticed the lantern in Mira's hand. She turned off the light on her phone and slid it in her pocket, glad that she'd managed to hold on to it this time.

“Gray.” She focused her attention on him, eyes narrowed in a glare. “You bet your ass you came running when you heard my scream. If I'd been getting murdered it would have been your fault!”

She huffed, crossing her arms over her chest as Lucy's hands slid down to grip her biceps. “You don't let a friend stumble through the woods alone! Have you ever seen a horror movie?”

Mira and Erza both took a step towards Cana, turning to face Gray.

“You made her walk alone?” Although it was a question, there was clearly no doubt in Erza's mind. Her voice was sharp enough to cut, and Cana couldn't stop the smug smile. Her girls would always have her back, especially when it came to the idiots like Gray.

“What were you thinking?” Mira hissed, arms crossed under her chest as she glared at Gray. He shifted uneasily under their stares pleading gaze meeting Cana's.

Lucy's fingers squeezed Cana's biceps and cool breath stirred the hair at her neck. “You found your party.” For a moment, Cana thought she felt the brush of lips over her skin, and then she felt nothing. No breath against her ear, no fingers chilling her skin. She turned, sure that she would be able to stop Lucy, grab her hand or say something, but she was gone. The forest lay still and silent, like she'd never even been there …

“Cana?”

Mira's hand was soft on her arm and she shook her head, glancing back at the group. Erza looked seconds away from kicking Gray's ass, her face very close to his as she hissed something to low for Cana to hear.

“Sorry. I just ...” She shook her head again. “I got too much in my head. Thought too much about murderers hiding in the trees, y'know. Normal stuff.” She gave Mira what she hoped was a reassuring smile, stepping past her to lightly tap Erza's back. Erza stopped her scolding to glance at Cana who smiled again and rested a hand on Gray's arm.

“I'm not sorry for hitting you because you're an asshole, but you can make it up to me by making sure this party is just as epic and amazing as you claim it to be.”

Laxus lead them back through the trees, Mira walking beside him with the lantern. Erza stomped behind them, muttering to herself about something that was sure to make Gray miserable.

“Are you sure you're okay?” She could smell the alcohol on his breath, but his tone betrayed none of it. His dark eyes bored into her face, checking for any sign of distress or injury she was sure.

“Yeah, I am. You're walking me back to my car and never pulling a stunt like this again, but I'm good.”

“So that scream?”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “It was nothing.”

They got back to the party and friends rushed to make sure she was okay. Clearly no one had been that worried based on the drinks still going around, but Cana couldn't be upset, especially not after she had a few of those drinks herself.

There was something to be said about partying in the woods, the way the music coming from a grainy phone speaker mixed with the night sounds to make a new kind of noise. It was magical, and the energy was intoxicating.

Cana found herself throwing her head back, neck arching and hair cascading to the ground as she stared at the sky. Her eyes sought out any sort of moon, but it seemed she was sleeping for the night, hidden behind the shadow of earth.

No one asked her about the girl she'd been with when they found her, and Cana didn't offer any information. She wasn't sure why, it wasn't like Lucy had tried to hide herself from Cana's friends. She just hadn't necessarily made herself known either, and Cana had a feeling none of them would remember her in the morning.

None of them but Cana.

She smiled and spun in a circle, pausing when something in the trees caught her eye, a flash of golden hair.

She spun back to catch another glimpse, but the woods were empty and still.

Yet she couldn't quite shake the feeling of someone watching her, someone whose gaze made her feel … safe.

Protected.

She smiled and spun into Laxus's arms, laughing when he picked her up to spin her. Lucy would be her little secret, a dream memory of this night.

At least … until Cana managed to find her again.

#lucana #lucy heartfilia #Cana Alberona #fairy tail #lucy x cana #femslash #fanfiction #lusy is a vampire ... #i hadn't meant for it to be that way #but sometimes things just happen