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notoriousjae · 4 years

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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.

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

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canyouhearthelight · 4 years

Text

The Miys, Ch. 103

This chapter was, honestly, a complete an total delight to write. I wanted to take an opportunity to work more with a character who has gotten very little ‘screen’ time: Sam. He’s one of two characters on the autism spectrum (please correct me if that isn’t the right term?) who are based on actual people who I’ve been acquainted with. I’ve admittedly shied away from writing much of Sam or Derek, largely because I have been scared into flop-sweats at the possibility that I will misrepresent autistic people. Even though I was acquainted with the real life versions of both Sam and Derek, that was nearly a decade ago and memory is fickle.

However. In an effort to do better all the way around with the characters I am writing, I found podcasts of people on the spectrum talking about what makes them unique, how they feel about being autistic, and what they consider good representation. And then I took a deep breath and wrote this chapter. It is the first, but I don’t want it to be the only. Turns out? Sam is a REALLY neat dude (I think)!

Finally, finally, I had a day off from work and crises. Tyche planned to spend the day baking, Antoine was booked solid with appointments after taking his ‘sabbatical’ to help Xiomara, and everyone else in my life was currently either teaching or attending Galactic Core classes this shift. The single exception was Conor, who currently was serving his volunteer shift in the aeroponics lab.

Because of this, I was currently making my way down there, steak and beer pie in hand, to surprise him with lunch. A happy humming trailed behind me, both from the newfound free time on my hands and the fact that Hujylsogox technology meant I wasn’t burning my hands while carrying the food for more than five seconds. In fact, forty-five minutes later, the pastry was still hot, my hands were still cool, and I was paging for entry into the lab with a note that I was carrying food, just in case any poisonous plants were out.

It was one time I forgot, and fortunately it only upset Conor’s stomach and wasn’t fatal.

Shortly, the door slid open to reveal - Sam, not Conor. “Hey,” I grinned, recovering quickly. “I didn’t know you’d be down here right now, or I would have brought you lunch, too.” Trying to be less awkward, I gently rocked the pie in my hands. “I’m sure Conor doesn’t mind sharing though?”

Sam smiled in return and stepped back. “It smells like beer,” he replied. “But thank you.”

“The alcohol cooks out?” I tried, caught between being polite and being pushy.

To my somewhat relief, he shook his head. “Yeast,” he pointed out, wrinkling his nose and sticking his tongue out slightly. “Not a fan.”

Couldn’t exactly blame him, since I didn’t drink beer for a similar reason. “Next time, I’ll check if you’re going to be here, and bring you lunch too.”

“Sophia,” he started to admonish, before affixing me with a wordless stare.

Ugh. Apparently, I wasn’t quite free of my own awkwardness. “I just feel like I should bring food for everyone I know and not just Conor,” I tried to explain. “Where I grew up, it’s rude to bring food for only one person.”

“I eat,” he replied, waving vaguely.

It took a few moments to realize that I completely misunderstood the gesture. He wasn’t waving without meaning at all.

“Are those tomatoes!?” I gasped. “And that’s baby butter lettuce… Cucumbers!? You have cucumbers!?”

“Baby ones,” Sam grinned proudly just as Conor came in.

“Thought I heard your voice,” he laughed before tipping my face up for a kiss. “Sam showing off his salad again?”

I forced a glare and gently poked my partner in the chest. “Tomatoes. Conor. You did not tell me there were fresh tomatoes.”

Conor laughed, but Sam was the one to reply. “They just turned ripe today. You can have them if you want?”

“Oh, gosh,” I gasped, no small amount of wistfulness in my words. “Sam, I was joking. Just teasing him, I promise. I wasn’t seriously mad, and please don’t give these to me because you thought I was upset. I’m not. It was a joke.” Trying to compose myself, I forced a hand through my hair. “Did you grow these?”

He nodded, excited. “In soil we think will be like the soil on Von. As a test, to see if they taste different.”

My head, neck, and eyebrows all shot up. “Are they safe to eat?”

“These are, yes. The earlier ones, we weren’t sure, so Conor couldn’t tell you about them.”

“Sam, seriously. These aren’t my tomatoes. They belong to everyone, so thank you for being careful and not letting anyone eat them until you were sure.”

“I know you want a tomato, Sophia.” Without hesitation, he reached out and plucked three from a nearby plant. “If all three of us eat one, to test the flavor, then they can’t be ‘your’ tomatoes, right?”

Conor shook me gently. “He has a point, love. These are the first batch that ripened and tested safe for humans. Sam’s probably eaten his weight in them, but I don’t think any other people have tried them.”

Sam looked down, trying to hide his ear-splitting smile. “They taste really good.”

With a sigh of defeat, I looked at the dark red berry in my hand. My curiosity instantly took over. “These look like zebra tomatoes, kind of.”

Sam’s face lit up, while Conor was still studying the one he had. “They’re a cross! A black zebra tomato and a Cherokee chocolate tomato, modified to be grape sized!” He popped his into his mouth, crushing it happily. “Not very acidic, but the soil also gives them more of a mineral flavor.”

Fascinated, all hesitation left my body as I shoved the fruit into my mouth. The first bite was an explosion, part familiar acidic taste, part something that I could only describe as ‘red’, and something… almost stony. Not in texture, but in flavor. It wasn’t something I had ever experienced with a tomato, but -

“Wine,” I murmured. “It’s.. stony, like a wine. New Zealand white, actually, with the volcanic soil… That’s…”

“It’s clean,” Conor interjected. Chewing thoughtfully, he continued. “That mineral taste keeps it from lingering in your mouth. I bet I could eat one of these tomatoes and bite a piece of cake right after without the flavors crossing.”

Sam replied, but it was so quiet I couldn’t hear him. When I asked him to repeat himself, he turned his face toward me with his eyes closed, hands grasping nervously. “I like to dip them in Nutella,” he enunciated loudly.

OH.

The idea of ‘tomatoes and Nutella’ made me draw up short, but then I thought over what Sam had said. He didn’t say he liked tomatoes, in general, in hazelnut spread, he said he liked these tomatoes dipped in it. And Conor’s point about eating one and then a bite of cake echoed through my mind. Nodding firmly, I tried to telegraph my confidence in Sam as hard as I could, lifting my chin far enough to make my neck itch. “Well then. You know these tomatoes better than anyone, and have eaten more than anyone. I would like to try these in Nutella, if you have three more ripe ones?”

Sam’s eyes snapped open briefly before he snatched three of the fattest little tomatoes he could find. Eagerly, he yanked open a random drawer and revealed a hidden container of the spread. “I’ll have to hide it again, Conor eats it on everything,” he confessed before swiping the tomatoes through like they were strawberries, leaving a neat little curl of chocolate and hazelnut on each one.

Taking the one offered to me gingerly, I had to admit I felt intrigued. The deftness Sam used to dip them told me that this wasn’t only something he’d tried, it was how he enjoyed these the most. Before Conor could get over the concept of chocolate and hazelnut on a tomato, I popped my treat in my mouth to satisfy my curiosity.

Holy. Fiendish. Shit. I almost choked on the amount of saliva that filled my mouth. That was incredible, if I was being brutally honest. I never would have tried it with a tomato grown in Terran soil, but… hell. This was a whole new thing. “Sam,” I choked out as I desperately tried to keep from shouting. “You’re….. That’s brilliant.” The flavor was like chocolate, hazelnuts, strawberry, and orange, washed down with a good wine. “I think you just converted me to Nutella.”

Conor gaped, which only made Sam laugh harder. “Sophia,” Conor sputtered. “Do you mean to tell me that you hate Nutella so much that experimental tomatoes are what convinced you? I feel like I don’t know you at all, suddenly.”

“Yeah, no,” I confirmed. “This is probably the first time I’ve liked it in my life.”

“I want a divorce.”

“We aren’t even married,” I pointed out, before realizing that Sam was getting incredibly upset. “Annnnnd we can’t make that joke, babe.” Making sure Conor saw me glancing at Sam, I clarified. “Sam, that’s just a joke. Conor wouldn’t break up with me over Nutella any more than Maverick broke up with me because I like spicy food. But we - “ I elbowed Conor just hard enough to get his attention without making him choke on his second tomato, “won’t joke like that again. I’m sorry.”

Hesitantly, Sam nodded before wrinkling his nose. “You do like really spicy food.”

“I do,” I confirmed. “And Maverick does not. So, I make him food that isn’t as spicy. And, just like that, I don’t eat Nutella, and Conor doesn’t make me.”

Narrowing his eyes, Sam turned to Conor. “Is that why you always steal mine?”

Conor nodded sheepishly. “I’m sorry, mate. I’m really bad about that, aren’t I?”

“It’s free, Conor,” Sam pointed emphatically to the wall. “From the console.”

“Does that mean you’re mad?”

“It means stop leaving empty containers in my drawer. If you eat the last of it, at least get me more. Geez!”

“So, you aren’t mad?”

“I’m mad about the empty containers,” Sam scowled. “There is nothing nice about coming to work with all this fruit” he gestured expansively “and having nothing to dip it in.”

Conor opened his mouth to reply, but closed it just as quickly.

“He’s got a point,” I added, knowing I was entirely unhelpful. “I mean, what if I made meatloaf and no mashed potatoes? Or gravy? No either?”

His head snapped toward me, his expression horrified. “Sophia, what in the…. You would never expect someone to -” Without prompting, he cut himself off. “Ah, shit. I’ve been an arse, haven’t I?”

“You have been a complete donkey,” Sam intoned seriously. Then, with a smirk, he added, “I think you owe me pickles.”

Conor groaned at that. Sam loved pickles, but only specific kinds. Predictably, my boyfriend’s face pivoted to leverage his most beseeching expression at me.

Unfazed, I shook my head. “Nope. I’m not the one who ate his snack topping. I’ll give you the recipe, and you can make the pickles.”

“Love…”

“Taking his Nutella and not replacing it is rude, and you know how I feel about rude people.” I examined my nails closely. “And you are perfectly capable of getting whole radishes and matchstick carrots from the console, but nice try.”

“Brussels sprouts, too, please,” Sam asked politely.

All I could do with such a request was nod firmly. “And the brussels sprouts.”

“I don’t even like - “

“They aren’t for you,” I pointed out. “Although, I’m sure Maverick will appreciate it if you make a double batch of the radishes.”

“And Derek likes the brussels sprouts,” Sam pointed out.

When Conor sank to the floor with a groan, neither of us could restrain our laughter. Who knew that ill-gotten chocolate led to pickling your worst enemies? Then again, I guess Conor was about to find that out the hard way.

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#the miys #found family #autistic representation I hope #humans are weird #tw: food #food cw #humans are space orcs #earth space australians #humans are space fae #hfy #science fiction #sci fi #scifi #original science fiction #original sci fi #my writing #original writing

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rokutouxei · 4 years

Text

our shadows fall away like dust

part 6 of atelier heart

ikemen vampire: temptation in the dark theo van gogh/mc | T | 3623 | [ao3 in bio]

spoiler warning: this references a scene in chapter 25.

other warnings: this fic has references to depression, some hurt/comfort, and an understandable existential crisis. essentialy, you and Theo have matching fragile emotional pieces, so you establish boundaries, pledge honesty, and do your best to make each other stronger.

A habit of playing hide-and-seek with no one, Theo calls it, whenever you ducked away from the rest of the mansion like a quietly sneaking mouse. He always catches you, of course, but knowing that he’ll find you despite any attempts you have of hiding does not ease the worry he has whenever you fall back into that.

No one in the mansion had seen you for hours, as you tiptoed past residents and crossed hallways unnoticed throughout the rest of the day. Jean said he saw you in the balcony earlier that day, looking out over the city, but then nothing after lunch. Vincent recalled seeing you help serve food at noon, but without a word to him and Dazai at the table, you had disappeared out the hall before he could reach out. Arthur last saw you even earlier, breakfast, noting that even then you had looked a little forlorn, quite downcast, while you were putting away some plates. Napoleon, on the other hand, saw you headed out the garden to get and fold a mountain of sheets, which he offered to help with, but you had turned him down.

You had not only gone missing; you’d also been completely out of character.

It doesn’t help that Leonardo had approached Theo once he’d gotten home to ask, “Something happen with cara mia?”

Theo left early this morning, on account for a series of several tasks at hand that had to be completed for an upcoming exhibit. It was one that had been building up for the past few months, and finally, you had gotten the go signal with a friendly client willing to rent you some space, and everything has been busy since. You were supposed to go with him—the artists have really become fond of you, and having you around always brightened their spirits—but you had begged off in the morning because you were not feeling well. You had sounded groggy, but also kind of sick. No fever, Theo noted, but he didn’t want to push you, in the off chance that it turned into something worse. He asked you to stay put for the day, and you’d smiled at him weakly and let him go.

But maybe he should have stayed a little longer.

Now, it’s dinnertime in the mansion. Dinners are usually your favorite, because it is then when Sebastian serves his well-known desserts, beloved to you (and, really, anyone who would have the chance to taste them.) But you were not at your usual place in the table, your dinnerware untouched. Theo came home humming, excited to have finished his tasks early—more time with you is the best time—only to feel his joy replaced with an unsettling dread upon hearing that they hadn’t heard from you in a bit. Sebastian swears he hadn’t seen you leave the mansion either, and Theo knew better, of course.

It didn’t make him feel any better.

He didn’t need to spend that long time looking. Hide-and-seek with you wasn’t a common occurrence—thankfully—but it happened often enough that he would not need much to figure out where you were. He peered out the window to check the garden (no sheets) and on his way to your room he checked in the laundry room (no sheets either) and then he knew exactly where you were.

He knocks three times on your door before opening it.

You made a promise to him once that you wouldn’t lock it, ever, no matter how off you felt, and at that moment Theo was so glad you had agreed to it. Even as he enters the room, you don’t raise your head from where you are curled up on the armchair. You don’t make any move to hide your state either: the fresh sheets crumpled in a giant ball thrown from the basket onto your bed, your messy hair, your cried-out eyes, the scratch marks along your arms made from bitten nails. Theo closes the door shut.

“Hondje.”

You make a gentle “mmmh” noise that Theo takes as approval to approach. He steps gingerly down the carpet, sitting on your bed, across you. He watches you closely for a long moment, without saying a word. You feel his stare against your skin, not burning, not angry, just warm and curious and asking. Finally, you turn your head to look at him. Your eyes are red.

Did something happen? Who hurt you? Let me help you. I love you. What did I do wrong? Who wronged you? Theo’s voice nearly shakes when he settles with “Talk to me.”

To that you only shrug. There’s not much to say, after all. Not yet. You curl tighter into a ball, your cheeks mushed against your crossed arms. You sniffle in an attempt to breathe and Theo’s heart clenches in his chest.

With every word weighed carefully, “Sorry,” is the first thing that stumbles out of his mouth—the only word of care and affection he can piece through the fog of worry that’s building in his mind.

Theo’s like that, always so sparing with his words, but they’re always so full of love. You’re thankful he’s here by your side. You force a small smile he can only see half of, but it stings him anyway. “Not your fault,” you say, and your voice is raspy and catches in your throat. “Just me. Like always.”

For a moment the two of you stay there, in shared silence, testing the air for what’s best to be done next. Theo knows he can coax the words out of you, but not now. Not yet. Now, you just need to have him pull you back to the ground. He stands up from his seat and presses a kiss against the crown of your head, gently urging you into his arms. When you collapse into his warmth, he takes the chance to lift you up princess-style into his arms. You press your face against his chest and sigh.

He turns to place you on your bed to make you more comfortable, but upon remembering it’s currently occupied, he decides to bring you back to his room instead. You place both your arms around his neck as he carries you up effortlessly. You don’t notice if anyone sees the both of you pass by. If someone were there, they make no comment or noise as you walk past them in the hallways. You focus on your breathing (four seconds in, seven seconds hold, eight seconds out) and the scent of Theo’s skin. The next thing you know, you hear his door opening with that familiar swing, the sound of it clicking close, then the creak of his bed under both your weights.

Finally, you let yourself open your eyes. The lights are out, the only brightness coming from the moonlight slipping through the window, silver on the bed sheets. Theo is loosening his tie and taking his jacket off, hanging them as he prepares to sit next to you on the bed. You pull a pillow to your chest (it smells like him, like comfort) and sigh into it just as he climbs next to you.

“How was today?” you say softly, asking in advance to deflect whatever question of concern you knew he would inevitably ask you. You’re not quite ready to answer yet. “I’m sorry I couldn’t go. I hope you passed my regards to the artists.”

“I did,” he says, as he pulls you up to his broad chest into a cuddle. You lean against him, thankful to have someone to lean all this useless deadweight on, someone who will not mind carrying you. “They were looking for you before they even said hello to me. ‘Where’s the princess? Why are you alone today?’ Seems like you’re going to be a better dealer than me after all.”

“Pffsh, no way.” What you want is to be there to help him—and to see him—make his dreams come true. You’re not there to compete. “I’m still leaps and bounds behind you. They were probably just teasing you, since you’re so fun to tease.”

“I’m not fun to tease,” he argues. A little tick of dissatisfaction; he wants to demand what made you think he is fun to tease, but when he feels you smile against him, he realizes maybe it doesn’t matter. He presses you closer to him.

Theo feels defeat when he realizes he’s become used to this happening, but he immediately reprimands himself. Him knowing how to take care of you when you need him most is not defeat, it’s victory.

The both of you relax in the shared silence, not pushing, not impatient. Maneuvering the highs and lows isn’t new to either of you; the basis of most of your trust is the acknowledgement that the other understands what it means to be at the bottom end of it, facing the brunt of a bad swing. It seems pitiful, it seems scary—two people vulnerable to the same fickle mind and heart, trying to patch each other up.

You don’t notice just how tense you still are until Theo begins to run his hands through your hair gently, easing out the knots, massaging your scalp as he goes. You make a soft noise of contentment—Theo always says it sounds like you’re purring, like a cat—and fall limp against him, surrendering.

The words climb up your throat, a rocket fighting with all its might against gravity to get out into orbit.

“I got scared.”

Theo’s hands pause in your hair for just a breath, but then continues. Its steady, consistent rhythm only eases you into a more relaxed state. “About?”

About? The word echoes in your head over, and over again, into the dark cavernous abyss. About what, really? Why the hesitation—why are you so unsure? There are too many things to count. One worry riding an avalanche, getting bigger and bigger until you can no longer lift your shoulders.

“Everything.”

And it’s not a lie, really. It started off like this: yesterday, the door to the future opened as it usually does, every month, without fail. Unlike a few months ago, that very day you decided to stay in the mansion, the unlocking of the door isn’t really much of an affair anymore, except perhaps when Comte announces he’ll be off for a while and maybe you can ask him to bring some things from the 21st century, if that’s where he’s headed. It was just an ordinary, crescent-moon night.

Except it didn’t feel like it.

Somehow, you’d gotten into the habit of staying away from the door on the night that it opens. You still do rounds around the mansion sometimes, when you’re not out at work with Theo, so you get the chance to peer into Comte’s room and catch a glimpse at the door’s hourglass. It’s not that you’re willing yourself away from temptation, and crossing the door, but somehow, it feels safer, in your head, to just be away from it on that night.

Except yesterday.

You were on the way back to Theo’s room, after having a relaxing dip in the thermae, when you crossed the hallway leading to the time-crossing door. You weren’t even going through the hallway, just past it, but in the corner of your eye you felt like you saw someone down the hall.

Someone, being you.

Looking down the hallway with the moonlit window at the far end of it, illuminating the door, you could only imagine what you looked like that night you arrived, when Theo first saw you. Terrified, confused, banging at the wooden door begging it to open. What would you look like to the you back then? Already used to the life in the 19th century, perfected the manners (well, most of it), dressed in appropriate clothes. Would you have been terrified of yourself?

And with that thought, you went into the hallway, lights already long dimmed. You had in your hands a little candlestick, illuminating the space around you by a warm, yellow glow. And standing with it in front of the door that had ultimately changed the course of your entire life, you felt… small. You hadn’t thought of home in months. This was home now—Paris, 19th century. You knew that. But muscle memory of a whole life you’d lived still remembers what it was before this. Before the Louvre. Before Theo.

Without thought, you reached your hand out onto the door.

And for just a little bit, it pushed open.

You held it there, for what felt like hours, head buzzing. You weren’t thinking of going back, no, you love what you have now here, what you’ve built, what you’ll see in the future—and maybe you’re a little terrified, of course, two world wars, a plague, maybe multiple—but you couldn’t pull your hand away from it. Something kept you stuck there. You could see the carpet going through under the door, could imagine the hallway, with the paintings, leading all the way out to the other side.

At that moment, you heard footsteps from the other hallway. And you let go of the door like it was hot. Just as it clicks back into place, locked for another full month, Leonardo peered into the hallway.

“Loitering so late at night, cara mia?”

You’d be embarrassed at Leonardo having seen you in your sleeping clothes if you weren’t so flustered about the door already. “Just a little nostalgic. I should go to bed.” You cross the hallway as quickly as you can, and, greeting him quickly with a soft goodnight, scutter off into Theo’s room like nothing happened.

But something definitely happened.

You just don’t have the words to explain it.

Never have.

It just spiraled. The way it usually does—uncontrollably, like a car without a steering wheel. One thought led to another. And the next thing you know, you’re lying in bed next to the person you love the most, lying to his face about feeling sick, clutching the heavy rock of pessimism nestled in your heart.

(But maybe this is also a form of feeling unwell.)

Theo pulls you a little closer to him; the touch returns you to the present, and you wonder how long you’d zoned out on him like that. At least you feel warm now, none of the overwhelming cold that had taken over you all day. It’s always warm when Theo around. Like the first rays of sun after a long night.

And Theo thinks the same. Which is why it’s so hard to see you like this. Stuck in the 19th century, a hundred years behind what you’ve already known, it felt like he’d put the sun in a cardboard box. He doesn’t know what happened yet. Only knows that something did. And whenever something does, every time you go play hide-and-seek with him, his mind goes back to the day at the wheatfields, where he’d asked you for everything you could ever give.

And everything he cannot give.

Like your parents, growing old, turning feeble, not knowing what’s left of their child.

Like your friends, perhaps still looking, perhaps still remembering you ever so often, wondering where you’d went.

Like the places in your memory. Like the things you would have wanted to come back to—items of sentiment, places of importance.

Like the things you’d begun to build. The things you’d spent most of your life dreaming towards, all left behind a shut door that opens, like a monster, teasing, making you doubt, ask you over and over again, what did you lose, what did you trade away, was it worth it? Will it ever be worth it?

And maybe—you hadn’t talked about it, but maybe—maybe you’d wanted to let it go to begin with, and maybe that’s what made it easy to just turn away. But maybe Theo had also promised you something much more than he could give. Maybe you’d thought it was much more than what it actually was, is, will be. There’s no finding out about these things until it’s too late.

Theo wonders if it’s too late.

But even if it is, what’s left now is you, and him, and art, and everything else, so instead, he holds on to you for dear life. He has never spoken to you about this, and he has never known how to. Instead, he asks, “Can I make it better?”

“You already do,” you say, turning around so you can rest your cheek against his chest, listen through his clothes to the reliable thump, thump, thump of his heart. “It’s just me.”

“It’s not you,” he argues. It’s never you. Never to him.

“It is,” you insist. “I didn’t even feel bad to begin with, I just… I don’t know what happened. Something came over me and… now I’m just worried about things I can’t change.”

Theo feels his heart in his throat. “Is it really something you can’t change?”

A beat. “I don’t want it to change,” you answer weakly, before closing your eyes and pressing even closer to him. “I like it here, Theo.”

Theo feels something in his heart break.

“I like you being here too,” he answers.

Then, again, silence. Silence with Theo isn’t scary, isn’t worrisome—the two of you understand each other through these shared silences. There are things Theo can’t put into words and—so do you. They get said in these shared, wordless breaths. Somehow. Sometimes.

But sometimes, the words come out anyway.

“I hope one day it will be enough.”

You blink, Theo’s voice low and heavy. “What?”

The two of you turn to each other and just look. Searching, trying to understand, the look on your faces, your eyes. Theo turns away first.

“No, Theo, it is enough,” you say. “You don’t have to blame yourself. I’m still adjusting, this is normal.”

You don’t see it, but disbelief fills his features. “A part of it is certainly my fault.”

“It isn’t, and even if it is, I’ve forgiven you for it.”

Theo cradles those words to his chest. Presses a kiss on the crown of your head. "Thank you."

"It's nothing."

"It's something," he insists. "When something like this happens, when things get this way, I wish you would tell me instead.”

“I’m sorry,” you say. You sound tired. Your entire body feels heavy. “I would have, I just… I don’t want to worry you.”

“You know I don’t mind when you worry me, right?”

“I know, but sometimes you push yourself too much.”

“You know I'm willing to walk to hell and back for you,” Theo admits.

“And that’s the point,” you say as you push him away gently, a hand on his chest, forcing him to make eye contact with you. “You can’t keep sheathing an open blade with your hands your whole life. You shouldn’t,” you say. “It’s not just choosing to stay. It’s just… what started this all. I’ve always been like this, Theo. You know that.”

And he does. He knows you understand how he had, for the longest time, hid in his dark corner of revenge because you know what it’s like to carry that pain around all the time. To stand like it’s not slung on your back. To act like it’s not bothering you.

You continue, “I love you, and I love that you’re willing to do so much for me, but Theo—I want you to take care of yourself too.”

Theo has no response to that. There’s nothing more he wants to do than be at your side for every second of pain, of joy, of agony—and to be told to step back, he fears what he’s bound to lose.

You take a deep breath, sensing his hesitation. “You can’t take care of me when you’re hurt too,” you explain, pressing the palm of one hand to his cheek. “And I will never hold it against you, if you decide to step back. I don’t expect you to save me every time. Besides, I know you’re not leaving, you’re just taking a breath. Okay?”

“Okay.” Theo lets it all sink in. “But you’re not allowed to push me away when you begin to think that you’re a burden or all that. I get to decide when I’ve had enough. Is that clear?”

“Sounds like a fair deal,” you say, glad that he’s accepted your terms. You return to your safe space, face burrowed into the crook of his neck, and sigh when he begins to run his hands through your hair once again.

There are a lot of things the both of you still have to learn about maneuvering around each other: it always is, at the start of loves as great as this. And maybe now, it seems pitiful, it seems scary—two people fragile to the same fickle mind and heart, trying to patch each other up, but soon, eventually, the two of you will find a system that will keep the both of you afloat. Keep you together, no matter what kind of storms you might need to weather.

You look up at Theo once and smile; and he smiles back, maintaining his gaze on yours, feeling deep relief at the gentle, slow return of the light in your eyes.

“Thank you for finding me,” you mumble softly, cuddling even closer to him, so close that you feel most of your worries melt. “Stay with me until I’m better?”

He presses a kiss against your forehead, and you can almost hear him saying I’ll stay with you forever.

in the atelier: la mélancolie by Louis-Jean-François Lagrenée

#ikevamp #ikevamp theo #ikemen vampire #ikemen vampire theo #ikevam theo #ikevam #atelier heart #fic #our shadows fall away like dust

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thestylesindependent · 5 years

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Brand new adventure- Harry’s interview with L’Officiel Hommes China (translation courtesy of Google)

He is the face of Gucci's new fragrance, an ultra-modern pop star and an exquisite young man, and Harry Styles may be content with his premature achievements. But he prefers to choose to be alone and fade out of the public eye, with curiosity or even greed to touch the music.

Soon before our meeting, he just spread some clear signals in an American journal, announcing some song samples of the new album: in recent months, he has been listening to McCartney, reading Murakami sang with Stevie Nicks in preparation for the new album. So on the day we met, we found two pieces of evidence that witnessed his creative journey over the past few months. The content of these songs is full, exquisitely arranged, delicate and at the same time rough and unruly, like an ecstatic intoxication, but also the sorrow of dawn and dawn, all of which show a large album full of color and temperature collision.

While anxiously waiting to jump into the vortex of public attention (album promotion, touring, and many things in celebrity life), the 25-year-old boy calmly told with restraint and enthusiasm throughout the day. Yourself. (To be honest, he did not try to avoid the eyes of passers-by. Instead, he walked in the panties between the two shots and ate Asian takeaway meals at the corner of the street instead of sipping healthy celery juice or eating Steamed tofu.) "The first smell I remember was probably the smell in her mother's kitchen, the smell of her roasted meat, and the smell of perfume on her." This is how this good son, also a contemporary superstar, is. Express his memory related to smell. However, if one day Harry lives in your house by accident, who knows if this will happen? Never let him feed your cat, because he said: "I have been accompanied by cats every time I grew up, every time. When I feed them, the smell of cat food makes me unbearable. "

It can be said that his cooperation with Alexandro Michele is not a pretense, and their creative lines coincide. "Alexandro is a free thinker, and his way of working is very enlightening. If he wants to do something, he will do it. It's that simple. It's impressive, especially for a big When working at a brand. This is great when you have the opportunity to participate in the work of a recognized master. He doesn't ask about class, age, or business. He does everything for everyone, everyone, I I think that any kind of art should be like that. "He talked about childhood again (yes, childhood seems to be yesterday in his eyes)": I like 'scent memory', I like its freshness, and it can be based on the user The different and changing characteristics. This perfume reminds me of the summer of childhood. Sitting with friends by the lake, where I grew up, smelling the fragrance of wild flowers ... "Today this Times exactly reflect the poem of Henri Michaux: "Night is not like daylight, it has great flexibility." That is to say, Michele's method is very suitable, even with this kind of abandoning the rules The approach is closely related. "Boundaries are gradually falling, whether in fashion, music festivals, film and television, or the art world ... I do n’t think people are still looking for differences in this category. The line between them is also the subject of creation. People no longer need to be this or that person. I think that people are simply trying to get better. In fashion and other fields, these standards are not as strict as before, which brings Great freedom, exciting. " "Although Michelle doesn't necessarily ask for my opinion, we will show some ideas to each other. It is cool to get opinions from people who are not necessarily in the same field as you, and you respect his work and taste "We noticed a new motivation, perhaps a new way of writing, which came from taking control of our careers. In short, when a seductive carefree and cruelly erodes talent, a serious mentality that a person shows ": writing songs is surfing. You can train as much as you can, and the waves Sometimes it doesn't. But we still need training to get better. It's impossible to sit down one day and think about writing the best song of my life. It takes a lot of effort. "

He worked in a bakery ten years ago, but now he has become the company's bet, the star and the focus of media attention. Whether out of fantasy or fact, he ca n’t help asking such a young man. How to get rid of this cobweb of public opinion. "Becoming famous is something I'm still learning and experiencing. I learn how to filter out what I like and dislike, pick out what can be integrated into the song, and what I don't want to share. Find a balance. Sometimes wondering how people think about this or that lyrics ... it means accepting to show off their fragile side, but at the same time, it makes the whole adventure exciting The reason. "He said. Indeed, when he revealed some clues about the upcoming album, the excitement was obvious, hoping that he could express "a sense of freedom". This feeling is not completely new to some hot idols, especially some like "Elvis Presley, Mick Jagger, Stevie Niks, Janis Joplin Joplin) and Prince ". In contrast to this crowd is Nick Drake, whom he likes to listen to recently. The outstanding singer's music is full and well-crafted, giving people a joy. "When I look at them, I don't know what it is, but it's there. It's a strange thing. They transcend the limits. When it comes to songwriting, McCartney has always had a huge impact on me. I was lucky Some of them are strong, and in my eyes, they have always been awesome. "

He arrived in a special car (with a driver, a small freezer and dark windows), and instead walked to the corner bar for a beer, and the number of people accompanying him decreased. Looking at the back of this millennial superstar, we think again of the teenager wearing an exaggerated cardigan, dreaming of standing out in the TV singer competition. Today, behind him is a gentle fragrance of wildflowers and Sunday lunch.

#harry styles #interviews #l'officiel hommes china #nov2019

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mccncrane · 4 years

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INTRODUCING — AIDEN SUNG

“ THE BLOOD ON MY TEETH BEGINS TO TASTE LIKE A POEM. ” is that STEVEN YEUN? oh no, that’s AIDEN SUNG, born on the 15th of FEBRUARY, 2008. i heard THEY/HE (NONBINARY) is a HERDER of WYOMING MILITIA. apparently, they can be CUNNING and RESOURCEFUL but also known to be SELF-SERVING and FICKLE. spends most of their free time FIGHTING SLEEP AND SMOKING, probably smells like HOMEMADE CIGARETTES & GUNPOWDER. is that a bite mark i see? no, must have been a trick of the light.

HISTORY: (tw for child abuse on the marked** bullet points)

Aiden can't remember much of their past nowadays, they'd say. They'd tell you it's something about the brain repressing traumatic memories or whatever. They do actually remember more than they let on -- they just don't want to talk about it.

They ended up being taken care of by a man, when the apocalypse happened. They called him Dad, but looking back on it, they're not even sure there was any weight to that connection. It was just the two of them, since Aiden was a little kid.

** Dad would use Aiden to get supplies and shelter from other survivors. He would throw them first into dangerous situations, only so they would get pitied, and he could come in right after to ask for things to keep his child alive. Aiden was thrown into the middle of roads to stop cars, or shoved right into crowded survivor camps. They lost count of how many times someone pulled a gun on them. It stopped having any meaning after a while.

** Everyone usually caved and got the two of them enough supplies to last another week, but Dad hardly shared those with his kid. No, he said it was good for Aiden to keep a more scrawny, clearly malnourished appearance. It made people pity them more, he said. It got the two of them more food. More water. More attention.

By age twelve, Aiden grew sick of living like this. They barely had any energy, but whatever was left, was turning into rage. A wrath they couldn't control, something ugly that walked hand-in-hand with resentment towards this father figure that abused them for years.

They had a fight one day. A screaming match that attracted too much attention from the infected. Aiden could hear the distant growling getting closer, but they couldn't stop the shouting. Dad tried to shut them up, and before Aiden even realized what they were doing, they had delivered a blow to his knee with a hatchet that had been laying nearby. They weren't strong, but the weapon was sharp enough to do incredible damage.

Dad screamed bloody murder, left in pain on the ground, begging for help to get up so he could limp away from the infected that were certainly getting closer. Aiden ran away.

They were a scrawny little kid, only twelve at this point, they didn't have the energy to run far or the strength to actually fight any infected on their own. So they got creative. They found a hiding spot in the woods, a tree easy enough to climb, and they surrounded it with all kinds of traps they could come up with. Using old nets, spears, wooden planks, they slowly built themselves a safe spot where they could hide. And they lived there for two years, completely isolated, only leaving that space when they needed to go searching for food. They were better off like this than when they lived with their Dad, to be fair.

At fourteen, a stupid kid fell into one of Aiden's traps and hurt his leg. Aiden hadn't talked to anyone in two years, they weren't even sure they knew how to, anymore. They were upset by the intrusion to their little safe haven, but they promised to help the boy before he could return to his running.

Valentin ended up being a good friend. Somehow along the years, reluctantly, Aiden gave in. The two grew up together, kept each other safe, they were inseparable. They were each other's ride or dies and Aiden could honestly not see their life without Valentin in it anymore.

Until they were forced to. On a trip out to scout for supplies where they scheduled to meet back at a certain spot, the Grizzlies found Aiden alone. The group took an interest to their creative trapping system, and dragged them over to meet their new leader Yen, keeping Aiden from returning to Valentin for days. By the time they actually could go looking for their friend again, he was nowhere to be found.

Aiden ended up being a herder for the group, once Yen trusted them enough for the job. They definitely didn't love working for the Militia at first, but at least they could still roam around and occasionally look for Valentin, just in case he was still out there, also looking. After a few years without seeing each other and all hope thrown out the window, they finally found their way back. Valentin is now with the Idaho Hunters, which makes everything more complicated. As soon as Aiden found him, however, they knew where their loyalty lied. It was like their centre of gravity shifted. They would do everything in their power to keep Valentin safe, despite this faction war.

The two now meet out in the woods, in secret, when they can manage to sneak out. At least they get to talk and catch up and warn each other about any incoming attacks their groups are scheming against them.

Aiden doesn't trust the grizzlies, even after all these years, but they're not the worst. They keep them well fed and give them shelter, but they're not family. They are good at pretending, though, and they certainly don't want to find themselves on Yen's bad side.

TL;DR because literally that's so long i probably wouldn't even read it myself it's fine:

they had a shitty ass dad. they killed the dad. lived in the woods for two years by themselves all alone by setting up traps and being resourceful capturing zombies.

met valentin when he fell into one of the traps and hurt his leg like a dumbass! the two eventually became inseparable until they were, literally, separated, we love the irony

grizzlies got a hold of aiden, took them in because of their cool traps, and they became a herder for the group. they didn't see valentin again for years, but they found each other again, valentin now being an idaho hunter. now the two meet in secret when they can.

PERSONALITY:

Sarcastic and a bit of a nuisance. They like to be funny and outgoing on the outside, but they still keep their distance -- specially considering they think of Valentin as Their One Person and Only Person, they really have no interest in actually making friends.

Probably uses too many curse words and laughs at everything.

Anger issues!! They've had them since they were a kid, but they're more dangerous now that they're a full grown adult, probably. It happens in sharp uncontrollable outbursts that they usually try to deal with by going out into the woods and blowing up things or killing some zombies. Happens more often when they're stressed, but they've gotten good at handling it nowadays. Probably easy to tell they're having one of Those Days, since they're otherwise a fun, more cheery person.

EXTRAS

Sleep deprived because they got night terrors (most nightmares surprisingly involving their Dad, whom they have not mentioned to anyone but Valentin), but who isn't an insomniac in the apocalypse, huh?

Addicted to smoking and will kill for a cigarette. Probably makes their own since the world has turned to shit and it's not like anyone can go buy some at the store anymore.

Come give me all and any plots!!

#this one's a long one #guys gals and nonbinary pals you might wanna grab a snack LKDDS #i am so sorry #theres a tl;dr version dont worry #jacksonhqintro #AIDEN SUNG | INTRO

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hlupdate · 5 years

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"So French!" The young man in a Mickey Mouse sweater smiled softly, facing the sometimes excited and blushing editorial team of magazines. On the day after the interview, his new song was launched, and it attracted more than 1.5 million followers in just a few hours. After a brief retreat, or after a breath-recovery process like holding his breath, a series of bumps began, and this was the return of Harry Styles. Harry, who has just soloed from One Direction (the band sold 50 million records over a six-year career and has since ceased indefinitely), achieved his personal career and released his first solo album in 2017. People saw him transforming. He was no longer the Harry of the 1D band, but became an independent artist, receiving reviews from music critics, and going in harmony with this era. He is fickle, he treats his sexual orientation peacefully, he defends equality, and supports same-sex marriage. The pop singer who has grown up in the greenhouse has now become a cocoon. Gucci's vibrant, poetic and destructive creative director Alessandro Michele, who is responsible for the styling of Harry's first tour after solo, has been selected as this fashion season Image ambassador for the new fragrance "Gucci Mémoire d'une Odeur". Soon before our meeting, he just spread some clear signals in an American journal, announcing some song samples of the new album: in recent months, he has been listening to McCartney, reading Murakami sang with Stevie Nicks in preparation for the new album. So on the day we met, we found two pieces of evidence that witnessed his creative journey over the past few months. The content of these songs is full, exquisitely arranged, delicate and at the same time rough and unruly, like an ecstatic intoxication, but also the sorrow of dawn and dawn, all of which show a large album full of color and temperature collision.

However, if one day Harry lives in your house by accident, who knows if this will happen? Never let him feed your cat, because he said: "I have been accompanied by cats every time I grew up, every time When I feed them, the taste of cat food makes me unbearable. "

It can be said that his cooperation with Alexandro Michele is not a pretense, and their creative lines coincide. "Alexandro is a free thinker, and his way of working is very enlightening. If he wants to do something, he will do it. It's that simple. It's impressive, especially for a big When working at a brand. This is great when you have the opportunity to participate in the work of a recognized master. He doesn't ask about class, age, or business. He does everything for everyone, everyone, I I think that any kind of art should be like that. "He talked about childhood again (yes, childhood seems to be yesterday in his eyes)": I like 'scent memory', I like its freshness, and it can be based on the user The different and changing characteristics. This perfume reminds me of the summer of childhood. Sitting with friends by the lake, where I grew up, smelling the fragrance of wild flowers ... "Today this Times exactly reflect the poem of Henri Michaux: "Night is not like daylight, it has great flexibility." That is to say, Michele's method is very suitable, even with this kind of abandoning the rules The approach is closely related. "Boundaries are gradually falling, whether in fashion, music festivals, film and television, or the art world ... I don't think people are still looking for differences in this category. Even if there is still a gender distinction in the world, they The line between them is also the subject of creation. People no longer need to be this or that person. I think that people are simply trying to get better. In fashion and other fields, these standards are not as strict as before, which brings Great freedom, exciting. "

"Although Michelle doesn't necessarily ask for my opinion, we will show some ideas to each other. It is cool to get opinions from people who are not necessarily in the same field as you, and you respect his work and taste "We noticed a new motivation, perhaps a new way of writing, which came from taking control of our careers. In short, when a seductive carefree and cruelly erodes talent, a serious mentality that a person shows ": writing songs is surfing. You can train as much as you can, and the waves Sometimes it doesn't. But we still need training to get better. It's impossible to sit down one day and think about writing the best song of my life. It takes a lot of effort. "

Indeed, when he revealed some clues about the upcoming album, the excitement was obvious, hoping that he could express "a sense of freedom". This feeling is not completely new to some hot idols, especially some like "Elvis Presley, Mick Jagger, Stevie Niks, Janis Joplin Joplin) and Prince ". In contrast to this crowd is Nick Drake, whom he likes to listen to recently. The outstanding singer's music is full and well-crafted, giving people a joy. "When I look at them, I don't know what it is, but it's there. It's a strange thing. They transcend the limits. When it comes to songwriting, McCartney has always had a huge impact on me. I was lucky Some of them are strong, and in my eyes, they have always been awesome. "

He arrived in a special car (with a driver, a small freezer and dark windows), and instead walked to the corner bar for a beer, and the number of people accompanying him decreased.

Looking at the back of this millennial superstar, we think again of the teenager wearing an exaggerated cardigan, dreaming of standing out in the TV singer competition. Today, behind him is a gentle fragrance of wildflowers and Sunday lunch.

#translation via google translate #so very rough #please let us know if there are edits #harry styles #291119 #lofficiel hommes

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shippyprincess · 5 years

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Inspired by @snk-x-you 's prompt: "What is it like to be a new cadet leaving the walls for the first time?"

(I know it was for a contest or w/e but I just really wanted to write it out for my oc!)

The five senses can easily be overwhelmed in new situations. The human brain cannot even fully process what each sense it is taking in all of the time. It is such a fickle thing, and yet; it has named itself as such. Many do not think so deeply on these rather simple yet abstract facts; there's just not enough time in the day to contemplate through it all.

Vision is a rather easy sense to trick. Put a person alone in any setting, even one familiar to them, in the darkness of nighttime and they will second guess themselves at every turn. In the opposite direction; the human brain only has so much attention to detail. The first time one looks at a rock vaguely shaped like a human face; they'll stare at it in awe or amazement, perhaps show it to others. If that rock were one they pass in their daily travels, however, the tenth time passing it is no different than the thirtieth. It blends into the background to leave room for new disturbances and possible changes.

Touch isn't as easy to fool, but leaves a large margin for error. The sensation of feeling can be replicated by many different things. A finger barely brushing over an arm or an insect crawling over the skin? Is it a substance of food in a rather... Raw, or"mushy", form or is it... Something unpleasant? It's easy to see how this sense can be tricked.

Hearing is another fickle one, but it's sharper than the first two. This sense depends on the person's mental state. Are they calm and able to think logically? Or are they in a panic, grasping at straws? Was that snap of a twig a harmless animal passing by or a vicious monster ready to harm you? It's a very reliable sense for those who can use it in a calm and logical manner.

Smell is one of the more interesting senses as it can be tricked, but not as easily as the three before it. A perfume might smell like lilacs and daisies... But there's something off about it. It's not the same as picking up the flower itself. It's easy to get overwhelmed and tricked in certain situations. The odor of freshly placed dung or the spray of a skunk can be harshly sent into one's nose if nearby--or if a strong wind has carried it along.

While taste can be tricked in its own ways, it's not usually a sense that is talked about in these types of situations. It's accuracy is fairly on point if and when it is used during them.

What situations?

The girl swallowed hard, eyes staring straight ahead past the others in front of her. Her hands squeezed the reins of her horse, body shaking with anticipation, fear, and the constant 'what if' questions plowing through her mind. Aside from her own thoughts, her senses were being hit in every imaginable way. Everyone was on their horses, or with the wagons, and others were lining the streets. They overall wore the same thing, but even the slightest variation was like a large drop of paint on the mix-matched color scheme of a canvas.

The horses were a smell she could ignore, even if they weren't always the most pleasant smells. It was the people to either side of her group, standing there and watching, that added a new sensation. The extreme differences in all the smells, mixed with the anxious feelings and overwhelming color pallete, made her stomach churn.

If that wasn't bad enough, the various screaming pounded into her head like a drum next to her ear. Some were joyous, others were sorrow, and the loudest of all were angry. Her knuckles were white with how tight she gripped onto the reins.

Everything came to a grinding halt when she heard the commander speaking. Her thoughts and senses, as best as she could, focused on him and him alone.

That's right... She would think to herself. She chose to Scout Regiment. No one made her. She had wanted this she was little, wanting to follow in her father's footsteps. He had been one of the lucky ones to be discharged instead of killed, but that never stopped her want to join them. The thought of leaving their walled cities and heading out into the open air had delighted her childhood dreams, but now the scouts were only working to make supply chains in hopes to reclaim their lost land.

The next instance she was ushering her horse forward, riding beyond the city of Trost into titan territory. The sound of the horses galloping along the beaten pathway echoed loudly, but was a nice familiar sound. It reminded her of training with her horse for the first time. The pleasantries were ripped from her mind at the sound of the more experienced members using their maneuver gear to take out some of the titans who came too close.

It was her first time seeing any in real life, but for some reason it didn't scare her. Although vastly different from her thoughts, they were just as her father described them to her. It was like seeing a picture book come to life before her eyes. Despite her lack of fear, she spared no time in hurrying past the broken and abandoned buildings to stay with the group. If she wanted to make it out here, she had to make sure her mind was sharp and her actions faster.

The expedition went by faster than she expected, or perhaps realized. Time was irrelevant beyond the walls. Every single second was a fight for one's life; there was not much room to capture every moment. From the moment they left the walls, everyone was working as hard as they could to carry out the mission while keeping themselves safe. Many also kept an eye on the newer recruits, but she worked hard to make sure they didn't have to worry over her.

She was top of her class, and unlike many others, she chose to throw her life down on the line to push humanity forward. She wasn't even sure how many people joined from her class, but it didn't much matter to her.

A small smile graced her lips as she shoved her boots off and put them at the edge of her bed. She did it. She made it back alive, and even managed to get an assist on her first expedition! She would mourn for those who had been lost, but after the overwhelming sensations and emotions of the day... She needed rest.

Greenery as far as the eyes can see.

Fresh air and untouched grass.

The wind as it tugged and flapped everyone's capes about.

The cool metal of the maneuver gear's handles.

The metallic taste of blood after a titan related injury.

These were all things she came to associate with the idea of going out on an expedition.

#attack on titan #aot #snk #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan fanfiction #shingeki no kyojin fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic

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wolfswhitehound · 5 years

Text

(Copying the original ask to help prevent any confusion!)

from the moonlight || accepting

(🧳) My muse is getting ready for work but your muse stops mine.

food. food, food, food, that’s a vital part of existence and there has to be some here. alisaie doesn’t take too long to follow the scent of fresh pastries. it’s not proper sustenance, but it will at least hold her until she finds an actual restaurant. she promptly orders as many pastries as she can barely afford, pondering over whether or not she can get one more.

coffee for livia.

…who? the name sounds familiar, but alisaie scarcely believes it until she hears the voice expressing quick thanks.

“ … sas junius? ”

she cocks her head, trying so hard to wrack her brain for why that name was so important. all she really recalls is that it’s garlean, but she decides to just skip ahead to the obvious question.

“ what are you doing here? ”

Something familiar was more than welcome in Livia’s humble opinion. And even if they were called different things, the scent of freshly-baked pastries was unmistakable. And a slight indulgence Livia allowed herself-she would not eat too much, but surely one or two couldn’t hurt? Especially not with how active she was forcing herself to be in this strange new realm.

...Oh, right, her previous accomplishments held no weight here. In other words, she was given no priority... although, to be fair, some things couldn’t be rushed.

These imbeciles had best hope their coffee and sweets are worth the wait... She thought, brooding a bit.

But before she can let herself sink into too much misery, her name is called. Ah, the coffee is ready, as are the few baked goods she decided to order herself. She strides up to the counter, and smiles. It at least smells good.

“...Thank you.” She forces herself to say, trying to be as polite as possible. She then takes the coffee and food, and prepares to turn and leave-

She blinks. That voice... where has she heard it before? It was one of that irksome Archon’s grandchildren, correct? What was her name again?

She looked down, and folds her arms.

“The fact that you know my full name without me introducing myself implies you at least have an idea who I am. And you do look vaguely familiar... one of the twin grandchildren of Archon Leveileur, if my memory serves? What was your name again... Alisaie? Or am I mistaking you for your twin brother? Both of you were equally irritating in your own ways...” She trailed, placing her head in her hand as she thought out loud. She shrugged.

“But what does it matter? As far as you and most of your fellow Eorzeans-” The Garlean seethed the word, wanting so very badly to call her the savage she felt the Elezen was, but knowing she was likely in no position to properly take her on- “-are concerned, I should be dead, thanks to your precious Warrior of Light? And yet, here we are.” She mused, bitterness in her tone.

“...You wouldn’t happen to have any sort of idea as to where exactly here is, do you? Or how you were brought here? Whatever forces governing this realm are certainly powerful beings, as they can resurrect the dead, but they also seem to be rather fickle. What is their purpose, I wonder? Is there one at all, other than their own personal amusement?” She asked after a few moments.

“Um, I hate to interrupt you two... but the line’s backing up...” The cashier trailed. Livia looked over, and saw that, indeed, a small line had formed. Again, she shrugged.

“I suppose we should take this to one of the empty tables... that one over there should suffice.” She pointed towards an empty table, and began to walk over towards it. She briefly stopped, and turned her head back just a bit.

“Oh, and do mind just how many of these sweets you attempt to consume in one sitting. Such gluttony is rather unsightly, and bad for your health on many a level.” She added, smirking in her helmet. Ah, there was a bit of an insult. She felt much better now. She resumed her walk, and sat down at the table. As much as she didn’t like doing it in public, she removed her helmet, and placed it beside her. Platinum blonde hair was then revealed, as well as emerald green eyes... though the right one had an ever-so-subtle sheen to it in the light, and there was plenty of scarring to be had around it.

She then took a generous sip of the coffee, and hummed softly in delight. Ah, yes, now that was a taste she remembered-bitter yet satisfying, and the mild stimulative effect was most welcome.

Now, she awaited to see if the brat would deign to join her.

@adelphoied

#hounds-journeys #alisaie 1 #that's all fine by me #and meanwhile livia is like... wait who are you again?#not sure how to discern her from her brother outside of the different outfits with looks alone XD #livia is just like so broken at this point #i had to look up how to spell alisaie's last name #elezen names are hard #whyyyy you do square #like on one hand she still thinks Alisaie's a savage #but on the other hand she's just broken....#someone give this poor woman a hug #also gdi livia you just HAD to get one didn't you #also sorry for the length #muse took hold and went WILD

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yourstrulyalexanderdietrich · 5 years

Text

A casual conversation between Nicolas de Lenfent and Alexander Deitrich: What to do about the mortal Jeffrey Todd

FROM HERE

@echo-de-la-lumiere

echo-de-la-lumiere:

Nicolas gives Max an appreciative and relieved look as he hands off all the gifts. He plops down on one knee and gestures for Alex’s hand to kiss yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “Oh stop it now you’re being ridiculous. What the fuck happened the other night, Nic?” *settles into a comfortable chair, gestures to an identical one across* echo-de-la-lumiere: *thwarted, huffs and throws himself backwards into the chair with as much exhale as he can manage* “I did what you said. I sucked him, fucked him, the rest, all of it. *counts off on fingers as he speaks* yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: *rolls eyes* “No. The zombie. People are already talking Nic. They want to know who your boy is, this boy worth pulling rank over. So. Who is he?” echo-de-la-lumiere: “He touched my stuff!” *sits up, looking indignant* “I thought your people knew better than to touch another vampire’s mortal. He should have been able to smell me on him.” “He’s the whore you called for me. The one with the Dead twin brother. Or were you going to surprise me at my funeral?” yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “Be that as it may, you know it is your actions which will draw attention, not that of a zombie guest.” Alexander sighs. “So I take it this means you like the redhead?” *laughs* “Oh. Well. That. What does it matter? ” echo-de-la-lumiere: “He’s a fiery little devil. Your kin mistook him for the Dead one. If this happens again, talk is more expensive than one dead whore. What did you think I would do with him? Bring him into this life?” yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “Oh I wouldn’t dare make such an assumption. I only figured if uninterrupted the boy’s path would be inevitable. Why not expose him to as much as possible before he makes his decision? It’s just a bit of fun.” echo-de-la-lumiere: “And if his brother yells for something like a war?” yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “You think Niki London or Madame de Paris would lead us into war with the vampires over a yearling’s destroyed brother? Ha. What a fantasy.” “I am curious how things are going though. You like him enough.” echo-de-la-lumiere: “I’d prefer to be spared the interrogation and skip to the lecture, if you please. And we both know I am allergic to oversight.” yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “Then why are you here Nicolas, if not to gossip?” *lifts a perfectly arched eyebrow.* “I all but gave him to you. I deserve to know. If you’re just going to waste him...well, how terribly boring.” “Do you get good use out of him at least?” echo-de-la-lumiere: *finally looks over at Alexander and grins* “I enjoy the way he asks for more and regrets it in the same breath. Especially when his ass his full.” yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: *rolls his eyes again* “Getting your money’s worth then. When is he going to start giving it to you for free?” echo-de-la-lumiere: “Ah, the boy is a professional, n’cest-ce pas? He wouldn’t.” “Whoever heard of a whore giving it away for free? Bad for business, even for a regular.” yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: *regards Nicolas carefully* "So what is this then? You going to pay him twice a week until you exhaust him? I assumed you wanted more." echo-de-la-lumiere: “How much do I pay to keep him *only* mine?” yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: "Well that depends of course. Does he want to be yours?" echo-de-la-lumiere: *watches Alexander carefully* “This is why I asked about the brother. Why does it matter what Jeff wants?” yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: "Well if he does not want you, you're going to have a helluva time convincing him to only work for you. Does he like you?" echo-de-la-lumiere: “Bien sûr. I make him like me.” yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: "Mmm, you're so charming of course," *sarcasm is heavy enough to crush any spirit* "Do you want him to like you?" "Think about it before you answer." echo-de-la-lumiere: *grins, all fangs* “I want him to love me.” yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: "Why?" *sharp, to the point* echo-de-la-lumiere: “I want him to need me.” “Why do you have Max?” *asked almost idly, but eyes are watchful* yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: "Max assists me in most aspects of my life. He's versatile and resilient, and I need someone I can trust." echo-de-la-lumiere: “But you could manage without him, yes, you could survive, if you wanted?” yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: *shrugs* "Of course Darling, I'm a cockroach." "But I would not have the same sense of security and well being as I do with him. He does so much for me, you know that." "Do you know how much work it is to care for a mortal?" "You want him to love you, you want him to need you, those are big and broad words Nicolas, do you know what you want them to do for you?" "Consider, for example, if he falls in love with you. What will you do then? Consider if he needs you--not only that precious cock of yours, but everything you could conceivably provide as a...well a patron to his art. He needs a shelter, food, proper care. How much of that responsibility do you want?" “Now I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with keeping a pet, but is that what you want?” echo-de-la-lumiere: “What does Max require? Is that what you give him? Does he love you?” yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “Max is self sufficient. He only needs me for one thing and that’s keeping my end of our bargain. I would say he’s grown accustomed to me.” echo-de-la-lumiere: “Be truthful. Does he love you?” yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: *pauses, features arrange into something pleasantly neutral* “Ours is an arranged marriage. Maybe it’s easier if he’s grown to care for me. But love? Darling, as pretty as it would sound if I told you he did, I really don’t think so.” echo-de-la-lumiere: “How do I do it without driving him mad? I want to see what happens, what he does.” yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “What? Like you drive me mad?” *smirks* “Define “mad”. What do you really want from him? Companionship? Housework? Blood letting? Something you can dress up cute and fuckable to take with you to the parties you ruin?” echo-de-la-lumiere: “I don’t ruin every party I attend!” “Let him keep my house if he wishes. I would prefer to leave him trussed in my absence and trotted out at one of those awful soirées.” yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “So you want to show off? Play with the big kids? Well I suppose it’s good for you. How old are you? Probably time you put in a little effort to your reputation. Well. A house pet then. You don’t care what he does for you as long as he looks, tastes, and fucks good? You’re probably more or less on the right track then.” “Do you intend to enthral him?” echo-de-la-lumiere: “What do I do with him, do I tell him I’ll buy out his contract?” yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “I’m not going to talk to you if you won’t answer my questions. Are you going to enthral him? If you do, he’ll beg to be yours Nicolas. That’s exactly what I mean, you’ll have him without having to spend another euro.” “Does he know what you taste like? Can you tell if he likes it?” echo-de-la-lumiere: *frowns, puzzled* "Why does any of that matter? Isn't it enough if I make sure he won't want to live without me?" yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: "*Is* it enough? Do you want him clawing at you at every moment? You've seen how ugly the botched ones are. Don't you want someone who can still stand up with his own goddamn spine? I mean it isn't always the vampire's fault, sometimes people just aren't cut out for it. You should be able to tell even now if he'll crumble. You know, like those miserable ones Dorian has had to put down early, the ones who just beg and whine the entire time and cry without a pacifier. You know, you've seen them." echo-de-la-lumiere: "How *is* Dorian? I haven't heard him in quite some time. No, Jeff quite likes everything I do. Perhaps it's time he realizes it." yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “Oh he’s well. Just got back from Iran. Business is going well for him.” “So what, you think you’ll just convince him? Offer a full time position and he’ll jump on it?” (He assumes so) echo-de-la-lumiere: *makes a face* "A messy orchestration. He creates such messy arrangements. Will his brother interfere? You seem to know more about this than you're willing to allow me to operate on." yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “The brother is fickle. They’re young. Obviously he’s a bit preoccupied at the moment. It only happened about eight months ago. From what I understand he offered his twin come over with him, even though they have no bloody idea how to do it, and the twin—yours—left in the middle of the day for Paris. I think it damn near broke the kid’s heart.” *shrugs* “I’m sure the brother won’t cause you trouble unless you let him. If you dispose of your pet once you get bored with him I’m sure there will be hard feelings.” *pouts* “I know I’ll be disappointed.” “What do you want him for anyway? I know it was a marvellous suggestion made by a very good friend with the best intentions but if I’m honest Nicolas I never expected you to put in the effort. Why make him yours when you can have a new one every night?” echo-de-la-lumiere: "I've had him." *he shrugs* "Now I don't want anyone else to. What were this very good friend's best intentions?" "I cannot give him what you want. Hundreds of years later, I am still watched." yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “I’m not suggesting you turn him. That would be an irresponsible recommendation.” *grins* “I just...well from a bystander’s perspective darling I just want to see what happens. Besides you say he likes you already. I can’t imagine. Have you given him your blood?” echo-de-la-lumiere: "Well of course I have! I fucked him, why wouldn't I give him a taste? I am a responsible lover." yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “Ever the gentleman. A taste Darling? A drop? Or do you shoot it in the back of his throat?” echo-de-la-lumiere: *proudly* "All of the above. But what's the point of you asking?" "Do you suddenly have an interest in our bestial affairs, O Holy One?" yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “You know what I’m asking, Monsieur. At least you should if you know how Dorian keeps his beauties wanting. You do know how thralls come into being yes?” echo-de-la-lumiere: *sighs wearily* "You mean when you don't finish your food and they come back wanting more?" yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “Mm that’s certainly one way to put it. What do you make of such situations?” echo-de-la-lumiere: "It..." *looks away* "I *looks surprised when his voice cracks* "—I am not overly fond of the arrangement, no." yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: *watches Nicolas falter. Doesn’t actually want to offend his friend but has a clear desire to understand his motives* “Darling, if you feed him too much, and by too much I mean mouthfuls, he will be entirely and completely devoted to you. He will crave everything about you, your touch, your scent, the taste of you, any spare glance. You’ve seen these creatures. But if you do it, if you want that from him, you must be able to provide for him.” “He would be a good companion for you. Hell, if he can handle you already even without a thirst f his very own then I think he’s worth he effort.” echo-de-la-lumiere: *looks at Alexander* "How do you do it with Max? He provides for himself, you don't feed him. I've seen the two of you." *wistful look* "He's always so warm and wiling." "Even when he doesn't need to be." yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “Max and I have a business relationship, that’s all. I employ him. If you want to give this boy a job to do, fine...ask him to clean your house and take your clothes to e dry cleaners and pay him twenty euro an hour to do it. But if you want him in your home and in your bed and under your teeth, you’re going to have to do something to negate what is only going to be a natural animal rebellion. What kind of creature puts himself in a position to be /fed/ on at the leisure of his predator?” yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “You know I don’t drink Max. I certainly don’t fuck him.” echo-de-la-lumiere: "I don't need an assistant, I need someone who will fight me on things. What's so bad about that?" yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “Nothing at all!” *grins* “You want him for yourself. You don’t want to break him.” echo-de-la-lumiere: "What do I do if he's broken already?" yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: *somewhat surprised* “Why? Do you think he is?” *laughs* “This might come as a surprise but just because he likes you doesn’t mean he’s broken.” echo-de-la-lumiere: *expression is carefully blank* yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “All the better if he can naturally tolerate you. There are very few of us who can, after all.” echo-de-la-lumiere: *smiles at Alexander fondly* "And do you merely tolerate my awful presence, Alexander, dear?" yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: *pouts* “Darling didn’t you just say you like it when people fight you? That must mean you adore me as much as I you, if you tolerate my constant “affection”...” *rests head in his palm, sighs pleasantly* “So. Tell me more. Do you have a plan?” echo-de-la-lumiere: *bites into his lip idly, deliberately letting Alexander smell him, goading him on* "You overestimate me, my dear. If I had a satisfactory plan, would I be asking what you do with Max?" yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: *notes that Nicolas trades the tease of fresh Blood for the admission of a need for council* “Well all I know is that you want him to need and you don’t want him to go mad. A dilemma indeed.” “Do you want him in your home? Or farther than that?” echo-de-la-lumiere: "Are you going to laugh at my answer?" yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “No, of course not. Not if you’re honest with me.” echo-de-la-lumiere: "I want something that'll love me, and let me fuck it when I want to but not all the time, and maybe I'd always find it at home when it was time to sleep, but it could entertain itself and tell me interesting things when I got home..." *trails off* "Max does that for you, right, except for the fucking? He loves you." yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “Yes,” *smiles fondly* “if those are your criteria I suppose he does. Now. Will I ever get to meet this Living boy you want to love you?” echo-de-la-lumiere: “What would you intend with him?” “I saw him first. He has my Blood.” yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: *laughs gently* “Consider me curious. I only want to know if he is as handsome and angry as his brother.” echo-de-la-lumiere: “He’s not promised, then? I can have him? What do I do if he starts going...” *makes a squiggly hand gesture* “Tiresome?” yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “You back the fuck up and call me before you do anything.” “Would you have any objection if I asked you for the leftovers? Personal project.” echo-de-la-lumiere: "You want a little one running around, is that it?" *smiles, amused* yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “No. I only believe my stamina for curiosity will outlast your patience.” echo-de-la-lumiere: *suddenly sits up straight from where he's begun to slouch* "Is that so? Care for a wager of some kind regarding dear Jeffrey's survival?" yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “Mmmm. Interesting. What would the stakes be? We both want the boy to survive but don’t exactly have the utmost confidence in the other’s motives. Is that correct?” echo-de-la-lumiere: "What is it you want that I've been refusing you?" "Make it interesting." "*I* want Max. For an evening performance on the saxophone." yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “No. You do not get Max. I don’t even know what that means no you can’t have him.” echo-de-la-lumiere: "You can be present, I only want to hear him perform!" "Entertain *my* curiosity, why don't you?" yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “Do you withhold from me, Darling? I couldn’t tell. If I win...if you grow tired of the boy or kill him prematurely or neglect or fuck him to death I win. I win...your cooperation and time until the end of the world. If the brother steals him from you or makes an attempt on your life, you win OR if he boy asks you to and you successfully turn him, you’ll be granted an automatic win. How does that sound?” “No. Leave Max out of this. What kind of performance would you want from him anyhow? I won’t let you.” echo-de-la-lumiere: "No deal. If I turn him, your people give me safe harbor from *my* people. And would you render me a slave with my services? If I lose, you may call upon me once a year with a request that does not endanger myself or my interests, until Jeff is destroyed. And Max plays the saxophone, does he not?" yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “No. He does not play the saxophone and even if he did how do I know this performance you have dreamed up for him won’t be something depraved? He’s not to be fed from, pushed, tortured, entrapped, or fucked by any one of my peers.” *breathes* “If either of us turn him it’s an automatic win. But he has to choose which side he goes to, go willingly, and survive the transformation. I can grant you my own protection but Darling I do have my limits. It’s not the only way to win, besides. Let’s give it a year. One year. If he survives the year win defaults to you. I shall permit you an evening’s /conversation/ with Max at a location of his choosing...just the two of you. If you kill the boy before then or he is not of sound mind or body, then I win and my prize is the leftovers.” “After a year we renegotiate, and present options to the unfortunate one.” echo-de-la-lumiere: *raises one eyebrow* "That's all you want? Leftovers?" yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “To do with as I please, yes.” “No stashing corpses in your closet. I can’t turn an already rotting body but I can work with a dead one.” echo-de-la-lumiere: *visibly more eager-looking* "That all sounds quite reasonable." yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “Does it?” *quirks a brow* “Shall we shake on it then?” echo-de-la-lumiere: *looks up at Alexander incredulously and stands up with his wrist offered* "Are you Undead or not?" yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: *drags himself up from the hair with minor theatrics* “As you wish, my love.” echo-de-la-lumiere: *grins and bites his own wrist with a loud popping sound, then offers it to Alexander * yourstrulyalexanderdietrich: “If you can stomach it...” *offers his own wrist, unbitten for the vampire’s pleasure, and dips with a delicate flick of hair to drag his Dead purple tongue against the offered wound.* echo-de-la-lumiere: “I wasn’t doing anything else tonight anyway.” *closes his eyes as Alexander drinks, then delicately* “Pardon.” *slips fangs in for a quick draw before sealing the wound with his tongue* *shudders at the Dead Blood sludging through his veins and slowing him down*

#spooky action

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