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sobeautifullyobsessed · 2 years ago

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snippet from the upcoming chapter 'greeting the sunrise' (because it's not quite finished and I need to share something...at least😉)

Defender Strange x Female Reader

previous chapter

Time held its sway and the seasons transitioned quietly from late spring to high summer, while your feelings only deepened. You and Stephen grew to know each other even better, and even in the silences of time spent together, there lived an ease and sense of compatibility that you were sure would be noticeable to anyone seeing the two of you together. If you would’ve had the courage to speak of it aloud, Stephen might have told you that Wong (his closest friend and right-hand man in all matters of the Mystic Arts) had made a share of comments—not questioning, just merely observing—regarding the nature of the friendship he witnessed flourishing between the Sorcerer Supreme and a Sorceress still in training. Advising his superior and fellow Master to be cautious enough, as he proceeded, to avoid any appearance of favoritism—while remaining silent on his opinion that the two of you appeared to be a good match. Even a beneficial one for Stephen’s emotional health.

Come summers end you would be facing a series of tests that would determine if you were fit and ready to earn the rank of Master. Though you would never ask for his help to prepare, Stephen read the signs of your fraying nerves and your mounting fear of failure easily, from having experienced the same himself. He remained patient when you would suddenly turn skittish if the topic of your readiness arose and didn’t offer a word of disappointment when you had to call your time with him short in order to practice and study. If you had asked for help, he would’ve agreed in a heartbeat, regardless of appearances. And all the while, you both became scrupulously careful about any physical contact—as though the sweet interlude on the evening of the spilled tea had become a line neither dared to cross, out of the knowledge that once you did, there would be no stopping until your secret, mutual longing found its ultimate satisfaction.

This particular evening, Stephen arrived late for your teatime, having only returned from a far-flung mission an hour before. Not even stopping to eat (reckoning you would be sure to provide a snack of sorts with the tea), he had quickly showered, fixed his hair, and trimmed his goatee, not wishing to come to you battle singed and reeking of his efforts. Not just to keep you from worrying for his sake, but mainly because he now aimed to always appear his best in your presence. It had been years since he��d cared about such a thing, for his long familiarity with Christine Palmer had eventually worn that caution away.

He found you pacing back and forth across the veranda, head bowed over your clasped hands as you murmured words too quiet for him to make out—so focused on running through the litany of spells you would be tested on in two days’ time, that when he spoke your name, you gave a little start.

“Hey…hey there, Y/N,” he coaxed softly, “Didn’t mean to startle you. What’s up?”

You looked up at him, smiling faintly, though the low-grade panic in your eyes was enough to tell him what he needed to know. “Sorry,” you started, “I’m kind of distracted tonight. Maybe…maybe I should go…”

“Oh.” Stephen allowed his genuine disappointment to color his voice—quickly discerning the source of your distraction. Sure in the knowledge that he could—and as your friend, should--provide a diversion enough to calm your nerves. “If you really need to, yeah, of course you should. But, uh…maybe stick around a little while first? I just need to unwind some…this last mission almost went south because of clashing egos among the Defenders, and I had to play tough guy referee.” He called upon his most pleading, puppy dog eyes, “I find comfort in your company, Y/N. I have from the start. A little bit of that would go a long way to helping me find my balance tonight. Know what I mean?”

You gave a little shrug and your smile grew soft and pleased and pretty. “Well, how can I refuse to give the Sorcerer Supreme my assistance if it’s in my power?” When you took to your accustomed seat and began to pour out, Stephen followed suit, accepting the cup you offered, along with your query, “So…would you like to talk about it?”

He took a sip, humming appreciatively at the perfect balance of tea and honey you’d provided. “For now, not so much. Maybe you could just distract me. Fill me in on what you’ve been doing the past few days—how your prep for testing is going. And if there’s any good gossip going ‘round,” he chuckled, flashing you a wink, “I’d like a thorough update.”

Bright humor filled your eyes, and with it an understanding that his request was meant to relax you when you were in need of exactly that. You leaned a bit closer to him as you set down your cup—and Stephen had to restrain the urge to mirror you. To lean in the rest of the way and cradle your beckoning cheek and finally, finally taste your lips, after the countless fantasies of doing so, every time you got close to him now. He knew the time was coming soon when his resolve would fail, and he could only pray that when it did, you would welcome it as the sweet, long-awaited trespass that fate had ordained could no longer be denied...

If you're a regular Reader, and frankly confused, yes - I've already published the fouth installment (I'll Always Be Holding You) out of order. As I decided already well into this project to post it on AO3, I realized I needed a chapter three before I post chapter four there in full.

Feedback/Reblogs are incredibly meaningful. Please support content creators by doing us the honor. Thank you!

#my writing #'greeting the sunrise'#No Defense for the Heart #pining #romance #Defender Strange #defender strange x female reader #defender strange x y/n #doctor strange fan fiction #doctor strange fanfiction #stephen strange fan fiction #stephen strange fanfiction #doctor strange in the multiverse of madness #Strangebatch #My Eternal Muse

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ancient-hearts · 7 years ago

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Today I started my series of tutorials on youtube with a nice video on how to brew witchy tea. The first recipe is a bad mood killer that is perfect for the dark season. In the video I showed this little box to store your herb mixtures in. I put it in the shop for you all... www.ancientheartsshop.etsy.com 🖤🖤🖤 https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC98QGAu4a90uF6JiKGVfuRQ #youtube #witchy #pagan #mystic #ritual #tea #herbaltea #nature #natural #magick #traditional #tutorials #witchesofinstagram #witchythings #wiccan #paganism #folk #teatime #roots #plants #spells #pagansofinstagram #wiccansofinstagram #youtubewitch #coven

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sarahopkinsart · 7 years ago

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My bat girl is getting a reprise 🌿 #bat #bats #batsofinstagram #pendrawing #traditionaldrawing #traditionalartist #traditionalart #sketching #sketchaday #sketchbook #sketchdaily #dailysketch #dailyart #penart #pendrawing #ballpointpen #ballpointpenart #ballpointpendrawing #mystic #teatime

#bats #sketchbook #penart #bat #pendrawing #traditionalart #ballpointpen #ballpointpenart #traditionaldrawing #traditionalartist #dailysketch #ballpointpendrawing #sketchdaily #mystic #batsofinstagram #sketchaday #teatime #sketching #dailyart

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venser · 4 years ago

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Jace/Vraska ― “May I show you?” “Yes. It’s alright.”

For @teatime-with-owl

Word Count: 1,364

Read on AO3 | Send me prompts!

Vraska knows something is wrong when Jace doesn’t show up to their coffee date.

She’s irritated, at first. It hadn’t been easy for her to rearrange her schedule and get the afternoon free from her duties, but she couldn’t bring herself to turn him down… not after the conversation they had the week prior about their desire to try and salvage their relationship. Irritation begins to give way to concern, though, as she follows the guard through the halls of Jace’s home.

“I do apologize for Master Beleren’s absence, Guildmaster Vraska,” the guard says. “Had we been aware that he had a personal engagement with you, we would have sent word that he was… otherwise occupied.”

“What happened, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have an answer. I’m only aware that he went on some sort of expedition off-world with that elven friend of his. When he returned, he seemed… troubled.”

The guard quietly opens the door to Jace’s inner sanctum, offering nothing more than a polite bow as she passes through. Vraska gives her thanks to the guard before he shuts the door, turning her attention to the mind mage on the other side of the room.

“Troubled” feels like an understatement—Jace is hunched over a table covered from end to end in books, scrolls, and loose pages of notes, his cloak thrown haphazardly onto a chair across the room. Cups of cold coffee and the odd half-eaten meal lay on another table, pushed to the corner furthest from his workstation. When Jace goes for the bookshelf at the other end of the room, Vraska finds an orb at the center of it all.

At first glance, there’s nothing remarkable about it―no mystical glow, no maze-like pattern, no crevices to pry at with tools. It looked more like some tacky Orzhov paperweight than anything worthy of study, but knowing Jace, it had to have been from off-plane.

What have you gotten yourself into this time, Jace?

Vraska can’t quite hide her amusement when Jace startles, looking back at her with wide eyes. “I―Vraska!” He slides down the ladder, crossing the room the moment his feet hit the floorboards. “What can I do for you?”

“Jace, do you remember what day it is?”

“Isn’t it―oh. Oh, Krokt, our coffee date!”

“I’m not angry,” Vraska says quickly. “Not anymore, anyway. Glad to know you haven’t been pulled off plane for another tyrant threatening the multiverse, but…”

“Not exactly the best way to go about repairing a relationship,” Jace finishes, his expression pained. “I’m so sorry, Vraska.”

There’s more to this. Something’s bothering him.

“It’s alright,” Vraska says. “From what the guard told me, you and Nissa had gone off world.”

Jace lets out a soft sigh. “Yeah… I think I may have fucked up royally.”

“What happened, Jace?”

“It’s kind of a long story.”

“I have plenty of time.”

He hesitates. “May I show you?”

Though she knows it won’t be a happy memory, Vraska nods. “Yes. It’s alright.”

The tables and bookshelves of his sanctum give way to the stony ruins of an ancient city. Vraska watches as a massive elemental pins Jace down, stealing the orb from him and handing it off to Nissa, who glares down upon it with hatred.

There’s a crash. Jace gives Nissa a pleading look. Please, let's go to Ravnica. We can study the Core there together.

What makes you think we won't accidentally annihilate Ravnica? Nissa replies. I've seen the damage the Core can do. We should destroy it.

Nahiri said it won't work outside of Zendikar. It'll be safe to test it there.

Stone begins to trap elementals. Vraska feels Nissa’s rage surge through the memory. Nahiri is not known for her truthfulness, Jace.

Listen to me, Jace pleads, The Gatewatch. We can use this. There's something you don't know. I… we have other battles to face, Nissa.

The Gatewatch failed. We were supposed to protect the things we love. We couldn't even protect each other. You were like a family to me.

He was losing her. Jace frantically continues to try to get her attention, but the Core in her hand begins to glow urgently. The disgust she showed for it earlier melts away into something akin to intrigue.

Will you help me, Jace?

Vraska can feel his dread, his hesitance, his understanding that what he was about to do may have consequences later. In his final act of desperation, he reaches out, trying to take hold of Nissa’s mind. Horrified, she severs the connection. Moments later, she activates the Core.

All at once, everything was destroyed, stone and plant alike. Then, as quickly as it had disappeared, the elementals returned, stronger than before. Nissa, overjoyed, disappears into the forest, leaving the inert Core behind.

The illusion of Zendikar fades away. Vraska turns to Jace, whose gaze remains fixed to the floorboards of his sanctum. He radiates guilt, despair, regret.

Disgust.

“Nissa came to me for help,” Jace says after a moment, “and what’s the first thing I do? I allied myself with the very person she needed help against, because I couldn’t… understand. I wouldn’t listen. She may have forgiven that much, but I crossed a line. I tried to take control of my friend because I was so terrified of the vision I saw when I had the Core, and what do I have to show for it? Another broken bond.”

Vraska approaches Jace, taking his hands in hers. Comfort still wasn’t something she was good at giving, and what advice she could offer would probably not help, but it doesn’t feel right to say nothing. She considers her words carefully before she says, “I don’t know if you made the correct decision, Jace, but whatever happens, I know you will make things right.”

“Nahiri said that I try to do good, but I always make things worse, in the end.”

“That isn’t true, Jace.” One of her tendrils reaches out, gently guiding his head up so he’s looking her in the eye. “The lives we lead are complicated and messy. You knew nothing about the Core outside of what you saw and what Nissa told you. At that moment, the choices you had were let Nissa destroy her world or fulfil your oath to the Gatewatch.”

“But―”

“Give her time. If needed, wait for her to come to you, or sort it out when the Gatewatch requires the two of you to work together. But don’t let this discourage you from trying to be a better person. You’ve come so far, Jace, and I won’t let you wallow any more than you already have.”

Jace gives her a sad smile, resting his forehead against hers. “Thank you. And I’m sorry again, about the coffee date.”

“It’s alright.” She presses a soft kiss to his forehead before pulling away, turning her attention back to the Core. “But what happened between you and Nissa… that isn’t the end, is it?”

Jace picks up the Core. “I want to be wrong, but I can’t shake the feeling that there’s a catch. When I first came into contact with the Core, it showed me a reality where I could solve any problem without a word of debate or shedding a drop of blood. I could change all the worlds… but it would’ve meant doing away with free will entirely.”

“Do you believe it may have damaged Zendikar is another way?” Vraska asks.

“The possibility is there,” Jace says. “The information I have on the Makindi is vague, and I still have much to translate. Ancient Kor is… a bit complicated. I could return to Zendikar and see if my contacts at Sea Gate could point me in the right direction, but…”

“It may not be wise to return so soon,” Vraska finishes.

Jace begins to say something else, but his stomach growls in protest. He lets out a sheepish laugh. “I guess it’s, uh, been a while.”

“My afternoon is clear,” Vraska reminds him. “Coffee date, late lunch… there’s not much of a difference. And I know the perfect place on Tin Street.”

Jace smiles. “Lead the way.”

#mtg #venstory

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advernia · 5 years ago

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fic: you make home sound like a distant memory

— the pieces fray around the edges, and the center has lost its warmth. - pre-game: a somber tale about a family with crimson blood.

1: draft turned fic turned welp, looks like i'm not writing anything else till this is done oh my god, what is this hot mess even - 2: dear @ikerev-appreciation pls forgive me but uhh does it still count as a jonah week entry even if jonah shares the spotlight with his family ksjksjd;;

o n e .

"... I wish we didn't look so alike."

"But we don't! I may look fantastic, but rest assured - I pale in comp arison to your delicate, angelic features!"

His birth is a celebration, not much of the congratulations on the safe delivery of your firstborn child kind, but more of the congratulations on giving birth to a boy kind of celebration. He's a plump babe swaddled within layers of fine cotton with little hair on his head and no teeth to speak of, but people stare at him with the intensity of the summer sun and smiles painted on their faces, as if he were the grandest being they had ever laid their eyes on.

Every feature of his, no matter how tiny and yet to be developed, comes out drizzled in honey from many mouths: the fullness of his cheeks (it's not fat, how dare you, it's a sign of good health), the curves of his little lips (they're as red as rogue, how adorable), the hue of his eyes (they have the beauty of pure molten gold), and the descriptive list gets longer and longer.

The only word everyone seems to have in common is heir.

He's barely two days old and he doesn't understand what that means at all, so he starts crying.

Two years and long grueling hours later, in comes another swaddled babe: he was born at the very moment the reds and golds disappeared from the sky, and the darkness of night enfolded everyone in its embrace. In fact, that's the color soft wisps of hair on his head seem to have taken - in total, he's a bundle of full cheeks, curved reddish lips, and dark-colored hair.

The celebration that follows after his birth is a small affair limited within the walls of his home, and the only ones who take hold of him with such warmth are his grandfather and a boy with silver hair. The former smiles at the sight of a small black dot set under his right eye and mumbles something about the mark of a Clemence, while the latter just stares at him in complete awe, stars bursting forth from eyes that were wide open.

Behind the old man and the child went hushed whispers, the word insurance hanging heavy in the air.

He's barely two days old and he doesn't understand what that means at all, so he starts crying.

"You'll have nothing to fear now, for I'm accompanying you! Aren't you glad we're going together?"

"What's there to be glad about when I'm going to be stuck with you?"

Children will be children like boys will be boys.

Come spring they run around a grand forest, chasing butterflies and gathering all sorts of things like little explorers lost in an expedition. They make sure to steer and hide away from any obstacles that come their way, like those terrible women in long black skirts who shout out their names and try to lure them out with the prospect of food. The biggest evil though is the great wizard: he's super thin, has graying hair, puts a super shiny monocle under his left eye, grows a bushy mustache with its tips pointing perfectly upwards, and worst of all knows how to use two dangerous words to complete his magic spell - the names of their parents.

Summer is too hot for exploring and the heat outside makes everything sweaty and sticky and it feels gross. So instead, they link their hands together to embark in a thorough search for their grandfather within the large halls and grand rooms of the mansion - he's always in the library though, sitting by the couch near the window and reading some book. When they come in, grandfather urges them to sit and off the three of them go as a tale is brought to life in words: they emerge in battlefields, countries, and in mystical places that a man called the Queen of Hearts had all stepped on once upon a time. Uninterrupted, they venture well until lunchtime.

Fall is boring because they can't go out and under the command of their parents, the great wizard has summoned his disciples to keep them apart - they're made to practice all sorts of things, read a lot of thick books, listen well to whatever's being taught, and the disciples don't take no for an answer even if they cry and beg. It's really, really boring and sometimes when they look out the window, they think about how much better it was to spend time being an explorer or listening to grandfather's stories instead.

Winter's a bit better because even if they still go through their very boring lessons, their grandfather saves the half of the day by leading both of them by the hand to go into his room. In there they can do whatever they want, and grandfather just watches over them with his wrinkly eyes. He coughs often and spends most of the time in bed though, so before doing anything else the both of them make sure that their grandfather's all warm and cozy and has a glass of warm water ready by his bedside table.

The old man smiles warmly at them - he smiles at the young child with silver hair, whose hands were always open for a smaller one to slip in and hold onto. He smiles at the little boy with dark hair, whose hands were always searching for a larger hand to hold on to.

Slowly he closes his tired eyes and focuses on the sound of boyish laughter, filling the four corners of the room.

By the end of winter, any trace of joy that laughter has left in the mansion, in the library, and in their grandfather's room, has promptly flown away.

The young child and the little boy huddle close to each other as they stood over clumps of snow, mittened hands tightly linked together as they stared at a headstone bearing their grandfather's name.

"Why are you here? Go away, go back, go home, and don't ever think about visiting me again!"

"Your shyness is adorable as always! But you don't need to hold back for my sake - now, give me a hug!"

Things in the mansion change a lot shortly after their grandfather had gone into a deep, deep sleep.

They're pulled away from each other like how their rooms are now on separate floors. Everyday they're seated far apart from each other on the dining table, strictly forbidden to sit beside each other. The disciples increase in number and strange people visit often, eyes set on their every move and mouths always having something to say about them both. Their parents forbade them from going out unless necessary, that order becoming something sharp and biting and absolute. But the most horrible thing of all is that they're no longer allowed to spend their days in each other's company.

No more exploring together, no more searching for four-leaf clovers together. No more sneaking into each other's rooms late at night, no more reading books together under the covers. No more creeping into the kitchen to get their favorite snacks, no more midday or afternoon teatime together. No more shopping together, no more walking around town together.

No more, no more.

No more together.

The young child tries, though. He tries his best to find a way out, to slip past the great wizard and his disciples and all those strange people and their parents' rules. He especially tries his very best at night. He tries to find the best time to slip out of his room unnoticed and run across the hallway to the stairs leading to the first floor, to go down those steps and head towards the left wing, to pass through many, many doors until he reaches that one door.

The little boy needs him. He's sure that no one in the mansion know about the nightmares the little boy has, about how lonely he can get in the middle of the night. No one knows of that one doll he likes to hold at night. He bets that no one, not even their parents, know about the lullaby too; from the words to the tune and up to how to sing it properly. He's the only one who can do it. He's the only one.

He has to keep trying. He'll handle any punishment, any lecture, any scolding, any added hours of study and practice, any confinement; he'll handle anything, if only, if only, if only -

The young child's efforts eventually pay off but sadly only at nighttime, but he figures that's a start. And so he develops a habit of sneaking out of his room come midnight just to sing to the little boy until every tear has dried, until the little boy's eyes were firmly closed shut and breathing takes on its steady rhythm.

When he turns around to leave, a small hand subconsciously reaches out to him like a lifeline; tugging at his sleeve or clinging to his fingers.

The young child takes hold of the little boy's small hand and squeezes it gently.

It feels like a lifeline, too.

"You don't need to stand there! Come on, there's an empty seat right beside me!"

"Ugh, no way. I'd rather stand for five hours straight rather than to be seen sitting beside you."

The day when the young child turned eight and the little boy was six served as the universe's way of pointedly reminding them of who and what they were; of what their own family and perhaps the whole country saw them to be.

It was certainly a birthday to be remembered.

Seated at the head of a grand table and surrounded by all the grandeur money could possibly offer to an eight-year-old, there sat no young child with tears streaming down his face but there was only Jonah Clemence, the firstborn son and heir of the Clemence family's proud crimson bloodline and the future Queen of Hearts of the Red Army.

And although it was never planned for someone to sit there in the first place, seated by the very foot of the grand table was a little boy and his name was Luka.

Heir.

Insurance.

Ah -

- so that's what the word meant.

t w o .

"Remember that I'm always waiting to welcome you back home with open arms."

"... You don't need to do that any longer. I'm never going back."

Because Jonah Clemence realized that he was no longer a young child the same way Luka had accepted that he was no longer a little boy, the world and the society around them began to change, too.

Those women in long black skirts are simply maids, the great wizard and his disciples are the head butler and their tutors, respectively. People who claim to work out of respect and reverence to the Clemence family's name, but all those claims pale in comparison to the lovely clink of a coin.

The strange people who come in and out of the mansion and continue to do so were a toss of either their relatives or nobles of lower standing. Over time, there was no need to differenciate both, simply because there was no lesser evil between two parties that wore masks for a living and wagged tongues painted a shimmering silver.

The library is left untouched but the couch that their grandfather used to sit on has been replaced for something finer, something that doesn't smell of youthful adventure and heroic romances. It's gone and so is their grandfather's bedroom, the sanctuary where they tasted freedom once upon a time.

Lessons take broader shapes and extensions, demanding more attention and a sharper mind. The hilt and weight of a sword has made itself known to them as well, introduced to them by no one else but by the Queen of Hearts himself, their father.

What they used to call the grand forest was in truth the mansion's spacious gardens - the cobblestone pathways and the secret clearings they used to run through back and forth for days become unfamiliar when they stand at the center of it all and it's filled with tables and silverware, with guests sipping away at exquisite tea and specially made cakes laid out for their choosing.

The chill of winter has long left every hallway and it's already the middle of summer, but the mansion and everything else in it never grew any warmer.

"I don't want your help. I didn't ask for your help. Now leave me alone."

"Hush! Do you honestly think I would do something so heartless when I can see you suffering!?"

It was impossible for Luka to stand in the same limelight where Jonah Clemence stood, and that was alright.

Jonah Clemence was the heir after all, and he was to be the Queen of Hearts someday. He's young for now but once he grew up, he was going to be an upstanding noble and a honorable soldier, and everyone else would look up to him. He'd do all sorts of good deeds, go to places far away, win lots and lots of battles with his trusty sword at his side, and would do anything to protect anyone from evil.

But that was Jonah Clemence.

Everyone only saw Jonah Clemence but Luka could also see someone else - that's because before Jonah Clemence became the Jonah Clemence, he was first and foremost Luka's one and only big brother: he was brave for still sneaking into Luka's room at night, smart and quick whenever he would help Luka study without anyone knowing. He paid close attention to whatever Luka had to say, he was kind enough to guide Luka into reading the music notes for a violin piece. He was also patient and understanding to boot - he never got mad at Luka, ever.

But the best thing about Luka's big brother was that he didn't force himself to be perfect like Jonah Clemence was.

Luka's big brother allows himself to cry because he's so tired, allows himself to get frustrated and complain about all those adults and those tea party invitations. He allows himself to be sad because he hasn't been able to see Luka around much, allows himself to get angry because father had been very strict during sword practice. And even though he's older than Luka, he can also act so childish and lazy.

Sometimes Luka wished that everyone else could see his big brother in Jonah Clemence, too.

Because while Jonah Clemence was Luka's hero, Luka's big brother was the person Luka loved the most.

Being second son meant not bearing any of the responsibilities that came with being the Clemence heir and for Jonah, that was a relief.

The heir had to show the best of himself at all times, presenting no sign of weakness but only strength. He was someone no one could look down upon, someone who could command respect by people hearing the sound of his name. Emotions should never get in the way of the heir's judgement because once he lets just a shred of that in, people will start doubting his power and will take advantage of him immediately.

And that was just being heir.

Being the Queen of Hearts on the other hand was a legacy engraved in the heir's blood, a distinction of glory and the very purpose why he has been brought into the world. The Queen is the paragon of a steadfast loyalty to the King of Hearts, and the Queen is the only one worthy of being called the King's second-in-command. The Queen was second best to the King, but that didn't make him any lesser: he is incredibly strong, righteous, and if ever the King were to be led astray; the Queen would be the first one who would lead the King back into the right path.

Jonah wouldn't - couldn't, shouldn't - allow Luka to shoulder those burdens.

Every responsibility weighed too much, expected too much. And Luka - his sweet, oh-so-sweet little brother with the warmest smile in the world and a heart of shining gold - doesn't deserve to experience any of that. Those small ears don't need to hear constant criticism, flowery words with knives underneath, or stinging whispers. Those kind eyes don't need to see cold faces and fake smiles. That gentle voice shouldn't speak words that people expect to hear. That tiny body didn't need to feel itself breaking from the pain of all those slaps, kicks, fists, bruises and scars.

And that beautiful heart certainly didn't need to break and turn to stone from the pressure, from all the difficult things the heir and the future Queen of Hearts had to go through.

Being the Clemence heir and taking on the mantle of the Queen of Hearts are the very pillars of Jonah's life, but -

- being the older brother who would do anything to protect the world's most precious little brother was important to him too.

"Trust me - I would do anything to protect you."

"... Why are you always like this?"

Winter wasn't the best season for them, simply because it was the season when their grandfather died. When he passed away with that soft smile on his thin lips, whatever scraps of freedom they were able to savor went along with him as well; carefully placed in an ornate casket and buried six feet under the ground, nestled around a protective magic barrier for good measure.

And now their parents were giving them another reason to dislike winter.

In the dead of the night and under the light of the full moon, Luka lets out a valley of tears that stream down his cheeks and fall onto his silk bedsheets - the drops fall to the pace of skip counting, going one, three, eight, fifteen, twenty-three, and Jonah can't stop all that with just the long sleeves of his shirt. Luka's cries are hiccupped sobs; broken little pieces, strangled wails of sorrow, warbled watery pleas of don't go, don't go, please don't leave me here alone, please oh please, don't go.

Each sob is as soft as the winds that blow against the windows of the room, but each sound resonates loudly through Jonah's being - it echoes and deafens the ears, slips past all his defenses just to repeatedly stab at his skin and to seep onto every open pore, barges inside just to punch both his lungs and constrict the heart in a vice-grip that leaves him breathless.

It hurts. It really does.

When he's rendered useless, there's nothing much left to do but wrap his arms around his little brother with the hope that whatever strength he had left would keep them both steady.

But it doesn't.

When both their eyes have finally run dry, Jonah raises one of his calloused pinkies to link with one of Luka's own.

He solemnly promises that on his honor as Jonah Clemence, heir to the Clemence family and the future Queen of Hearts, he would write a letter every day to his one and only little brother Luka Clemence; no matter how busy or tired he would be by the end of the day. Whenever the opportunity presents itself and if he is also permitted to do so, Jonah Clemence would go back home just to visit Luka Clemence. Also, if Jonah Clemence would find anything interesting, just anything at all; he would make sure to bring it home so he could show it to Luka Clemence.

It's the first and the longest vow that Jonah has ever spoken. His throat is all tingly and his voice doesn't just come out right but Luka heard every last word, down to that last hiccup.

Luka squeezed that one calloused pinky firmly as he possibly could.

Jonah Clemence wasn't a liar.

Luka's big brother wasn't a liar.

So he would definitely keep his promise.

t w o .

There's this young boy surrounded by cold adults in a big mansion, but each morning

he does his best to wake and rise early to look out past the mansion's windows,

because he was going to wait for a letter to arrive.

The young boy knows he's being a bit silly because,

the letter wouldn't arrive that early!

Still, he wanted to wait.

And the young boy did wait, until the sun had fully risen up to hang in the sky -

while waiting, he went through the motions of his typical every day,

but this time, he looked out the window more often.

Someone important to him had gone away, you see -

but before that person left,

they made a promise.

Now that the young boy thought about it, that person -

he never said how exactly would he have

his letters delivered.

All the young boy knew was that after reading a letter and writing a reply,

he would secretly deliver his reply to that person,

by making use of some magic.

But perhaps thinking about how a letter would arrive in the mansion didn't matter!

That person's letter would definitely come in time,

because they made a promise.

What the young boy didn't know though, was that before that person left -

that person also made a promise with their parents,

and it was about those letters.

That person made their parents swear on their honor that the letters he would

send daily to the mansion, they would personally deliver to the rightful

recipient, who would be the young boy.

That person thought that if he would make his parents swear on their honor,

they would never dare break their word because they were

of proud crimson blood like he was.

So the young boy waited and waited,

day turned noon then night,

but he still waited.

A day passed by, then two, then three, then four -

but the young boy didn't lose hope,

he had to be patient.

But again, what the young boy didn't know was that his crimson blood parents

thought differently of the vow the both of them made with that person.

They valued something else more than a promise on their honor.

What they valued the most was that their firstborn son would do his best at the academy,

shape himself into a fine man without anything distracting him,

be it his own brother, the young boy.

The crimson blood parents, no matter how rigid they became, kept on holding onto the thought that

what they were doing, and everything they had done in the past were all

in the best interests of the family and their two children.

But even before he passed away, the children's paternal grandfather scoffed in response to seeing such methods -

he was disappointed as he said: as parents you're simply tearing two children apart,

but the crimson blood parents still didn't change their hearts.

So what became of the young boy who kept on waiting and waiting for a letter,

of the firstborn son who was sent to do his best at the academy,

and of their crimson blood parents?

For now,

let's just say that,

over time of waiting, waiting, and much more waiting -

people eventually realize that they have grown much, much older and that

they are now at least a little bit wiser enough not to wait for letters that would never come.

t h r e e .

"One day you're going to grow old and forget about me."

"Preposterous - how could I possibly bring myself to forget my one and only little brother?"

... And where exactly do you think you're going at this hour?

His fingers twitch, just inches away from the golden door handle. They're made of oak, these doors right in front of him, just like any other door in this mansion that presented itself as a home. Question, though: would a home have rooms, exits, or entrances that have such imposing doors, all tall and dark and heavy? Would a home constantly keep such doors closed, with handles that would never open because the lock had been secured and the key had been kept away? Would a home just have a door for show, and when you open it you suddenly realize that it actually leads to nowhere; presenting you no option of entry or exit?

He wouldn't know. Would she know? She always spoke in a clear-cut manner, voice having the melody of summer but words coated in the frost of winter: heat to the ears, chills to the heart. But surely enough summer and winter have turned into spring and fall - seasons change like how time flew like water, and that meant every person in the world weren't getting any younger.

He and her included.

He got it from her, the dark shade of his hair that resembles the night. But more than the night itself, time has dictated that her hair be turned into the night sky instead; a canvas of black spread with dashes of silver stars. He wished that he got the color of her eyes too: brown like the earth, brown like a piece of dark chocolate. Maybe if he had her eyes, he wouldn't be reminding people of someone else.

His fingers wrap around the door handle.

I asked you where you're going...!

Ah, winter had become fall - somehow that elevated pitch and sharp volume had less bite to it, now merely a bitter wind blowing at his back and unable to pierce any deeper. His skin, his lungs, and his heart were fine; no chilling over, what a relief. Was she already that old, or was it simply his desensitization that lessened the impact?

Whatever the case, he wasn't going to stay any longer just to find out.

He pulls the door open, and he's greeted by a rush of a cool night's breeze along with the light of the full moon.

Luka...!

He takes a few steps forward, only to close the door behind him shut. Firmly now, firmly. So that the sound would make itself known in the grand foyer, whoosh through the many steps of a carpeted staircase to reach all the way to the pretty landing; slicing through the silence like a voiceless, wordless slap to the face. Bang. Echo, echo. Did that sound like a satisfying ending to your sharply pointed ears, mother?

From that point on, Luka Clemence didn't dare to look back.

The last time he stepped into this mansion of proud marble and golden paint was in celebration of him finally taking on the name that was rightfully his. Smiles were plastered onto faces like a fine template made specifically for the occasion, the word congratulations thrown about back and forth as verbal confetti. Champagne went spinning round, resembling the skirts of the many women twirling by the ballroom floors, heels going click clack in time to the orchestra's uplifting compositions.

It was a mediocre celebration, if he would say so himself. His special guest wasn't in attendance and that made everything else less enjoyable... including the already sorry excuse of a strawberry mille-feuille.

Now, he returned for one reason, and one reason alone - he passed through the foyer, headed right, passed through a couple of rooms until he found himself standing by the entrance of the dining room. Shiny crystal chandelier, polished floors. Tasteful curtains and tapestries, carefully made carpets. A wide and stretching ornate table, chairs of finely carved mahogany with plush cushions.

Only two chairs were occupied. As he approached the table, one of the occupants turn around to the sound of his footsteps. Eyes narrow, a voice comes out unsure.

... Jonah?

Two pairs of eyes are on him now - surprise faintly wrinkles his father's brow, his mother holds a gaze that could be classified as listless. Caused by a lack of sleep, maybe?

Good morning, father, mother. Is Luka yet to wake up?

The silence that follows his question is pregnant - it's the kind that just dances around your very being, frolicking without care along your legs and atop your finely shined shoes. It giggles around constantly like a happy child until you get irritated, try to chase it, but only to miserably fail. For the love of all that's good and holy, you just want to know why it's giggling so much. Was it so hard to capture silence? Was it so hard to find the words that would stop it from frolicking around like it owned the place?

It lasts for a good two minutes before his father exhales slowly, rising from his seat.

... We'll take this discussion elsewhere.

... Your mother tried stopping him.

Something boils uncomfortably in his blood, reaching down to the very pits of his stomach as he stared at his father. It brings to mind the image of water that bubbles, rises, and threatens to spill out from its kettle prison, leaving a scalding mess its wake.

Jonah's palms land down on his father's desk, impact loud and fingernails digging at the wood.

Tried? he spits the word out with an impressive amount of venom, lips snarling at the ends, Perhaps you didn't try hard enough! You should've informed me of this matter immediately!

A growl rears its head from the back of the throat - low, booming, intimidating. Strangely enough, it's nostalgic in a most amusing manner, but -

Ah, that's right, how could Jonah forget?

Former authority figures didn't take kindly to accusations of incompetence.

Jonah Clemence, compose yourself! Is that how the Queen of Hearts should speak!?

Something in Jonah's expression twists as a crack broke his voice.

I returned here simply as an older brother happy to celebrate his little brother's graduation, not as the Queen of Hearts!

Silver mirroring silver, gold mirroring gold. Fiery tempers contesting one another, sparks flying about in the four corners of the room. Perhaps if they tried hard enough they could set the whole room alight until flames lap and lick at every surface there is to burn, breaking everything down until nothing is left but trails of ash and wisps of smoke.

And as if her figure couldn't look any more delicate than it already was, his mother appeared much smaller as she sat by the very end of the couch, a lost look in her eyes and a plain notebook resting nicely on her lap.

When she closes her eyes and lowers her head, wisps of her dark hair shield her face from the rest of the world.

It's already that very moment in time where the reds and golds disappeared from the sky, and the darkness of night enfolded everyone in its embrace.

Jonah Clemence looked up to stare at that very sky, his back facing a mansion of proud marble and golden paint. There he stands straight and tall, all alone in a secret clearing discovered by two brave explorers, once upon a time.

Carefully gripped in his right hand is an object made of cotton, pieces of it well-worn: white clothes were predominantly stained with tints of an aging yellow, two buttons of the coat about to fall loose, stitches here and there showing signs of fraying.

The only parts of it that remained presentable were the strands of dark-colored yarn on top, and a pair of golden dots for eyes.

I'll find you.

He moves his arm to clutch the doll to his chest, head still held up high.

I promise.

#jonah clemence week #ikemen kakumei #ikemen revolution #ikerev fanfic #jonah clemence #luka clemence #*loud whale noises* oH M A N ? ? ?#oof i could've done this fic more justice but i've lost count of how many edits i did #that's nothing new to me but i got frustrated so i didn't hold onto it any longer ;w;#half of that edit time was spent on forma t ting yeeHAW i got so carried away #okay so maybe doing this in the middle of a seminar wasn't a good idea L M AO #rushed this just to get it out of my system so i didn't proofread properly eeep;;;#edits & post reading notes??? shall come later... yeah maybe later haha...

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loyalflutist · 5 years ago

Text

I Want to Become a Fish (Dorothea x F!Byleth)

Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: N/A Category: F/F Words: 2,843 Summary: It's been five years since Byleth had disappeared from her life. Dorothea recounts the time she spent with her professor on the day of her birthday. Sitting by the pond, all she could think of is how simple life must be as a fish.

A/N: Today’s Dorothea’s Birthday, so I decided to write an OS dedicated to her and her relationship with Byleth. Of course, a slip of my fingers decided to make it both angsty and R-18+ lemon. Hope you enjoy this! I’m wondering if I should make a continuation of it or not that’s pure lemon... but I digress.

---

There were plenty of fishes to catch. The pond, the lake, the sea, the ocean… Its waters were vast and stretch beyond the horizon. The same could be said about mankind. There were plenty of humans to catch. Kingdom of Faerghus, Adrestian Empire, Leicester Alliance, Brigid… Its lands were vast and stretch beyond the horizon.

However, there is a stark contrast between the two.

“How exhausting.”

A young lady pursed her lips, its pink flesh jutted out just enough to tamper with her sparkling features. Dorothea sat on the edge of the dock late into the night, her black shoes’ tip bumped and tapped each other as she gazed upon the pond’s shining surface. The lonely moon’s rays illuminated the plenty of dark fish-like forms that swam about in the man-made basin. She lightly rubbed the wooden boards with the palm of her hands.

‘ How ironic that they hardly possess any care in the world. ‘

If one were to exclude their inevitable fate as a cooked meal for the soldiers and commanders at the monastery, the aquatic organisms simply traversed around their limited premise. Their worries were likely nonexistent. They did not have to conform to any sort of social order. They could breed with others without judgment. They could abandon their children without consequences. They were free to choose where to go. They could migrate to another pack. They were free to intermingle with one another. They were able to express who they are without a second thought.

The songstress slanted her eyes to a slit. These fishes had more freedom and optimism in life than her. She moistened her lower lip and half-heartedly smirked.

“What would it be like if I were to become a fish…?”

Throughout her life, it has been more than miserable; miserable is clearly a euphemism. She had no parents. She could not recall their features nor their presence in her life. The same could be said about her life with them. Was Dorothea a bad girl? Was Dorothea punished by the Goddess Seiros? Was Dorothea a mistake in this world? She struggled to find her place in this world. No matter how much she ate dirt and begged for forgiveness, no such blessings were divine enough to purify her sorry state.

When Dorothea became an opera singer, a false divine power blew away her pathetic livelihood. Those who spat at her face salivate at the idea of her becoming their mistress. Those who made her grovel in the mud with their foot yearn for the day they can kneel and propose marriage to her. Those who hardly pitied her boast and flaunt their false sympathetic nature for the grown songstress.

How disgusting. Humans were vile compared to fishes. Manuela came to her rescue, but that was from a stroke of luck… and she was the only person she could trust in. Edelgard and Petra were the next group of people she placed her utmost trust in. However, no one was able to breach past a simple exchange of trust. Even after the thwarting of the Church of Seiros, even after the dragged on for five arduous years, Dorothea has yet to find that special someone. Someone that she could find solace in, someone that she could bask in their warmth, someone that could shower her with tender love day and night. She will never find that person in her life.

Well, she had some hope, but that person was long gone five years ago.

‘ When will she ever come back? ‘

Strands of brown hair slowly slipped away from her ear and dangled out of place. She lowered her head.

The professor was always a strange one. When they first met, Edelgard had introduced the stoic woman to the rest of her classmates. Dorothea vividly remembered the blank features engraved into Byleth’s features. She was almost like a machine. When someone asked for a favor, she did as she was told. When someone vented to her, she listened without prejudice. When she fought in battles, her expression barely morphed beyond a frown. When she stares at others, her sharp gaze pierces through their vulnerabilities. When Dorothea seductively teased the instructor, she blurted a genuine reply to her wild fantasies.

Yet despite her social short-comings, Byleth had always been there by their sides, especially with Dorothea. Teatime, skirmishes, the ballroom dance, the Goddess Tower, the confession… it all naturally fell in its rightful position. The bigger picture was becoming more and more visible. Sweet whispers rivaling that of honey dripped from Byleth and Dorothea as they tickled each other’s eardrums. Fingers and lips roamed their bare skin, fiery flames igniting passion at every scarce opportunity. Poems with a potent amount of sugar crossed into their lives with frequent exchanges of their diaries. They were in love, and it was a love that Dorothea had always dreamed of as a little kid. It was time she retires from chasing after rich noblemen and women. After all…

“Byleth, you’re the only one for me!”

Another thrusting of her hip nearly sent the professor into a frenzy. Byleth’s fingers threatened to tear the white sheets of her mattress as the student continued her relentless friction. Clitoris upon clitoris. It was as if electricity zipped with every rub.

“Hah—! D-Dorothea—!”

It was clear who the dominant figure was in their heated passion. Dorothea kept Byleth’s legs from closing, applying just enough pressure on her thighs as she fluidly moved her sensitive region up and down on Byleth’s. Their naked bodies were glistening with sweat, their loose hairs clinging to the moist surface of their forehead and neck. Another elongated moan trickled out of the teacher’s mouth.

“You’re… You’re— Nngh!”

“I… hah— I know, right?”

Dorothea smirked as she tenderly smoothed the scar-riddled thighs. Those same hands began to move upward towards Byleth’s naval. From the distant, it almost looked as though the songstress was riding her professor. Her abdomen continuously rocked back and forth as her wet nether region acted as oil for the motion. More groans chortled out of her girlfriend as Dorothea resisted the temptation to ravage her whole for the third time this night. A risqué event between a student and a teacher… How scandalous!

“I knew I could— Hah… I knew I could—! I knew I could make you sing!”

Singing lessons were a rare treat from the opera singer. If Manuela was not available, then surely Dorothea was the next best option. Various students clasped their hands and begged like starving children for a private session with her. Male or female, they all hope to learn from the greatest of the greatest. Unfortunately for them, these lessons were strictly reserved for none other than Byleth.

“S-Slow down— Ah—! AH! You’re going too— Haaah! You’re going too fast!”

Byleth’s eyes nearly rolled back from the increased tempo. As this is their third round, her body was beginning to respond with great intensity. Compared to their first go, which was slow and gentle, this felt like desperation. Unsurprising as tomorrow as the day they would overthrow the church.

Her shaky fingers eventually made its way to her girlfriend’s arms as she felt a surge of internal fireworks boom wildly from the woman overhead. Their movement hastened, the instructor watching the songstress conduct her mystical magic.

“Hah!”

Another hip thrust.

“Haah!”

And another…

“HAAAH!”

And another.

None of them could make Byleth feel this way. Only Dorothea had the ability to do so, her hands sliding all around the older woman. Heat collectively gathered to her lowered head and blood pooled to the sensitive nub from the bottom as the brown-haired softly moaned.

“Oh—! I… I think I’m— Hah! I’m reaching there!”

She didn’t need to hear a response from Byleth. The thrashing and bouncing of her body each time Dorothea danced around her nether region said plenty. Dorothea body was burning with a need to satisfy, and her mind was burning with a need to satisfy Byleth. Slick labia continuously applied pressure as she narrowed her eyes.

“D-Dorothea—!!!”

They were both close to reaching the tipping scale. Through the sweats and pants, the older woman trembled underneath and clung to the student’s arms. Dorothea leaned down to bury her face into the woman’s shoulder as Byleth groaned,

“I love you too, Dorothea—!”

“Byleth— A-AH!”

An explosion of fireworks and lights like never before had occurred. The first time was sweet, the second time was for longevity, and the third from desperation. Soon enough, their lips crashed once more, their mouths slotted together. The fourth session came with a spectacular finale as Byleth took charge of their next intercourse.

Present-time Dorothea reached up to touch her lower lip. Faint sparks were ignited from the limited action, her eyes darkening its hues. Memories of heat and tranquility echoed within her mind. Yet all dreams must come to an end. An operation fit for victory took a complete turn for the worst. Unexpected troubles reared their ugly heads in as Dorothea, Byleth, and the others sided with Edelgard’s ambition. Overthrowing the Church of Seiros was successful, but at what cost?

Fire licked their exposed skin from their surroundings. Crimson colored her visor as she hobbled to the ex-mercenary. One hand on her wounded side, Dorothea became a vital asset to Byleth’s final delivery for the archbishop. The Sword of Creator planted a devastating blow to Rhea with a flick of her wrist. Anguish screech shattered the tense atmosphere from the deadly pierce. Then, the songstress watched in horror as a white dragon took Rhea’s place and blasted the two away with a whip of its tail. Dorothea had smashed her back into the pillar with enough force to shatter her spine; Byleth flopped and rolled on the dirt for a split second till she found her footing.

Byleth shook her head. The sturdy professor proceeded to straighten her posture and righted the relic. As for Dorothea, she attempted to get up. Tunnel vision greeted the brown-haired as she felt blood trickle out from the corner of her bitten lips, her strength flying away almost immediately. This was when she regrets being so weak. She witnessed many horrors in her life, and she witnessed many of her scavenging “friends” die at the hands of others. None of them ever came close to the impact it had when it came to Byleth. Not even Edelgard could save their instructor from her impending doom under the pile of rubble.

If only she could have gotten up…

If only she could have cast a spell…

If only she could have exchanged places with her Byleth…

If only…

Dorothea lifted her legs and brought it in close. She hugged the pair and rested her chin, her hues still aimed at the watery surface. Occasional flops and splashes emitted from the aquatic creatures. Ripples disturbed the mirrored moon’s image, but only temporarily. A long exhale slipped out from her.

‘ I miss her so much. ‘

What sort of fate must she undergo in this lifetime? She had already gone through so much. Her childhood was painful, her opera singing career was ironic, her student life was fleeting, and her membership as part of the Black Eagle Strike Squad was full of depression. She wished for nothing more than to run away from her duties, elope with her girlfriend, and live with a bright future in mind. It didn’t help that today was her birthday too… The fifth-year celebrated without her special someone.

“If only I could become a fish…”

“You will won’t become a fish.”

Such response was expected from someone like Edelgard or Petra. Maybe Manuela to an extent, but she would have followed up with a question. Yet the tonality almost falls flat; cardboard would have more intonation. Its dull verbiage snatched her heart and squeezed it. Dorothea widened her eyes and scrambled up to her feet. That voice belonged to none other than…

“Byleth?”

There she stood in her full glory. Small scratches scarred her features and debris stained her disheveled attire, but Byleth still looks as stunning as always. This couldn’t be a dream. It can’t be! Should it be a dream, then this must be one of her many lucid dreams… right? Her heart thumped viciously among her chest, the powerful organ increasing her blood pressure. Dorothea’s eyes glistened when the neon-haired woman gently grabbed the confuzzled songstress’s hand.

“You will become my wife.”

“?!”

An abrupt appearance from someone she wept for years came with an abrupt confession. This boggled her brain, and heat flushed her cheeks. This… This isn’t a joke, right? Byleth was known to crack out sporadic teases that even trip up someone like the songstress. If it is, this had to be the most inappropriate moment in the history of their relationship. Before Dorothea could get her first word out, Byleth presented a ring to the beauty. There was a small pause in the tactician’s speech pattern. A tinge of pink discolored her face despite her unwavering gaze.

“…if that is okay with you.”

“…”

Dorothea was baffled. She not only had the audacity to waltz right back into her life after the long disappearance, but she also had the guts to propose to her? The songstress had to resist the temptation to slap her girlfriend across the face— Actually, she did just that. A resonated smack echoed into the quiet night near the pond.

“Don’t you give me that surprised look, Byleth,” her voice trembled with fury as the warrior returned her look and raised her brows. Dorothea pulled back her stinging hand and felt the lacrimal ducts kick into gear. She harshly whispered, “What sick joke are you trying to pull off this time?”

“…”

It’s clear as day that Byleth wasn’t sure how to react. This infuriated the magus even more and she tried to tear her hand away.

“I’ve waited for five years for you!” When Byleth refused to let her grip go, Dorothea began to weep as her other hand began to violently beat on the older woman’s chest like a tympanic drum. “Edie… Edie sent out search parties for you in all parts of Fodlan. Do you know who was at the frontline? It was me! I searched day and night for you! I’ve even sullied my looks and nearly died countless times in enemy territories! All so I can see you one more time!”

“I…”

“You don’t know how much it hurts having lost you!”

“…”

“Why did you make me wait this long for your return?”

“…”

“Why are you being quiet?!”

The beating came to a cessation. Now, Dorothea buried her face into the ex-mercenary’s bosoms as tears came in torrents. The lamentation that she bottled finally came to light. Byleth dryly swallowed and enveloped the grown songstress in a tight embrace. She rubbed the shaky woman’s back, her bright eyes shifted downward. Silence ensued save it for the random splashes from the pond. They remained in this still position under the moonlight until her sobs died down.

“…I’m sorry for all the pain I’ve caused.”

Byleth apologized once Dorothea calmed. Still held in an embrace, the alumni sniffled.

“I’m… I’m sorry, Byleth. I know I shouldn’t have pinned all the blame on your disappearances. I should be thankful that I wasn’t left here waiting for you... all alone… forever.”

“I’ve returned, haven’t I?”

They separated yet remained in short proximity. Their breaths tickled each other’s nose as Byleth leaned forward and captured Dorothea’s lips. They were like butterfly wings, just long enough so the other could inhale her breath, feel the warmth of her skin, and the taste of Byleth that lingered far after she had parted. When she retracted, the songstress immediately grabbed ahold of her professor’s face and returned the favor with closed eyes. She kissed her like she wanted to be kissed as no other man or woman had ever kissed her. There was no battle for dominance in this kiss. Soft, moist, hot, and breathy, Dorothea and Byleth seek for a union, closeness, and desire to share one breath under this one timeless and passionate moment.

“Wow…” Byleth breathlessly whispered upon departure. Their foreheads touching each other, a smile broke out from her face. “I can’t say I didn’t miss that.”

“Five years can do a number on you.”

“You didn’t get on it with the others?”

“Byleth, who do you think I am?”

Byleth chuckled and cupped Dorothea’s face. A fleeting kiss was planted on her girlfriend’s lips.

“A loyal, smart, beautiful girlfriend that I want for eternity.”

“You tease,” she giggled into her hand. “Are you sure you aren’t just saying that to flatter me?”

“You know I mean every word.”

With that said, she released her hold with a tiny “can’t forget about this” remark.

“Happy Birthday, Dorothea.” She presented the ring once more to her girlfriend. Byleth beamed at Dorothea with that unique twinkle in her eyes. “I would never want you to think about becoming a fish. I hope you will become my wife instead.”

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