#Copper Kitchen Handles | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mandalhoerian · 2 months ago

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sacrosanct | leon kennedy x reader | 2

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pairing: leon kennedy x f!reader

summary: Leon, a paladin of the temple who became a disillusioned oathbreaker, returns from years of war with a noble title and shattered faith. Once devoted to the Saintess who healed him, Leon's admiration has twisted into repressed desire—feelings he could never express, tainted by guilt and shame. Now a celebrated hero, he’s drawn back not to the kingdom’s praises, but to the chance of one last glimpse of you to move on with his life.

The god he abandoned has other plans for him.

word count: 13K

warnings: none. leon being embarrassing is all... you'll see

disclaimer: Leon has some backwards thinking about "providing and protecting" during the end of the fic. Please keep in mind there's two reasons as to why that is:

1) this is a historical fiction no matter how fantastical it is, so conservative values very much exist

2) it actually isn't gender-based. leon is very much okay with the reader doing whatever she wants. he just has a worshipper mentality when it comes to the reader and sees the real world beneath her, so to speak? he basically has her on a pedestal that nobody is allowed to take her down from. she's god's favorite princess and he wants to treat her as such and her serving others is grating on his nerves (they don't deserve it AND she deserves better is the theme here)

3) get your whimsy on and just enjoy being worshipped damn

note: i meant this as a two-shot but . alas, we're here. i swear the next one is the final one. I SWEAR

🌀 READ ON AO3 !

The sound of scrubbing fills the busy kitchen, a rhythmic rasp of bristles against copper. The bucket of soapy water at your side ripples with each jerking movement of your hand, and the cloth slips again, plunging your fingers into the cold water. You wince, pulling back, hands trembling as they fumble over the simple task of cleaning the tarnished pot.

A frustrated sigh escapes your lips. This should be easy—anyone could scrub a pot, right? Any maid worth her salt would handle this without even thinking. But here you are, elbows deep in water, raw fingers rubbing awkwardly at the stubborn stains, trying to remember how much pressure to apply without ruining the metal. It’s a dance you haven’t quite learned yet, despite the amount of practice in the Redfield household.

The weight of the chore feels unnatural in your hands. Once, they were only meant to offer blessings, outstretched for others to kiss, the soft skin never meant for labor. Now, every slip, every misstep, reminds you of how far you’ve fallen. The holy aura that once clung to you like a second skin feels stripped away, leaving you bare, vulnerable—human in the most unflattering way.

Another sigh, heavier this time, as you scrub harder, muscles protesting. Your fingers ache, the bristles biting into your palms, and you fight the urge to just let the cloth drop. The world wasn’t supposed to feel so gritty, so solid. The faint scent of soap mingles with the cool breeze wafting through the open kitchen window, but it does nothing to lift the fog that wraps around your thoughts.

"You're doing it wrong again."

The sharp correction snaps you out of your reverie, and you look up to see Sarah standing over you, hands on her hips. There’s no cruelty in her eyes, only impatience. She bends down, effortlessly taking the pot from your hands.

"See?" She shows you how to twist the rag in tight circles, moving the cloth firmly around the base. "It’s not about force; it’s about control."

Control. You were once the embodiment of control, the saintess who never faltered, who embodied grace in every breath. But here, in the kitchen, control slips through your fingers like water, and you struggle to even follow the motions.

"I see," you murmur, though the words feel hollow. You watch as Sarah finishes the task in a fraction of the time it took you, setting the gleaming pot down with a nod before bustling off to tend to something else.

Once alone again, you look down at your hands, wrinkled from the water, red and sore from the effort. The delicate touch that once administered blessings now feels clumsy, the softness worn away by the rigors of everyday tasks. Dirt clings beneath your nails, and though it frustrates you, there’s something grounding about it, something... real.

Ethelion’s grace never truly belonged to me, you think. I was only ever a vessel. And when that vessel cracks, the divine cannot stay.

Rising from your crouch, you stretch your aching back. Strange how heavy your body feels now, no longer ethereal, no longer buoyed by the sacred weight of divine purpose. Instead, you are bound by flesh and bone, muscles screaming at every chore.

The day stretches ahead, an endless rhythm of work. There are beds to be made, floors to be swept, linens to fold. Each task pulls you further away from the pedestal you once stood upon, but there’s a quiet solace in the routine, in the steady, simple motions. The other maids chat as they move through their own chores, but you remain mostly silent, your thoughts too tangled to join in.

By mid-afternoon, your feet lead you to the garden, the one place that offers a semblance of peace. The air is lighter here, the scent of lilacs and roses calming in a way that nothing else seems to be. Flowers bloom in delicate clusters, their petals soft against your fingertips as you run your hands through them absently.

"Careful now,” someone calls out. "You don’t want to bruise the petals."

You turn to see Piers, the young gardener, smiling at you as he wipes his hands on his apron. He’s always so gentle with the plants, his fingers coaxing them into life with the same patience he shows with you. There’s dirt smudged across his cheek, his hands stained with earth, but it suits him.

"I wasn’t trying to," you reply, embarrassed by your carelessness. Your touch once healed the wounded, and now you worry about crushing flowers.

"Didn’t say you were," he says, coming closer to kneel beside you. "Just reminding you. These flowers... they’re like people. Handle them too roughly, and they’ll wilt. Handle them too gently, and they’ll never bloom."

There is a meaning in there that makes your skin prickle, an awareness that you wish you could erase. He understands too much, has seen too much. Not many of the Redfield staff know your true identity—the noble family wishes to preserve their secrecy regarding you—but Piers knows. From the day you stepped through the estate gates, he knew.

The afternoon sun shines brightly as the two of you fall into the usual silence, the one you enjoy. As you work together, weeding and trimming the hedges. You try to copy his movements, but you feel clumsy beside him, fumbling over yourself with every touch. The lilies you looked after in the temple were plucked and placed in elegant vases, you only ever stood in their presence in the garden, as the monks cared for the vegetation in the sanctified grounds. The fact that you were chosen to stand for Ethelion, you didn’t touch anything—they touched you, and you felt like the flower, the angel of mercy, the beautiful goddess. The ones that surround you now call for more work to thrive, to grow. It seems that no matter how hard you try, your touch won’t be enough.

You reach to pick a weed and nearly knock over a rosebush, the thorns grazing your hand. The sting feels grounding, in a strange way, and for a moment, you linger in it, letting the pain settle into your skin. It doesn't immediately heal like any other wound used to.

"When will you teach me?" You blurt out, looking over at him. "How to properly help you?"

Piers chuckles softly, carefully correcting your posture with his hands until you get into position. "Soon, little lady. Soon, you'll be good at this, just as you are with everything you set your mind to."

Years after, you're still awkward and at a loss with touch. A lifetime of only coming to contact with fabric and porcelain will do that to you, and you think that he notices as such—the way you flinch at unexpected contact, the way you seem to carry that old elegance that never went away with you in all of your actions, even as you struggle with the physicalities of your new life.

To his credit, he doesn't question it, simply guides you patiently as if it's natural. If the rest of the staff finds it odd, they don't say a thing.

This is another world. A world very different from your life before. People of your standing hug and hold hands, brush against one another. When you first began your training, it felt overwhelming, like being engulfed by a current you didn't know how to fight. Now, it is like the sea itself, ever-present but constant.

"Firm grip," Piers says quietly, putting his own hands over yours to guide the motion as he weeds the soil around the small hedge bushes. "You need to have a light touch, but not too light or it won't be efficient."

You adjust your fingers accordingly, gripping the clump of earth and tugging. It comes loose without resistance, falling into your hand. A smile spreads across your face, your eyes brightening.

"Like this?"

"Yes, perfect," Piers says, nodding encouragingly. The corners of his lips quirk up in the barest hint of a grin. "And don't be afraid to get dirty. Mud is natural and good for the earth, helps the flowers flourish."

A small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, and you find yourself wishing, for a moment, that life would remain like this. It isn’t comfortable—not in the way the temple had been, with its cushioned chairs and silken sheets, the robes so thick and warm they felt like velvet against your skin. But here, surrounded by flowers, with the wind ruffling through your hair, it feels...right.

Maybe that is why you found yourself returning to the gardens whenever the chance arose, whether it was after completing your daily chores or even on your days off, even if you were sure you wouldn’t learn anything from it. There was a comfort that came with the sun shining down on you as you pruned and picked at the roses, looking forward to the day when you would be knowledgeable enough to plant lilies on your own and care for them how they deserved.

The day passes in quiet rhythm after that, the routine of your tasks blending into the hum of the estate. There’s comfort in the dirt, in the steady, simple work of tending to life, of watching something grow. It’s not grand, it’s not divine, but it feels real, and for now, that’s enough.

As the sun dips below the horizon, you return to your small room in the servants’ quarters. The day’s dirt still clings to your skin, and as you sit at your modest mirror, you catch a glimpse of your reflection. You’re no longer the saintess, no longer the holy vessel. The person staring back at you is human, grounded in the earth just like the flowers you’ve come to care for.

The soft clink of porcelain and silverware fills the dining hall along with the the quiet hum of conversation between the Redfield family. You stand at the ready, your hands clasped before you, ever attentive to the needs of the table. The crystal carafe of wine glimmers faintly beside you, waiting to be lifted, though your thoughts are far from the task at hand.

"What happened after that?" Lady Claire leans forward, a sly smile on her lips as she gestures animatedly in a very unladylike manner. "You can’t just brush that under the rug! The hero of the kingdom storms into a coronation and attacks the Archbishop? I need details!"

Lord Chris waves his fork dismissively, his mouth full of roasted vegetables. He huffs out a breath, shaking his head as he reaches for his wineglass, "It wasn’t as dramatic as you’re making it sound. Just a bit of a misunderstanding, really."

Lady Claire laughs light and airy as she leans back in her seat. "A misunderstanding that resulted in the knight attacking an esteemed member of the Church of Ethelia? In public. How is that not dramatic?"

You glance toward Chris as you subtly refill his glass, the liquid swirling gently. His features are calm, but there’s a tension around his mouth that suggests he’s holding back more than he’s letting on. You pause, hoping to catch more of the conversation without drawing attention to yourself, your curiosity piqued.

The mental image of Leon doing something as bold as interrupting an event in the capital, let alone something as severe as accosting a highly-respected man of faith is... Unrealistic and highly out of character for him. It seemed too distant from the kind boy who would climb trees to bring down fruits just to make you smile.

The man clears his throat as he cuts into his steak, the knife slicing through the tender meat with ease. "It was more like a minor incident than an attack, honestly. No one was hurt, and the Archbishop has already moved past it."

"Why would he do such a thing?"

It's a great question. Leon wasn't known as someone who made reckless decisions like that—if anything, he was known for following his orders without hesitation, which was what made him an excellent paladin, regardless of what the rest of the clergy thought about him. You had even heard whispers among the priests about his loyalty, his dedication, how he was unfailingly loyal to the temple. He seemed like a steadfast soldier, reliable and sturdy, always steady on his feet no matter what trials Ethelion sent his way.

Lord Chris exhales slowly through his nose as his gaze falls upon his wife. There's a pause, the air heavy with unsaid words, before he responds. "Maybe something just snapped when he saw that Archbishop standing there, acting like everything’s fine after everything he’s seen and been through."

His response is blunt, the words like a punch to your gut. You try to swallow against the dryness in your throat, blinking back the tears that suddenly threaten to spill, biting the inside of your cheek.

An uncomfortable silence settles across the dinner table, broken only by Lady Claire's uneasy chuckle.

You exhale slowly, the sound barely audible, as you reach for the water pitcher. It isn’t until your hand trembles as it hovers over the delicate glass surface that you realize how tense your body is. The truth that he spoke, that slipped through you like poison in bloodstream—

Would Leon attack you the same way he did the Archbishop? The Saintess who sent him off into a war with a prayer and a blessing? Would you, too, end up with his fingers clutching at your clothes, teeth gritting together in a snarl, the words of accusation cutting into you as you stood frozen in place, unable to respond?

"Do you think he’s... dangerous?" Lady Claire asks, stripped off of all her playfulness. "Should we be worried?"

Lord Chris chuckles, though there’s a bitter edge to it. "No, Leon’s not dangerous. Not to us, anyway. He’s just... different. War changes people. It’s not something you can just walk away from without it leaving scars."

Your hands tighten around the stem of the pitcher, steadying your grip. The mention of the Holy War brings a hundred memories rushing back, as fresh as the day they were forged. They wash over you, filling your veins with a rush of sorrow and anger, regret and remorse—

You sent Leon there. Into the midst of that violence and hatred, where men became monsters. Where his blade tasted blood for the first time and changed him forever, like an animal weaned off of milk and discovering a taste for flesh. You did that to him. Did that to all of the righteous paladins and courageous soldiers who died in that field, whose bones now lie in unmarked graves.

Leon would be right to hate you. Ethelion himself should despise you, condemn you. It's why He has let go of you so early into your service.

You don't know why Lord Chris doesn't spit on your face. Why Lady Claire allows you to pour their drinks and serve their meals. How could you ever repent for what you have done to the paladins of this kingdom, their fellow noblemen of faith?

"Enough talk of battle at the dinner table," Dame Jill chides gently, a soothing balm amidst the tension. "We've spent too long dwelling in the dark. Let's leave it at that, shall we?"

"Right, right," Chris agrees, shaking his head with a sheepish grin. "Sorry about that."

The moment between them is tender, so simple yet so intimate that you can’t help but feel like you’re intruding. The way Jill’s hand lingers on Chris’s arm, the way he leans into her touch without even realizing it—it’s a closeness you’ve only ever observed from a distance, a kind of bond you’ve never experienced. You’re not sure you ever will.

"Let's talk about more exciting things," Lady Claire picks up her enthusiasm once more, and as if she's read your mind, she says, "How long do you think is until his marriage to Princess Ashley?"

Chris chokes on his food. So would you if you were in his position.

Jill sighs, a thin smile on her lips as she shoots him a look. "That isn't a conversation we're meant to entertain."

"I don’t think Leon’s worried about marriage right now, Claire," Chris says, though with a hint of amusement. "He’s got enough on his plate without worrying about courting anyone."

"Still," Claire continues, her eyes twinkling mischievously, "I bet every noble lady in the capital is throwing themselves at him right now. A war hero, a noble Margrave, and still single? They’re probably lining up just to get a chance."

You freeze, your heart skipping a beat at the thought. Is that really what’s happening? Is Leon being paraded in front of noble families, their daughters hoping to catch his eye, hoping to be the one he chooses? The idea leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, though you can’t quite place why.

Leon... a Margrave now, a hero of the kingdom, sitting at the top of nobility’s ladder, one step away from being at the king’s side. The image of him standing among lords and ladies, dressed in fine silk and polished armor, feels alien in your mind. You remember him in a different way—so much simpler, much... closer. A heavy feeling settles in your chest.

"Claire, please," Jill interrupts with a chuckle, light but firm. "Leave the poor man alone."

The conversation moves on, but you remain rooted in place, the weight of it all pressing down on you. You steal a glance at Jill and Chris, their easy smiles, their shared glances, and you can’t help but wonder if Leon will find someone like that. Someone who can stand by his side, someone who fits seamlessly into his new world.

Perhaps it's for the best, after the "holy cause" that left him with nothing but a medal of honor and an oathbreaker reputation, the life of a soldier, a faithful paladin cut off from divinity and glory. To have the blessing of Ethelion once again, as a lord, with a beautiful young woman to share the legacy—it's a picture that could only bring envy to anyone's heart.

The manor feels like a gilded cage.

Leon slumps back in his chair, the smooth leather creaking beneath the weight of his armorless body. Before him lies an endless spread of parchment on the grand oak desk in his office—documents stamped with wax seals, crests of various noble families, and inked signatures of men and women he couldn’t care less about.

The words blur together into a maddening jumble, formalities and regulations, reminders of his newfound role as Margrave, a title he’d never wanted but had earned through blood and grit on the battlefield. Now, instead of commanding soldiers, he commands... paper.

The clinking of metal rings from across the room as Dame Ingrid Hunnigan arranges a fresh stack of documents beside him, her presence calm and efficient as always. Her gaze flickers toward him, calculating, and Leon doesn’t miss the slight narrowing of her eyes as she notes the papers he has yet to sign. The steady tick of the ornate clock in the corner seems louder than it should.

"My Lord."

Leon looks up, blinking as though he’s surfacing from deep water. “Yes?”

“We’re behind schedule,” she says, ever pragmatic, her gaze flicking briefly to the mountain of paperwork before returning to meet his. “If we’re to have everything in order for your proposal to Princess Ashley, we’ll need to finalize these arrangements by the end of the week.”

Leon freezes, his quill hovering above the paper like a blade suspended in air, droplets of ink forming a dark blot on the parchment beneath. His heart thuds once, hard, against his ribs, and he feels a strange coldness spreading from his chest to his limbs. Proposal. Marriage. Princess Ashley.

It was the logical next step, wasn’t it? The hero of the war, the man who saved the princess, standing beside her as her husband, uniting the people with their fairy-tale ending.

But the thought of it feels like a noose tightening around his throat.

“I’m not marrying her.”

Hunnigan’s sharp intake of breath is almost imperceptible, but Leon catches it. She doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, but he can feel the shift in her—an unspoken surprise. "But—”

He places the quill down with a deliberate slowness, his fingers resting on the desk’s polished surface.

“I won’t marry her,” Leon interrupts, low but firm, as if saying it again will solidify his decision, make it real.

“Sir, I’m not certain you understand the implications. The court is already abuzz with speculation. The king’s council has all but planned the ceremony. If you—”

“No.” Leon’s tone sharpens, the edge of it cutting through the room. His jaw tightens, and he pushes back from the desk, rising to his feet in one fluid motion. The papers, the plans, the obligations—they all feel like chains, tethering him to a world he never wanted to belong to.

Hunnigan doesn’t flinch, though she tracks his every movement, assessing. “Then what will you do? The court demands an answer, and soon.”

“I don’t care about their impatience,” Leon cuts her off, harder than he intends. He runs a hand through his hair, leaning back in his chair, his frustration mounting. “I’ve just returned from war. I’ve barely had time to breathe, and now they want me to walk down the aisle? It’s absurd.”

“You’re not just a soldier anymore,” Ingrid replies evenly. “You’re a noble now, Sir Leon. A Margrave. And with that title comes expectations. Marrying Princess Ashley solidifies your position. It ensures stability.”

Stability. It’s the word that grates against his skin like a thorn. Stability meant confinement. It meant being locked into a life that wasn’t his own, chained to a destiny he didn’t choose. Marrying into the royal family would make him something he never wanted to be.

From the temple to the palace. Still a pawn.

And worse, it would make him someone unrecognizable to himself.

When she only gets irritable silence in return, Hunnigan doubles down, "The people adore you. You saved Princess Ashley. A marriage between you two would unite the noble houses, secure your standing. It’s—"

"I don’t care." The words burst out of him, louder than intended, and the air between them seems to crackle with the tension of it. He meets her look, daring her to challenge him, to push him further into this corner he feels trapped in. "I’m not marrying her. I never promised that. I never wanted that."

"It’s not about what you want, my lord. It’s about what the kingdom needs. What the crown expects from you."

"The crown expects a puppet," Leon mutters, his voice dropping to an icy low. He rises from the chair, the sound of his boots heavy against the floor as he paces the room, his movements sharp, restless. "They dress me up in these fine clothes, give me a title, and expect me to smile and play my part in their little game. I didn’t fight a war to become this."

"You fought a war to protect the kingdom. And this is part of that protection," Hunnigan argues, "You’ve earned the people’s respect. The life of a hero comes with its responsibilities."

"Responsibilities." He almost laughs at that, though there’s nothing humorous about it. His hand drifts to the hilt of his sword—a relic from the battlefield that feels more like a part of him than the heavy mantle of nobility ever will. "You think I don’t know about responsibilities? I’ve seen men die under my command, Hunnigan. I’ve seen villages burn, innocent lives lost. That’s responsibility. This... this is just playing dress-up."

Hunnigan exhales softly, her face softening, just a little. "I understand. I do. But we live in a world where appearances matter just as much as actions. The people need their hero. And they need their princess to stand beside him."

“I’m not going to chain myself to a life I don’t want. I’ve fought for this kingdom, bled for it, nearly died for it. But I’m done letting other people decide my fate.”

She sighs, crossing her arms as she studies him carefully. “And what do you plan to do? Walk away from the nobility entirely? Abandon your responsibilities now that you’ve earned the title?”

Leon meets her gaze, his eyes dark, stormy. “I’ll fulfill my duties as Margrave. But I’ll do it on my terms.”

There’s a long pause, the weight of his words hanging heavy between them. Ingrid’s expression softens, just slightly, but her professionalism remains unshaken. “You know this won’t be easy. The court won’t be happy with your decision. They’ll try to pressure you, manipulate you. You’ll be seen as defying tradition.”

“Let them,” Leon replies, pushing himself up from the chair, the tension in his muscles begging for release. “I’ve faced worse things than court gossip.”

Hunnigan watches him for a moment longer before nodding, though the concern doesn’t fade. “Very well. But if you’re going to make a decision like this, you should be prepared for the consequences.”

He nods, feeling a wave of exhaustion settle over him. “I am a walking consequence, Hunnigan."

She turns and leaves him to the silence of the room, her footsteps quiet against the stone floor. The moment she’s gone, Leon exhales deeply, his chest tight and his thoughts swirling in chaos. The paperwork remains unfinished on his desk, an ever-growing mountain of expectations and demands that suffocates him more with every passing minute.

He can’t stay here. Not now.

Grabbing his cloak, Leon moves toward the door, his steps quick and purposeful. Outside, the air feels thick, the walls of the manor closing in on him like a vice. He’s grown used to wide open spaces—the battlefield, the wilderness. Here, in the capital, everything feels too close, too crowded, too suffocating.

This is how you must have felt, he thinks bitterly as he pulls the hood of his cloak over his head, his mind drifting to you. Caged in, always watched, always expected to be something more than human.

The streets of the capital stretch before him, bustling with people going about their day—merchants haggling, children running through the alleys, noblewomen in fine dresses gliding down the cobblestone paths. Leon moves through them like a shadow, his presence hidden beneath the cloak, his face obscured from the watchful eyes of guards and passersby.

For the first time in what feels like forever, he’s alone.

He walks with no destination in mind, his boots scuffing against the uneven stones, his thoughts swirling with frustration and longing. The scent of fresh bread drifts through the air from a nearby bakery, mingling with the earthy scent of rain-soaked stone, but none of it grounds him. It only reminds him of the distance between the world he’s in and the world he longs for—the simple, the honest, the free.

His steps carry him further into the city until he reaches the cathedral gates, and he stops, gazing up at the towering spires and stained glass windows. A shudder of recognition courses through his spine as he recalls the last time he was here, the day he knelt at your feet and promised loyalty.

Ethelion may have forsaken him, but this place still calls to him in some strange, primal way—a piece of his past, a connection to his lost faith.

People file in and out of the massive wooden doors, their voices raised in a joyful hum. There is an energy to the crowd that he hadn't noticed before, a buoyant air that sweeps through the throng of worshippers like a tide. Curious, he follows the flow, stepping aside to allow the others to enter as he peers in, watching the mass from the outskirts. The chapel is packed to its gilded seams, everyone cramming into every available space. Every seat is occupied; even the pews on the second story are crammed with devotees, necks straining to catch a glimpse of the spectacle below.

Being on the outside looking in is...strange for him, all his life, he'd been on the inside. An honorary knight, a devoted acolyte, then, a holy warrior tasked with bringing peace back to the world. Now he's on the other side, on the edges. Alone. He should have been in the crowd, standing just beside the Saintess, having a place in line with her.

Now, he's one of the many faces in the crowd. One of the people he had protected with his sword.

At the pulpit stands a new Saintess, clad in shimmering robes of purest white, her mask alight with a silvery glow. The feeling of uncanny valley crawls through him, like the sight is wrong somehow. The figure before him looks the same, the attire, the veil, and even the ethereal glow. However, everything feels off. Where you had held yourself tall and steady with a presence that demanded attention, the current Saintess seems shy, her movements small and uncertain as she addresses the crowd.

Leon's frown deepens as he listens to the girl speak, sweet and lilting, but lacking in the conviction he remembers from your sermons. There's no passion in it, no fervor or fire. Just rote memorization, a pretty puppet reciting lines written by others.

It's not supposed to be like this. He doesn't get the Saintess Cycle, or whatever bullshit it's called that he was informed about right after his outburst.

He had never heard of it before that day. Not even when he’d been sworn in as a paladin. Not when he had stood at your side, thinking you were eternal, untouchable.

The letter sent by the Temple said the Saintess is a vessel—a temporary, ephemeral thing. When she reaches the end of her "cycle," she is retired, replaced by a new, younger girl blessed by Ethelion. It is the way of the divine, they wrote. It’s natural. It’s necessary.

Necessary. The word is poison, burning through him.

The cycle they speak of is cruel, cold. He remembers it again: Once the Saintess matures, her divine grace wanes, and Ethelion selects a new girl, free from worldly knowledge, pure in body and mind.

Pure. That’s what they had valued about you. Not your kindness, not your wisdom, not the way your smile had once lit up entire rooms. Just purity. What do they even mean by that word?

So that’s it then, he thinks bitterly. They’ve stripped you of everything. Reduced you to some… some tool to be replaced when your usefulness runs out.

He can't accept this. He refuses to.

This “cycle” they speak of is nothing but a lie—a grotesque farce designed to keep the chosen girls under their thumb, to strip them of their humanity, their will so they are easier to control, more obedient, self-sacrificing. They want to act as though it’s all part of some divine plan, but Leon knows better. He’s seen the temple’s machinations, the politics woven into their robes, the way they turn divine grace into something transactional.

You were never just a vessel, he tells himself, his jaw tight. You were never just a role to be filled.

He had sworn an oath to protect you, to serve you, and yet, when you needed him most, he had been gone—fighting in wars, chasing glory on blood-soaked battlefields while they took everything from you.

Leon steps back, ready to turn away from the chapel that now feels hollow, stripped of the sanctity it once held, when something catches him—sharp, like the sudden crack of a whip in the still air.

A scent.

It slips through the incense and the stale breath of prayer, weaving between the worshippers like a thread of memory pulled taut. Faint, almost hidden beneath the smoke and ash of the sacred space, but unmistakable. It strikes him like a blade, cutting through the fog of disbelief clouding his mind.

Lilies.

Among the scentless masses, with their simple soaps and the cloying odor of frankincense that clings to the walls—the smell of lilies.

His pulse stutters, a beat skipped in time, before surging back with a violent, thunderous force that shakes him to his core.

It’s your scent.

His breath halts in his throat, suspended, as the world tilts, shifting on its axis as his focus narrows. Someone brushes past him, draped in a nondescript cloak, their head bowed like the rest, just another figure blending into the sea of worshippers.

But his soul screams.

He knows it’s you.

The recognition strikes him so hard he reels with it, body twisting as he turns sharply, every muscle tensing with a frantic energy he can’t control. His eyes dart around, searching, desperate. His heart is slamming against his ribs, each beat like a drum echoing in a cathedral. The scent lingers, tantalizingly close—so close he can taste it, feel it—but the figure is slipping away, vanishing into the faceless crowd, swallowed whole by the masses.

"Wait!" The word rips from his throat, harsh, strangled, louder than intended. Heads turn, whispers hiss, but they are meaningless sounds in a world reduced to the scent of lilies and the figure that’s slipping through his fingers like sand.

"Wait, please!" His yell cracks, raw, frantic. He pushes through the crowd, bodies jostling against him, every step a growing surge of panic that claws at his chest.

The scent fades, thinning like smoke dissipating in the wind, until it’s gone.

Gone.

Leon stumbles to a stop, breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps, his chest rising and falling in time with the wild thrum of his heartbeat. His hands shake, fingers curled into fists at his sides as if he could grasp hold of the memory, keep it alive through sheer will.

But you’re gone.

The world around him fades to a dull hum, the whispers of disapproving worshippers like gnats buzzing in the distance. His vision blurs at the edges, narrowing, tunneling, until all he can see is the space you once occupied. His chest constricts, tightens, the weight of everything—of this moment, of the years lost, of you—crashing down on him with the force of a wave that threatens to drag him under.

No, you’re here.

The thought is dizzying, overwhelming in its certainty. You’re here, in the capital, breathing the same air as him, walking the same streets. The realization hits him like cold water, shocking him awake, filling his lungs with something raw and desperate. His mind spins, thoughts unspooling in a frantic mess he can’t make sense of.

Leon strides into the office, his boots thudding against the polished floor, the sound bouncing off the high, vaulted ceiling. The door swings shut behind him with a muted thud, the energy of his entrance reverberating through the quiet space. Hunnigan barely looks up from her desk, the rustle of paper and the scratching of her quill the only acknowledgment of his presence. The scent of ink, parchment, and faint traces of cedarwood drift through the air—but unable to overpower the lilies at the back of his throat, like a ghost in the chamber.

Without preamble, he blurts out, "Where does one buy lily soap in the capital?"

Hunnigan’s quill freezes mid-stroke, her brows knitting together as she raises her head, her gaze flicking up to meet his with an expression of mild annoyance. Her office is meticulously arranged, papers stacked neatly in front of her, the ink pot perfectly centered on the desk. Leon's sudden intrusion seems to upset the delicate balance of the room.

"My lord?" Her voice carries that familiar undercurrent of impatience, but Leon can see the confusion etched into her features. "Lily soap?"

“Yes," he snaps, pacing before her desk, his movements restless, unsettled. "Soap scented like lilies."

Hunnigan’s stare is blank, clearly trying to piece together the urgency behind his question. She places her quill down carefully, folds her hands in front of her, and straightens her back, as if preparing for some bureaucratic debate.

"I'm afraid I don't—"

In an instant, Leon slams both hands against her desk, rattling the ink pot and causing a cascade of parchment to shift slightly out of place. The sharp bang echoes through the room, and for a second, there is silence, broken only by the rapid rise and fall of Leon's breath. A few sheets of paper flutter down from the pile, but he barely notices.

"Lilies, Hunnigan," Leon grits out, leaning forward, his eyes flashing with a desperation that feels foreign even to him. “Where do they sell lily soap? I need to know, now.”

To her credit, Hunnigan doesn’t flinch, doesn’t so much as blink at his intensity. The edges of her lips tighten, but she meets his frustration with her usual unflinching calm, tilting her head slightly, watching him with that sharp calculation, as if measuring the weight of his demand against her need for propriety. "Lord Leon, it will require time, but if you would like, we will investigate the sources. Such things aren’t kept on record like weapons or grain."

Leon drops into the chair opposite her with a heavy sigh, his hands pressing against his temples as if he can massage away the growing headache pulsing at his skull, but there's a part of him—the rational, disciplined soldier—that knows he can't barrel through this like an enemy barricade.

Hunnigan regards him thoughtfully, studying him as though she’s contemplating his sanity. Finally, she relents with a small nod. "However, at the top of my head, I can tell you that a fragrance like that would most likely be sold at shops that cater to the upper class. Apothecaries, perhaps, though I’ve heard of merchants who specialize in rare oils and soaps for wealthier clientele."

"But no," Leon says, frustration building, "that person... that soap can't have come from somewhere like that. It's too expensive. They're not wealthy, not someone who could afford those kinds of luxuries."

She taps a finger thoughtfully against the edge of her desk, not asking any questions, thankfully. "Commoner households purchase their necessities from street vendors. Most don't have the means to indulge in frivolities, but there are some apothecaries that sell fragrant items for medicinal purposes. Perhaps that’s where it came from."

Leon's mind races, his thoughts jumbling together, ticking off possibilities. He could search the market districts, scour the streets where vendors peddle their wares, but that would take time—too much time. And still, you could be anywhere, hiding among the crowds or nestled in some quiet corner of the capital. He drags a hand through his hair, the rigid set of his jaw flexing.

His thoughts swirl, trying to latch onto something, anything that will give him a lead. And then an idea begins to take shape, unformed at first, but gaining momentum the more he entertains it. He sits up, his eyes sharper, clearer. "Hypothetically, if we were to open a scented soap stall in the market, do you think people would buy it?"

Hunnigan’s brows raise, clearly not expecting the question. "The common folk aren’t exactly known for their fastidiousness when it comes to daily bathing, but soap has been increasing in popularity among the younger generations, particularly young women."

That catches his attention. The market is shifting, changing with the times. And you—you always appreciated those little luxuries, even when you were cloistered away, out of reach. You might not be living among the nobility, but that doesn't mean you wouldn’t still indulge in what small comforts you could.

Leon straightens, the hint of an idea forming. "Good," he murmurs, nodding more to himself than to her. "Then we’ll need to monopolize the market."

Hunnigan watches him with a raised brow, a subtle hint of disbelief in her gaze. "May I ask what exactly brought about this sudden interest in the soap trade? Surely you haven’t returned from the battlefield only to decide you’d like to dabble in perfumeries?"

Her tone is dry, but Leon can hear the underlying curiosity in her words. For a moment, he almost laughs at the absurdity of it all—a knight of the kingdom, scouring the city for lily-scented soap like a man possessed. But the laugh dies in his throat, replaced by the phantom scent of lilies, achingly familiar, almost painful in its clarity.

"I’m looking for someone," he admits, low, quiet, but no less determined. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together tightly as if holding on to his last thread of hope. "And this... this is the only way I can think of to find them."

"Someone," Hunnigan repeats slowly, drawing out the word as if rolling it over her tongue, weighing its significance.

He nods, his jaw clenched.

Hunnigan stares at him for a long moment, and then, without another word, she picks up her quill and begins to write. The scratch of the pen fills the silence as she scribbles down his instructions with the precision and efficiency he’s come to expect from her.

Before she's about to me it to the end of the page, she glances up, the slight furrow of her brow the only indication of the questions that linger in the back of her mind. "Shall I send someone to retrieve these lily soaps for your sampling, or would you prefer to dispose of them immediately?"

"Neither. Send word to the streets that they can only find lily soap in our store in the entire kingdom. Offer them a special gift if they purchase it from us. I want it to reach everyone."

"The entire city, my lord? That will be quite the undertaking."

"If that's what it takes, yes."

She gives a single, decisive nod. "As you wish."

With that, she finishes writing his instruction, rolls up the scroll, and stands, carrying the parchment to the servant waiting outside the doors, whispering instructions to be taken to his household's estate.

He knows this isn’t exactly an ideal plan, that the odds of success are slim, but it's a chance, however small, and he clings to that like a lifeline. Besides, he hasn’t survived this many years on the battlefield, faced monsters and beasts and unspeakable horrors, to lose his nerve now in the face of a soap business.

He can't find you on his own. So, the next best thing is having you come to him.

You sit among the other maids, wooden spoon idly stirring the stew in your bowl, listening to the idle conversations around you. The dining hall of the servants' quarters is loud as usual, the chatter and laughter of the staff filling the room with warmth. A few seats down, Piers and Mark argue about the proper way to clean a fireplace, gesturing wildly with their spoons as they bicker good-naturedly. On the opposite end of the table, the new maid, Nina, sits with Rebecca, listening raptly to a story about Lord Redfield's exploits during a hunting trip.

There's a comfort to it—the familiarity, the routine. After spending years surrounded by the hushed, reverent air of the temple, the chaotic camaraderie of the kitchen staff is almost exhilarating. You sigh, reaching for your goblet as you lean back in your seat, content to listen to the various conversations surrounding you.

"Guess what? The Margrave isn’t marrying the Princess. How crazy is that?"

"Really? Why not," Mark interjects, equally bewildered. "Who wouldn't want to marry a princess?"

Piers shrugs, shoveling a large spoonful of stew into his mouth and continuing. "I guess he wants to be a bachelor."

"Over becoming king one day?"

"This is why you can't trust men to relay information," one of the maids, Angela, says, rolling her eyes. "He's already announced he's looking for a bride. They say he’s broken the hearts of more noble ladies than anyone can count. And the families! Furious, every last one."

A ripple of laughter spreads through the group, the maids delighting in the drama. The bread you’re holding crumbles between your fingers, but you barely notice.

“It's a scandal,” someone else chimes in. “The Princess was practically promised to him, wasn’t she? Now he’s insulted the royal family by turning her down. People should have expected it, he started wreaking havoc as soon as he got back to the capital. Who does he think he is?"

“He’s a war hero, that’s who. He could probably have any noblewoman in the kingdom if he wanted to. Though it seems like none of them are good enough for him.”

You push your bowl away, the food suddenly unappealing, staring down at your hands as if they hold the answers to the growing unease inside.

The Leon they speak of now—a man who breaks hearts, who defies royal expectations—is a stranger to you. But what bothers you more is the memory of him at the cathedral.

The way his eyes had darkened when he looked at the Saintess.

You hadn’t seen him like that before, his expression twisted with anger, with hatred. The shock of it had frozen you in place, and then…you ran. You ran from the cathedral, from the possibility that the man who once looked at you with kindness now only saw betrayal.

And now, sitting here, the moment drowns out the light laughter of your fellow maids. You can’t shake the feeling that the Leon who stood in the cathedral wasn’t just angry—he was looking for you.

But you’re not the Saintess anymore.

You haven’t been for some time, but he wouldn't know. He couldn’t have known that you’d been stripped of your title, that you’ve been replaced. He must’ve thought the woman he saw was you, still wearing the veil of divinity. And the way he looked at her—looked at you—wasn’t with the softness you remember. No, there was something darker, a disdain so palpable that it tore through every fond memory you had of him.

You swallow, your throat dry, as the image of him at the cathedral burns in your mind. How had it come to this? How had the boy you once knew become a man so consumed by anger, by hatred? You think of the maids' gossip—how he’s rejecting noblewomen, how he’s broken hearts without a second thought—and you can’t help but wonder what he would look like now, staring at someone he loves...

Shuddering, you push the thought aside, trying to shake it from your mind. Maybe you can talk to Lord Chris about it, ask for his guidance in making amends with Leon, or maybe—

"Hey, you okay?"

Mark's question cuts through your spiraling thoughts, and you look up to find the entire table staring at you with varying shades of concern. A flush rises to your cheeks, and you fumble for a response, tripping over your words.

"I, um— yes, I'm alright." You take a steadying breath, immediately going back to stirring your food, knuckles whitening. "It's just—I'm a bit tired. I toured nearly the whole market today but had no luck with the thing I was looking for."

You give him your best attempt at a reassuring smile, but judging by the way he tilts his head at you, he's not buying it. He stares at you for a moment longer, studying you intently, before he gives a shrug and turns away.

Not even a month passes before the report lands on his desk.

The majority of lily soap sales, it seems, have gone to one place—the Redfield estate. The testimonies from shopkeepers speak of a particular maid, one who purchased an absurd amount of the soap. They claim she spent a small fortune, fearful of another shortage. But that isn’t what stands out.

No, it’s the way they described her—mistaken for a noble the moment she entered the shop, all because of the way she carried herself. Poised. Dignified.

Leon leans back in his chair, closing his eyes, and for a moment, he allows himself to breathe. It’s you. It has to be. The fragments of the puzzle are slowly coming together, each piece falling into place with a clarity that tightens something in his chest.

He exhales softly, an excited, expectant grin tugging at the corners of his lips. He’ll keep playing this game, keep pulling at the threads until everything unravels. Until you’re standing right in front of him once more.

Sunlight filters through the large, arched windows of Chris Redfield's office, casting long streaks of gold across the dark mahogany floor, dappling the room in a warm, almost serene glow. Dust motes drift lazily in the beams, like memories swirling in the still air. The crackling fire in the hearth only adds to the warmth, a comforting presence in a room filled with sharp edges—of old swords hung on the walls and the faint tang of oiled leather and metal.

Leon sprawls on a chaise near the window, one leg draped over the other, his posture deceptively relaxed, but his body is a coiled spring, ready to snap into action at any moment. His dark coat hangs loosely on the back of the seat, cravat untied, a few buttons of his shirt undone, revealing the faint lines of old scars crisscrossing his chest. There’s a ruggedness to him, an edge that doesn't quite fit in with the refined waistcoat stretching taut against his broad chest. His rolled-up sleeves expose forearms marked with callouses and veins, the map of a warrior’s life etched into his skin.

"How's Claire?" Leon asks, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, watching the sunlight dance off its surface.

Chris takes a long sip before answering. “She’s well. Busy, as always. The horses are coming along better than expected. She’s hoping to have them ready for sale in a few months, especially with the new barn completed.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, taking on a more direct approach. “But I don’t think you came here to talk about my sister or the horses. What’s really going on, Leon? Why the sudden visit?”

Leon offers a tight smile, the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Can’t an old friend stop by for a drink?”

Chris snorts, his grin broad but skeptical. “Sure, if you consider bribery drinking. I see you didn't disappoint with the bottle of twenty-five-year-old cognac." His amusement fades as quickly as it came, the weight of serious matters creeping into the conversation. "Come on, we both know you have more than a friendly visit on your mind, and if it's business, you've been acting strange about it. So...?"

"You're housing the former Saintess."

Chris's glass stills halfway to his mouth, and he looks sharply at Leon as if he's suddenly grown two heads. "What did you just say?"

"You heard me."

"Where did you hear that?"

Leon huffs, leaning back casually and propping one ankle on the opposite knee, as if he hadn't just dropped a bombshell. "Does it matter?"

"Considering it could be a rumor spread by palace spies? Yes."

The question makes him want to tear his hair out. "No palace spies. I did my own investigating."

"Why are you sniffing around her, Leon? If you’ve come here to cause trouble—" Chris's expression darkens, the threat evident as he blatantly starts to glare. "Leave her alone. Don't drag her into whatever scheme you're planning."

Leon bristles at that, his surprise turning to frustration as his fingers tighten around the glass. "Scheme? You think that lowly of me?"

"You come to my home, interrogate me about one of my staff, and expect me to believe it's for innocent reasons? Are you trying to play me for a fool? That won't fly."

"If you must know..." Leon pauses for a beat, letting the tension build before continuing. "I intend to marry her."

For a moment, Chris stares at Leon in stunned silence, a range of emotions flickering across his face—from disbelief to exasperation, finally settling somewhere between exhaustion and resignation. "Are you insane?"

"She deserves better than being a servant, Chris. You and I both know that," Leon shoots back, his grip on the glass tightening to the point where it feels like the whole thing might shatter. "I'm not letting the Saintess be disrespected."

"She deserves peace. That’s what I’m giving her here. She’s living a life of anonymity, away from politics, away from the court. She’s finally free, Leon. You think dragging her back into the spotlight, back into a world that nearly destroyed her, is better?"

"It’s not better if she’s being worked like a peasant. She’s the Saintess. She doesn’t belong here, scrubbing floors and washing dishes."

Chris’s expression hardens. "She’s not the Saintess anymore. She chose this life."

"Did she?" Leon stands abruptly, unable to contain the restless energy burning inside him any longer. He paces to the large windows, his boots thudding heavily against the wooden floor. Outside, the gardens stretch out in a sea of green, the flowers and foliage swaying gently in the late afternoon breeze. His hands press against the cold stone windowsill, knuckles turning pale as his grip tightens. "Or did the temple abandon her, strip her of her title, and toss her into the gutter? She didn’t have a choice, Chris. She was thrown into this because they used her and discarded her when she was no longer useful."

Finally, Chris exhales, the tension in his body deflating as he slumps back into his chair, running a hand over his face. "You don’t understand what you’re asking for. You think you can just walk in here, sweep her off her feet, and everything will be fine? You’re a noble now. If you marry her, you’ll expose her to the same world that's crushing you."

The words strike a chord in Leon. He looks away, running a hand through his hair, jaw tense. You'd be thrust into a world of backstabbing and corruption, of scheming nobility and ambitious opportunists, all vying for your attention and affection—just as he is. The thought makes something twist in his stomach. By trying to give you the life you deserve, he could very well condemn you to the same fate as him. The irony isn’t lost on him.

After a moment, he meets Chris's gaze with equal intensity. "I can keep her safe."

"And marry a maid instead of a princess? What do you think will happen to keeping her safe once the word gets out? They'll tear into her name trying to figure out who she is and where she came from. Every detail of her life will be dissected by the public. There's no going back after that, Leon."

"I've already purchased a title for her. Daughter of an inconsequential Baron in the countryside, far away from court intrigue. I won't hurt her, I swear to you, I won't—"

"What are you going to do if she doesn’t want that? What if she’s content with the life she has now?"

Leon’s breath catches, his chest constricting painfully as the question slams into him with the force of a blow. His mind whirls, memories of you—laughing, serene, unreachable—colliding with the possible image of you now, hands roughened from labor, back bent in servitude.

Leon’s jaw clenches, his hand curling into a fist at his side. He’s never liked being questioned like this, least of all by someone who doesn’t understand the weight of what he feels. It’s not about control or power, it’s about making sure you’re safe. Protected. Cherished. You deserve more than the drudgery of a servant’s life, more than the anonymity of living in the shadows.

“Content isn't enough,” he snaps, sharper than intended. He looks out the window again, following the path the maid and gardener take as they disappear around the corner of the estate. The thought of you, hidden away, your light dimmed by the mundanity of daily life—it's unbearable. “I want her to be happy.”

“Not everyone wants the life we have. Hell, I barely want it sometimes.”

Leon stays silent for a moment, his mind racing. He’s known Chris for years, fought beside him, trusted him with his life on countless battlefields. And yet, at this moment, it feels as though Chris doesn’t understand him at all. How can he not see that you deserve better? That you deserve more than what this world has handed you?

“I can protect her,” Leon repeats, though the words feel hollow now, like he’s trying to convince himself more than Chris. He turns away from the window.

Chris exhales, rubbing a hand over his face, the lines of stress deepening around his eyes.

Leon’s throat tightens, frustration and something deeper clawing at his chest. He knows Chris is right. He knows it. But that doesn’t make it any easier. He wants to protect you, to shelter you from the harshness of the world, to wrap you in the safety and comfort that he can provide. But what if that’s not what you want? What if you’ve already found peace in the simple life you’ve built for yourself here?

Silence stretches between them, uncertainty flooding the room like a heavy mist. For a while, neither speaks, the only sounds are the faint rustling of leaves and the chirping of birds outside. He watches another maid rush to the gardens down below, idling, starting to tend to it, and his mind wanders, consumed by the possibility of what might be. Of you, warm and smiling, dressed in luxurious gowns, wearing jewelry, no longer burdened with hard labor.

"I know you feel for her," Chris states, breaking the silence.

"Of course, I feel for her! She's the Saintess, Chris. She's—" Leon pauses midway through his outburst, catching the glint in his friend's eye and stopping short. He runs a hand over his face, exhaling heavily. "I've sworn loyalty to her. That isn't going to change."

"So, marriage, all for the sake of her station. What if she wants to marry for love? Did you think about that?"

No.

Leon didn't think about that at all.

His brows furrow, his knuckles white as he grips the windowsill, the confession sinking into him with a force. Had he not taken a vow to Ethelion during his first visit to the cathedral, just to protect the Saintess? Then he'll honor it, he's decided, and it isn't only because he's loyal to his word. There's an unmistakable desire inside him, one he doesn't quite know how to quantify, a selfish, possessive urge that wants to wrap you in silk and diamonds and lace and never let you go. He'd marry you to keep you protected and by his side. He would wed you out of devotion to his duty and to you. He would lay his heart at your feet, offer himself, kneel before you, worship you—if he could.

His heart aches at the thought of you being taken away by some faceless somebody who doesn't deserve you. No, the mere idea of it sets every nerve in his body on fire, a deep, unsettled rage stirring in his gut. Who could ever be worthy of something sacred and untouchable as your love?

The imagination cuts him deeper than any knife could, his ribcage can't expand as if a chestplate way too small for him was forcibly wrapped around his torso. The thought is enough to draw a pained noise out of him, a sound more animal than human, a feral, primal part of himself roaring at the notion. He shakes his head as if to clear the vision from his mind, swallows thickly as he stares blankly out of the window, unable to meet the man's gaze. Beneath his boots, the floor feels unsteady, and for a second, he thinks he might topple over, sink to the ground. Instead, he presses his palms against the stone wall beside the window, anchoring himself to something solid.

The truth is that he's in a position to make a difference in your life, to provide security and happiness beyond your wildest dreams. And Leon would use all that he has for you. Everything he owns, all that he possesses—it's all yours, if only you would accept it.

He ends up saying, "She deserves respect. I can give her that," while focusing on the two workers down in the garden to gain back his footing.

Interrupting the conversation is the door creaking open, and the maids enter, carrying trays of refreshments. The soft clink of glass against polished silver fills the space as they move about, placing items on the low table before the fire. Leon remains by the window, facing the crisp autumn air head blowing in from the open windows on, his silhouette bathed in golden sunlight, hands clasped behind his back, his posture taut.

He hears Chris mutter something, dismissing the maids, but one set of footsteps lingers. A single presence. And Leon knows those gentle, deliberate footsteps like the back of his own hand. He stiffens, arms loosening to hang by his sides like a soldier coming to attention, his throat going dry. He doesn't turn, not yet, unwilling or perhaps unable to face what he feels coming.

“Here she is," Chris says with a quiet finality. "You wanted to speak to her, didn't you? Talk then. I'll be right outside. Don't take too long."

With that, he pushes up from the armchair, taking one of the glasses with him and heading towards the door. The door clicks shut behind Chris, the sound of it like the final toll of a bell, sealing his fate. And for a moment, there's nothing, no movement, no words. Just silence.

For a heartbeat, all Leon can do is stand frozen, the world narrowing to that small room, the soft breath of the person standing just a few steps behind him. Your perfume—lilies and a hint of freshly washed linen—drifts towards him, washing over him in an alluring, almost numbing wave. In this instant, it feels as if all the time and distance he's crossed to find you has brought him back to the cathedral, when you were still the Saintess, veiled and untouchable. You seem to surround him, overwhelming his senses, making the past few years vanish, as if he's walked right into a waking dream.

You shift, and he can sense the slightest movement, like an electrical current beneath his skin, drawing his attention and heightening his awareness of your proximity. He turns slowly, the motion almost hesitant, breath catching as he takes in the figure standing near the exit of the room, framed by the shadows close to the walls.

You're not the same as he remembers. You don't wear flowing robes of pristine white or a veil that obscures your features, standing there, awkward and still, a tray balanced delicately in your hands. The clothing doesn't even resemble the uniform of a saintess—or what the servant garb should look like at the estate. Yet, somehow, in this instance, seeing you dressed like this, a demure maid, hits him with a sense of injustice that tears at his heart.

When your gazes collide, he doesn't know where to look. His gaze darts briefly to the floor, to the mahogany paneling, to anywhere that isn’t your face. The vulnerability that grips him is unfamiliar, unsettling, and it leaves him feeling unmoored, as though the ground beneath his feet might give way at any moment.

When he finally musters the courage to look back up and take in your features with all of his heart without being ashamed by it and feeling like he might go blind like he's looking directly at the sun, it’s in time to catch your wide-eyed stare. You’re just as stunned as he is—perhaps more so—as if you've seen a ghost. And then the tray falls from your hands with a clatter, sending the wine splashing across the expensive rug, a red river swirling with gold.

"Oh, I'm—I apologize!" You flinch back, crouching down hastily to gather the tray with trembling hands. You grab at the cloth napkin and dab at the carpet frantically, desperately trying to mop up the spill.

His body reacts faster than his mind does, and he closes the distance in two long strides, falling to his knees in front of you. His hands cup yours, fingers curling gently around yours. You jolt in surprise, shoulders tensing, but don’t pull away.

"It's alright." His voice is hoarse, thick with emotion. He glances at you and sees your brow creasing as you hold his gaze, your eyes bright with unshed tears. "Please."

There's a sudden prickling pressure at the backs of his nose, the threat of tears threatening to break through, and he drops his head, inhaling a steadying breath. Goddamnit. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing the swell of emotion to subside.

Your response is softer than the rustle of pages in a book, almost a whisper, barely audible in the silence of the room. "Sir Leon...?"

The sound of his name is both a caress and a dagger, digging into the tender parts of him that have been raw and exposed.

"Saintess." The word slips out on a ragged breath before he can stop it, an involuntary confession. "I've returned to you."

The warmth of your fingers pressing against his startles him the moment you move, and he becomes aware of what he's been doing -- touching you so carelessly. The newfound title and fame couldn't have gotten to his head so badly that he would forget himself now, could it? Leon can't be sure whether he'd really been the type to behave like a reckless fool all along or if his meeting with you just now and seeing your form for the first time after years had broken down the little that remained of the disciplined man.

Heat climbs his throat and settles in his ears—you're not someone who he can put his hands on. Not even a stranger at this point, to him. In the back of his mind, the young boy with the sickly body remembers that he was touched by you, as a child, the day you healed him, the sensation still vivid, even after so many years.

Leon withdraws, shifting to a kneeling position as he clasps his hands together on his thighs. He tilts his chin upward to find you still crouched in the same position as well, with the wet napkin clenched tightly in your hands, holding your gaze fixed on him. Your intense focus, the way you're studying every line of his face, drinking in his appearance—it makes Leon swallow harshly, hoping his cheeks wouldn't color under your unabashed scrutiny.

"You..." You trail off, lowering your gaze to the floor as you fix your bonnet, as if unsure you should give shape to the words. "I'm no longer the Saintess. The temple has appointed another."

Something twists in his chest, a dark, twisting ache that's become all too familiar as of late. "You think I don't know that?" He means to sound understanding, patient, but instead, his words come out biting, edged with frustration. He deflates when you blink rapidly at him, startled at the change in his demeanor. "I'm sorry," he breathes, offering a shaky smile, "it's just... it was just a lot to take in."

It's a hell of an understatement, but it seems to satisfy you, at least enough to relax a fraction. Still, he watches as your shoulders rise and fall in a shuddering motion, a soft intake of air escaping you.

"We shouldn't be sitting on the floor."

"Ah, yes!" He scrambles to his feet, extending a hand to help you to yours.

When his fingers brush the back of your palm, he feels that same shock, the hairs on his arm standing on end, like an electrical charge, and it takes all his willpower not to snatch his hand away. Instead, he curls his fingers tighter around you, a reflex, and pulls you to your feet. He keeps you steady as you straighten, your bodies close enough that he swears he can feel the heat radiating off yours, warming him better than the fireplace ever could.

He shouldn't.

He really...

"You've changed."

At the sound of your voice, Leon blinks, returning to the present. It takes him a moment to realize he'd been staring. "What, no 'welcome home'?" The attempt at levity dies on his lips when he sees your expression—earnest, searching—and he swallows hard, forcing a tight smile. "Sorry. Impertinent now, aren't I?"

"No—"

"Come," he gestures towards the couch, "sit with me for a bit. It's been... a long time, hasn't it?"

You hesitate for a beat, uncertainty flashing across your features before you nod slowly, allowing him to lead you to the chaise by the hearth, the same seat Leon vacated.

As you settle, his eyes sweep over you, noting your appearance in excruciating detail. A faded grey dress, loose and modest, the neckline high and unfashionable. Lace cuffs, fraying at the edges. Thick wool stockings visible from the ankles, probably borrowed and a size too big, peeking out from under the hem of your skirt. Hems threadbare. Even now, you make it look lovely. Elegant. He wants to get on his knees.

He clears his throat, pulling his thoughts back to the present. "I wanted to—"

"How did you—"

Your words stumble over each other in a rush, and you stop short, caught halfway through your sentence.

He holds his tongue, waiting for you to finish.

"I'm sorry, please, continue," you bow your head apologetically, embarrassment in the flutter of your lashes.

"No, no, it's okay. Please," he motions for you to speak.

You press your palms flat against your lap, smoothing out your wrinkled skirts, trying to buy yourself a few seconds. "Why, I wondered... why you came to see me. After all these years, after everything?"

Why.

Now that was a loaded question.

"Because I swore a vow, didn't I?" He offers a small grin, but it wavers as he tries to explain. "I mean. To—"

"Are you perhaps here to call me to account for my failure, as a servant of Ethelion?" You ask, shaking, almost on the verge of tears. "For failing all my paladins when I should have protected you?"

You duck your head again, hiding behind the brim of your bonnet. Your gaze dips to the floor, fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of your skirts. But not before he catches a glimpse of the haunted expression, the torment and regret clear in the line of your mouth, pulled tight with emotion.

Leon slips off of the chaise all too easily, kneeling on the ground before you, his body moving of its own accord, as if drawn in by an irresistible force. He's so close that if he were to try looking down, he could just... rest his forehead on your knees, lean against your legs for support.

"What are you doing?" You start, half rising from your seat as if you're about to bolt, shocked at his boldness, but sit back down when you can't go anywhere with him as a barrier. “Sir Leon! Stop it, you can't—"

But he doesn't. He stays right there, unmoving, not daring to push boundaries. "You never failed anyone," he says earnestly, speaking with a clarity that catches you by surprise. "Not our cause, not me, not any paladin. It wasn't you who sent us to battle, it was those who served the gods, and they... They ordered their own people into a fight for their own glory."

He pauses, glancing up at your teary eyes, the disbelief, and he knows that you won't believe him, that the guilt will cling to you for days or weeks after today. If he's being honest with himself, the grief of losing his comrades may never fully go away, but—you haven't abandoned them. He will make damn sure you never consider yourself complicit in what happened, for as long as he lives.

Your lips quiver, and you tilt your head away from him, as though wanting to shield your face from view. He hates that he can't do anything to assuage your pain, to shoulder some of the burden you're carrying, but he's equally fascinated by this side of you, hidden and vulnerable, that he rarely saw when you were a saintess. He's grateful, too, that you're trusting him enough to see you like this.

You waver, thin and unsteady, as you respond, "And now what do you need? I'm no longer a Saintess who can bless your endeavors. I can’t give you anything."

The way you say it…

The words feel clumsy on his tongue at what you just said, inadequate compared to the burning intensity of what he truly wishes to convey. There’s too much to be said. That he’d never want anything out of you, that he wouldn’t stand you talking about yourself like something to be exploited, that he hates the way you see yourself…

It's tempting, so tempting, to just reach out. To slide his hand between yours, interlacing your fingers like lovers might. To curl his arm around your waist and draw you closer, to pull your smaller frame into him. It would be easy, so easy. But it would also be improper, disrespectful, wrong. And besides, despite what some might think, he knows how to restrain himself. He doesn't allow his hands to follow through with these baseless impulses.

Instead, he sits back on his heels like a dog, folding his hands in front of him. His posture is stiff and formal, mirroring your own, but his heart hammers wildly in his chest, betraying the calm façade he's attempting to maintain.

"I know you're no longer Saintess," he begins carefully. Your breath catches audibly at the title, and he hurriedly continues, "But I swore an oath to you, nonetheless, and I intend to honor it. You're my Saintess. Always will be."

Silence stretches between you, and he averts his gaze, focusing intently on the swell of your knees, afraid that if he looks at you, he'll break. "It's my duty to protect you, if you'll let me. I—" His words falter, caught in his throat as he struggles to speak past the sudden tightness there, "I swear upon Ethelion, I'll never leave your side. No matter what."

The room falls quiet again, save for the crackling of the logs in the fireplace, the soft hiss and pop as the wood splits apart, consuming itself. Outside, the sounds of birds singing in the breeze drift in, mingling with the rustle of leaves in the wind, distant conversations floating upwards from the grounds below. He counts the heartbeats pounding against his ribcage, three... four... five...

"Leon, what..?"

"Please marry me."

The words slip out, almost involuntarily, as though they'd been perched on the tip of his tongue, waiting for an opening to leap free. The silence grows, stretching taut between you, until he can't stand it any longer.

You draw a breath, and he raises his head. There's no mistaking it now — your eyes widen, and your shoulders tense as you sink back into the cushions of the couch. For a split second, the surprise gives way to something approaching fear, and a surge of panic wells up inside him at the sight.

This isn't what he intended — or, rather, not quite. He meant to ease you into the idea, to present his offer gently and smoothly, the proposal rehearsed in his mind countless times before. But his usual composure and decorum have abandoned him today, and now his mouth is running far ahead of his mind.

"Wh...Why?"

Of all the possible responses you could give, that is perhaps the most unexpected one. He stares at you dumbly, utterly thrown, fumbling for an answer. "I would cherish your hand in mine," he answers after a beat, trying to salvage his words, "I would treasure you, more than anyone ever could."

"But why?"

Leon's frustration bubbles to the surface. “This—” he gestures to the simple dress you wear, the apron tied around your waist, the calluses that have begun to form on your hands from hours of labor. “This is beneath you. Bowing down to others, doing their bidding… this isn’t what you’re meant for.”

Something flares behind your eyes—hurt? Anger? Indignation?

Before he can analyze your reaction too deeply, you ask again, more forcefully this time, “Why do you think it’s beneath me? Just because I don’t hold a sword like you or a blessing scepter in my hand doesn’t mean what I do is any less important—"

"It's not like that!" Leon interjects.

"—You think I should be wasting away as an ornament somewhere, is that what I am to you—"

"That's not what I meant! I meant I'd want to provide for you and protect you, and—"

"From what?! What is there to protect me from here?"

He rakes a hand through his hair, mussing the neatly coiffed locks and lets out an aggravated huff. "They don’t deserve you. The people here… they don’t deserve your labor, your effort. You should be served, not serving others.”

He must have said the wrong thing, your brows knit together as you frown, clearly displeased by his statement. Something in the twist of your lips sends a tremor through him, the way the set of your jaw is so determined, so stubborn, even against his arguments. This is the first time he's seeing fire from you instead of light, a display of character beyond the serene saintess façade you had to carry during the days at the cathedral. It makes heat pool in the pit of his belly, something heavy settling in his lungs and he's suddenly finding it hard to breathe.

"Then what am I supposed to do? Sit around doing nothing because—because you still see me as someone divine?" You shake your head, adamant in the words you utter. "I have purpose here! The Redfields have been kind to me, they took me in—"

"But you serve. You still serve."

Your words seem to die at what he says at the very end. Still serve. "I beg your pardon?"

"You bled every single day. Serving in the temple, serving the masses, serving others with a smile on your face, to the point of losing yourself. Used yourself, your strength, your grace, gave up your sleep and food and even your freedom. Your dignity, as the temple tried to mold you to suit whatever they wanted. That's all you knew for years and then just dropped into the world to figure things out by yourself, and went back to what you know best once more. Serve. This time, under a different name. A Saintess. A servant. It's not all that different, you know. And maybe you don't know how else to live. But I'm here to change that for you. To give you a choice."

Something wounded takes over you, like an injured animal struck by surprise before it bolts. A deep chill settles in him at how lost you look, how frightened and unsure, so unguarded and unprepared for him. He doesn't even know if this conversation is making you feel worse or better; maybe his intentions are clearer now, or more nefarious. It hurts either way, but Leon doesn't back down, doesn't look away from you.

The tears begin to fall without warning, trailing hot and wet down your cheeks. Leon's face crumples at the sight, shame washing over him at causing you distress. He reaches up instinctively, wanting to brush them away, but his fingers only graze your skin for a second before you flinch back and turn, covering your face with a hand as you forcibly stand up from the couch and move away from him.

He lets you go, a pang shooting through him as you cross the room. But when you reach the door, your steps hesitate, and his pulse stutters when you glance over your shoulder at him one last time.

"All I ask of you is to think about it," he pleads, not able to hide the note of misery in his voice as he leans toward your direction, hands placed on where you were just resting, fingers sinking into the cushions, "please."

Your lips part as if you're going to say something. You almost speak, almost giving way to your thoughts. Then you shut your mouth and dart forward, yanking the doors open and fleeing the room.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy fanfic #leon kennedy fluff #leon kennedy #leon x reader

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stevesbabysittingservice · 1 year ago

Text

MIDNIGHT LOVE ✨;✩°𓏲⋆💤.*

steve harrington x fem!reader [4.2K] steve didn’t expect to have fallen madly in love with you, much less for his confession to be whispered in the dead of night after another nightmare renders him sleepless. (16+)

Sleeping was a privilege Steve Harrington lost a long time ago.

Finding himself sitting in his kitchen at half past two, his bruised knuckles tap against the marble countertop in time with the faint ticking of the clock mounted on the wall. It’s a steady sound, one that still lingers with an uneasy sense of worry thanks to a man named Henry Creel, but Steve still tries to keep in time to catch his lost breath.

Steve woke up in a sweat, chest heaving and heart racing after yet another collage of gruesome, disturbing images infiltrated his dreams. The sound of your piercing screams, one so loud that it could shatter glass, the amount of crimson pooling at your stomach and seeping through his fingers, the pain rattling in his chest, the light draining from your pretty eyes.

Even now, after being awake and stumbling aimlessly through his expectantly empty home, Steve’s still not really sure how much of it was real. In any other circumstance, Steve would like to say he’s pretty good at handling the aftermath of the catastrophes in his head, but something about this time felt different.

Steve can’t seem to decide what’s worse; the fact that his dream felt so real because, in some way, there was a significant level of truth to it, or because it hurts him that little — a lot — more since he’s almost certain he’s fallen in love with you.

He wasn’t prepared for that. He isn’t prepared for that.

“Fuck,” Steve breathes out, his voice shot and rugged from what little sleep he managed to get. His hands, ones covered in calluses and surface-level cuts, shake a little as he runs them through his bed-messed hair and down his face. “Fuck.”

Hot and cold flashes shock his body like a lightning strike, goosebumps rising on his uncovered legs and his chest rising with heat beneath his old Hawkins High Phys. Ed sweatshirt. Everything aches. The muscles in his arms and his legs, his head, the gashes and torsions littering his waist.

It’s only been a few days since the world fell apart and got stitched back together and Steve can’t seem to find any peace of mind, can’t even seem to relax for just one, measly second.

The weight of the world crushing his shoulders for the past three years, the physical toll his body has had to endure time and time again, all whilst trying to balance the necessity to protect the people he cherishes like family. It’s a lot to bear at 19. He’s almost certain he’s destined for every good thing in his life to turn to ruins.

“Baby?”

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

It’s almost embarrassing how quickly Steve swivels on the kitchen stool at the sound of your voice, warm and doe-eyed. The light of his life, the one thing keeping him sane, his version of heaven. Steve was starting to wonder if tonight would be the first time you didn’t notice the absence of his figure beside you in bed.

What a stupid, stupid fool he is to think you wouldn’t notice.

Steve’s features soften at the sight of you, groggy and sleepy and far too adorable for someone who’d have just woken up. Even though he’s bone-deep tired and still a little shaken up from his nightmare, the boy finds himself smiling faintly at your arrival, anyway. You always manage to make him grin, even without trying.

You're in his shirt, like always, the fabric light against your skin and the hem of it stops just short of your hips. Your sleep shorts are barely visible beneath, the only proof of them being the satin ribbon glinting in the moonlight, the once-tied bow now hanging, unravelled, at your thigh.

Like oxidized copper, day-old bruises stain your skin, shades of yellow and moss-green replacing the once burgundy and deep purple splotches that painted your knees. Scabbed cuts in the shape of a Demobat’s jaw litter the expanse of your calf like a fucked up puzzle, and the no-doubt scars waiting to form make Steve feel terrible all over again.

You’re alive, thank God, but that’s yet to be enough to ease the pain of wishing he could’ve done more.

Shades of blue and indigo paint over you like an oceanic kaleidoscope, a capsize of darkness making your cheekbones, your jaw, the muscles on your biceps and your thighs nothing short of a Goddess-like vision. As you further step into the kitchen, your presence alone makes Steve feel like the entire world has been set on fire and glittered sunshine and warmth.

Fuck. He really might be in love with you.

“Hey, baby.” Steve says a little guiltily and his voice is an octave or two lower than normal, almost like he’s afraid that breaking the silence that once accompanied him might ruin the heavenly sight of you.

“Steve, it’s.. it’s two in the morning,” you chide softly, voice a little raspy but Steve can still hear the worry seeping between your words. Your knuckles rub at your eyes, a weak attempt at knocking away the evidence of sleep and waking yourself up simultaneously. “What’re you doing up?”

It’s closer to three than it is two, and Steve’s been up for much longer than that. But he won’t tell you that. Not when he knows it’d get you even more worried.

“Thirsty,” he says, and the word comes out tougher than he meant it to. His throat honestly feels like sandpaper. “Needed a drink, s’all.”

Steve tilts his head towards the cup of water he’d poured that sits on the counter. However, in retrospect, the boy wishes he hadn’t given it much attention at all because the glass he motioned to is obviously untouched, condensation dripping down the sides and there’s a lack of lip or finger marks.

Your eyes flit between the glass and your tired boyfriend, an unconvinced look lacing your features, and it’s not long before you silently tread towards him. Steve knew it was a weak attempt at getting you back to bed. He knew you wouldn’t. Not without him, anyway.

“What’s wrong?”

Your question comes out more of a grumble than anything, but the concern is still there, still genuine. You know him all too well, and Steve was an absolute idiot in thinking he could get away with such a pathetic lie.

It’s like he’s in a hypnotic state whenever you’re with him because Steve isn’t quick enough to come up with another lie. He just watches you in awe. You draw close like a magnetic force, and the boy’s legs part automatically. In all honesty, he’d be a liar to say he didn’t expect that you’d crowd his space sooner rather than later.

Your hands find his in the dark and your fingers run across the bumps of his knuckles. The glitter in your nail polish catches the light peeking in through the window above the sink and it makes it seem like shooting stars are dancing across his bruises.

You’re so tender with him, he’s come to notice. Like he’s an expensive China doll, or a glass fixture hanging from the ceiling. You always stare at him like you're admiring him, too, even when Steve feels exceptionally unattractive, and you always make him like a teenager all over again.

“Bad dream?” you eventually answer the question Steve had forgotten about after a few moments of comfortable silence, mumbling against his temple.

Earlier on in your relationship, Steve felt nothing short of a burden. He’d keep you up at night, come stumbling upon your front door bloodied and bruised and in need of help, and drag you along on adventures you’d have never signed up for if you knew what they’d entail.

But, even amongst the terror, you never complained, not once, and Steve often thanks the God he doesn’t believe in to have found somebody as patient and understanding as you.

So, Steve can’t see a point in lying anymore. Not when you know him so well— not when you’ve seen him at his worst and stayed.

“Yeah,” Steve admits through a shallow breath, his lungs still constricting themselves even after he’d steadied his breathing maybe ten minutes ago. “Yeah, you could say that.”

Much to his delight, you wrap your arms around his shoulders before pressing yourself into him. Steve returns the favor instantaneously, your body still lingering with warmth from his bed as he slides his hands beneath your shirt and around your torso. If he died in this position, he’d die a happy, grateful man.

Steve basks in your company, his eyes closing briefly, and part of him thinks he could fall asleep like this if you’d let him. His face presses against your collarbone and he lets out a faint, satisfied hum when he feels you place a soft kiss on the top of his head. You’re so soft and warm and Steve practically melts against you.

Another kiss from you, a wordless I’m sorry. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Steve barely shakes his head, but it’s enough for you to notice. “Don’t wanna keep you up.” he says.

You pull away, then — not far, but there’s just enough distance between you both that Steve can glance up at you with ease. You give him a look, one he’s become far too familiar with after being with you for so long; eyes soft, but narrowed.

“I’m already awake, Steve,” you dismiss the boy gently, hand moving to card through his dark locks. You push them out of his face, forcing Steve to meet your intense, but kind gaze. “What happened this time?”

In any other circumstance, Steve would persist in his refusal to talk about his nightmares. He knows that any time somebody had asked, it was out of pure concern, which he appreciates, but it’s just hard. Sometimes Steve thinks talking about it might make it more real, more plausible.

Robin, when he’d shown up with dark circles under his eyes at work and she’d nagged him in her Robin-esque way; Eddie, during their weekly smoke sessions at his trailer in a lazy, off-handed way in hopes to come off as carefree as he’s known to be; Nancy, because once upon a time, she knew him better than anybody.

It’s difficult for Steve to open up to them, because, in his mind, they still harbor this idea that he’s the strong knight in shining armor they expect him to be. Admitting that he’s weak, troubled, and unable to move past the shit he’s dealt with in the last few years would break that façade, and Steve isn’t sure he can handle that kind of disappointment.

But you? You’ve seen it all, even despite his trying to conceal it from you out of everyone, and it’s never phased you. His weakness has slipped through the cracks of his porcelain walls, and you still like him, he thinks. He’ll never understand what he did to deserve your kindness.

“We were at the lake again,” Steve starts reluctantly. It honest to God feels like he’s tugging at an open wound. “You got pulled down, and I chased after you, but the bats..” he exhales sharply and he runs a hand through his already distressed hair, a telltale sign that he’s been restless for a while now. “I didn’t get there in time.”

The thought of you not being here with him stings, and it’s the kind of hurt that’s far worse than any real pain he’s ever endured in his life— though, Steve considers the idea of losing you to be as real as pain could possibly be.

In reality, Steve knows your getting gravely injured couldn’t have happened with the way things went at Lover’s Lake. Not when he insisted on diving for the group, not when he refused to let you go down with him, not when he made Eddie swear on his life to keep you safe if things went sideways. It wasn’t foolproof, not by any margin, but it was enough.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t still scare him shitless, though.

“I’m sorry, baby.” you say as you press another kiss to his head, but it’s a little longer than the one you’d given him earlier.

“It’s okay,” Steve dismisses, and when your eyes meet again he tries to force a smile. It’s unconvincing, like always, but you don’t further pry about the nightmare, which he’s ultimately grateful for. He doesn’t want to relive it any more than he already has. “It’s just— shit, I don’t know.. annoying. It’s like my brain loves torturing me, or something. Never wants me to get any fuckin’ sleep.”

“They’re just nightmares, you know,” you remind him with a frown, and Steve wonders if you’ll ever get tired of sounding like a broken record. The amount of times you’ve had to piece him back together after he’d woken up a panicked, broken version of himself is probably in the hundreds, thousands. “They aren’t real. Henry can’t trick you anymore.”

He likes that you call him Henry instead of Vecna. It somehow manages to make his mythical, supernatural powers.. smaller than they seem. Like you aren’t scared of him. Steve wishes he has that kind of confidence.

But they are real, in some way or another. There are hints of truth mixed within the already existing storm of terror causing a riot in his head. Because, regardless of the outcome, Steve’s brain consistently morphs his reality into something far more sinister and tragic.

Sometimes he finds himself so deep within the jungle of contorted memories that he can’t decipher whether you're really sleeping beside him or if it’s another one of Vecna’s tricks.

“Feels pretty goddamn real.” he huffs out an exhausted laugh, one so humorless it’s almost as sharp as a knife’s edge. God, he’s exhausted.

“I know. I’m sorry,” you apologize for what feels like the millionth time, and Steve feels guilty you need to fix something you didn’t break. “I wish I could make it better.”

You do. In ways Steve could never replicate. The feeling of your heartbeat rattling against his, the warmth your body provides, the lingering remnants of your floral perfume, the taste of your mint toothpaste against his lips, the sound of your voice and the purity in your laugh; it provides Steve sanctum within a place that hasn’t had any peace or grace in a long, long time.

“We’re okay, you know,” Steve knows you’re not necessarily asking him for an answer, even if it’s framed like a question. “I’m okay, and you’re okay. So are the kids, and Robin, Eddie, Nance.. it’s just your brain’s way of trying to make sense of what happened.”

“Pretty shitty of it to make me relive all that crap.” says Steve, another humorless laugh sneaking past his tongue.

“I know, but they’ll stop eventually,” you murmur, and Steve knows it’s more wishful thinking than anything, but it warms his chest anyway. “It’ll just take time.”

Steve’s grip tightens around your waist and he shudders at the image flashing behind his eyelids. “It’s just scary, y’know?” he breathes out. “Thinkin’ about what.. what could’ve happened because we weren’t careful.”

“We were as careful as we could’ve been, baby,” you tell the boy, and Steve knows that’s somewhat true. It wasn’t like you guys had days to sit and think of the perfect way to defeat an evil, child-murdering guy with tentacles, but it was enough. “You just.. you can’t get stuck on the what-ifs, Steve. It won’t do you any good.”

Steve hums, then, because you’re right, but he doesn’t say much else. He still feels deflated, even in the comfort of your presence.

“Besides,” you start with a little shrug, your body more energized than it had been when you initially found Steve drowning in his own dread. “There are things that are way scarier than what ifs, anyway.”

Yeah, Steve thinks, like how I think I’m falling in love with you.

But instead, the boy exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Mumbling against the material of your — his — shirt, he asks, “Yeah? Like what?”

When living in a shithole like Hawkins, a handful of supernatural things come to mind. The Demogorgon he saved you from in 1983, the Demodogs he was almost eaten by in ‘84, the Russians who almost beat him to a pulp in July of last year, the herd of Demobats you managed to beat up like Sigourney Goddamn Weaver—

“Taxes.” you blurt, and Steve doesn’t even have the chance to register what you’d said before a surprised laugh rumbles from his chest.

Fuck.

Steve's eyes snap up at you, and with wrinkled brows, he manages to half force out, half laugh, “What?”

Fuck.

“Any paperwork, really. Or me trying to cook,” you hum softly, the apples of your cheeks swelling as you let yourself drift back into the countless memories of kitchen mishaps you, and Steve, have shared in this very room. “I mean, you remember how Thanksgiving went. It was a total shitshow.”

One undercooked turkey, a load of burnt potatoes because you forgot to turn the oven down, and pumpkin pie that, oddly enough, had no pumpkin in it. It was a hot mess, really, but it’s probably one of Steve’s fondest memories— even if that's totally and utterly lame to admit.

He’s definitely in love with you.

“That..” Steve’s breath is shaky all of a sudden, and his voice wavers. “Yeah, you trying to cook is pretty scary.”

“Clowns are scary, too,” you add, almost for good measure. Your nose crinkles and Steve feels his chest bloom with heat at the sight of it. “They’re always smiling. It’s.. I mean, what’s scarier than that?”

Steve doesn’t mean to blurt it out, not really, but the compulsion to spill his flourishing feelings for you was far too burdening to ignore. Your hands were twisting in his hair, nails softly scraping at his scalp and you were staring down at him with your God-given smile like he’s a national fucking treasure or something.

If there’s one thing to know about Steve, it’s that he feels a lot. He’s passionate about a lot of things, and a lot of people, and trying to smother and conceal that part of himself only amplifies his emotions until he’s fit to burst. He throws his heart out on the line and lets it teeter like a trapeze artist and hopes that someone, somewhere, is ready and willing to catch it when it falls.

Most of the time it ends in tragedy and heartbreak, but Steve thinks that this time, you could be that someone to pick up the broken pieces with fragile hands and stitch them back together. He really hopes you’re that someone.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Your body stills and your features contort into something Steve can’t decipher. You blink once, twice, before quietly muttering, “What?”

For a long, long time, home was just an idea that Steve was never quite able to grasp. A figure of his wildest, incapable dreams. His house, one that only seemed filled because of the old photos on the mantle and from the light bouncing off the chandelier, was never home. Hell— Hawkins as a whole isn’t home, either. Not anymore.

Steve hadn't known that home could be a person. Not until you.

“I think I love you.” Steve repeats, all his attempts at keeping his composure slowly wilting away with every second that passes.

Your gaze flickers across the expanse of his face, eyes soaking in every scar and every mark, every freckle and mole that litters his sun-kissed skin. One of your hands gently moves to cup the side of his face and your thumb slides almost methodically against his cheek, feather-like grazes across a silver scar he’d gained back in July 1985.

Steve can feel the warmth blooming beneath your angelic touch, a match to his body of flames, and barely above a whisper, you ask, “You think?”

His heartbeat begins to ricochet from his chest and into his now trembling fingertips. Steve’s veins feel like they’re pumping with acid, a new wave of anxiousness coursing through him like he’d been burnt from the inside out. It’s painful, in a way, but it’s a good kind of hurt. The kind he never wants to stop feeling.

So it takes Steve a moment, but he eventually shakes his head, his dark brown eyes flitting down at your lips before meeting your gaze again. He can’t help but notice the aquatic pools filling your lash line.

“I know,” Steve corrects himself, his tongue moving to wet his now dry lips. “I know I love you.”

Your breath hitches, then, and if the world hadn’t become a muted track in Steve’s ears, he might’ve missed it. You’re so, so quiet, all of a sudden, and there’s a large part of Steve that can’t help but start panicking because he’s convinced he’s already fucked this up.

“And that’s scary?” you ask him with a crack in your voice, words wobbling.

in a low voice, he admits, “Terrifying.”

Steve’s driven through heartbreak avenue so many times that his heart is probably more scar tissue than muscle, been dealt a bad set of cards after gambling his love away and left with nothing but the clothes on his back and the ghost of his ex-lover clawing at his chest.

He was black and blue most days, the haunting of what he could’ve done better always following him around like a fucked up shadow when he’d finally move on, only for him to just fall back into that same pit of regret he’d become oh so acquainted with.

It sucked, because getting his heart ripped out and stomped on time and time again was worse than any other pain he’s ever experienced in his 20 years of living.

But, what’s so scary, in Steve’s mind, is the fact that he’d do it all over again in a blink of an eye. He would take every punch and every jab, every insult and every ounce of hurt ten times over if he knew it meant that he’d find his way back to you.

Steve isn’t expecting you to say anything, much less do anything, so you can imagine his surprise when your hand is gentle as it cups the side of his face. He can’t help but lean further into your palm, his chocolate brown eyes unable to break away from your glassy ones.

In a soft, almost shaky voice, you tell the boy, “I don’t think you should be scared about that.”

Steve’s heart stops. “You don’t?” he asks, almost unsure because the uncertainty of your answer hangs heavy in the air.

“No. Because I..” you shake your head and lick your lips, too, pretty dream-like eyes darting across his features. And, with a faint, tired smile, you confess, “I love you, too, Steve. More than anything.”

Steve’s heart starts up again, quicker than ever before, because shit, that'd be enough for him.

Then, with unwavering confidence, Steve surges forward and captures you in a hurried kiss. Mouths slotting together in a heavenly disarray, the boy’s hands tighten around your frame and his mind goes entirely blank on everything that isn’t you because you’re his world he’d die orbiting around.

Steve’s kissing you with a level of fervid he didn’t know he had locked within him, and if the two of you were on display, it would seem like he’d been deprived of your admiration entirely. Your hand, the one splayed across his cheek, moves to his jaw and tilts his chin up ever so slightly and you deepen the kiss.

The boy can’t stop himself from trying to pull you impossibly closer, a new wave of determination washing over him as his desire to feel every ounce of you burns hotter. His tongue soothing over the accidental scrape of his teeth, Steve’s hunger only grows when you muffle out a faint moan against his lips.

You’re both panting when you pull away, a soft click sounding at the departure of your lips from Steve’s. Your forehead rests against his and Steve can’t help himself from trying to steal another kiss from you. You pull back, though, your eyelashes tickling his cheeks and Steve forgets entirely about the way the edge of the counter is digging into his spine.

“Can we go back to bed?” you ask him in a faint voice, eyes still closed and your nose bumps against his, your breath shallow against Steve’s face. The boy is left dizzy from your surging kisses, lips still tingling despite the loss of yours, and Steve almost misses the salacious hint in your request.

Almost.

The boy can’t bring himself to speak, but Steve nods, sneaking another kiss from you before he takes your hand in his and leads you back to the safety of his bedroom, socked feet padding against the floor sounding just as loud as the thumping his heart bounces off his ribcage.

And there, between rumbled sheets, Steve proves how much he loves you til the early signs of morning peak through his blinds, slivers of pink and orange rays mixing and painting your features gold.

Gentle kisses and rough hands, crescent moons adding to the constellation of freckles on his back, moans mixing with whispered sweet nothings echoing between his bedroom walls; a faint mantra of I love you, I love you, I love you encompassing you both.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fic #steve harrington x reader fluff #steve harrington x reader angst #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington angst #stranger things #stranger things fluff #stranger things angst #hurt/comfort #stevesbabysittingservice

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pigeonstab · 2 months ago

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Okay so!! This is my first time doing creative writing since middle school basically, I did my best and I had fun so, hope you enjoy! (It's under the cut bc I don't want to have it be too long of a post) Also. English is not my first language, (lmao ik) if some sentences are wack it's because I tried to do something cool and it didn't work.

It's about my college AU and I tried to give enough context for it to be understandable even if you haven't looked through the tags but this is meant to be middle of the story kind of stuff so I do recommend that you check it out before reading..

Also @somegrumpynerd

Killer shivered from the cold in the apartment building. 142, Cross’s door number had been hard to find as the 2 had fallen off, leaving only a lighter imprint on the grimy gray walls.

He probably shouldn’t be here, but when else would he get an opportunity like this? The full moon was the only time he could evade Horror’s suffocating sheltering, the others were suspicious, he knew, and with him being out more and more often Nightmare was getting antsy…

He held his breath, finally finding the courage to knock on the door.

He waited a beat but was met with silence, budding worry tightened around his soul, trying the handle he found it slid open easily and with a strange snap, like the lock had been broken and never replaced.

Peering inside the apartment, Killer was shocked to see how cramped Cross’s living space was, a far cry from his own place, and taking his first steps inside he found it was nearly impracticable, the mess he encountered was more akin to rubble than untidiness and testified of an obvious struggle: kitchen appliances and rags strewn around the floor, broken glass, the counters scratched and one of the cupboards ripped off its hinges, these marks an echo of a wild animal’s rampage. This chaos was so unlike Cross, his uneasiness only grew.

Killer carried on with his exploration, turning his attention to the beat up cupboard, it only took a quick glance for him to recognize a small inconspicuous vial, among the cumin, the parsley and the other insignificant spices; there it was, Wolvesbane.

Killer didn’t get the time to dwell on how or why Cross would even own what was essentially Werewolf poison as a loud thud ripped through the heavy silence.

Killer’s non-existent stomach roiled, he left the cupboard behind, now far from his mind as he set to investigate the noise, following the dried blood trail past the torn couch (he did his best to ignore the smell. Now was not the time. Though he could tell it was Cross’s. A fact which worried him as much as it enticed him)

His shoulders were tense as he got close to yet another door, this one already ajar, he pushed it further, the room must’ve been Cross’s bedroom, it was dark and had he not been a vampire he most likely would not have been able to see, the copper smell was only stronger in here.

Killer froze as he spotted the dark mass near the end of the room. Its breathing rocked its hulking form. It had spotted him. Two white reflections pierced through the darkness and in seconds the wolf lunged.

Killer struggled against it as it clawed and snarled at him with a recklessness Killer did not expect from it. The beast had him pinned under its weight and Killer had to seize its jaws. Pushing the snapping and snarling muzzle away from him, his arms burning with the effort, his soul pounding and adrenaline coursing through him. The fight was constant movement. instinct alone permitted Killer to grab a hold of the thing’s maw and force it shut, pressing from top and bottom while it growled and tried to pull away from him. Killer slammed it onto the floor, to which it stilled with a pained whine.

Killer’s chest was heaving, he kept his hands where they were, unsure if the beast would get back up. When it became obvious it wouldn’t his shoulders dropped and he sighed. His eyes roamed the large wolf’s figure, a flannel Killer instantly recognized as Cross’s was still hanging to it, ripped to hell and back but Cross’s. Killer confirmed his suspicion, turning the wolf’s face to find a jagged scar under its right eye.

“Fucking hell Cross. You couldn’t just tell me these thing could you?”

Killer (despite his semi-serious words and lighthearted remark) felt lost. Why hadn’t Cross told him? He banished the thought from his mind. After all he’d never told Cross about his vampirism either. Why would Cross ever tell him about this?

Focusing on Cross he looked him over, his eyes were hazy and unfocused, a purple tint to them that Killer had never seen in them. Well. He’d unpack that later. For now.. “Up we go” Killer picked up the wolf with a grunt of effort, pulling Cross over his arm and heaving the mass of fur over his shoulder, he got to his feet unsteadily, balancing with the extra weight (a lot of extra weight) and started to long trek back home, starting with getting out of the apartment as inconspicuously as he could with a 120 pound Werewolf on his back…

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theartistisme43 · 5 months ago

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Chapter Two: The Smell of Copper and Disinfectant

HOSPITAL, BLOOD, PANIC ATTACK, AND GUN MENTION TW:

There was a dense ringing in SMG4’s ears as he floated in a void of numbness, he could hear a distant beep every now and then, and muffled, discombobulated talking…

4 didn’t know where he was, or what was happening… Every time he tried to figure it out, something pulled him into a deeper rest, but he could feel himself getting closer to a light every time he attempted to gather his thoughts.

All he remembered was creating tomato soop, and then… Nothing.

4 tried to get out of whatever state he was in, but he felt trapped and unable to move, as if he was being weighed down by something, almost like…

Sleep paralysis?…

Was he asleep?

The more he thought of it, the more he could hear, the more he could feel, the more he could think.

Just like a knife, memory cut into him.

“I’m sorry, I have to do this…”

BANG!

With a gasp, SMG4 shot up in bed, making Mario almost fall back with a gasp of his own.

4’s eyes refocused as his mind began to process where he was, as they tiredly scanned the area around him.

All of his friends were here, scattered around in his hospital room.

Just as 4 intended to speak, a sharp, horrible pain made him hiss in reaction. He looked down, seeing a gauze pad that was secured by tight bandages wrapped around his chest and back to hold it in place. 4 could feel how tender his skin was under the medical wraps.

“…wh…” He found his voice as he winced hard.

A gloved hand took his, as Mario looked at him with love in his eyes… And an air of sorrow to them too.

“Miei cari Quattro... ero così preoccupata!” The red plumber embraced him, avoiding his wound.

SMG4 enjoyed the hug for a moment, but wondered what all the fuss was about, he couldn’t remember what happened for some reason… Did he have a kitchen accident or something?

“SMG4!” Meggy exclaimed, coming to hug him too. “You’re awake!”

4 attempted to use his right arm to pat her back, but it hurt far too much for him to move it, so he used his left to do it instead.

“What happened?” 4’s question made almost everyone in the room uncomfortable, as a few of his friends avoided looking at him.

Meggy sighed, willing herself to say… Something bad from what 4 could gather from her face.

“SMG4… Do you… Not remember?” She asked softly.

“No, please tell me..” 4 said. “I can handle it, whatever it is..”

“SMG4.” Meggy began, brows furrowing. “SMG3 shot you…”

4 paled, the ringing in his ears returned as his heart began pounding.

Like a train, feelings of grief, betrayal, and heartbreak came hurtling into him.

Now he could remember.

SMG3’s eyes were cold and empty, the way his face looked was like something straight out of a horror movie.

SMG4 tried to brush it off by mentioning his newest meme, but 3 didn’t care, merely raising his gun with the intention of killing 4.

And he shot him.

Watching him bleed out as he lost consciousness…

SMG4 was hyperventilating as he clutched himself, suffering through a panic attack as the previous day’s events became clear.

The very person he had come to trust, come to love, stabbed him in the back. And why? Because he got bored of being good? Because being evil was much easier for him?

“SMG4, it’s going to be okay…” Meggy tried to vocally help him through his attack, but all of the emotions he felt were relentless.

SMG4’s brain couldn’t register anything as a monsoon of thoughts and questions rendered all of his senses useless.

His fingers were practically digging into his skin as his chest heaved, eyes staring into nothing.

All 4 could see in his mind was SMG3’s terrifying expression as he watched him lay there helpless, his own blood pooling around him.

But suddenly… He was encased in warmth, a safe feeling he had felt many times.

Mario held SMG4 close, letting him clutch at his shirt as to not damage himself anymore, like the other times he helped him through past panic attacks.

The meme guardian rode the aftermath of his attack, coming back to reality with heavy yet softer breaths.

“There we are…” Mario muttered. “I got you.”

4 had pushed his body too hard, his ribs hurt slightly from his rapid sharp breaths, and this didn’t help with his still tender injury.

Mario saw something in 4’s eyes fade.. He didn’t know if it was exhaustion, or… Hope leaving him.

As 4 returned to sleep, Mario still held his hand, his heart breaking as he watched someone who was so full of life feel so defeated…

“Gli farò pagare la pena per averti ferito, Quattro, te lo prometto. Non avrò pace finché non lo troveranno..”

Mario had tried to whisper only loud enough for 4 to hear, but his quiet promise was understood by his green brother.

Luigi looked on in concern, as he watched his twin brother begin a tread down a darker path... Grief considered, he wanted 3 to pay for this too, but this just wasn't right... This wasn't Mario.

"Come on guys." Meggy whispered. "Let's let SMG4 rest."

Their friend group had quietly, one by one, left the room, but Luigi stayed put. He joined his brother's side, placing a kind and comforting hand onto Mario's own.

Hurt, angry, tired eyes glanced down, and then up to Luigi's face.

Luigi looked back with a soft and concerned look in his, as Mario silently brought his hand down to his side, away from Luigi's hand.

It would be a fight to get Mario back, but Luigi was willing to do whatever it took to save his brother from his own rage.

"Sono qui anche per te, Mario. Non dimenticarlo mai..."

#smg4 #smg4 fanart #smg3 #smg4 fanfic #hospital tw #panic attack tw #gun tw #blood tw

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nanamimizz · 2 years ago

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tags: fem reader, age difference, established relationship, reader is shorter than kishibe, kissing, mentions of sex + sexual dynamics.

synopsis: kishibe just can’t keep his dirty mind from running, even when all you give him is a kiss on the cheek.

you give kishibe a kiss on the cheek. a harmless gesture one given readily and easily as he shrugs on his overcoat. you didn’t think much of it, thinking he would take your affection with his usual nonchalance and it would be the end of your shared morning.

but that’s never the case is it? things never go to plan.

you don’t notice the warmth in kishibe’s complexion. the way the haze that dampens the iron black is broken through like the sun through storm clouds. his hand is tugging you back - the apartment is warm and its your day off so you are still in your sleep shorts. kishibe keeps his eyes in the soft skin, thinking about marring the satin like skin with his teeth until he could taste the copper of your blood.

“c’mere, give your man a proper kiss.”

you only swallow in your fluster, eyes wide and lips open in a gasp at how unabashedly he handles you - tugging, pulling and holding you in front of him. his hands, warm and worn, you shiver when his scarred palm settles over your ass to tug you closer.

aftershave. mint toothpaste. cologne.

all incredibly deep and dark scents that make you shiver as well as the hauntingly hot hand that squeezes the fat of your ass - an indecent pair of ring and pinkie finger make their way under the high hem of your shorts and dig into the plush curve of your thigh blending into your ass.

“c’mon. don’t make me late.” he drawls into your ears as your head turns, embarrassed at how he handles you. you look back at him, blinking in that shy way he likes so much. timidly you nod and reach up - standing on the tips of your toes, your braless chest pressing against his suit clad chest until your lips meet his.

kishibe grunts - like the rest of you its soft and sweet, it makes him for the first time a long while want to skip out on work. he wants it deeper, harder; wants it dirty like when he kisses you at night with your tongue in his mouth and his hands holding your hips still to teach you patience. maybe he needs a reminder in such a lesson right now. you pull away and he can’t help but look at the clock in the kitchen that’s visible from the doorway, he stays any longer he’ll be late.

“i’m late cause of you. i should put you over my knee for teasing me like that.” he mutters into the air that is shared between the two of you and you only reach out to straight his tie, the folds in his jacket and the lapels of his coat. you pout, petulant and almost childish and it makes him want to kiss you again.

“i just being affectionate - you’re the one who demanded a real kiss.” he can’t refute you so he looks ahead, taking in the pictures that line the wall of your shared apartment. it strikes him that for the first time that it sucks to leave his apartment.

“brat. i’ll see you tonight. if i find you asleep you’re in big trouble.” that makes you smile, you can’t bite back the teasing comment that slips out your soft lips.

“what do you want me to wear?” he’s half a step out the door, hat on his head and giving his ever handsome face a shadow that makes him all the more sinister.

“just this, it’s cute. i like fucking you when you look like this.” he says without pausing, out the door and body facing you to close the door behind him. he stops, watches how your eyes are wide and your arms at tucked behind your back. you’re back to shifting in your place a doe out in the meadow. he feels like a wolf looking at you from his place in the doorway, like he is the outsider rather than the man that lives with you.

“look like what?” you ask, and you almost take a step back as you gaze into one dark eye, the other blocked by the door. you know kishibe is dangerous but this…this is when you see it yourself.

“like you’re mine.”

the door shuts, the clock ticks and the days begins. as you gaze out the windows and see the sun - you can’t help but think it’s a beautiful day and that it’s a shame that you already want it to end.

#lamb.writes #kishibe x reader #chainsaw man x reader #csm x reader #kishibe fluff #kishibe smut

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the-dixon-effect · 11 months ago

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you are the river of light, that i cling to in the empty night

a/n: im back whores

You thumbed the copper pendant daintily hanging from your neck, a little bronze sun - a testament to how much Daryl loved you before you even knew. You were Daryl's sun, the light that sustained all life, all good. Though he wouldn't say it, this was his way of telling you. Years later, your shared apartment in the commonwealth, however dreary, was the home that you had been longing for ever since the fall. Decorated with antique lamps and watercolours and soft music pouring out of the vintage record player in the corner of the room, time seemed to slow and warp when you spent your evenings with the man you loved so. Perched on the kitchen counter, you eagerly waited for him to return home.

Daryl's new job as a commonwealth soldier felt taxing to him - though he never complained in fear of boring or scaring you. Home was his sacred place; cooking, laughing, drinking, loving, a place where he could escape the past and present. The future was you, and however tempestuous and unstable life proved to be these days, you were his constant. In fear of seeming poetic, he kept his thoughts about you to himself, however badly he wanted to tell the world. Your touch was medicine, your love was rejuvenating.

As he entered, you whistled at his arrival and jumped to greet your man.

"Hey baby," he said, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you in closer with a fistful of your hair. "Missed ya'," he moved a hand up to your cheek, adjusting your head so he could gaze into your sweet, loving eyes for a moment before moving in to kiss you with the passion of a starved man.

"And I waited for ya'," you flirted once pulling away. "Tell me 'bout your day, cause mine was boring as hell," you withdrew the embrace yet he pursued you towards the living room still holding your hand.

"Handled some rotters down the south fence, ya' know they can climb now?" you shivered, imagining Daryl surrounded by hungry walkers, all day, every day thanks to Pamela Milton and Michael Mercer, the ones that decided he needed to be here. Of course it was admriable, putting his life on the line every day, but for a government that doesn't even know his name? If you could convince him to stay in bed each morning, away from the danger, you could be ever satisfied knowing he would only exist in your arms. "Wha's wrong?" you must have frowned without answering, because he now pulled you over his thighs and held you firmly, not wanting to let you go.

You only hummed, afraid to meet his eyes covered by those chocolate bangs. "I want you... here. If somethin' happened to you out there-"

"Baby, ya' know it won't. 'M sorry," he spoke softly into your neck, gently rubbing your thighs with tenderness much unlike the stoic soldier known to you and your friends. "I love ya', I ain't givin' that up,"

"Don't try to be heroic. Don't be the person that's gotta save the day. If somethin' goes wrong, just run. Please.. promise for me," you held eye contact, stroking your fingers through his tangled tresses.

"Promise."

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bodhrancomedy · 1 month ago

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Glacier’s Edge, a fantasy thriller by Bodhrán M.

Chapter 1:

There were travellers coming up the hill with the purposeful stride of people with money.

Excitement shot through Hyrrokkin like lightning, sparking along every nerve. She haphazardly hung up the last of the washing, catching her claws in the clothespin as she did, and then bolted back up the path, heart pumping.

Aeolus wasn’t in the cottage, but the gleaming kitchen flagstones which nearly sent her sliding into the table meant it hadn’t been long. She caught herself on the wall, deftly righting herself. A jolt of pain sliced across her palm and she glanced down to see a scratch across her soft scales. Typical, she thought, it had to be the new moult. The door leading out to the garden was ajar. Hiking up her skirts, Hyrrokkin hopped over the half-full pail and flung it open.

The scent of gorseweed and freshly turned dirt drifted past her on the crisp breeze as she came to a stop, squinting into the low sun. It took a moment, but she spotted him; salt-and-copper hair falling in his eyes as he bent industriously over his task on the riverbank.

“Aeolus!”

Her mentor jerked in surprise and dropped the pot he was scouring into the water with a loud curse. Immediately, he plunged his arm in to retrieve it and snapped, “Someone better be dying!”

Hyrrokkin skidded to a halt beside him, grinning broadly and panting out tiny frost clouds. “People – coming up the hill.”

“Unless they’re attacking us, there’s no need to shout.” Aeolus lifted the pot, wrinkling his nose. The movement caused his glasses to slip, glinting in the mid-afternoon autumn light. They were a newer addition; he’d spent most of the last two months insisting he didn’t need them and the last three weeks complaining about them misting over in the colder weather.

“Aeolus, you promised.”

“I did not promise, I proposed. There’s a difference.”

“You said that the next expedition was when I could go solo.”

“I said, if I think they’re decent people, you could go solo.” Aeolus emphatically poured the water from the pot and set it down beside him, resting his hands on his knees. “And if it’s an easy enough route.”

Hyrrokkin snorted and scratched her snout. “Most of them are easy enough. I handle the winter better than you anyway.”

Aeolus raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing.

The bell at the cottage door rang out, echoing off the hillside. Hyrrokkin turned a mournful gaze down at the human man, long ears twitching back pleadingly. Her stomach churned as she waited for his response.

Aeolus sighed heavily and held out a hand. Beaming, Hyrrokkin took it and hauled him easily to his feet. She was small for a frostling, but still had half a head on her teacher at least and muscles threaded like beads on a string up her arms. Standing next to him still felt odd – human proportions were so… tidy. So regular.

Nodding at Hyrrokkin to take her share of the pots and pans, Aeolus raised his shoulders in a casual shrug and said, “Well, let’s go see if they’re decent people, shall we?”

There was a humanoid woman waiting at the door, clad in light chainmail and the fluffiest white fur cloak Hyrrokkin had ever seen. When they rounded the corner, she turned and flashed them a smile as white as the cloak. “Hello,” she said, “May I presume you are the guide Candlemire?”

Hyrrokkin was immediately impressed. Usually people just came straight out with their travel request.

“I am,” Aeolus said. His voice was a little short, causing Hyrrokkin to glance at him in surprise. “And you?”

#deaf #queer #writing #fantasy #fantastical #thriller

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madsmilfelsen · 5 months ago

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I think Rust is neat and all but what drew me in was his HANDS. Idk how to explain it, but something about the way he holds things and articulates makes me just. Stare at them. Like I just Know he has rough hands

alright babe, you want to talk about his hands, let’s talk about his hands via timeline

Obviously living in the bush of Alaska requires a lot of manual labor to survive, skin rubbing raw inside leather gloves, blisters from splitting wood, scars from his knife slipping on salmon (v real, I used to filet 500 salmon a summer and baby…. yew, my left hand has gotten nicked more than once— Travis and Rust had a fish camp on the Copper River, probably across the bridge from Chitna and a touch north, and lived way up river between Slana and Nabesna bc I’m making all this up right now and I said so) etc etc so his hands well worn before he got out, moved back to Texas and meets Claire snared by his weirdo allure and bizarre way of handling things— Sophia comes along and I bet he was washing his hands like a maniac, dry as fuck, probably worried his rough hands might make her fussy so held her with her little swaddling blankets at first (compensated with A LOT of skin to skin time but that’s a different ask), carefully petting her hair with just the tips of his fingers, down the bridge of her nose to make her go to sleep. Sophia loved his hands (like mother like daughter fr) could be occupied when he took her fishing by just letting her sit in his lap to play with his fingers, try on his wedding ring, ask why his nails are shorter than mommy’s or why they aren’t soft like mommy’s, map his calluses, trace the lines of his palms until he set a hook and watched him reel in dinner.

(Addition) hol up, hear me out— Sophia rooting around his bare chest and pacified with the curl of his knuckle, Sophia teething and gnawing on his fingers, Sophia learning to walk with her soft pudgy hands in his, Sophia squealing and giggling as he tickles her round lil tummy, Sophia’s only sitting still to get her hair brushed but only for daddy— Rust’s hands becoming the most abused part of his body after she’s gone

Crash era— this man does not give a shit about his hands, the most treatment they get is when he taped them together after breaking a finger, had a punching bag for obvious reasons and beat the shit out of it no gloves no tape constantly bruised. Not a stranger to working with mechanics (in Alaska, Travis would make sure he could keep his equipment running— boat engines, four wheeler oil changes, changing snow mobile tracks etc) and probably took his bike apart and put it back together just to make sure he could be Authentic, different calluses with new tools, divots in his skin lost to the unforgiving scraping bite of metal, hissing when he gets transmission fluid in his split knuckles

1995– habitual hand washing returns, dry as hell, his wrists probably crack and bleed in the winter (very very very rarely is annoyed enough to actual do something about it, probably had to bleed on one of his files— he’d use Johnson and Johnson baby lotion becuase that’s he only shit he knew, definitely drunk cried about it at least once, before sucking it up and swtiching to Vaseline), pull up bars give calluses at the base of the fingers/tops of the palms, just does calisthenics because who the fuck wants to buy equipment. Does all the upkeep on his truck (and thinking about it, this would be the first time he’d be like Alone alone in a long while, no handlers, no Iron Crusaders, no backstory upkeep, no dad, no wife, probably takes truck parts inside and cleans them on his kitchen counter because no one is there to say what the fuck are you doing— “we don’t mind being alone” okay Okay sure honey) Makes it worse by the talcum powder in his rubber gloves or licking his fingers to go through case files or staying too long in the dry archives where he can’t smoke so probably tapping his mouth, rubbing circles on his knuckles with his thumb or running it along his nails— don’t know what flavor of adhd that man has a strangle hold on but he can’t sit entirely still, fingers moving with the bits of his mind that aren’t occupied to keep himself from distraction, pretending he didn’t lose his patience with his fatherhood.

2002– Laurie :) home girl said that’s enough! Probably got recommendations from surgeons and plys him tins of hand salve, he doesn’t like the greasy feeling, but his girl is askin’ he won’t say no babey!

2012– full circle, back to them Alaskan fishing boat hands, type of hands that snag fabric (my husband isn’t a mechanic but does work with his hands and I can’t wear silk around him) and hair gets caught on, the man does not own a brush, finger combs his hair once a week and puts that shit in a hair tie, done with it.

#you didn’t ask for any of this but my first cup of coffee was really good #answered #rust cohle

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cloveroctobers · 1 year ago

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OCTOBER PROMPTS 🎃 — 1. Luca

PROMPTS from here + here and I’m using: “I really appreciate that you’re getting into the Halloween spirit, but it’s ten in the morning, please turn off the slasher films so I can eat my breakfast in peace.” + “Pumpkin spiced latte, please.”

A/N: so glad Luca was voted for the most on the poll lol because he’s the only one out of the options I started writing for in the drafts! let’s see if I can keep up with making these short this year 🤭! This is nothing but fluff and a smidge of annoyance — reader on Luca’s nerves just a bit really. Mentions of a classic horror film, that I actually need to go back and watch! I think I watched it once before since I won’t lie I usually watch the more updated versions when it comes to that franchise more so,, although I’m not the biggest fan of the series anyways like dear Luca…don’t drag us too much ⚔️!!!

WARNINGS: Reader being a bum for the day? Luca just wants to eat without background noise? + slight language, oh and pumpkin slander!

*GIF BELONGS TO: @wiha-jun !

⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧ ⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧ ⛧°。

Luca prefers his mornings to be soothing, not filled with screams that can make anyone’s ear drums bleed or have the neighbors in the cul- de-sac sending the coppers right over. He had just gotten back from his morning run around the city, finding you sleeping down on the couch now compared to your shared bed. Which was humorous that you had the energy to climb out of the bed wrapped in mountains of blankets that you kept stored in a woven basket tucked away in the living space; during his absence just to continue your rest on the pale gray sofa.

You barely budged when he announced he was heading out into the damp morning and also repeated the same motion when he’s back, gently bending down to press a kiss to your edges before disappearing upstairs to shower. You’re awake with lidded eyes once he’s arrived downstairs, smelling of fresh mint soap and Olibanum as you’re messing around with the flatscreen on the entertainment center.

“Are you truly awake for the day darling or is it going to be another two to three business days?” Luca jokes on his way by, not expecting what you were going to set the television on.

You’re mocking him, voice still full of sleep, leaving the taller man to chuckle to himself as he heads into the kitchen, searching the fridge around the corner to ponder over what he can whip up. There’s plenty of possibilities as Luca’s eyes scan over what’s stocked in the fridge, finding that’s something he had to do now that you both shared a home together.

He could do cold smoked salmon…putting the protein to good use along with the radish and watercress…yet you were out of cream cheese. He could always ask his favorite critic, brace yourselves, it’s not Luca himself but rather you, what you were feeling like for breakfast but he knew regardless what he prepared you’d probably eat.

Thinking to himself, fingers tapping against the handle of the open fridge, he decides to go for something simple and more festive if you will. So he decides on homemade maple pancakes, without the walnuts since you were allergic and picks the pecans that your grandfather brought over from his pecan tree back in Georgia earlier this year. He’ll fry up some danish bacon with thyme searing the pan—hoping to bring flavor to the pork—or really to basically get rid of it, although it was a kind gesture from a neighbor who learned Luca was in the culinary field—the both of you were not the biggest fans of Denmark’s bacon.

No disrespect of course.

“Hey, want some of this Risalamande?” Luca calls out as you began to get engaged into the film, that’s probably been on for about twenty minutes since Luca takes more time debating on what to eat at home than when he’s out in the city.

Immediately your nose scrunches up as Luca is diving into the colorful rice pudding, leaning against the doorway that leads to the living room and front of the detached home, “Texture, Luca. Come on!”

Luca snorts with a slight roll of his eyes, “Ah, I see I’m getting picky you this morning, yeah?”

A wag of your finger as if it were a wand goes shooting into the air while you respond, “Sssh!”

“Rude.”

Luca spins back into the kitchen with a shake of his head, downing what most would consider a Christmas dessert but he doesn’t care one bit. He’s a man that enjoys eating and Christmas was more of his holiday anyway.

That holds him over long enough and he’s got the comfort of him whisking the dry ingredients together, focus steady on getting just the right mixture before moving onto the wet ingredients. It’s easy work really, which means Luca doesn’t mind making breakfast more than any other meal. It was similar to his own work, yet pastries were more his speed and he often challenged himself to try out new techniques majority of the time, so it wouldn’t always be easy but it was the pleasure in knowing that this is the starting point of your day, which beats a protein bar any way.

Luca uses his hands everyday and yeah it so happened to surprisingly be his weekend off, he didn’t mind keeping his hands busy when it came to breakfast and serving to the person he truly adores.

He’s at the stove, with minutes passing by at ease, his arched brows raising so often when the tempo of the movie begins to picks up. “What are you watching?”

He can’t help but to ask.

“…The Evil Dead, 1981.” He’s shocked he even gets a response from you since you tend to zone out when it comes to media.

Sometimes it was certainly a bad habit. You were an environmental documentary editor so it wasn’t unusual for you to get wrapped up in screens. Yet Luca couldn’t really blame you for that since he got lost in his craft as well; the both of you were working to get better with turning those habits off when together.

…if you don’t count right now that is! There was nothing wrong with being passionate about your interests but it was also always important to prioritize your partner, especially when work was a good chunk of your lives, yet it wasn’t the only thing that mattered. The both of you understood that.

He hums, finding possession films and gory themes weren’t really his thing. He actually has a weak system when it came to those type of horror films or rather blood (passing out from the mere sight fake or not or simply the stench of it is not something Luca was proud to admit) and let’s just say he was glad to not be in the room with you now. Horror really wasn’t your lane either, you were more into sci-fi films whereas Luca loved a good action film or documentary.

You were both each others test subjects, you with his food and him with your edits on your hybrid schedule.

“Come eat,” Luca says after while, the food steaming and filling the house with a sweet, salty and slightly earthy aroma.

He’s wiping his hands off with a rag, which he steps to the center of the kitchen, balling up the used rag to toss with a swift flick of the wrist into the laundry room up ahead. The rag plunks right on the washer and Luca smirks to himself before heading back to the dining table tucked in the corner by the oven. He always sits with his back to the oven because in a sense it’s brings him placidness. It didn’t make much sense to you since you originally thought Luca just wanted the view of the screened in conservatory all to himself but he flirted that you were enough of a view for him. Nonetheless he didn’t really need to explain it to you, if that’s the spot Luca wanted then so be it. You rarely argued about it simply because you could eat out there if you really wanted. He could keep the meaning of sitting with his back to the oven to himself. Perhaps it was his way of putting it behind him for awhile when engaged with you? Who truly knows but you did think about it a bit once you settled into the shared home.

Luca’s pulling himself up to the table, picking up a fork to start plating and clenched his eyes as more screams fill the home.

“I really appreciate that you’re getting into the Halloween spirit, but it’s ten in the morning, please turn off the slasher film so I can eat my breakfast in peace.” Luca calls out to you, after picking up that you were in a lazy mood and not ready to join him at the table.

The film actually gets lower as Luca shoves the pancake into his mouth, beginning to chew the meal as you say back, “pumpkin spiced latte, please.”

Luca questions with his mouth full, “what was that?”

“I’ll join you if there’s a pumpkin spiced latte waiting for me.”

Luca sits back in his chair and swallows, “you don’t even enjoy pumpkin so what are you on about?”

“But it’s fall, Luca.”

Luca pinches the space in between his skinny brows, “…for fucks sake, you’re quite spoiled you know that?”

“I love you.” You sing out while Luca scoffs.

He comments, “You better.”

So now he’s up on his feet again, messing with the olive espresso machine that you still won’t tell him how much you paid for last Christmas, he’ll use the last bit of maple syrup that he had leftover from the pancakes, there’s no pumpkin spice in the flat since he isn’t a big fan of pumpkin flavor either so he uses: 2 teaspoons cinnamon, 1/8 teaspoon nutmeg, 1/8 teaspoon ginger, and 1/8 teaspoon of ground cloves, yet he brought home some pumpkin purée that one of his fall-loving co-workers gave to him; homemade from her mini pumpkin patch in her backyard, he steams the oat milk, mixes the espresso, puree, syrup, spices, and vanilla all together before combining it with the milk. From there he frothed it just for a few seconds to get some foam and finally tops it off with whipped cream and more cinnamon.

Sitting back down, he slides the drink over to your side of the table and before he can call out to you to inform it’s ready, he’s hearing the shuffle of your feet in those ridiculous hot pink fluffy slippers. Luca glances at you and finds you rather cute still in your cozy pj’s and hair a complete mess.

“Your royalty,” Luca bows towards your drink, making you gasp playfully as you approach him, placing a hand on his shoulder to get his attention, “it’s still hot,” he warns as you reach over for the handle of the mug at the same time but you pick it up with ease.

You peek at the latte and then back at him saying, “Shoo,” you wave your hand making Luca frown up at you.

You and these damn hand movements, you should be a conductor like your older sibling instead.

He soon picks up on what else you want, making yourself comfortable right in his lap, making Luca shake his head at you, tangling around you now so he can finish the breakfast but with you in his lap.

You on the other hand werent much of a breakfast person, although you loved a good brunch moment with your mates! but you hardly turned down much of what Luca prepared. He knew you’d get around to the pancakes if you didn’t start picking at his own plate soon.

“How is it?”

You nod, running your tongue over the top of your lip to get rid of the whipped cream, “hmm, now I kinda see what those pumpkin bitches go crazy over.”

Luca chuckles, “do I get to sample?”

“It’s the least I can do,” you tease as you blow on the steam before tipping the mug towards Luca’s lips.

He ends up blowing on it more before sipping and it’s your turn to watch his own opinion before he says it. You can always tell what direction this may go based on the way his eyebrows and eyes move.

“Not half bad if I do say so myself but a smoked butterscotch latte from Café bønne is actually better. I frankly don’t see the hype with this latte.” Luca shrugged with a pinch of his lips in thought before turning his hand back to the bacon.

You groan, “we haven’t been there in ages! We should go there today.”

“Nope, storms coming in this afternoon actually with a chance of power outages which is why you should eat those pancakes sooner than later, love.” Luca explains before adding, “should have gone running with me this morning. I passed by that route today too.” Luca tells you while you take another sip of the latte.

You weren’t aware of any storm coming in but you had to admit that you fell asleep on the news last night after the show you stayed up to watch with Luca went off. It really amazes you how he can stay up late and get up to function the next day. You on the other hand? Had to follow a routine or else you’ll be no good at work, hybrid schedule or not.

“Fine, I guess the shitty pumpkin makes up for it.”

Luca peeks at you mid chew, “Are you insulting my beverage when you asked for it?”

“Never! This definitely gets a 8.5 across the board. So I’ll shut my spoiled self up, babes.”

“Now that’s the spirit.”

A shove to his shoulder makes Luca wink and grin over at you, poking his lips out for a peck, making you aware that he was only teasing you.

Sighing you lean forward to press your lips against his in a chaste kiss, “thanks for breakfast.”

With his free tatted hand, he runs the pad of his thumb against the childhood scar on your kneecap stating with a smile, “anytime, darling.” He says as he peers at you from underneath his eyelashes before tossing in, “Even when you’re being a picky pain in my arse.”

“Welp! Moment’s ruined.” You hopped off Luca’s lap while he tried to latch onto you with a laugh but you swung your hips out of his reach, however not without plunking up his last pancake to take with you.

See!

Luca huffs, sticking his tongue into the side of his cheek before taking your plate with him to follow you into the living room. You’re seated back on the couch and he sits on the opposite end of it, tangling his limbs with yours as you cover each other with the blankets.

“This pancake is delicious.”

“So are yours,” Luca is smug as he eats from your plate now before glancing at the horror film on screen with disgust, then softening his expression as he sets his eyes back on you.

Which leads to the both of you taking turns eating pancakes and sharing the pumpkin latte, making the feel of autumn in the atmosphere sink in with the warmth of each other.

Hours later…you’re laying cuddled up to Luca’s chest on the couch, the rhythm of his chest rising and falling along with his hands clasped together against the small of your back is enough to almost put you to sleep. The wind has picked up now, whistling through the cloudy skies of Copenhagen followed by a harsh patter of rain that can be heard from the ceiling of the living room.

Which is just enough remedy for the both of you while you rest until you suddenly ask, “what did you think of the evil dead?”

Luca almost grimaces before he states, “…I prefer midsommar.”

“I want to debunk that with you but I also want to go back to sleep.”

Luca laughs before nuzzling his cheek against your head, “Fine by me, we have time to get into it later.”

“Over pancakes?”

“Breakfast for dinner? As long as you promise to actually sit at the table with me?”

“There’s no place I’d rather be…and I also want to hear your thoughts on that film. A true Mukbang starring us two, can’t get any better than that, no?”

A smile curls onto Luca’s lips at your excitement, then he speaks, “who’s the audience then?”

“The entities that maybe lurking around this house.”

Luca pops a eye open, “I really don’t like how you just said that. Especially after you had me watching that horrid fucking film.”

“Hey! A lot of horror lovers will definitely drag you for that but don’t worry, I’ll fight anything and anyone that dares to step to my man and that’s on what?”

Luca shakes his head while pretending to think about it, “period? Or whatever it is you say. You’re still a brat for saying that though. I don’t know if you notice but Halloween isn’t until the end of the month.”

“I’m sorry,” you coo squeezing his shoulder, “but Halloween starts as soon as September hits and don’t you forget it you big baby.” You curl your hand from around Luca’s shoulder to squeeze his cheeks together.

“You’re the…baby.” Luca mimics, his cheeks now appearing like a gapping fish due to your actions, “Taking thirty naps a day and being a massive pain in my bum.”

“NAURR,” you exaggerate making Luca lift his brows in annoyance before you continue, “I’m your favorite headache.”

Luca let’s out a sigh, “you’re not wrong.”

“I never am,” you sass before the room goes quiet a bit more—besides the weather outside until you voice your thoughts out loud, “Midsommar though? Really? I wouldn’t put that and Evil Dead in the same category.”

Now it was Luca’s turn to shush you.

⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧ ⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧ ⛧°

Continue along with my October anthology prompts here.

#the bear #the bear season 2 #the bear s2 #the bear hulu #the bear fx #luca the bear #will poulter #october prompts #Luca the bear x reader #will poulter x reader #queued #Spotify

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yuechicake · 2 months ago

Text

a wound like yours doesn't know how to close.

summary: li always shows up at mhin's door unwanted and unexpectedly, bringing nothing but problems.

notes: 1k words, oc/canon, depictions of injuries and taking care of said injuries

It’s the smell that alerts Mhin to Li’s unexpected presence in their home as they push open their uncooperating door: rusty copper and old coins, sharp and nauseating on their tongue.

It’s the blood that lets them know their guess is correct, slick and shining like an oil spill in the moonlight, matted into the carpet and splashed across their scant wooden furniture.

They take a step into the foyer, pinching their nose. “Li,” they say flatly. “I told you to stop coming here.”

She lopes out of the darkness, eyes floating like pale, yellowed lanterns in the darkness. Already, they can see the source of the blood: lacerations on her arms, torn flesh leaking scarlet, soaking into her ragged clothing. More wounds on her legs and possibly under her clothing, but Mhin can’t bring themself to look closer.

“Welcome home,” she says easily. A hot flare of annoyance lances through them at her tone. At her intrusion or her audacity, they can’t be sure.

“Sit down,” they snap. “You’re getting blood everywhere.”

She acquiesces, settling on a wooden seat with a soft sigh. Mhin is already striding towards the kitchen, snatching whatever medical supplies they can think of. Medicine: it’s everywhere in their house, bandages slumbering next to books, jars of herbal ointments resting below spices. Alcohol, perched in the cabinets, doubling as disinfectant and intoxicant depending on circumstance.

They fist the handle of a bottle of rice wine, pungent as an infection as they bring their haul to Li. “Drink this,” they instruct. “It’ll dull the pain.”

“I don’t need it.”

They purse their lips. From anyone else, they would take it as a sign of useless bravado. But from Li, they know it’s nothing more than bald, honest truth, her words as clean and white as bones. She has a remarkable pain tolerance. They know this, because they’ve stitched her flesh and set bones together while she was completely sober, hardly making any sound as they put her body back together.

But it’s not that she can’t feel pain. She’s still human, after all, and her pain threshold might be above average, but it’s still well within the range of a human’s. It’s just that she’s good at tolerating the things she feels, even when her body is falling to pieces.

It pisses them off.

“Drink it anyways,” they say curtly, bringing the bottle to her lips.

She parts her lips, and drinks their offering, the wine sloshing as she swallows.

“It’s not going to do much,” she says, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. And she’s reasonable, for once. For someone like her, it might not do much more than dull the barest hint of her pain.

“It’s proper procedure,” they say, reaching for a cup of warm water and old, clean rags.

It’s not as if Mhin wants to do this.

It’s not as if they’re particularly attached to her in any way, not when she gets blood all over their floors and lounges carelessly in their home like she has every right to be there. But she comes, and they admonish, and she smiles, and still they bring out their city of bandages and disinfectants and ointments.

Li is a law of nature, and so Mhin is helpless: it’s like how the tides are pulled by the moon, and the sun rises in the east each day, and the planet revolves ever so slowly on its axis. It’s simple cause and effect, unchangeable scientific relationships that govern their world.

If Li is a wound, then they, by all means, have to be a remedy.

So they clean her injuries. They assess the damage. They wrap bandages and sew flesh and dab ointments to prevent infection. They heal, and it’s strange to put their hands towards a task other than ruining others.

To remember that, a long time ago, this is all they believed their hands to be capable of. Li offers them plenty of opportunities to remember.

They’ve come to know her body so well. The familiar melody of her heartbeat, the rigid lines of her bones, the smooth shift of her muscles. Every wound, every scar, every inch of blood pumping through her skein of veins, every layer of nerve and sinew, every slick, shining organ.

To know someone’s body like this means Mhin could break it apart as easily as sew it back together.

They press two fingers against the crescent scar curving around her neck, touch alighting on her pulse point. Strong, steady, alive. She feels so infallible at this moment.

“Any more wounds?” they say, as if they haven’t meticulously checked every inch of her themself.

“Nope,” she chirps.

“Good. If you’re done, then you can leave.”

Her arms drape loosely around their waist. “I don’t want to, though.”

“Stop bothering me.”

Her head falls against their abdomen. Even through their shirt, they can feel the heat of her body, a miniature summer sun.

They bring one hand up and ghost it over the end of her curls of hair. Not enough for her to feel it, but enough that they can feel the barest silk in their hands.

“At least clean up your own mess,” they say.

“Okay!”

“Not right now,” they grumble as she begins to stand. “You’re going to rip open your wounds again, and ruin all my work. So just… sit there.”

She nods, settles back into her seat like a dog turning over and over before it can rest.

Mhin wants to tell her never to come here again. To run to Kuras instead. To stop throwing her brute strength at things without a care.

But she won’t listen to them, the damnable fool. And if she won’t, then they should be forgiven for continuing to do what they want, too.

#liya.writes #touchstarved #li #mhin #touchstarved game #touchstarved oc

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the-fiction-witch · 14 days ago

Text

Something Special

Media - Lockwood & Co. Character - Anthony Lockwood Couple - Anthony X Reader Reader - (OC/ Named Reader) Illa Rating - 15 + Word Count - 2070

Warnings - Ghosts/ Death/ Abuse/ Horror/ Mentions of SA/

Requested - bubblegumfairy123 asked: Please write something about Anthony Lockwood!!!!!!! Ps: I love what you write <3

Anthony walked alone through the dark and rainy streets, George wasn’t talking to him again. So he just handled this alone, huddling under his jacket as he followed the address he'd been supplied rapier at hand as always. Soon enough, he arrived standing below the street lamp to look up at the place. It was a tall and aged stone house, likely Victorian, with the typical half-stone and half-metal rails common in this part of London. He looked at the windows and saw no light in any of them, almost as if the place had been abandoned already.

He approached the metal gate and found a small doorbell there so he rang, a loud bell sounding from the device as he did,

From the tinny speaker within a voice spoke, "Yes? Who is it?" the voice sounded aged like the house,

“Mr Potters? Lockwood & Co. We spoke on the phone?” Anthony introduced,

“Oh?... why… yes… of course… I must… Come in.” The man sounded confused but not alarmed,

The gate unlocked and whined as it opened for Anthony to step through, treading carefully along the cobblestone path as the gate whined and closed behind him and up to the porch.

Before he even had chance to knock the door creaked open revealing a man. He was short, thin, frail and old with a short white beard and a thick green jumper. He walked with a thick walking stick in hand and seemed to shake even with it. “Yes?”

“Mr Potters is it?”

“Yes… I- Ohh yes… of course.” Mr Potters nodded, “Do… do come in.”

Anthony nodded and slowly stepped inside the house, the place was ageing, well-worn, and cluttered with dusty antiques and spider webs. It was dark, and cold inside, as Mr Potters led him through the hallway. So he took his time to glance around the place looking for any sign of things, but nothing.

Mr Potters lead Anothny to the kitchen at the end of the hall, the room as dusty and cluttered as the hallway, with large copper pans and wood-handled utensils. He walked to the stove and tried to light it a few times but his hands were so shaky he could barely keep the match alight. “Forgive me… Old wood stove… doesn’t much like the rain.”

“Let me,” Anthony offered taking the match and lighting the old stove,

“Why thank you,” Mr Potters nodded as he began to make tea,

Anthony once again looked around the place but found no sign of anything, he was confused and felt the need to press Mr Potters about the matter. “Mr Potters I-”

“What uhhh agency are you from? Remind me?”

“Lockwood & Co.” Anthony answered, and just as he did. He heard the gentle tap of footsteps above him, like someone walking around upstairs.

“Ahh right… yes… lockwood.” Mr Potters nodded, “Forgive me… the mind, falls apart after a while.”

“It’s alright,” He nodded,

“And you are?”

“Anthony Lockwood. We spoke on the phone?” He reminds him,

“We did? Ah… yes. Of course…” Mr Potters sighed, “But… you're just a baby.”

“I assure you I am well trained and I have plenty of experience.”

“Yes, yes I’m sure.” Mr Potters nodded,

Anthony perked up once more as he heard more footsteps, this time closer like the tender quiet steps down a stairwell. By the time he turned to look, he saw someone. Not any type of ghost, it was a girl, she looked no older than him. Her hair in a long plait with a white headband to pull it back, she barely peaked around the doorframe, hiding much of herself away, but she wore a soft yellow dress with white collars and flowers. In her hands a decently large stuffed brown bear that she held also peaking around the corner. He almost found it hard not to smile at her. But as soon as he did she scampered away like a frightened little girl.

“Here we are.” Mr Potters said handing Anothny a cup of tea,

“Ah, yes. Thank you.” He smiled, “Now, about the issues you’ve been having?”

“Issues?”

“Yes? The issues? You mentioned them on the phone.”

“I did?”

“Yes… Hence why you called the agency?”

“Oh! Yes… of course, the agency.” Mr Potters nodded, “They’ll be here any minute I’m sure,”

“I- I am the agency. Sir?”

“Of course… yes… Forgive me… the mind, falls apart after a while.”

“You… already said that, Mr Potters.”

“Did I?”

Anthony nodded, “Perhaps we could, talk with your granddaughter?” He asked carefully hoping that she’d be more help.

“Hum? I have no grandchildren?”

“Oh? Daughter… then?” He asked even more cautiously,

“No. never had children.” Mr Potters said taking his tea towards the conservatory,

“Oh… a niece? Grand niece?” Anthony asked as he followed him,

They reached a tall conservatory of green metal and old glass, the rain pattering away on the panels, the dark overgrown garden beyond barely even visible in the night’s light, Ivy grew up the glass and almost seemed like the whole garden threatened to swallow it whole. Mr Potters took a seat in a rattan chair looking out into the dark garden, and he spoke with clarity that Anthony hadn’t heard from him before.

“You are here for Illa.”

“Illa?” Anthony asked setting his tea down and coming closer, “Tell me about Illa,”

“She was such a sweet girl, very kind, very patient, always please and thank you even when others didn’t.” He smiled, “It is always the sweetest ones… that are forced to turn the most sour…” He scoffed, “Curse me… but I loved her. As if she was my own.”

“Mr Potters, Who was Illa?”

“The master’s daughter, Lord and lady of the house… so thrilled the day she came. A thousand daises he said. Ordered them all to be planted in the garden for her. To be seen from her window every spring. She was a lovely girl, never turned that awful… rotten way so many of the silver spoons do. Even if they often tried to make her.”

“She sounds lovely…”

“She was about your age… then it happened.”

“I see…”

“But I… have been her caretaker for so long. I must go now. The house is being sold, and I’m going to a care home.” He explained, “And I wish her to be in the hands of someone who can take the care of her she needs.”

“Where is Illa now?”

“In her room, most days.” Mr Potters nodded,

“Thank you Mr Potters,”

“Please… I beg of you. Be gentle with her. I know she means you know harm.”

“I- I will be gentle, I promise.” Anthony nodded, He finished his tea and headed back into the house. Now seeming even darker than it once had. He kept his hand on his rapier as he walked through the house room by room.

Eventually, he found the room he needed. It was a large room with three windows that looked out to the garden. The pale yellow wallpaper, with painted white daisies. Toys and books littered the place, and an old wooden loft bed was in the corner beside one window. Below the loft bed were curtains creating a little den or hidden space that for a child would likely be their most perfect playpen. And it was there he finally saw the death glow that so often trailed with visitors.

“Go away.” her voice pleaded,

“Illa?” Anthony asked softly,

“Leave me alone… please. Just go.”

“It’s alright. It’s okay I just want to talk,” He told her rather confused as to why he could hear her so clearly not just hints and whispers but full words, He moved closer slowly.

“Stay away!” She squealed and suddenly the curtains on the bed fluttered hard as if a mighty force of air pushed them. “Please…” she whimpers, “I don’t want you hurt you.”

“And neither do I.” he spoke softly moving closer, he knelt down and pulled back the curtains revealing her within. She had a death glow but a fully formed body. Nothing like a type 1, 2 or even 3. She seemed… as if she was a part of this world not a visitor from the other side. She sat on the floor in this little hidden spot clutching her knees to her chest and her bear in her arms. Her clothes sat like real fabric, and her body seemed to move with mass and weight, even her hair every strand moved with even just the air of their breaths. He was speechless, and beyond confused but the words that fell from his lips were out of his control, “My god you’re… beautiful.” He immediately realized how awful that sounded, “No! I - Sorry I just- I’ve… never seen a visitor like you before.”

“I’m not visiting. I live here.”

He chuckled, “Yes I guess you do. I- I don’t even know what to call you.”

“Illa.”

He smiled, “Yeah, guess you’re just Illa.”

“I guess…”

“What are you doing under here?”

“It’s nice down here. I used to spend hours under here playing. I suppose it’s a comfort.”

He chuckled, “Yeah, I uhh I used to do the same with the kitchen table.”

She giggled, “Father never let me, But I always thought it would make the best of places.”

“Ohh it did.” he nodded, “Lilla I’m… a well I’m-”

“You’ve come to take me away… haven’t you?” She asked looking at his rapier,

“Oh!” He gasped but he quickly took it from his belt setting it down on the floor almost as a peace offering, “I just want to talk.”

“About what?”

“About what happened to you, Illa?”

She sniffled, “... uncle came to visit. He said I was getting so big. So pretty. Sweet like a summer strawberry. Like he always did… I begged him not to but he didn’t listen. He got so angry with me…” she pulled the collar of her dress down showing the still bloody scars of fingernails in her throat,

“He- He choked you. He choked you to death…”

She nodded,

“Where did it happen?”

She simply pointed upwards to the bed.

“...Illa… I’m so sorry.” He told her,

“Long time ago now…”

“I see, and your parents?”

“Gone. I don’t know where… I’m not sure where other people go.”

“I have to admit… not even I understand the rules sometimes.”

“It seems only I remain.”

“...I… I know how you feel Illa.” He said sadly, “It’s a horrid thing to feel so alone. Like your…”

“Left behind.”

“Left behind.” he agreed, Anthony shook his mind clear for a moment and began to think of anything he could do, but this was such a strange case he wasn’t sure how to go from here, “Do, you know where your body is?”

She nodded and pointed out the window to the overgrown garden, “Father buried me there. Bellow the daisies.”

“Do you… have anything special to you? That might be your vessel.” He explained, “If we find your vessel, we might be able to get you some peace. Where you can leave this place at least.” he moved closer his eyes looking her over and meeting her bear, “Why do you still have him? You’re a little old for teddies, aren’t you? And even after all this time?”

“My mother made him for me…” She answered, “I grew out of him. Of course but… after what happened I suppose he…”

“Felt like home.”

She nodded,

“Illa… you are… extraordinary, I have never even heard of a case like you. You’re… something special.” he moved even closer,

She flinched away from him,

“No, no. It’s okay. I promise you. I don’t want to hurt you, Illa. I just want to make sure you're safe.” He told her,

“I… I can’t stay here any longer? Can I?” she asked glancing down at her bear,

“You know Mr Potters can’t take care of you anymore… but I can.” He reassured, “If you tell me, I promise… I’ll look after you,”

Illa’s eyes met his and she tearfully offered him her teddy bear,

Anthony slowly offered his hands to her,

She slowly moved closer, and gradually she slipped her ice-cold hand into his own, she had a grip that felt as real as anyone he had ever known, and he was even able to grip her back. She set her bear in his other hand the weight of the old stuffed bear took him back for a second. “You promise me?”

“I promise Illa.” He nodded,

She nodded tears in her eyes and she pressed a tender kiss against his lips before she disappeared leaving only the bear and darkness.

Part Two?

#lockwood and co #anthony lockwood #lockwood netflix #lockwood & co #Anthony #anthonylockwood #anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood fanfic #Anthony Lockwood fanfiction #anthony fanfic #anthony lockwood imagine #lockwood and co fanfiction

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bodhranwriting · 1 month ago

Text

Hyrrokkin the Frostling Opening

There were travellers coming up the hill with the purposeful stride of people with money.

Hyrrokkin haphazardly hung up the last of the washing, catching her claws in the clothespin as she did, and then bolted back up the path.

Aeolus wasn’t in the cottage, but the gleaming kitchen flagstones which nearly sent her sliding into the table meant it hadn’t been long. Hiking up her skirts, Hyrrokkin hopped over the half-full pail and flung open the back door of the cottage.

At the bottom of the small vegetable garden, she spotted him; salt-and-copper hair falling in his eyes as he bent industriously over his task on the riverbank.

“Aeolus!”

Her mentor jerked in surprise and dropped the pot he was scouring into the water with a loud curse. Immediately, he plunged his arm in to retrieve it and snapped, “Someone better be dying!”

Hyrrokkin skidded to a halt beside him, grinning broadly and panting out tiny frost clouds. “People – coming up the hill.”

“Unless they’re attacking us, there’s no need to shout.” Aeolus lifted the pot, wrinkling his nose. The movement caused his glasses to slip, glinting in the mid-afternoon autumn sun.

“Aeolus, you promised.”

“I do not promise, I proposed. There’s a difference.”

“You said that the next expedition was when I could go solo.”

“I said, if I think they’re decent people, you could go solo. And if it’s an easy enough route.”

Hyrrokkin snorted and scratched her snout. “Most of them are easy enough. I handle the winter better than you anyway.”

Aeolus raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing.

The bell at the cottage door rang out, echoing off the hillside. Hyrrokkin turned a mournful gaze down at the human man, long ears twitching back pleadingly.

Aeolus sighed heavily and held out a hand. Beaming, Hyrrokkin took it and hauled him easily to his feet. She was small for a frostling, but still had half a head on her teacher at least and muscles were strung like beads on a string up her arms. Sta/nding next to him still felt odd – human proportions were so… tidy. So regular.

Nodding at Hyrrokkin to take her share of the pots and pans, Aeolus raised his shoulders in a casual shrug and said, “Well, let’s go see if they’re decent people, shall we?”

#writing #writeblr #fantasy #deaf #queer

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captain-mj · 2 years ago

Note

Maybe on a mission, Ghost gets knocked out and somehow (I dunno freestyle) Soap has to go into his mind to get him to wake up

At some point Soap comes across a memory of Ghost and his dad and he yells at his dad <3

Heavy on the angst pls and thanks

I've been thinking about this so long, I've been waiting for an excuse to write something like this. Kinda got long so the second half will be separate.

Tw: child abuse, self depreciative language (including slurs), talk of suicidal ideation and very mild homophobia.

~~~~

Soap knew what he needed to do. He needed to go in Ghost's mind and find the door to wake Ghost up. In the normal plan, Price would be doing this as Ghost's must trusted ally, but he was also injured, leaving just Soap to do it.

Soap had laughed. “I promise not to violate his privacy while I’m looking for the way out.”

“Johnny.” Price had said to so seriously. “Ghost has a lot of stuff in his past. You’ll see something you don’t want to. Let him show you around, understood?”

Soap frowned, sobering a bit. “Okay. I won’t. What his way out?”

“Simon is one of the easy ones. Its just a door. Red with a black handle. It’ll be hidden, you’ll have to go through some of the rooms, but like i said, let Ghost lead.”

“How dangerous is it? I know some people have things up there.”

“Not dangerous at all.” Price shook his head. “Nothing there but a few ghosts.”

The process was shockingly simple. Soap closed his eyes in a hospital room and opened them somewhere else.

An unfamiliar home. It was… old. Slightly run down but the living room, he was in seemed cozy. Full of dark blue and green with blankets scattered on most of the furniture. A smell circled the home. After a moment, he identified it as the scent of something like copper and cookies. Odd blend.

The cold hit him suddenly, the freezing chill of Manchester. He threw one of the blankets around him and went looking around for…

Simon stood in the kitchen, well he was perched on the counter, eating a thinly iced cookie. Supplies were scattered around, bowls of dough and icing. He looked up at Johnny and smiled, stepping down.

He was… wrong. For one, there was no mask, but two, he was clearly young. Barely 18 it seemed. He was tall still, but lanky, like he didn’t quite eat enough or maybe just hadn’t finished filling out.

“Johnny.” Simon smiled at him and Soap’s breath caught. He looked adorable.

“Hey, Ghost. Where… is this?” Soap tried to remember what Price and the doctors had told him. The person was different In their mind.

“Where i grew up!” Simon bounced on his toes. “I can show you some of the places? You want to know more about me, right?” He batted his eyelashes, looking….

Fuck was he shy right now? He looked like a teenager around his crush.

“Okay. And after that, we can leave right?”

“No.” Simon handed him a cookie and started walking away, humming softly. It didn’t leave much room to argue, but Soap decided it could wait a minute. Time here was a lot faster, a couple hours here were barely minutes out there, so he had all the time in the world.

The cookie tasted amazing. “Did you make this?”

“Yes. I’ve been trying to get Ghost to let me do it but he wouldn’t let me.”

“Oh. Are Ghost and you… separate?”

“No. Ghost is… a set of rules. A blanket i put on so pain doesn’t hit as hard.” Simon explained. “Personifying it makes it easier, but Ghost isn’t a person, I am.”

Soap wasn’t sure he understood but he nodded regardless. “Do you like baking?”

“I love it! My mom taught me.” He smiled again. “I used to hide in the kitchen with her when my dad got drunk.”

Oh. Oh that was…

Soap stared at him quietly but Simon didn’t seem to be bothered. “I wish i could do it more. Sometimes, on leave, I make some. I shouldn’t, I don’t eat most of it, but a couple of my neighbors are stoners so I just give it to them.”

Simon tidied as he talked, fixing things so they were military straight. “Be careful what rooms you go in, yeah?”

“You’re interesting.”

“Less of a filter here. That’s what Price says. I like Price. He acts a bit too much like a dad to me, but I let it slide because he’s nice.”

Soap smiled. He shouldn’t but… “What do you think of Gaz?”

“I like him. A bit wet behind the ears, clumsy, but he’s a great soldier.”

“And me?” Soap Maybe posed a little seductively.

Simon looked at him briefly and blushed before looking at what he was tidying. “You’re fine, I guess.” Something flashed over his head, just a little too fast for Soap to read it.

“Ouch.” Soap laughed. “You really don’t care about me huh?”

“That’s not very fair of you, ya know. Prying into me. Didn’t they tell you it’s impolite.” Simon… pouted. Honest to god pouted. His face was softer, not scarred yet besides an odd mark around his lips, like a burn. It was odd. It felt like his face was distorted, but maybe that’s just because Soap hadn’t seen it for so long.

“Hmm. I’ll let you pick my brain next time.”

“I wouldn’t let you get hurt enough to need this.” Simon said solemnly, catching his gaze. “Never.”

Johnny blinked. “Come on, Simon. Let’s get out of here, yeah? We can get some bourbon. I’ll even drink it with you.” He suddenly very much wanted to not be there. To be in the real world where Simon was older and didn’t just say things like that.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t want to leave yet.” Simon stretched, shoulders rolling.

“Do you know where the door is?”

“No. You can look in the rooms with yellow doors if you want to start searching. I need to clean first.”

Soap had half a mind to argue that he had been told explicitly not to do that, but then decided it would be fine.

Johnny noticed the room was rather dusty, but he brushed it off. He walked away from, looking down the hallway. No red doors, but that was usual. It would be hidden somewhere. Two yellow doors, two red, four blue and…

A creepy metal door at the end. How lovely. He’d come back to that.

He went into one of the blue ones, surprised to find party music. Ghost went to high school parties? That was an odd idea to think about.

He was so tiny. Soap had never considered Ghost as being short. I mean technically he wasn’t, he was still 5′8, but he looked so tiny. His hair was dark instead of the bleached look he was accustomed to. It fell in his eyes and...

He had pierced ears. Simon was just wearing some simple studs, but his ears were pierced.

“I’m going to bully you for that one LT. Just you wait.” He followed him, watching him drink a can of beer, the shitty kind that you only drink because you’re at a party.

One person was so much clearer than everyone else, most of Ghost’s attention on them. They were about Soap’s height, shaggy brown hair and a permanent smirk on his face. Soap watched them make eye contact and Ghost quickly looked away, blushing.

Oh.

Soap already had a feeling about Ghost’s sexuality. The man didn’t talk about it much, but he showed zero interest in women. He was always the first to start beating a man for trying to spike a drink or take an obviously too drunk girl home, but when flirted with, he’d just turn them down. It was an open secret that Ghost was not straight.

Still nice to have confirmation. He glanced around, not seeing the red door or the door to go back to the hallway, so he decided to just keep following him. Eventually the memory would end.

The two boys ended up just a little too close on a balcony.

The other guy hummed. “Cold?”

Simon nodded mutely, blushing hard. Instead of offering his jacket, the guy moved closer.

The kiss was clumsy. Their teeth clacked but eventually, the guy’s arms ended up around Simon’s waist and they slowed down a bit.

Someone made a noise and they sprang apart. Both blushing hard.

“Don’t tell anyone about this, yeah Riley?”

Simon nodded immediately. “Yeah, of course. Wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation.” It was said with a grin, but Johnny couldn’t help how much that hurt to hear.

Poor kid.

The guy nodded and awkwardly punched his shoulder before leaving him there. Simon finished the can and smiled to himself, that soft blush still across his face.

“It was my first. Had a lot of better ones since then.” Slightly older Simon appeared again.

“Ever tell your family?”

“My brother found out by looking through my room. Found some... magazines I had.” Simon turned bright red. “Luckily he never told our parents. Dad would’ve killed me.”

“Oh. Forgot you’re quite a bit older than me. Still looking at magazines.” Soap teased, trying to lighten the mood.

“I’m only 29, you know that right?” Simon smiled at him.

“What?” Soap turned to him. “The fuck do you mean??”

“Yeah, just 29.”

“I’m 24. I didn’t realize we were that close.”

“How old did you think I was??”

“Like Price’s age.”

“You know Price is 37 right?”

Soap rubbed his temple. “This is too much information for me.”

Simon laughed and something flashed above his head. Like a cartoon with flashing light and an arrow.

“Murderer.”

Soap flinched but Simon didn’t notice. “Let get out of here. The door isn’t here.” He grabbed Soap’s hand, his skin warm against his own. Soap followed him, getting pulled into a new yellow door.

It was a butcher shop.

Simon hummed. “Nothing interesting happens here. Just hurry up and look around.”

“Why were you in a butcher shop?”

“It was my first job!” Simon said excitedly. “This is how I learned most of my knife skills. The butcher taught me a couple of knife tricks too.”

“Cool.” Soap nodded. Made a lot of sense actually.

Simon showed him around the small building, including the freezer. There wasn’t another version of him like in the previous place. Now that he was really looking, there was no one.

No red door. They stepped back into the hallway.

Simon sighed. “I don’t want you to look through the other rooms. I can’t convince you to just stay in my head forever, can I?”

“Nope!” Soap picked a blue door at random and went straight in.

It was of him. More specifically, him training with the rest of the 141 for their yearly assessments. He hated those.

After a moment, he picked up on it. Everyone else was in color, but slightly fuzzy like Ghost hadn’t been focusing on them. But just like the guy from the party, Johnny was in sparkling 4K resolution.

“you pay a lot of attention to me, don’t ya, LT?” Johnny smiled and looked above Simon’s head just in time to see it.

“Faggot.” This time with several arrows pointed to him.

“You’re loud. Draws my attention.” He was clearly lying, avoiding eye contact with him.

“Why is this door blue?”

“Everything after the accident is blue.”

“What was the accident?”

“When my entire family was murdered. Obviously.” Simon looked at him. “I know you read my file, Johnny.”

“Didn’t include anything about that.” Soap mumbled.

“Ah. Oh well. You would’ve found the memory eventually anyway.” Simon leaned into him suddenly, his head falling on his shoulder. “The red door is there sometimes. I get lucky occasionally and its behind one of these.”

“This happen often?” Johnny tried to pretend the amount of contact wasn’t making him flustered. He was pretty. He’d choose his Simon over this past one, but he wouldn’t deny they were both gorgeous.

“Yeah. I tend to be rather reckless. Price thinks I’m suicidal.”

“Are you?”

“Definitely. I try not to make him worry though.” Simon saw the face Johnny made and backtracked slightly. “You don’t have to worry either. My therapist knows. I’m not actively. Just don’t try to keep myself alive as much as the average person does.”

“Oh.” Soap stared at him and he could see him getting uncomfortable.

Simon went to pull away and Johnny turned, pulling him back so they were hugging now. He melted in Soap’s hands and wrapped his arms around him tight.

They pulled back in tandem and avoided each other’s eyes before fumbling to a new door.

Johnny went to the red door directly across the hall. Simon grabbed his arm tight but didn’t stop him. He buried his face in his back as they went in.

A man who looked a lot like Simon was sitting in the living room of the same house Soap had first appeared in. Simon and a small, darker haired child sat at the table with him.

“Frank.” Ghost mumbled to him. “The man’s name.”

Frank had a snake, an extremely large one at that, wrapped around his shoulders. It moved slowly as it trailed along his arm.

“C’mon Simon.” His voice slurred and Soap could see his pupils were far too big.

“What’s he high on?”

“Heroin probably.” Ghost hid his face in Soap’s hair, pulling him against his chest.

Frank hummed. “Not scared are you?”

This Simon looked even younger than the other. Probably only 8 if Soap had to guess. He shook his head but Soap could see his hands shaking where they were pressed to his thighs.

Frank moved the snake closer, its head coming so close to the child in that seat. Soap didn’t know what was going to happen, but he knew it was going to be bad. Ghost trembled against him, the strongest person he knew, trembling at the sight of this fucking asshole.

“Dad.” Simon said softly, unable to keep the tremble out of his face. Frank moved closer and before Soap even realized what he was doing, he backhanded Simon out of the chair and to the floor. That tiny fucking kid.

“You’re so fucking annoying. It’s a snake. It’s nothing to be scared of. It’s just a goddamn animal.” He grabbed Simon by his shirt collar, yanking him up he was dangling half on the ground, unable to get his feet under him. “Your bitch of a mother ruined you. Made you such a fucking pussy.” He shook him while he talked.

Simon didn’t flinch. Just stared up completely blank besides the tiniest wobble of his bottom lip.

“He’s a fucking child.” Soap snapped, but nothing happened.

Frank grabbed the snake, suddenly pushing it closer and closer to Simon’s face. It’s mouth opened, venom clearly dripping.

The burns around his mouth. Venom would leave those burns.

“You’re such a useless kid, you know that?” It was stupid of Soap, but he couldn’t just watch that. He shoved him, surprised to find Frank was solid. The man looked at him, dropping the kid.

“What are you doing?”

“You’re a shit dad.” Soap stared at him. Ghost might find him scary, but he had been a kid. Soap could see him for what he was. “You’re a fucking junkie and that’s it.”

Frank stared at him. “Who the fuck are you?”

“His...” Soap didn’t have a word. “I’m his. That’s all that matters. And you’re not going to fucking touch him.”

Frank blinked before just disappearing. They were thrown back into the hallway this time.

Simon leaned into him, his chest to Soap’s back to hide his face. He shook hard.

“You’re okay, Ghost. I promise.”

“I want to go home now, Johnny. Want that drink.”

“I’ll get you out of here buddy. Promise.”

#Johnny Soap Mactavish #Simon Ghost Riley #Soap Cod #Ghost COD #Soapghost #Ghostsoap #Soap x Ghost #Ghost x Soap #Macriley #Call of Duty #Call Of Duty Modern Warfare 2

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fanfics4world · 3 months ago

Text

Chapter 3 - Tea and confessions

Daniel, the White Knight, was returning to the castle after a long mission. His armour glittered in the moonlight, and his white cloak billowed with every firm step he took.

As he reached the castle gates, Daniel noticed unusual activity. The guards seemed more tense than usual, and the atmosphere was charged with a palpable unease.

As he rounded the corner, he found two guards guarding the kitchen door; he knew it was Skye, for the kitchen was one of the few places where the princess found peace and calm in the palace. Their stances were rigid, and their gazes watchful. Daniel stopped in front of them, his presence imposing and his gaze steady.

"Good evening, knights. You can retire to rest. I'll take it from here"

The guards exchanged glances, hesitating for a moment.

"Sire, the Queen has ordered us to watch the princess wherever she goes"

Daniel nodded, understanding the situation. "I understand, but I'll take care of it. The princess is safe with me"

The guards finally relented, bowing their heads in respect before retreating. Daniel watched them walk away, making sure no one else was left in the hallway. Then he walked over to the kitchen door and carefully opened it.

The kitchen of the White Kingdom was a place of breathtaking beauty and elegance. The walls were lined with white marble, with grey veins that seemed to dance in the light of the crystal chandeliers. The floor, also of marble, reflected the light of the chandeliers, creating a luminous and serene atmosphere. The countertops were of an even purer marble, immaculate and gleaming, as if they had never been touched by human hands.

Cabinets, white wood carved with intricate floral designs, lined the walls, providing a delicate contrast to the marble. The cabinet handles were silver, polished to shine like little mirrors. In the centre of the kitchen, a large marble island served as a workspace, surrounded by high stools with white velvet cushions.

The air was permeated with the scent of fresh herbs and spices, stored in glass jars lined up on open shelves. Copper and stainless steel cooking utensils hung neatly from hooks on the wall, ready for use. The kitchen was a place of constant activity, but at the moment, it was silent except for the soft crackle of the fire in the fireplace.

Skye was sitting at one of the tables, her head resting on her hands. The calm of the kitchen was a haven for her, a place where she could escape the stresses of the palace. But her peace was interrupted when she heard the door open.

"I strictly asked not to be disturbed"

"You don't even want to greet your knight?"

Skye lifted her head, and upon seeing Daniel, a smile tugged at her lips. "Daniel, you're back" she said, but Daniel immediately noticed the mark on her cheek, a sign of the recent altercation with her mother. His expression hardened.

Everyone in the palace had witnessed, at one time or another, the White Queen's treatment to her daughter. Servants whispered in the corridors, and guards exchanged sympathetic glances when they saw Skye. The pressure of being the perfect heiress had scarred her soul, and at times, her body as well.

Daniel approached her and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "What happened?"

Skye averted her gaze, trying to hide her pain. "It's nothing, Daniel. Just another argument"

Daniel vividly remembered the day the Queen knighted him as Skye's knight. At first, the princess barely spoke to him, keeping a cool, reserved distance. Over time, however, Daniel managed to break through that barrier, showing Skye that he didn't care about the perfection everyone expected of her. In him, Skye found a friend, someone who accepted her imperfections and valued her for who she really was.

Now, Daniel felt caught in a whirlwind of helplessness. His mission as a knight was to protect Skye at all costs, but how could he protect her from the same person to whom he had sworn loyalty?

The next day, Bridget's mind couldn't stop flashing back to her nighttime encounter with Skye.

How they danced to the music, how their bodies seemed to coordinate in a magical way, and how they were about to share their first kiss.

In that instant, Bridget let herself be carried away by the impulse, by that invisible thread that pulled her lips to Skye's, who didn't seem to dislike the idea either. And then the Cheshire cat appeared, Bridget couldn't help but smile at the look on Skye's face, clearly disappointed by the interruption.

And then came the promise of a second meeting, at the place where they first met, which made Bridget excited.

What are you planning Skye?

"What gardens is your mind stuck in, sweetheart?"

Bridget snapped out of her thoughts at her mother's question, blushing. "Nothing I was just thinking about the dance yesterday mum," Bridget replied. Her mother smiled.

"I guess it all went well in the end," said her mother and a big smile formed on Bridget's face. "It was amazing! You should have seen her mum, she looked spectacular, everything was just spectacular" Bridget replied excitedly, which warmed her mother's heart.

"Well, you'll have to introduce me to that secret date you're so excited about, it would be a pleasure to meet her," Bridget's smile faltered for a moment, she looked at her mother, whose gaze reflected something Bridget couldn't quite identify, as if she already knew about Skye. No, Bridget shook her head dismissing the thought, it wasn't possible.

"Yeah... I'm sure you'll love it..." Bridget replied, trying to sound as normal as possible. Her mother wanted to meet her date, she wanted to meet Skye. There was no possible way this was going to end well, what was she supposed to say to her when they saw her, it was clear that Skye's appearance, her pale skin, her white hair, did not belong to a citizen of the Kingdom of Hearts.

"Mom this is Skye, the daughter of the White Queen, your greatest enemy, I met her in the forest near the border, as she likes to cross the wall and enter our kingdom" and also, "I invited her to your ball and we danced in front of the pond, she sneaked into the castle avoiding the guards and tomorrow I'm meeting her again"

There was no possible way Bridget would dare tell her mother the truth about Skye's identity.

"That's why I wanted to ask your permission, to meet her tomorrow, and I would like to well, be able to be with her without the guards" she said, Bridget didn't dare sneak out of the castle, she would rather risk asking her mother for the favour of leaving the castle unescorted.

Her mother frowned, she clearly didn't like her daughter's request, but she seemed to be mulling over her decision. "I don't know sweetheart, I don't like the idea of you leaving the castle unguarded, it could be dangerous" replied her mother, Bridget pouted.

"Please mum" Bridget pleaded. "We can't both be comfortable if I have guards following us, I want us both to be able to spend time alone"

Her mother watched her carefully, her eyes reflecting a mixture of concern and understanding. She already knew the truth, she had stepped out into the garden for a moment to get some fresh air, when she saw her daughter dancing with a young girl.

She watched from a distance, hidden in the shadows. Her gaze hardened as she recognised Skye White, the daughter of her enemy, in her castle, in her kingdom. The initial impulse was to call the guards and have her caught immediately. But something stopped her.

As the two young women danced, her mother noticed the way they looked at each other, how their bodies moved in perfect synchronicity, as if they were made for each other. The hardness in her heart began to soften as she saw the glint of love in her daughter's eyes. As much hatred and resentment as she held for the White Queen, she could not ignore the happiness that radiated from Bridget in that moment.

Her mother knew she could not blame Skye for her mother's actions. She decided, in that instant, to prioritize her daughter's happiness over her own bitterness. However, she promised herself that if Skye hurt Bridget, she would not hesitate to act.

"All right, you have my permission, but I want you back at the palace by dinnertime"

Bridget's face lit up. She stood up, rounded the dining room table and hugged her mother tightly. "Thank you!" she said before letting go of her mother and running to her room, as her mother smiled warmly.

I hope for your sake Skye that you know how to appreciate my daughter.

After the conversation with her mother, time seemed to pass faster for Bridget, so much so that night had already fallen over Wonderland.

Bridget was about to crawl into bed when she heard three knocks on the balcony door of her room, confused, she approached the glass door, only to discover that on the other side was a floating envelope.

Bridget opened the door and the envelope came into the room.

"Special delivery for the princess," Bridget was surprised when the Cheshire cat appeared in front of her, holding the envelope.

"It's you," Bridget said, the cat's smile grew bigger, which made Bridget's skin crawl for a second.

"I'm Chessur, but you can call me Chess. Skye asked me to deliver this letter to you," he said, Bridget took the envelope, and in a second, Chessur disappeared, leaving a faint trail of smoke.

Bridget sat down on her bed and looked at the letter, it looked like a normal envelope, except that it was stamped with a seal with the initials SW. Bridget opened the envelope and read the contents of the letter.

Princess,

I hope Chess didn't disturb you too much by delivering this letter, I would have liked to tell you in person, but my mother has me under the watchful eye of her guards, and I couldn't risk crossing the border.

About our meeting tomorrow, meet me half an hour before the clock strikes teatime.

I want to see you again already.

Skye.

"I realise you love adventure and danger, but this is too much, even for you Skye"

Skye couldn't help but roll her eyes at Tarrant's response. She doesn't even know why for a moment she trusted Chess not to say anything, but he did, and as a result, she was now being sermonised by the Mad Hatter.

She and Daniel had gone to visit him at his home, Tarrant lived on the outskirts of town, far from the people and the perfection the queen demanded. That was one of the many reasons he quickly became friends with the rebellious princess, they both defied the written rules, but Skye was happy that her mother allowed Tarrant to be outside of her perfection, even if she sometimes envied it.

Tarrant's workshop was filled with hats of all shapes and sizes, and the air smelled of tea and madness.

Not a minute had passed since the tea had been served that he began to sermonise to her. Skye took a sip of her tea before looking out the window at the 5 chess soldiers keeping watch outside the workshop.

"First of all, keep your voice down please. If they hear you, my mother will find out and I may as well be dead, Tarrant. You don't understand what this means to me," he said. Tarrant stopped his frantic pacing and sat down in his usual chair next to Skye.

"You're okay with this?", Tarrant looked at Daniel, who remained standing next to Skye despite attempts to get him to sit down to make himself more comfortable.

Daniel sighed. When Skye filled him in on the latest events in her life, he didn't even know why he was surprised. He knew Skye too well to know that despite her constant pursuit of danger, she wouldn't go into such danger if she didn't think it was worth it. To him Skye's happiness was above any oath or duty as a knight, and he knew Skye would not find happiness in the White Kingdom.

"Even if I didn't agree, Hatter. Do you think even I could do anything to stop it?" he replied, which made Skye smile innocently, as if it wasn't her life at stake.

"Skye, I know living here is complicated, especially with your mother and her rules, but seriously. Of all the people you could date, the princess of hearts? It's bad enough that I have to have your back on your escapades across the border," she said, picking up her teacup, which was shaking from her nerves. Skye sighed.

"You can't tell anyone Tarrant, it's bad enough I have to let Chess know" Skye asked, Tarrant watched her, hesitating about what to do.

"Skye, this is very serious, much more serious than crossing the border"

Tarrant looked at her with concern. "I should warn your mother. She needs to know"

Skye could feel Daniel tense beside her, even he was unable to imagine what the queen would do to Skye if she discovered the truth, and if to protect her she had to.... Well, eliminate some trouble. He wouldn't hesitate to do so.

"No, Tarrant. If my mother finds out, it's all over. She'll never let me leave the castle again"

Tarrant frowned, clearly conflicted. "Why is it so important to you, Skye?"

"What I feel with Bridget is nothing I've ever felt before. It's something real. I feel like I'm finally in control of something in my life. I can't lose this, Tarrant"

He watched her silently, seeing the sincerity in her eyes. Finally, he sighed and nodded. "All right, Skye. I'll keep your secret, but if this is serious, you'd better start thinking about how you're going to tell your mother that her daughter's mother-in-law is the Queen of Hearts"

Skye couldn't help but laugh, no doubt that wouldn't be easy, but she was content to keep it a secret for the time being. "Thank you, Tarrant. You'll meet her tomorrow. I'll bring her over so we can all have tea together"

Tarrant smiled, though his concern did not entirely disappear. "I hope you know what you're doing, Skye"

Skye nodded, determined. "I know, Tarrant. I know"

Bridget walked briskly through the forest near the border, her heart pounding. The afternoon sun filtered through the leaves of the trees, creating a play of light and shadow on the stone path. The place where she had met Skye was just around the corner, and the princess couldn't help but smile at the thought of seeing her again.

The scent of spring flowers filled the air, and Bridget paused for a moment to inhale deeply. She remembered every detail of that encounter: Skye's laughter, her gaze shining, and the way her words had made the world seem brighter. She hadn't stopped thinking about her since.

When she arrived, however, she didn't find Skye alone. Beside her, a majestic white horse glistened in the sun, its silver armour glinting like stars in the night.

Bridget stared at the horse in awe. She had never seen such an imposing and beautiful creature. The combination of the armour and the purity of the white coat seemed like magic. Skye, with her mischievous smile, approached Bridget.

Bridget felt a knot in her stomach at the sight of the reddish mark on Skye's cheek. The princess of the White Kingdom, always so strong and confident, now showed a vulnerability Bridget had never seen before. Who could be capable of hurting Skye?

Bridget felt a surge of protectiveness and affection for her. She wanted to hold her, to comfort her, and to make sure she never had to suffer again. The mark on Skye's cheek was a painful reminder that even the strongest people could be hurt, and Bridget was determined to stand by her side, no matter what.

"If I'd known Star would steal all your attention, I'd have thought twice about bringing her along," Skye said, a spark of amusement in her eyes. Bridget couldn't help but smile.

The horse whinnied softly, as if it, too, recognised Bridget. The princess reached out to stroke its soft mane. "I never imagined I'd find something so beautiful here," she murmured.

Skye moved even closer, her hand brushing Bridget's. "Sometimes the most beautiful things are right in front of us," Skye said, which made Bridget blush. "Ready for a new adventure?"

Skye mounted the horse, waiting for Bridget. "The truth is...I don't know how to ride," Bridget confessed.

Skye smiled, holding out her hand to Bridget. "Don't worry," she whispered. "I won't let you fall" Bridget nodded, feeling the warmth of the promise in the palm of her hand.

Carefully, Skye helped Bridget onto the horse, placing her in front of her. The animal's white fur was soft under her trembling fingers. "Ready?" asked Skye.

Bridget nodded. The wind rustled through the leaves of the trees as the horse began to move.

"Now you must close your eyes, cupcake," said Skye, "otherwise the surprise will be spoiled"

Bridget obeyed. The world faded away, and only the sensation of the horse moving beneath her remained. Skye guided her expertly, and Bridget held on to her promise.

The horse galloped into the hollow of the border, and Bridget smiled, allowing herself to relax and rest her back against Skye's chest, noticing how she smelled of vanilla and mint, an intoxicating mixture.

Time in the dark stretched like a silken thread, and Bridget felt uncertainty curl in her chest. The air grew colder, and the muffled sound of the horse's hooves echoed in her ears; they were picking up speed.

Then Skye's voice broke the silence. "You can open your eyes now, princess"

Bridget blinked, her heart pounding. When her eyes met the light, her breath caught for the third time that week.

The path of white roses stretched out before Bridget like a dreamy path. On either side, fields of white roses spread out as far as the eye could see.

The flowers, like snowflakes, rise on slender stems. Their soft, snowy petals catch the sunlight, creating an ethereal glow. Each rose seems a small universe unto itself: delicate, yet resilient. The intoxicating scent floats in the air, enveloping Bridget like a warm embrace.

The path meanders, inviting her to explore further. The roses intertwine, forming a white tapestry that seems to merge with the sky. Some are in full bloom, while others are still shyly awakening. The wind whispers secrets among the petals, and Bridget feels she has crossed into a kingdom where time fades.

"Welcome to the White Kingdom," Skye said, her voice soft as a caress.

Bridget could barely articulate words. "It's... it's beautiful," she whispered.

The white horse, guided by Skye, turned off the rose path and into a dense forest. The trees seemed to whisper ancient secrets, and sunlight filtered through the leaves, creating a play of shadows on the ground.

The air grew cooler, and the sense of the unknown filled her with anticipation.

Finally, they emerged from the trees Before her stood a house shaped like a top hat, like something out of a twisted fairy tale. The roof was pitched, the windows of different sizes and shapes.

A place where time bent and normal rules didn't apply. The walls were painted in vibrant colours, and in the garden, a large table held teapots and singing cups. The scent of tea and madness hung in the air.

"I hope you don't mind if we have tea with some friends of mine before I show you my second surprise," said Skye getting off her horse. She held out her hand to help Bridget down. ""It would be my pleasure,"" she replied before taking Skye's hand and getting off the horse.

Skye led Bridget to the table, where Chessur, Tarrant and Daniel were waiting for her. Skye found the scene quite funny, Chessur was over Daniel's head, obviously trying to annoy him, Daniel had a look of wanting to make the cat disappear while Tarrant was busy making tea.

"Can't you even behave for a moment, Chess?" Skye said smirking. All three boys raised their heads to look at them.

"Guys, this is Bridget. Bridget, this is Daniel, my knight, Tarrant, the mad hatter, and well, you know Chess," said Skye. Bridget raised a shy smile. Tarrant rose from the table, and removing his top hat, did a graceful curtsy. "A pleasure to meet you, your highness," he said. Bridget smiled, "No need for formalities, just Bridget," she said.

Tarrant nodded before going back to preparing the tea. "I hope you like mint tea, well, it's not like there are any other kinds of tea here either," Tarrant said before pouring the tea into five cups.

Skye guided Bridget to a white wooden chair next to hers. Daniel sat across from them, and as always, Tarrant presided over the table.

Daniel watched Bridget with a mixture of distrust and curiosity. He had heard a lot about her, but seeing her in person was different. There was something about her presence that unsettled him, though he couldn't identify exactly what it was. However, he remembered Skye's words: Bridget was not a danger, and if she made her happy, he could only accept that.

Despite his reservations, Daniel decided to trust Skye's judgment. If she believed in Bridget, so should he. He watched as the two princesses interacted, noting the genuine connection between them. Though he still felt a slight mistrust, Daniel realized that his loyalty to Skye meant accepting Bridget into his life. And if that meant protecting her as well, he was willing to do that.

"Don't let Daniel intimidate you, despite his tough looks and that armor that shines too bright, he's a softie," Skye said, which made Bridget laugh. Daniel rolled his eyes.

"You Bridget, don't let Skye confuse you, despite looking tough on the outside, she's a softie" said Daniel, Skye smiled.

"We'll see if you say the same to my sword" challenged Skye.

"Anytime princess"

"Well, before this turns into a battlefield, let's have tea before it gets cold," said Tarrant.

The afternoon passed in a dreamy atmosphere in the Mad Hatter's House. The scent of freshly brewed tea filled the air, mingling with the sweet perfume of the white roses that surrounded the place.

Tarrant, with his trademark hat and mischievous smile, began to tell stories of Skye's childhood. "Did you know that Skye used to hide in the cupboards to avoid her lessons in manners?" he said, winking at Bridget. "Once, we found her asleep in the coats""

Bridget laughed, imagining a young Skye rebelling against the strict palace rules. Skye, her cheeks flushed, tried to defend herself. "That was a long time ago! And besides, the lessons were boring"

"What about the time you tried to ride Star and ended up in the pond?" continued Tarrant, laughing. "I've never seen someone so soaked and so happy at the same time"

Bridget couldn't contain her laughter. Each story revealed a more human and charming side of Skye, and her heart filled with warmth. Every second she spent with Skye, she felt her affection for her grow deeper and deeper.

After tea, Skye and Daniel decided to engage in a friendly sword duel. Bridget watched with interest as the two prepared. Daniel, with his firm stance and focused gaze, seemed a formidable opponent. But Skye, with her grace and agility, was no slouch.

The duel began, and the swords clashed with a metallic clang. Skye moved with impressive dexterity, dodging Daniel's attacks and striking back with precision. Bridget watched, marvelling at Skye's skill. Each move was graceful and calculated, and it soon became clear that Skye had the advantage.

Finally, with a quick twist, Skye disarmed Daniel, sending his sword crashing to the ground. "Admit I'm a better knight than you," Skye said, smiling triumphantly.

Daniel, though defeated, smiled respectfully. "You're the better knight"

Bridget felt a surge of admiration and love for Skye. Seeing her in action, so strong and confident, only reinforced her feelings. She wished these moments of happiness together with Skye would never end. In that instant, she knew she was falling in love with her, and that she would do anything to protect and be by her side.

Skye helped Tarrant and Chessur carry the cups and plates into the house. "I'll be back in a moment, cupcake," she said, winking at Bridget before disappearing behind the door.

Bridget was left alone with Daniel, feeling a slight discomfort in the air. Daniel watched her for a moment, his eyes serious but kind. Finally, he broke the silence.

"Do you love her?"

Bridget's face flushed instantly. She hadn't expected such a direct question. She looked down, fiddling nervously with her hands. "Yes," she admitted quietly, "I love her"

Daniel smiled, and the tension in the air seemed to dissipate. "I'm glad to hear that," he said. "Skye's life hasn't been easy in the White Kingdom. She's had to face a lot of hardships, but knowing she has someone like you by her side, someone who loves and supports her, gives me peace of mind"

Bridget looked up, meeting Daniel's eyes. In his expression, she saw a mixture of approval and relief. "I'll do everything I can to stand by her side and protect her," Bridget promised.

Daniel nodded, satisfied with her answer. "That's all I can ask. Skye deserves to be happy, and if you can give her that, then you have my support"

At that moment, Bridget felt a deeper connection with Daniel. She knew that, although he was protective and distrustful by nature, he also wanted what was best for Skye. And that united them in a common purpose: the happiness and well-being of the princess of the White Kingdom.

The white horse galloped gently, leading Skye and Bridget towards an unknown destination. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, tinting the sky with warm, golden hues. Bridget clung to the horse's mane, feeling the excitement and anticipation in her chest.

"Where are you taking me?" asked Bridget curiously.

Skye smiled, her eyes sparkling with mystery. "To a place where the roses touch the sky at sunset," she replied. "It's one of my favorite places in the whole kingdom"

Bridget nodded, feeling lucky to be there. The landscape changed as they went on: the trees became more spaced out, and the breeze carried with it the sweet scent of flowers. Finally, they reached the hill.

Before them lay a sea of white roses. Bridget climbed down from the horse, her feet sinking into the soft grass. Skye followed, and together they walked into the field of roses.

The sun was setting behind the mountains, painting the sky with shades of pink.

Skye sat down on the grass and then reached out her hand to Bridget. "Come here," she said. Bridget sat down next to her, resting her head in her lap. Skye stroked her hair, and Bridget closed her eyes, feeling at peace.

The world came down to the two of them. Bridget wished this moment would never end. Skye's closeness, the scent of flowers, and the softness of her caress enveloped her like a spell.

"What will be the first thing you do when you become queen?" asked Skye, Bridget paused for a moment to think.

"I would like to unify the kingdoms"

Skye looked at Bridget with a mixture of surprise and amusement. "Unify both kingdoms?" she repeated, as if considering the idea.

Bridget nodded, feeling a little braver. "The Kingdom of Hearts and the White Kingdom could be stronger together instead of apart"

Skye smiled, and her gaze grew more intense. "You know, Bridget," she said quietly. "To unify the kingdoms you would have to marry me"

Bridget felt her heart pounding. "And where would the problem be?" she asked, with a bravery she didn't know she had.

Skye looked at Bridget with a mixture of surprise and sadness. "Bridget," she said quietly, "you deserve someone better than me. Someone without so many scars"

Bridget felt as if her heart was in a fist. "No," she replied bravely, "I want you Skye. Scars and all. I don't care what baggage you bring. I'm willing to carry it with you, to face any challenge. Because what I feel for you is stronger than anything"

Skye was surprised, her eyes widening at Bridget's words. "I'm broken, I'm a lost cause. How could someone like you love someone like me?" she muttered, as if she couldn't believe it.

Bridget stepped a little closer, her determination shining in her eyes. "You're not a lost cause, Skye," she said softly. "If you're broken, I'll help fix you"

Skye looked up at her, her eyes full of emotion. "What if I can't offer you the happiness you deserve?"

Bridget smiled, leaning a little closer. "Then together we will find happiness, Skye. Because what we have is real, and I'm willing to fight for it"

And in that moment, surrounded by white roses and with the sunset painting the sky, Skye leaned into Bridget and their lips met in a sweet, promising kiss.

The world seemed to stand still as thousands of white butterflies, formed from the petals of the roses, flew into the evening sky. It was as if the magic of their love manifested itself in that instant.

As they parted, Bridget was amazed at what she saw. White butterflies danced in the air, creating a magical atmosphere. "It's beautiful," she whispered.

Skye smiled and asked, "Have you even looked in the mirror, princess?"

The blush on Bridget's cheeks intensified, and in that moment, she knew she had found something more precious than any kingdom or crown: true love.

Masterlist

#descendants the rise of red #bridget descendants #bridget #princess red #descendantsriseofred #descendants #queen of hearts #bridget x oc #cinderella #wlw #glg #disney #alternative history #original character #time travel #fluff #angst #bridget of hearts #bridget of wonderland

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