#and was like. okay just try circling some of these then

[pickingupmymercedes]

A bit mushy - Lewis Hamilton

Let's see how Lewis and his wife do in a Couple's Interview.

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader!

warnings: none

wordcount: +3k

a/n: Fun and light Lewis for the win, again thanks a million times to @greedyjudge2 for the idea and for some of the questions, I know I don't usually write carefree Lewis but it's my favorite ❤️❤️

As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi!

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The room was buzzing—cameras being adjusted, light stands tweaked and a handful of crew members chatting as they waited for everything to come together.

Lewis sat comfortably on the low-slung, cushy armchair beside his wife, his hand resting casually on the back of her seat tracing lazy circles on her back. They looked impossibly relaxed, as if the cameras were invisible, and this was just another day at home.

The director, a laid-back guy with a coffee stain on his jeans and a clipboard that looked way too serious for the vibe of the shoot, strolled over.

He was juggling his phone and an energy drink, clearly a man trying to keep his cool while wrangling two of the most charismatic people in motorsports.

“Okay, so this should be easy” he started, his voice overly casual like he almost didn’t want to disturb the couple’s chemistry “No serious stuff. No PR-approved answers. We’re here for the real deal. Just answering a few questions about each other, nothing too scandalous. Think... fun, but, y’know, juicy enough to make people smile.”

Lewis’s wife, legs crossed and leaning slightly into her husband’s space, raised an eyebrow. “Define juicy” a sly smile tugging at her lips.

The director chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “You know, like... light-hearted scandal. Stuff people don’t already know. Maybe embarrass him a little—" he motioned to Lewis—"but in a cute way.”

Lewis shot the director a mock glare “Right, you don’t really need to ask her that” he said, his voice dripping with good-humored sarcasm.

His wife snorted, turning to face him with a grin. “Promise not to dig too deep. Unless we’re talking about those sneakers you wore to the beach...”

Lewis groaned, tilting his head back dramatically. “Not the beach sneakers again! One time and I’m branded for life.”

The crew around them snickered, and even the sound guy adjusted his headphones to cover a grin.

There was something about the way they bickered that had the whole room leaning in, as if everyone was witnessing the most intimate, casual conversation between two people who just fit.

The director, fully entertained, motioned to the cameraman to get ready. “Alright, alright. Let’s save the good stuff for the shoot. Remember, it’s just you two being yourselves. No need to put on a show.”

His wife reached over and squeezed Lewis’s hand. “No promises.”

As they shared a quiet laugh, the subtle touches and glances between them were enough to make anyone nearby smile. There was no need for grand gestures—the way they leaned into each other, how their conversations flowed effortlessly, said more than any scripted moment ever could.

They had that kind of love that made everyone else feel like they were in on something out of ordinary, just by watching.

The cameras zoomed in slowly as the couple got comfortable in their seats. Lewis leaned back, his arm still slung casually around his wife’s chair, his body slight angled so he could face her better, and she tucked one leg underneath her, turning toward him like she always did when they were in the middle of one of their many quiet conversations.

Except this wasn’t quite so quiet. The cameras were rolling now, and the world was about to get a glimpse into how they were with each other.

The director's voice came through, just loud enough to hear but never intrusive.

“Alright, let’s get this rolling. What embarrassing fashion trend did you take part in?”

Lewis immediately leaned forward, rubbing his hands together as if he was preparing for battle. “I’ll own this one. Bandanas. Wore them with everything back in the day. Thought I was some kind of rockstar or something.”

She tilted her head, eyebrows shooting up. “Bandanas?” she asked, feigning surprise. Her eyes glimmered with mischief, and she leaned closer, as if letting the audience in on a secret. “You sure it wasn’t the Timberlands?”

Lewis threw his head back with a groan, already knowing where this was headed. “Not the Timbs,” he mumbled, shaking his head like he was in actual pain.

“Yeah, the Timbs” she said, fully grinning now. “Let me remind you, you used to wear them with everything. Jeans, tracksuits, shorts, suits—”

Lewis raised a hand, stopping her, though there was a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I still stand by those, alright? I don’t care what anyone says. Timbs are timeless.”

She rolled her eyes playfully, patting his leg. “Sure, babe. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

The banter between them came so naturally, it was easy to forget there were cameras pointed right at them. The crew standing around had mostly stopped what they were doing, some watching the couple with amused smirks, others clearly touched by how playful yet undeniably affectionate they were towards each other.

“Okay, next question: What first attracted you to each other?”

Lewis’s wife leaned back, narrowing her eyes like she was trying to come up with something profound. “His sense of style,” she deadpanned, lips twitching as she fought back a grin.

Lewis blinked, his head cocked to the side. “Seriously? You were just attacking my Timbs? That guy’s sense of style?”

For a moment, she held her ground, lips pursed in mock-seriousness. But after a few seconds of staring at him—his bewildered look, the way he was just waiting for her to crack—she broke. Her laugh wasn’t exactly loud but it filled the room.

“Okay, fine!” She reached out, her hand landing on his thigh, fingers curling into the fabric of his pants. “It was your eyes.”

Lewis’s eyebrows shot up as he gave her a soft smile. He just stared at her, thrown off by her sudden honesty.

She smiled, her gaze softening too as she looked at him. “They’re intense, you know? Like you see things really deeply. The way you look at the world... it’s impossible not to notice.”

Lewis was quiet for a beat, his usual witty retorts momentarily forgotten. His hand moved instinctively to cover hers on his leg, squeezing it gently. “Well, damn” he finally said, his voice quieter than before, almost reverent.

The room around them seemed to still. There was something about the way they looked at each other that made it feel like they were the only ones there, like everyone else had faded away.

“Next one—‘On what occasion have you lied to me?’”

Lewis’s eyes went wide, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he glanced at his wife. “Uh… Remember when I blamed Roscoe for loosing up your house shoes?”

Her mouth dropped open as she stared at him in disbelief. “No. You’re telling me you wore my house shoes, Lewis?!”

He winced, trying to play it cool. “I mean… It was just that one time! They looked comfy, and my feet were cold. I didn’t think you’d notice.”

“Oh, I noticed,” she said, crossing her arms. “I just thought Roscoe had lied on them, not that your big feet had wrecked them!”

The crew chuckled, sensing the playful tension building between them.

“Roscoe was the perfect scapegoat…” Lewis defended himself.

“My poor baby” she sighed dramatically, shaking her head. “You threw him under the bus!”

“He didn’t seem to mind,” Lewis replied with a smirk, leaning closer to her, his tone turning softer. “But hey, I bought you new ones”

She raised a brow, clearly amused but still pretending to be serious.

“Have I ever made you jealous?”

Lewis leaned back, arms crossed over his chest, a playful smirk creeping across his face as he quipped in before she could. “She has, yes.”

His wife’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Oh? When exactly?”

He didn’t answer immediately, taking his time like he always did when he wanted to build up the suspense. She leaned in; her curiosity evident in the way her lips quirked. “Come on, give me the details.”

Lewis shook his head, clearly amused. “The silver dress” he said, voice low.

For a second, she didn’t react, clearly trying to place the memory. Then, like a lightbulb flicking on, her eyes widened in recognition. “Ohhh, that night!”

Her laughter exploded from her, loud and sudden, catching even the crew off guard. She leaned back in her chair, clutching her stomach slightly as she laughed, while Lewis sat there, arms still crossed, trying his best to look annoyed but clearly failing.

“That night was something” she said between laughs, her eyes shimmering with tears of amusement.

Lewis sighed, shaking his head. “I’m glad you think it was so funny.”

“Oh, babe, you were so grumpy” she teased, nudging him with her foot.

Lewis didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he just looked at her with that mix of exasperation and fondness that made it clear that, no matter what she did, she was always going to get away with it.

“What’s a song that reminds you of each other?”

This time, she didn’t even hesitate. “A Life Like This by Nao.”

Lewis’s face softened immediately. “Why that one?”

She smiled, but it wasn’t her usual teasing grin. This one was softer, more intimate. “Because... before you, I was just going through life, you know? Things were just happening, and I wasn’t really... present. Then you came along, and it was like everything shifted. It was like my Saturn return was finally over, and I could just... breathe.”

For a moment, Lewis said nothing. His face betrayed him—no amount of his typical coolness could hide the way her words hit him.

He leaned forward slightly, his hand brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re really gonna get me emotional, huh?” he murmured, his voice so low only she and the mic could pick up on his voice.

She just smiled; her eyes full of love. “That’s the plan.”

The crew exchanged looks and quiet smiles. It was impossible not to feel the connection between them, like they were watching something precious unfold right in front of them.

“What’s something you wish you did more often?”

Lewis leaned back, thinking for a moment. “Lazy mornings.”

She smiled, nodding. “Yeah?”

“Yeah” he said softly, his eyes on her. “No alarms, no schedules, no meetings. Just us. Laying in bed, talking, laughing... not worrying about what we have to do next.”

She nodded again, her smile turning wistful. “Yeah.”

Their eyes met, and once again, the room seemed to shrink around them, leaving just the two of them in their little bubble.

“Okay love birds, next up ‘What is the most treasured possession that the other has given you?’”

She paused, tapping her chin as if she really had to think about it, though the answer was clearly already on her mind. “The necklace you gave me on our third date.”

The director blinked, looking between them. “Third date?”

“Oh yeah” she nodded, leaning back in her chair, eyes sparkling as she shot Lewis a teasing look. “He was whipped by then.”

Lewis rolled his eyes, though a smile tugged at his lips. “You make it sound like I was proposing marriage.”

“You weren’t far off, though” she teased, reaching for the necklace hanging delicately around her neck. “He gave me this beautiful pendant, that he designed himself, by the way, and I remember thinking, ‘Okay, this guy is serious.’”

Lewis chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “I knew what I wanted.”

“That you did” she teased, nudging him with her elbow.

“Yeah” he grinned. “No point in playing games.”

She looked down at the necklace again, her voice softening. “It’s not just the necklace though. It’s what it represented. He was showing me he wasn’t just there for fun—he was there for real.”

Lewis met her gaze, his smile quieter now, filled with affection. “I meant it then, and I mean it now.”

“When did you first know that you were in love?”

This time, she was the one to hesitate, a mischievous glint in her eye. “In love with whom?” she asked, biting her lip to keep from laughing.

Lewis groaned, leaning forward and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oh, don’t start.”

She giggled, clearly enjoying every second of his exasperation. “I knew I loved you when we went through about a dozen paint stores in Milan looking for the perfect shade of gold for that painting.”

Lewis raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh, didn’t remember that.”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I could’ve just mixed the colors myself and gotten something close. But you were so invested in finding the exact match that I just... I kept going. And I knew it then. I knew I loved you because you cared about the little things, the details that most people would overlook.”

Lewis stared at her; his face unreadable. Then, slowly, he smiled—a soft, genuine smile that seemed to melt the room around them.

“What’s your favorite memory of the two of you?”

Lewis leaned back, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “That time we missed the flight in Paris.”

She let out a groan, breaking the feeling in the room, she already knew where this story was headed. “Nooo, not that!”

“Yep,” Lewis said with a smile. “So we were in Paris, right? And someone—” he pointed at her playfully, “—was absolutely convinced that the subway would get us to the airport faster than any car could.”

“It would’ve!” she protested, already laughing. “The traffic was insane!”

“Yeah sure” he replied, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “So there we were, dragging our bumps through the subway stations, hopping from one line to the next. Every station was like a maze, and we were so lost. I kept telling you, ‘Let’s just get a cab,’ but nooo, you were determined.”

She shook her head, smiling. “It was an adventure!”

“It was chaos and we missed the flight by hours” Lewis corrected, his voice teasing but fond.

“But honestly? It’s one of my favorite memories. You were so carefree, so determined, so in the present. We were lost in Paris but we weren’t lost within ourselves.”

Her smile softened, her eyes holding his for a long moment. “You never told me that was your favorite memory.”

“Yeah” he said quietly, his voice more sincere now. “I felt like we could just... slow down. Be present. No pressure, no expectations. Just you and me.”

For a moment, they were silent, the weight of his words settling between them. The room around them was so still that the soft hum of the cameras was the only sound. The crew watched them closely, as if holding their collective breath.

She leaned over, resting her head on his shoulder, and whispered just loud enough for the microphones to catch “I think that’s my favorite memory now, too.”

Lewis smiled, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head, and for a few seconds, it was like the cameras weren’t even there. It was just them, lost in a shared memory, a world of their own.

The director, sensing the intimacy of the moment, cleared his throat gently.

“Alright, now to wrap this up ‘When can we expect little Hamiltons running around?”

Both Lewis and his wife exchanged quick glances, and almost in unison, they burst out laughing—only this time, their laughter had a bit of an edge, like they knew something the room didn’t.

Lewis leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hands together. “Ooooh, good one.”

“You had to go there, didn’t you?” she added, her eyes wide with exaggerated innocence. “Real smooth.”

The crew, sensing the couple was playing coy, leaned in just a bit, waiting for a juicy response. But instead, Lewis leaned forward, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “Well, you never know, right?”

His wife smirked, glancing at him sideways, playing along. “When you least expect it”

The director, not quite satisfied, pressed on. “Any plans in the near future?”

“Oh, besides, like, tomorrow’s plans?” she quipped, keeping the teasing energy alive.

Lewis chimed in again, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “We’ve got a lot of plans. Travel, Roscoe’s bath time…”

The director chuckled, shaking his head. “Dodging the question, I see.”

Lewis gave a knowing look to the camera, adding one final, cryptic comment. “We’ll let you know when it happens... maybe.”

And with that, they both smiled at the cameras, their laughter filling the air as the director called “cut” for the final time.

The room gradually came back to life, the hum of equipment being packed up and crew members chatting quietly filling the air. The couple stayed seated, though, still caught in the gentle pull of their shared moment, almost unaware of the bustling scene around them.

Lewis exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing as he glanced at his wife, his arm instinctively pulling her a little closer. She smiled, still leaning into him, her head resting against his shoulder, fingers absentmindedly playing with his fingers.

“That was a bit mushy, wasn’t it?” she murmured, a teasing lilt to her voice, though there was warmth in her eyes as she gazed up at him.

Lewis smirked, brushing his thumb gently against her arm. “Just a little. But you started it.”

She chuckled softly, nuzzling into his shoulder. “Tou’re not usually one for getting all sentimental on camera.”

He shrugged lightly, but there was no real defensiveness in his posture.

She smiled, her heart swelling at the softness in his gestures. “Good. I like you better that way.”

She sighed softly, sitting up a little and stretching her arms out with a satisfied groan. “People are going to think we’re a pair of softies.”

Lewis chuckled, the sound low and rumbling in his chest. “Let them.”

She smiled, sitting back in her chair and looking at him with a tenderness that only deepened as she reached out, her hand cupping his cheek for a brief moment. “I guess it’s not the worst thing to be.”

He leaned into her touch, his eyes closing briefly before he opened them and looked straight at her. “Nah, it’s not.”

Unbeknownst to them, the cameras were still rolling—just a little, a behind-the-scenes shot meant to capture those moments of candidness. The crew tried to keep their distance, giving the couple their space, but every now and then, someone would glance over, a quiet smile tugging at their lips. There was something undeniably magnetic about Lewis and his wife, the way they moved around each other, the way they fit together.

Without thinking, he stood up and extended a hand to her, pulling her up from her seat. As she stood, she let out a small laugh, one that was soft and filled with affection. But before she could fully straighten up, Lewis slipped his arms around her waist, pulling her into his chest in a gentle, protective embrace.

For a second, she stiffened—more out of surprise than anything—but then she melted into him, wrapping her arms around his neck. It was a simple gesture, nothing extravagant, but in that moment, it was everything.

“Alright, lover boy” she murmured, her voice laced with contentment. “What’s all this about?”

“Just holding you” he replied simply, his voice low and soothing, the kind of tone he used when it was just the two of them, no audience, no pressure. “Feels like we haven’t had a minute to ourselves in forever.”

She smiled as she found her place on the crock of his neck, her fingers absently tracing circles on the back of his neck “You’ll get them,” she promised quietly. “We’ll make time.”

Eventually, Lewis pulled back slightly, just enough to look down at her, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “You know,” he started, his tone teasing “about those Timbs.”

She groaned, playfully swatting at his chest. “I thought we agreed to leave the Timbs in the past.”

“I never agreed to that” he grinned, tightening his arms around her playfully. “I’m still rocking them, remember?”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile on her face betrayed her. “Well, at least one of us has evolved.”

He laughed, pressing a soft kiss to her head. “Maybe. But you love me anyway.”

“I do,” she said softly, the sincerity of the words wrapping around them both like a warm blanket. “I really do.”

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[sexy-monster-fucker]

Burgeon

Logan Howlett x Reader Sex Pollen

Summary: Reader works in the science lab at the mutant academy. Trying to grow a new plant from a mutated seed they had found. When the bloom puffs a cloud into her and Logan’s face they both begin feeling strange.

CW: oral m!receiving, oral f!receiving, biting, p in v, creampie

a/n: sorry this took so long to write I was depressed :D also surprise its today

~~~

You rested your head on your hands as you watched the plant in front of you slowly yet rapidly bloom a gorgeous, wine red bud. The way the flower held itself closed mesmerized you. How small bumps decorated the stem and the leaves along it were a dark purple color.

Logan, a.k.a. The Wolverine stood next to you. Piddling with one of the enclosed flora that was under surveillance. Not all that interested in the details of your work, but enjoying spending time with you. Especially when the big blue fur ball was not around to distract you. Dusk was approaching as it shined through the greenhouse windows. A beautiful color painted the sky as the darkness of the night approached.

“Oh, Logan! Look the bud is about to bloom!” You wrapped your arm around his pulling him over to you. He groaned as you pulled him over to you. You watched closely as the petals fought each other to release. Taking their sweet time to reveal the beauty within.

“Sure is taking its time,” Logan huffed, eyes fixated on you now. Loving how happy you looked awaiting the new flowers arrival.

The petals dispersed. Revealing the most beautiful black center of the flower. A large cloud of purple dust coming out with it. Before you could say anything, you and Logan both inhaled the fumes. Covering your mouth and coughing aggressively as the pollen stuck to the inside of your mouth. You wide eyed the plant, shocked at what came out of it.

“What the hell— that thing isn’t poisonous is it?!”

“I… I don’t really know,” you meekly whispered.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean we found this thing, noticed it was displaying some irregular behavior for a seedling of its type. And we decided to monitor it. I didn’t know it was going to cough up smoke at us!”

Logan stamped his foot. Frustrated by the lack of caring on your part. Pacing in a small circle next to you with the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

“Okay! We just have to stay here for the next 48 hours. Keep us under supervision just in case we feel any side effects. We go about our days like normal, just can’t leave the Academy,” you rubbed your hand up and down your arm. Logan irritably took a seat, head down with his hands folded over his lap. You grabbed the pod and placed it in a holding chamber all of its own. Walking over and kneeling down in front of Logan.

“I’m sorry. If I had known—“ you reached your hand out to rest it on Logan’s leg.

“You don’t have to be sorry. We can forget all about it at the party tonight. Celebrating whatever the hell Charles was on about,” Logan grinned at you.

You smiled, “I’ll celebrate anything if it means free drinks.”

Logan left the greenhouse while you finished up cleaning and double checking everything. A sudden hot flash washed over your body. Pulling a sweat from every inch of you. You fanned your hand in front of your face, your clothes feeling oddly tight suddenly. Maybe someone turned the heat up in the greenhouse. You walked over to check the thermostat. Nothing about the number had changed. As long as it was reading right you were comfortable leaving it be.

Walking up to your room. Heat engulfed you, a minor ache on your body now approaching. Choosing to ignore the problem entirely. Changing into something more comfortable for the evening ahead. Looking at yourself in the mirror when a sudden, promiscuous image flashed in your mind.

Logan.

Behind you. Both of you completely nude as he pounded into you. Watching yourself take him in the mirror. His hands splayed out on your chest, lips on your neck.

Your face flushed with your arousal. Unable to fight the feeling forming deep down inside you. Aching at your core. Leaning over your bed as you writhed.

The feeling of his hands grabbing your hips. Buried completely inside you. Your back arching to meet his thrusts. Head thrown back in pure ecstasy.

You gasped at the thought. Unsure of what was happening to you. Uncontrollably desire was taking over your body. Your hand found your aching core in an attempt to cool yourself down. Scrunching up your face at the feeling. It felt good, but not right. It was not what you needed. You needed him.

Your face was completely flushed with thoughts of Logan. Trying your hardest to make it less noticeable before going downstairs.

“Just stop,” you told yourself.

Heading down to the common area where all your fellow teachers had gathered. An adults only party, all the students were off away. You smiled as you greeted your fellow mutants. Getting stopped by Hank. His warm smile and soft eyes pulling your attention to him.

“Hi, Hank,” you smiled as you walked over to him.

“Hello, beautiful,” Hank grinned, fangs decorating his bright white smile. You thought about how his teeth would feel against your neck. Blushing at the idea of the large monster on top of you. Your thoughts suddenly morphing to fit Logan into your fantasy. Fangs nipping at your skin as strong hands held yours above your head. Panting as he thrusted into you. Sweat dripping down his forehead.

“Everything going good with that mysterious plant of yours?” Hank questioned, breaking your fantasy.

“Uh— Yeah, kinda. It bloomed today but some purple pollen came out it. Not sure if that’ll have any effect on me,” you droned off as you saw Logan enter the room. Completely fixated on him now. Seeing his bulging muscles revealed by his tank top. His broad shoulders and strong brow bone indicating he was some form of frustrated. His eyes finally caught yours. Awkwardly you turned back to focus on Hank as you continued on about the beauty of the mysterious flower. Unable to keep Logan in your peripheral. Excusing yourself from the conversation. Walking into a corner so you could scan the entire room. Unable to spot Logan anywhere.

Muscular arms wrapped around your waist. Almost calming the burn trickling down your nervous system. Nose finding its place in the crook of your neck, taking a deep inhale. Your hands meeting those around you, feeling the veins popping out. Smell of musk and cologne overwhelming your senses.

A silent feeling that he understood exactly what you were going through.

“Smells so good,” his gruff, low voice rang in your ear. Your head leaning back against his shoulder, eyes straining to look at him. Black eyes stared at you. Pulling you flush against him, his semi-hard cock pressed into you. Chills ran up you. Rolling your hips to grind against him. A low groan, almost a growl, vibrated against your ear.

Hands inched down closer to the place you ached most. Fingers grazing the sweet spot causing you to arch backwards slightly. Circling your mound as his eyes scanned the room.

“Everyone is in here,” you whispered, a soft moan on your tone.

“I know,” he grumbled, kissing below your ear.

Both of you silently enjoyed the feeling of your bodies pressed together for a moment. How perfectly your body melted to his front. How the smell of him sent goosebumps down your body. The sound of his breathing in your ear pooling inside you.

“Saw you over there with furrball. He not tickling your fancy tonight?” Logan’s fingers dug into your skin, a hint of jealousy on his tone.

“No,” you simply said.

“Haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” Logan groaned into your ear, “I could smell you from my fucking room. Need to rip these clothes off and get inside you right now.”

You choked on air. Realizing Logan was having the same feelings you were. Unsatisfiable desire.

“Didn’t matter how fucking good my hand felt, wasn’t right. It wasn’t you,” he purred. His fingers danced along the line of your pants, daring to dip under your clothes. Feeling your pantyline against his fingers, the softness of the lace continuing his desire. Your hand met his, intertwining fingers with him. Looking over your shoulder to meet his gaze. Lust blown eyes stared into yours. He plotted an escape route to make sure none of your coworkers watched you slip away together. Grabbing your hand and dragging you behind him.

His touch tingled against your skin. Your sensitive body being thrown into overdrive as you headed down the hallway together. Pulling you into a stairwell and turning to face you. His entire face was red, sweat beaming down his brow. You blushed. Eyes locked together, blown pupils matching each other.

“Dunno if I can wait much longer,” Logan growled as he palmed at himself through his jeans. You fell to your knees instinctively. Tugging at his belt, pulling a deep sigh from him. Releasing his fully erect cock from its confides. It sprung up, tip swollen and leaking. A thick vein wrapped around the underside. You felt your pussy clench around nothing, your mouth salivating at the sight of him. Doed eyes stared up at him, your hand grasping around his member. Lips pressing against the tip in a kiss. Logan moaned at your touch. His fingers tangled in your hair as he guided you down on him. Choking around his girth.

“That’s it,” Logan praised as he lead you up and down on his cock. Hollowing out your cheeks to take him all the way. Tears pricked at the corner of your eyes, fighting off your urge to gag. Feeling him twitch in your mouth, knowing it would not take long for you to get him there.

Logan’s eyes squinted shut as he finished in your mouth. A grunt as he held you in place. “It’s not enough,” he moaned. Eyebrows knitted together as he looked down at you. Reaching a hand down to help you up, “I need to be inside you.”

His words melted into your core. Igniting a primal feeling in you. You wrapped your hand around Logan’s leading him up the stairs.

“My room’s closer,” you answered the question you knew he was silently asking himself. A grin painted his face as he watched your ass bounce going up the stairs.

Hurriedly typing your code to access your room. Logan’s fingers rubbed circles on your core through your clothes. You arched your back into him, feeling his still completely erect dick. “‘M gonna fuck you so good, doll,” Logan purred in your ear pulling at the button on your pants. You bit your lip finally getting the door open. Logan practically shoved you inside.

Attaching his lips to yours immediately, hands cupping both sides of your face. His tongue penetrating your mouth as your teeth clinked together. You hooked your fingers under his tank top, pulling it over his head. His hairy, muscular chest was completely drenched in sweat. His lips attached onto your neck, tongue coming out to lick a stripe up your sensitive skin. “What’s going on with us?” Logan asked against your skin.

“I’dunno,” you moaned when his teeth grazed a spot you liked, “I just want you.” He smiled at your response.

Logan pushed you onto your back on the bed. Ripping your pants and panties off you. A gasp fell from you. “You’ve got plenty more,” he growled as he kneeled at the side of your bed. Pulling you so that he was directly in front of your core. Soaking the blanket underneath you as arousal took over every sense you had. Logan chuckled as he lapped at your core, “Tastes so good.” You arched your back off the bed at the sudden contact. Pushing yourself closer into his mouth. Furrowing your brows because — GOD — he felt good, but it just was not enough to cool the fire inside you. Grinding yourself against his face trying your damndest to reach your high. Logan latched onto you like an animal devouring his last meal. Fingers digging into your thighs, bruising the soft skin there. Hooded eyes stared up at your face admiring how you scrunched up your nose and hung your mouth open. The soft moans and squeaks pouring from your mouth like music to his ears. He rolled his hips into the side of the mattress, desperate to fuck you. But more desperate to get you off first.

Your nails dug into the soft blanket below you. Riding his tongue through your orgasm. Body jolting and legs shaking. His name a scream on your lips. Logan pulled away, his face soaked in your juices. Dropping his pants to the floor. He stroked himself as he stared at your entrance. Your body still basking in the afterglow of orgasm. Logan pounced on top of you. Gently removing your top, lips finding their place on your exposed breasts. Biting through the fabric of your bra to play with your nipples. Licking and sucking the thin material. His hand pinched at the opposite one. Lips dancing up your neck, biting at your jaw.

Rolling his exposed cock into your soaked entrance. The first bit of relief you had felt all day. A shaky moan escaping you. Logan smirked above you, leaning his head back feeling how your body begged for him. Sliding his member through your slit, collecting all your wetness on him. “My pretty girl,” he praised, “I’m gonna fill you up to the goddamn hilt.”

Easing his way into you. Your walls practically pulling him in. Both of you moaned in harmony, throwing your heads back. “That’s more like it,” he cooed. Easy himself back before slamming back in. Setting himself at a brutal pace. The sound of skin smacking together filled the room. He panted above you, keeping his eyes locked on yours.

You leaned forward to catch him in a kiss, Logan’s body slouching so that your front were pressed firmly together. Curving his arms under you, holding you tight as he fucked into you. A huff of breath falling from him with each snap of hips. He held you close, lips pressed against your neck. An occasional kiss being planted there. “You take cock so well. I’m gonna fuck you stupid,” he growled against your skin.

You clawed at his back. Desperate to hold him closer. Scratching down his body, pulling a moan from him. His pace was growing sloppy as he approached his own high. Your pussy still sensitive from your own. Walls clenching when he’d hit deep inside you. “Gonna be so full of me aren’t you? Little cum slut,” Logan grunted with each of his thrusts.

Logan attached his lips back to yours desperately panting and moaning as he felt himself about to finish. Sheathing himself fully inside you as he shot his seed. The feeling of him soothed the burn you had been feeling. Relieved by how perfectly he filled you up. You felt him grin against your skin, slumping all his body weight into you momentarily.

“Could stay like this all night,” he whispered in your ear. You petted his back, kissing him on the cheek.

“Yeah?”

“That way I can already be inside you when I feel like I gotta soothe the feeling again,” Logan playfully bit at your cheek.

~

[END]

// Thank you so much for reading! I know this fic has been a long time coming so I hope it was a great read! I plan on writing quite a lot for the month of October, so if you have any requests send them my way! My next Logan fic is gonna be a Werewolf!AU //

{tags}

@toogaytofunctiondangit ~ @goodness-gracious13 ~ @figsnpassionfruits ~ @gretavankleep37 ~ @shinysam29 ~ @sunnyfranc ~ @savy-luvs-dilfs ~ @ayamenimthiriel ~ @megangovier ~ @its-in-the-woods ~ @father-of-2cats ~ @atthediscowithoutpanic ~

[satorusugurugurl]

heya! I have a req - imagine Gojo tears up when yn kisses his forehead. he’s never felt so vulnerable 🫠

take care :)

Rest

Summary: After a long day of being Gojo Satoru— the strongest sorcerer of the modern age, your boyfriend gets to come home to your loving embrace.

Characters: Gojo Satoru x AFAB!Reader

Warnings: sweet flufffy goodness, mentions of sleep deprivation, stress, overworking, but overall it’s really sweet!

Word Count: 1.6K

A/N: Nonnie thank you for your request! I had so much fun writing this, Gojo deserves so much better! 💚💚💚

It was late, two thirty in the morning, to be exact, when the door to the bedroom finally creaked open. You stirred, wincing at the stiffness in your neck as you sat up, the book you read lying against your chest. But your neck didn't matter, not when Satoru was wincing as he slipped his shirt off and placed it in the hamper. His blindfold hand was loosely wrapped around his neck, giving you a perfect view of his dark circles.

“Toru?” You hesitantly asked, drawing his attention towards the bed.

Though you could see the exhaustion in his eyes, he smiled a little on the side but still smiled for you. “Hey, Sweetpea, I didn't wake you, did I?” He walked towards the edge of the bed, kissing your cheek.

“No, I had a stiff neck, so that woke me up.”

Cerulean eyes darted towards the book that was still resting on your chest. “I told you you didn’t have to wait up for me. Just because I had to work late doesn’t mean you have to deprive yourself of sleep.” Even when he was talking, you could hear the exhaustion in his voice.

Being the strongest sorcerer of the modern age was a curse in itself. Satoru was constantly on the move. Whether yanked away for missions or meetings with the higher-ups, he rarely had a break. Time for himself was a rarity. You hated seeing him so drained. Even if you confronted him about it, he would deny it. Putting on some arrogant, cocky attitude that he was the strongest and handling some extra meetings or taking on a few more missions wasn’t going to hurt him.

Your boyfriend could put on that kind of act for himself, his students, or even the higher-ups themselves. You knew he was tired, though. He could deny your accusations all he wanted. You, however, were fortunate enough to know him better than he knew himself. That facade was see-through when it came to you looking at him.

You wanted to tell him it was okay to be tired and set some time aside for himself. Deep down, you knew if you were to bring that up, Gojo would try to ensure you that everything was peachy. So, given the circumstances, you did the one thing you were able to do.

You would support him, be there for him when he needed to vent, and help him out as much as you could or as much as he would allow you to do.

“I was just reading; my book got really good. I just dozed off.”

“Mmm, you should put the book down and get some sleep.” Long ivory fingers caressed your cheek. “I don’t want you having a crooked neck because you were up reading your smut.”

“Leave my books out of this~” Satoru snickered, rolling his eyes as he pulled back, unbuckling his belt. “Go take a shower, then get your ass in bed.”

Satoru gave you a dorky salute as he headed into the bathroom, removing the rest of his clothing as he walked. You knew he was exhausted from the shower he took. Enough to wash the white tufts of hair and wash his body thoroughly. When he finished his shower, his mind was fuzzy with sleep deprivation. Finishing getting ready for bed was a blur, but he found himself climbing the sheets next to you, his arms wrapping around your waist as he rested his head against your breasts.

Your warmth and the smell of you relaxed every muscle in his body as he rested his body weight against you. Satoru was so tired. He needed to think about going on vacation sometime soon. Getting away from the bustling life he was living sounded like a dream. One where you would join him, and the two of you would stay in bed, talking, watching movies, and enjoying each other‘s company for hours.

Thoughts of that had him snuggling his face further into your soft breasts. You could see the dark circles under his eyes from where you were propped up. Your poor boyfriend was being tugged in every way possible, which would take a toll on anybody. Just because he was the strongest didn’t mean everyone had a right to take advantage of him and use him as a weapon.

Gojo Satoru was human, and he deserved some praise and recognition. Normally, he provided that recognition for himself, occasionally giving himself a literal pat on the back. But it was nice to hear it from someone else, too. He deserved the world—nothing but happiness.

Sensing your body's tension, Satoru turned his head to look up at you. As he did, his soft white bangs moved with each turn of his head. You reached out, brushing some strands away, only stopping to push them back as if he were wearing his blindfold. His eyes glanced to where your hand was pushing up his hair, cerulean eyes almost crossing to get a glimpse.

No words needed to be said. You gave him the faintest smile before pressing your lips against his forehead. As your lips pulled away his skin, you could feel the tension in his body; fearing you may have crossed the line, you quickly pulled back, looking down at your chest with tears staining the thin fabric of your top.

“Toru?” Your voice was soft as if your words themselves would shatter him.

“W-What was that?”

“A forehead. a kiss, a little token of my appreciation for all your hard work.” You weren’t sure what to expect—maybe a thank you or a smile in return. What you met with instead was tears in his eyes. Tears that made the blue of his Iris stand out even more.”Toru! Baby, what’s the matter?”

“I just—that was different.”

Growing up as the strongest and as an only child had been rough. It didn’t matter that he was filthy rich. The staff at the house was constantly on him. His parents rarely came to see him or talk to him. Gojo was alone most of the time, and he found many of his favorite memories from that time when he snuck out of the estate and went exploring Tokyo, being held like this and having kisses planted against his forehead with something he had never experienced with anyone, even his mother.

And he liked it. Scratch that he loved it. Being able to rest in your arms to have you petting his head, and playing with his hair always had him relaxing. This was how he liked to spend his rare moments at home with you. To be in your arms, to have your fingers running through his soft hair, and to have your lips pressing against his forehead made everything he did worth it. He put so much time and effort into helping the next generation of sorcerers, trying to make this world a place he wanted to live in. The hours of the hard work he put in was worth it.

At the end of the day, he got to come home to you.

You were one of the only people who treated him like a human being rather than some tool to be used. So, after a long day of being pulled around, told what to do, and scolded, this was precisely what he needed. Gojo’s mind, body, and soul knew that, and they all worked against him and caused tears to well up in his eyes to make him feel vulnerable. Thiswas a feeling he somewhat liked as long as it was with you.

“Oh, I’m sorry, baby. I hope I didn’t insult you or make you uncomfortable.”

“No, I like it. I like it a lot, Sweetheart.” He slowly shut his eyes, his full white eyelashes resting against his cheek as he exhaled through his nose. “Could you do it again?”

Hearing him a king for you to kiss his forehead again had your heart swelling with a certain pride as you hummed happily, pressing your lips against his forehead while your nails gently scratched at his scalp. “Thank you for all of your hard work, Toru.” Your voice was angelic, easing Satoru further into the mattress as his body relaxed more, his mind slowly turning off. “Thank you for everything you do.” He hummed softly in response as he slowly began drifting to sleep, tears welling at the corners of his eyes before slowly streaming down his cheek.

Seeing the tears slowly sliding down his slightly flushed cheek had you abandoning one of your hands on the top of his head, your thumb quickly brushing the stray away. Once you were sure that the tears would stop flowing, your hands slowly drifted back up to the top of his head, continuing to scratch lazily at it as you shut your eyes, yawning, as Satoru hugged you tight, wrapping his arms around you not letting you out of his grasp. It was such a comforting and warm hug that left you feeling safe even when he fell asleep. Your nerves melted like snow on a spring day.

“I love you so much,” Satoru mumbled against your chest. Any other thoughts failed to reach his mouth; he began to breathe much deeper, falling into REM sleep.

But he didn’t have to say anything else. You simply priced one last very long kiss against the center of his forehead. When you finally managed to pull away, you found yourself cradling his head to your chest, allowing him to listen to your heartbeat because he fell asleep.

“I love you too, Toru.”

Yeah, all of his hard work was definitely worth coming home to this.

Forever Tag List:

@darkstarlight82 @pandoness @nealeart @simp-plague @sugurubabe @chilichopsticks @reap3erslov3 @wil10wthetree

[simplygojo]

His Heart, Your Home

Author's Note: LOVE THIS REQUEST! And it is okay my friend...I too am deprived (LMAO), and this personally soothed me, so i hope it soothes you. THANK YOU SO MUCH for requesting something from me :) Each request I get just makes me so happy and gives me so much writing inspo, it means the world. I hope this was something along the lines of what you were hoping for <3

Request: "heyyy 🫶 can u plssss write something rlly cutesy about toji… it can be whatever u want just super cute 😭 (im so deprived wow)" - @getoisinnocent

Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x f!reader

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: NONE, just a fluffy fic for y'all <3

You stretched your arms over your head, feeling the tension from the long day finally releasing as you settled onto the couch. The soft glow of the living room lamp bathed the room in a warm light, casting shadows on the walls. 

Outside, the rain gently pattered against the window, the sound soothing but also a reminder that you were alone tonight.

Toji had been gone most of the day, dealing with whatever shady work he refused to tell you about.

You’d gotten used to the mystery, the way he always left with a smirk and came back bruised but never too worse for wear. 

But on nights like this, when the rain fell, and the house felt too quiet, you missed him more than usual.

You were sat on the couch in your small apartment, some reality show playing quietly in the background as you attempted to stay up, waiting for Toji.

Just as you began to doze off, the door creaked open, and you heard the familiar heavy footsteps. Your heart did a little leap as you turned your head to see Toji standing in the doorway, water dripping from his hair and his clothes slightly damp from the rain. His sharp eyes softened as soon as they landed on you.

"You should've locked the door," Toji grumbled, his voice low and teasing.

He kicked off his shoes, took off his soaked jacket, and made his way toward you, his presence commanding even when he was trying to be quiet.

"You’re back late," you murmured, a smile tugging at your lips as you shifted on the couch to give him room. "Rough night?"

"Just the usual," he replied with a grunt, sliding down next to you. His body sagged slightly, clearly exhausted, but his arm found its way around your shoulders, pulling you into his side without a second thought.

His warmth was comforting, and you nuzzled into his chest, breathing in the scent of rain and Toji’s familiar musk.

"You should take a shower," you said softly, your fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on his chest. "You’re soaked."

"Later," Toji muttered, resting his chin on the top of your head as his eyes mindlessly watched the TV. "I need this first." He said, giving you a soft squeeze as he pulled you to lie on top of him. 

Your heart fluttered at the rare moment of vulnerability. 

Toji wasn’t always the most expressive with words, but moments like these, where he sought you out for comfort after a long day, spoke volumes. You let out a soft hum, content to stay curled up against him for as long as he wanted.

After a few moments of comfortable silence, you tilted your head up to look at him. His dark hair was sticking to his forehead, droplets of water clinging to his lashes, but his gaze was focused on you. There was something in his eyes—something gentle, a stark contrast to his usual tough exterior.

"Missed you." He admitted quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. The confession made your heart skip a beat, and you felt warmth bloom in your chest.

"You did?" You teased lightly, a smile tugging at your lips. "You don’t usually say that."

"Doesn’t mean I don’t feel it," he replied, his tone gruff, but the corners of his mouth lifted just slightly. Toji was always like this—gruff, rough around the edges, but when it was just the two of you, he let his walls down, even if just a little.

You pressed a gentle kiss to his jaw, feeling him relax further into the cushions of the couch. "I missed you too, you know. It gets lonely when you’re gone."

Toji’s arm tightened around you, pulling you even closer. "I’ll always come back, you’re too pretty to leave alone for too long." He said, his voice steady, as if it were a promise. 

And in his own way, it was. 

Toji wasn’t the type to sugarcoat things or make grand gestures, but when he said something, you knew he meant it.

You stayed like that for a while, curled up against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart as the rain continued to fall outside. 

It was peaceful, and for a moment, it felt like the world outside didn’t matter. All that mattered was the warmth of Toji’s body next to yours, the way his hand gently stroked your back, and the soft, steady rhythm of his breathing.

Eventually, Toji shifted, and you felt him press a soft kiss to the top of your head. You looked up, and your eyes met his. His dark eyes were softened by a rare tenderness, and he leaned in, capturing your lips in a slow, lingering kiss.

It was gentle, full of unspoken affection, and you melted into the kiss, feeling the softness of his lips against yours. When he finally pulled away, there was a warm, satisfied smile on his face.

"I don’t say it enough," he whispered, his breath warm against your lips. "But you’re everything to me."

Your heart swelled at his words, and you smiled, your fingers reaching up to brush against his cheek. "I know," you whispered back, your voice full of emotion. "I love you, Toji."

Toji’s eyes softened even further, and he pulled you back into a tender kiss. This time, it felt as if it was filled with all the emotions he rarely expressed—love, gratitude, and a deep connection that went beyond words. 

When he finally broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against yours, his large hand holding the back of your head firmly, before relaxing, letting your head rest on his chest as your pretty eyes fluttered shut. 

To everyone’s surprise, Toji loved moments like these with you. 

Toji loved the way your sweet scent lingered on his skin, especially when your hair was sprawled out across his chest.

Each time he held you close, the faint, delicate fragrance of you—soft notes of lavender and a hint of vanilla—seemed to wrap around him like a comforting blanket. It was a scent that made his heart swell with warmth and affection, grounding him in the quiet moments you shared together.

He cherished the subtle, almost unconscious ways you expressed your comfort and closeness. As you nestled against him, your fingers would occasionally trace gentle patterns into his skin, a soft, rhythmic touch that spoke volumes more than words ever could. 

It was as if your hands were mapping out a secret language of love, one that Toji could read with ease. The light, delicate touches were like a soothing melody, each stroke calming and reassuring him of your shared bond.

And when he held you close, he marvelled at how perfectly you fit in his arms. It was a feeling of completeness, as though you were made to be held by him. 

Your body seemed to mould seamlessly against his, and he found solace in the way you naturally nestled into his embrace. It was a perfect harmony, a silent understanding between you both, where every curve and every sigh felt like it belonged to him alone.

Toji loved you. It was a simple truth that resonated deeply within him, a love that was evident in every lingering glance and every tender touch. It was a love that enveloped him entirely, a profound connection that made every moment with you feel precious and irreplaceable.

After a few moments of comfortable silence, Toji shifted and gently lifted you off the couch. "Come on," he said softly, his voice warm with affection. "Let’s get you to bed."

You allowed him to carry you to the bedroom, feeling the comforting strength of his arm around you.

When you reached the bed, Toji helped you settle in, pulling the covers up to your chin with a tenderness that was rare for him. He brushed a stray lock of hair from your face, his fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

"Comfortable?" He asked, his eyes scanning your face with a mixture of care and curiosity.

"Perfect," you replied, giving him a reassuring smile. "Thank you."

Toji nodded, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "I’ll be right back."

With that, he left the room, and you could hear the sound of running water as he took a quick shower. You took this time to snuggle deeper into the blankets, feeling the warmth of the bed and the comfort of knowing Toji was just a few steps away. 

It took all of the strength in you not to surrender to the temptation of sleep, but you knew you had to wait for him. 

A few minutes later, the sound of the shower stopped, and Toji emerged, clean and refreshed.

A large, fluffy towel was wrapped around his waist, and his hair was still damp and tousled. The sight of him like this, relaxed and fresh, made your heart skip a beat.

He re-entered the bedroom with a small, lazy grin on his face, his eyes softening as they met yours. "You ready for some company, pretty girl?"

"Absolutely," you replied, a smile spreading across your face.

Toji tossed the towel aside and slid into bed next to you, not bothering to put on clothes as he got under the covers, his body naturally finding its place against yours. He pulled you close, wrapping his arm around your waist as he settled into the bed. 

You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest behind you, and his breath tickled the back of your neck.

He placed a soft kiss on the nape of your neck, and you shivered slightly at the sensation. His lips lingered for a moment, and then he rested his forehead against the back of your head, his warmth enveloping you.

You sighed contentedly, feeling his warmth and presence cocooning you in comfort. The rain continued to fall outside, the sound a soothing backdrop to the peacefulness of the moment. Toji’s muscular arm held you close, and you felt a profound sense of safety and love.

As you were drifting off, Toji leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your neck. It was a sweet, loving gesture, and you felt his warmth enveloping you.

"Sleep," he murmured, his voice already heavy with exhaustion. In response, you settled deeper into the embrace, feeling the slow and steady rhythm of Toji’s breath as it matched the gentle lull of the rain against the window.

His kiss lingered on the back of your neck, a tender reminder of his affection, and you felt a wave of contentment travel down your spine.

The room was filled with a soft, serene quiet, which was interrupted only by the distant rumble of thunder and the steady patter of raindrops. 

The darkness outside seemed to blend seamlessly with the comforting shadows within your bedroom, creating a cocoon of intimacy around you both.

Toji’s hand moved slowly up and down your arm, his touch gentle and soothing. You could feel the warmth of his body pressed against yours, a reassuring anchor in the calm of the night. 

Every now and then, his fingers would brush against your skin, sending a gentle wave of relaxation through you.

But before he drifted off, you heard him murmur one last thing—so quietly you almost didn’t catch it.

"God, I love you."

[ellecdc]

hello elle! first of all, congrats on 4k!! i found your blog through the 2k picnic, and it's been my fav ever since :) i'm here for drinks, ma'am! james with the "who did this to you" trope?? reader comes in battered after a fight or something, and james just does a 180 from his usual sweethert persona and the marauders are like o_o wtf. please and thank you!

omg isn't that so fun! you found me during my last celebration! well it's a full circle moment and I'm so happy to have you here with me <3

no one else in the Gryffindor common room spared you a second glance as you stepped through the portrait hole, focused on the heated game of exploding snap happening between James and Marlene

except right before James is about to place his card, he drops his entire hand and makes for you - every starts moaning and groaning because they think it's just James Lover Boy Potter's usual theatrics, but then they hear it

"what the fuck happened!?" He demands; a tone only heard once or twice during a quidditch match against slytherin from the usual sunny boy

they don't hear your murmured response, but they do hear James let out a "it doesn't sodding look like nothing? Oi! Where do you think you're going?"

they turn to see you trying to head up towards the dorm rooms only for James to catch you by your wrist - his gaze down right murderous but his touch barely there as your wrist hangs loosely in his grasp

"Who did this?" - "I'm fine, Jamie." - "I didn't ask if you were fine, I asked who did this?" - "he's worse off than I am, I swear it." - "okay, he, that narrows it down some. how about a name?"

"James, please." You beg, and some of his severity falters when he hears a breathy sound that borders a sob escape your lips.

"Angel, I-" - "please."

James surveys your form for a bit before nodding curtly at you. "I will let this go for now, but you have to come with me to my dorm."

You agree, and he fixes you up with some healing balms and gentle touches

"please don't be mad at me." you whisper suddenly, causing James' eyes to fly up to yours. - "I'm not mad at you, angel. I'm upset, I'm definitely angry, but not at you."

that seemed to be enough for you for now, and James knows better than to push the issue right now

but by the time you've fallen asleep on his chest and the boys come back into the dorm, they've managed to find out who you got into a fight with and they have their most devious prank set for the very next day

[lilacgaby]

title: crush chronicles

pairing: megumi x reader

summary: megumi's crush on you was discovered one by one, until he was finally forced helped to confess.

note: i love megumi.. megumi nation rise up

he figured out he had a crush on you after your first encounter with a special grade.

as you fought, using your technique to manage a blow on the curse, he stood in awe and fear of you. as you were hit back, slamming into the wall with a sickening crack he felt the fear rage inside him ten times over.

yuuji promised to handle the curse, and at that moment megumi ran to you, as fast as his legs could take him, as he picked you up in his arms and ran out the imperfect domain with you in hand.

he knew he was a goner when the first thing you did before he went to save nobara, was poke his cheek at his worried expression, and utter, "you're so cute 'gumi." before falling asleep.

if he wasn't worried for nobara's life, he might've died right then and there.

his shikigami were the second to notice. more specifically, his divine dogs.

you'd always had a liking for them, petting them after a practice match between you and megumi. you even started to carry treats for them, feeding them whenever the missions were finished.

they sensed that whenever you were around, megumi's heart would start to race. they interpreted that you..

were a threat.

now having pulled a complete 180 on you, they refused any form of affection from you. whenever you got near megumi when they were out, they'd circle him in a defensive position, barking at you to stay away.

you sulked for an entire week about this, pouting around as you asked megumi why his dogs no longer liked you. grabbing his arm as you jokingly shook him around.

this only made his heart race faster, and his dogs feel even more inclined to protect him.

it's only when one day, while they scouted for curses ahead, that they noticed megumi patting your head as you celebrated your win, that a realization set in.

you were special to him.

after that, it was all back to normal with you and the dogs, in fact they were even more excited to be with you than normal. megumi smiled fondly at the sight of you with his divine dogs. they grew close to you too, he thought.

the next person to understand was nobara.

she had taken you two out shopping in japan, saying it was important for two girls to look good while they kicked ass.

yuuji and megumi tagged along for some reason, much to her dismay.

"this was supposed to be a girls day! you two aren't girls!"

"it's first-year bonding time."

"give me a break!"

it ended up working out, nobara using yuuji to hold all your bags as you shopped around. eventually you got hungry, and megumi offered to take you to a cafe, leaving a tired yuuji with a hyper nobara.

you two sat at a table and shared a slice of your favorite cake. you laughed as you spoke about the things that just popped into your head, megumi smiling as he listened.

anyone around could see the lovesick look in his eyes.

nobara finally figured out that you two had snuck away, and was annoyed whilst trying to look for you.

as she and yuuji neared the cafe, they saw you two through the window. a lightbulb went off in her head as she saw how close he sat, how he nodded his head after every couple of sentences, how he fiddled with his spoon as he listened deeply to you.

she slid to a stop, making yuuji bump into her.

"okay, let's go back!"

"but we came all this way and they're right there!"

"yes, but they're so gonna kiss soon! so let's go!" she said, shoving yuuji out as he whined about being tired.

yuuji had seen megumi at the cafe, but it wasn't til a day where he had stumbled upon you two in his dorm room together on a hot day that he'd finally pieced it together in his mind.

he'd witnessed a lot of interactions between you and him that were more than platonic sure, but he just didn't think megumi was that kind of guy.

he thought he was just being a gentleman back at the cafe, taking you out because you were hungry.

he thought he was just being kind when he'd offer to tie your shoes and lend you his water when out on missions.

he thought he was just being the nice guy he is when he'd offer to go with you anywhere, to stores or restaurants or whatever you needed.

but yuuji saw how red-faced megumi was as he stared at you in shorts and a tank top. you were laid with your eyes shut on his bed, a fan in your hands as you waved yourself.

he'd never seen megumi so..

striken.

megumi finally noticed yuuji at the door and jumped up.

yuuji held his hands up and with an apologetic smile closed the door behind him.

'he was so down bad.' yuuji thought, immediately texting nobara.

gojo was late to everything, even this realization.

yuuji and nobara were the ones to spill to him, talking about how close you two had gotten, and how they swore he saw you holding his hand on the mission you were sent out on.

gojo had always teased him about you, but he didn't think his special student would fall for his other prized student. how.. fated!

though he was the last one to realize, gojo was the first one to take initiative to make them forcibly admit their feelings to one another, making a plan.

as they formulated it, they realized that the key factor counted on megumi being clueless, because he'd never let them do this otherwise.

so for the next week they plotted, ignoring the confused looks of yours and megumi's as they snickered like witches.

saturday morning, you and megumi received seperate letters to go and meet under a cherry blossom tree. only your note.. had a bit more written at the end.

you both arrived there, you a bit earlier than megumi.

"megumi, it's you?"

he tilted his head in confusion. "what's me?"

"you called me out here to confess to me?" she said, while holding up the page.

megumi was plotting revenge in his head, but..

he shouldn't waste this chance right?

"yes, yes i did." he rubbed the back of his neck before speaking.

"i admire you. you're pretty, and strong, and courageous. you make light of hard situations no matter how scared you are, you're.. really amazing."

"megumi.." as they neared closer to eachother, the flowers from the tree starting to fall freely onto them, accompanying the sunlight draping in from the moving shade.

they shared their first kiss under that tree,

the first of many more.

[mandalhoerian]

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 just for a 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.

[mustainegf]

This is a crazy sad idea I had the other night

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ¹⁹⁸⁷

I wake up to the pitter of rain against the windows. The air was dead, with the smell of old wood and the remains of cigarette smoke from the night before. The house held its breath. Lying there, in sheets that smell of memories, the leather and aftershave smell with the damp air and cleaving to everything in this room. His room.

James has left his space this way ever since, the mess of records that he insists have some sort of order, utter chaos to anyone else. Guitars leaned against the wall, scattered papers on the desk. Hard to tell, really. A few half empty beer bottles remained on the nightstand, one of them with the label peeling off where his fingers had unconsciously picked at it.

I sit up and blink away fogginess in my head. My body is heavy, I'm trying to move underwater. Really, I don't want to get up. I want to be wrapped in the warmth of this room, in the memories that lean against me from every corner. But I know I cannot stay here forever. The guys will be up soon, and we'll all gather in the kitchen, making laugh, eat whatever we can find, making plans for the day. It's 1987, and life moves fast. Even if I don't feel like keeping up.

Lately, James has been different. Quieter. Or maybe I'm just noticing things that were always there. The way he sometimes stares off into space, his fingers tapping out rhythms for his own ears. The way he lingers a little too long in doorways, expecting something or someone to appear. He doesn't talk about it, though. None of us do. We just keep going, acting like everything is okay.

Maybe he's downstairs already, fiddling with his guitar, a low hum of his voice humming along to whatever song's in his head. I smile at the thought. James Hetfield. My roommate, my best friend, and sometimes... I don't know what. Something more, maybe. Or something less. It's hard to define what we are.

I drag myself out of his bed and into my jeans,the necklace around my neck is getting heavier with the days. The little locket inside, the one I never take off, a picture of him. I rarely open it. I don't have to. I can pull up his face on the screen in my head anytime. Those diamond cut blue eyes, that wonky smile capable of illuminating the whole damn room.

I trudge softly down the stairs, trying not to make any noise. I used to joke this place was haunted, maybe the ghosts of musicians still waited here, looking for their chance at popularity. James would laugh at me for it, calling me ridiculous, but sometimes. Sometimes, I truly wish it were. And maybe it is.

But it's still an empty kitchen. No James, no one else. Just the light patter of rain, the ticking of the clock on the wall. My face droops immediately. He's probably out in the garage, messing with his guitar, or he went for a drive. That's what he sometimes does when his head needs clearing. I'm fine. I'll see him later.

I sit at the table, running my fingers over the grain of the wood in an absent circle. The house is too quiet. Too still. I shut my eyes and try to recall the last conversation we had, but it's all hazy, reaching for smoke. My mind drifts and for one moment, I might have sworn I heard him, his voice calling my name up the hallway. I snap my eyes open and my heart's racing. But there's nobody.

Just the house. Just me.

I shake my head, feeling pathetic. Need to stop doing this, stop waiting for things that aren't there. I'm not some little girl anymore.

But still… I was hoping the house was haunted.

I lie later on his bed, gazing up at the ceiling, the Scorpions poster on his ceiling boring an image into my skull. The rain has calmed. I have no idea why I am in here. I should do anything else, do something else. Instead, I draw his pillow closer to me, inhaling into the now-faint scent of him that still clings to the fabric. I know if i keep breathing it in, it'll only smell like me. And that's no good.

I simply wish that he would just come back now.

I heard the opening of the door behind me, and my heart leaps half a second, hoping it is him, but it isn't. It's Cliff.

He steps inside, his eyes soft as they land on me, knowing exactly what's going on. That's always been him, kind and patient. He doesn't say anything, not for a minute or so, just walks over and sits on the edge of the bed, his weight sinking into the mattress.

And then I don't know why, but I just start crying. It's out of nowhere, tears spilling down my cheeks before I can even attempt to stop them. They soak into James' pillow like a hello. It's kind of really embarrassing, actually. I'm not a crier. But here I am, sobbing into James's pillow like some sort of broken thing, and I have no idea why.

Cliff says nothing more, but reaches out and gently brushes my hair from off my face, and I imagine his touch is James'.

"He loved you, you know," Cliff says in a voice soft enough that it caresses my slow heart.

My body freezes up. "What?

"James," he says, his fingers still moving through my hair, soothing me like I was a little girl. "He was crazy about you."   I shake my head, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "You don't have to say that, Cliff. I know you're just trying to make me feel better."

But he doesn't laugh. He doesn't even smile. He just looks at me with those sad eyes of his, chestnut hair falling slightly in his eyes.

"He was gonna tell you," Cliff whispers. "After the tour. He had this big, stupid plan. He wanted to take you out to dinner, make it all special, you know? He was nervous as hell about it, too."

Why is Cliff saying this? Why now?

Again, Cliff says, "He never had the chance." Cliff's voice is no louder than a murmur. "But he loved you. Really did."

I wrap myself into a tight, clinging ball with his pillow. "But he's still here," I choke. "James is… he's still here, Cliff. He's just… he's just out somewhere, right?"

There's such a long pause, when Cliff speaks again, his voice is full with a sadness that I don't want to recognize. But I do.

"He's gone, sweetheart."

I shake my head wildly, eyes refusing to believe what I already know is true. "No. No, he's not. He's coming back. He's just—"

"He passed, remember? Last year. The bus."

I stop breathing as the room tilts, heavy with fog, pushing against my skin, promising to smother me. I remember, yet I don't want to. I don't want to think about that night, the phone call, a feeling of my love slipping away.

"I saw him," I whisper, my voice shaking. "I swear, Cliff, I saw him. He was right here."

Cliff doesn't argue, won't try to reason with me. He just pulls me into his arms, holding me as I break apart. He strokes my hair, whispering soft words that I can't quite make out, but it doesn't matter. All that matters is that James is gone. He's been gone for a year, and I've been living in this house, waiting for a ghost that will never come home.

Cliff lays me back down, tucks James’ blankets around me as if I am some sort of child. He doesn't leave, though. He stays beside me, his hand resting on my shoulder.

"He really did love you," Cliff says again, much softer this time. "More than you know."

The house isn't haunted. At least, it isn't haunted the way I wish it was.

I still wear you in my locket, James. I always will.

And maybe someday I'll find you again.

[wickedscribbles]

whoever makes my baby cry (is gonna lose some teeth tonight) ch. 3

Masterlist

Ch. 1, Ch. 2

Pairing: Wade Wilson/Deadpool x Logan Howlett/Wolverine

Rating: Explicit

Tags: flirting, anxiety, insecurity, drunk background characters, canon-typical violence, communication issues, emotional hurt/comfort, fluff

Word Count: 4.4K

If you like what I write and can afford to do so, please consider buying me a coffee! It would be much appreciated.

In theory, it's been a good day.

At the very least, it’s a lot less terrifying than Logan had built it up in his mind to be. Wade never really let him in on what his plans were, so he’s just along for the ride as they travel across the sprawl of the city. Interestingly, he notices that Wade keeps their hands linked as they wait for the next bus – not an unpleasant experience by any means, but something they’ve never really done before. Though each of them often remains close enough to crawl inside the other when within the privacy of the apartment, PDA isn’t something they’ve ever really done.

For Logan, general proximity has always been enough. Knowing where Wade is, having his heartbeat and scent to go off of. An occasional brush of fingers isn’t unusual, a playful hip knock. Being more visible as a couple out in the public eye is new, and Logan wonders if it has anything to do with Wade’s insistence on going out looking…well. The way that he currently does.

His gut is telling him yes.

But Wade’s humming contentedly to himself as they’re squished into a seat, shoulder to shoulder. His mind can’t help repeating back to him how much going out like this seems to mean to Wade, and Wade has somehow come to mean a hell of a lot to him. So he keeps his mouth shut and explores the hand-in-hand situation, rubbing his thumb in small circles over the skin of Wade’s palm. Turns out, the man’s got a whole itinerary for the day. Which makes sense, considering it’s Wade. Logan can’t imagine him taking them out for lunch and then going right back to the apartment after all the fuss he’s already kicked up.

“So,” Wade starts, in a tone that Logan’s grown fond of. “I was thinking we’d start with lunch – I don’t know about you, but I worked up an appetite from this morning –”

Logan promptly elbows him in the ribs.

“Wade –”

There’s a pint sized kid in the aisle across, staring at them with curious blue eyes. Wade turns to see what he’s looking at, then shrugs.

“Okay, slow down, Mr. Pervert. You think I’m handing out details of my personal life for free? And to minors, no less? If they want that sort of information they can lie about their age, like the rest of us did when the internet was the wild west of all things freaky.”

He looks over at something Logan can’t see. “And like some of them still are. Don’t think I don’t fucking see you.”

“See what?”

“Nothing, kitty cat. Anyway,” Wade continues, excited.

Logan listens patiently as he’s given every last detail of what they’re going to do and where they’re going to go. Does it sound like a lot of interaction with the general populace he wouldn’t normally seek out? Yeah. But does it also seem like Wade put a ton of effort into making sure it’d be a combination of things they’d both enjoy? Also yes.

“Sounds nice,” Logan tells him when he’s through explaining, and Wade gives him a tentative smile.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He puts an arm around Wade’s shoulders, and it doesn’t take heightened senses to catch the obvious delight emanating from him at the new contact.

So they meander through the massive sprawl of the city, venturing to places Logan’s never had a reason to go. If he’s being honest with himself, his circles are pitifully small. He likes to stay within certain neighborhoods if he can help it, places he already knows, close to home. The only time he really strayed from that trend was when he was trying to figure out what home was. Once he has a routine, he likes to keep to it.

Wade tends to veer toward the opposite. He likes a little spontaneity – hell, impulse may as well be his middle name. Logan’s not surprised when they go off path from one part of the day to something unexpected that catches Wade’s attention. He’s known him long enough to just accept that that’ll happen sometimes, doesn’t mind it.

It’s actually nice to be somewhere he’s not used to. Logan didn’t realize that he’d been growing a little restless himself until given the opportunity to see something outside of the daily to and fro, as comforting as that had become. The cheerful spring weather holds as Wade takes him to walk through some of the biggest trees Logan’s ever seen in his life, and later still as they weave their way through a public market.

They’ve been walking all day by the time Wade points them in the direction of their final destination, but Logan doesn’t feel (that) overwhelmed or at all bored. It’s…it’s nice. Seeing more of the city was probably good for him.

Dusk brushes across the sky, tentative. They walk together down the sidewalk, sometimes dodging to the side for a passing crowd. There’s more going on here in terms of entertainment than where they’re living – probably why he’s never been out this way.

Logan can’t help but take an occasional glance at Wade. The makeup’s become smudged throughout the day, and it’s a relief to see the actual Wade beginning to poke through a bit.

“I’m still waiting for it,” Wade says, looking at Logan wryly.

That makes him nervous. “Waiting for what?”

“Waiting for you to say, ‘huh, jeez, Wade, guess living here doesn’t suck the absolute balls that I always say it does.’”

He rolls his eyes. “Those the exact words you think would come out of my mouth?”

Wade nods, his expression solemn. “Verbatim. You’ve picked up some very unbecoming slang from hanging around Al so much, I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

“More like from hanging around you.”

“See, this is what I’m talking about!” Wade brings them to a stop. “The Logan that I dragged home would have just growled all sexy for the camera and stabbed me somewhere. He didn't banter like this.”

“Sooo…you’re saying you’re a bad influence.” He smirks.

They’re right outside the bar Wade wanted to poke his head into – some little hole in the wall joint Ellie, Laura, and Yukio won’t stop talking up called The Spork. Even from outside, Logan can hear and feel the pulse of the music. He can already tell that it’s going to be zero percent like the bars he’s frequented in the past. That’s probably for the best.

“Well, you did take off your chastity ring for me, didn’t you, sweetheart?” His voice dips lower on sweetheart, eyes roaming Logan’s chest through the strain of his shirt.

Fuck, he’s seriously starting to regret not taking Wade up on his offer this morning. They could have gone another round in under thirty minutes, right? (Wrong.) Logan can feel his cock stirring with interest, and though the street is growing dark now, it’s not something he wants to advertise.

“We goin’ in or not?” he mutters instead, fully aware that he’s lost the ability to quip back.

Sure, yeah, maybe he’s gotten better at keeping up, as Wade had said. But there’s no topping him when it comes to having a smart fucking mouth. He’s half-convinced Wade could just talk him to orgasm – and he wonders if it’s something they’ll ever try.

Wade chuckles a little at him.

“Don’t have to,” he says. “I know those dad shoes have seen more traction in the past eight hours than they’ve probably gotten in the last six months, so if you want to head home, we’ll head home.”

Again with this shit! Between him and Laura he’s never going to get away with any choice of footwear without getting roasted like he’s standing on the fucking sun.

“They’re literally just –”

“White New Balance, baby, I know.” Wade’s still grinning a little. “After you.”

He holds the door, and it only takes seconds for the two of them to become engulfed in sound. The bar is crowded with people he’d guess are probably around Laura’s age, a flurry of bright hair colors and crop tops, makeup on every kind of face. Queer couples whisper and laugh with each other, nursing drinks. Groups of friends pose for pictures. Lights dance from the ceiling, and the speakers are blasting a voice he’s become all too familiar with as Laura’s started turning the album on every time she’s in his car.

You know what they say – never waste a Friday night on a first date.

But there I was, in my heels with my hair straight, Logan finishes in his head, led by Wade to the bar by their connected hands.

“Be right back,” Wade says near his ear, careful not to yell. “You getting anything?”

Logan shakes his head. “Not if we’re just in and out.”

“Gotcha.”

He watches as Wade melts away into the crowd, side-stepping and inching through far more gracefully than Logan could until he slips into the restroom.

It’s easy to see why The Girls – as Ellie, Yukio, and Laura have come to be known in his mind – like it here. Inclusivity comes easier in cities, he knows that. But it’s still not perfect. Even harder when you have supernatural abilities you never asked for on top of it all.

Logan wonders if there are any more mutants in the crowd tonight.

Wade is taking a very long time. Shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, Logan glances back to where he’d last seen him. Is he being too paranoid? Should he just wait and give it another minute? Fuck. He wished his brain wouldn’t turn everything into a disaster. It occurs to him that the bar is getting louder and louder and he can smell so much sweat and cigarette smoke and weed in here.

No, actually, fuck it, he’s going. There’s no harm in just walking in and seeing if he’s alright.

Anxiety spiral! Jess says cheerfully in the back of his head. He ignores her.

With one hand placed on the bathroom door, he’s just in time to almost fully collide with the man he’s looking for.

“Shit,” they say at the same time, getting out of one another’s way.

“No, it’s fine,” Logan says first, squinting as a flash of light from the overhead rig shines in his face. “You okay, bub?”

Sometimes eating genuinely does make Wade sick. Logan doesn’t know if it’s the cancer or a side effect of how his regenerative ability works for him, but there are days when food just doesn’t do it for him. Usually they can both tell when that’s going to happen, though. They’ll hole up in the apartment, turn on some good movies, and just be together while Logan rubs Wade’s back all day. He’s happy to do it for him; he’s prepared to take him straight home and do it now.

But Wade doesn’t smell sick.

When Logan blinks the last of the light away, he’s left looking at Wade, who is definitely not looking at him. In fact, he’s staring at his shoes, looking like he wants to crawl through the floor.

His face is clean, all the carefully applied makeup scrubbed away.

Logan opens his mouth to say something like okay, I’m glad you took that off, I like your actual face, but Wade beats him to the punch.

“Sorry,” Wade says softly. “It was getting all smudged, and…sorry.”

Tears gather hot and burning in the back of Logan’s throat. Out of nowhere, he’s furious, fucking outraged that Wade could feel this way about himself when it’s so clearly untrue. It’s the kind of emotion that he’s not sure he can shove down or redirect this time. Part of him knows that if Wade sees the look on his face, he’s going to read it the wrong way. And he needs to get out of this bar, right now.

He's like a string pulled too tight. Even the pressure of a breath could make him snap.

“Can we please leave.”

That’s all he can make himself say, the words coming out all taut and emotionless. It makes him feel like shit, but that’s all he can manage to get out.

Wade nods, and Logan offers his hand once more. A meager consolation prize compared to what he actually wants to tell him. Logan hates how lacking his brain-to-mouth output is. Whatever he ends up saying always sounds so inarticulate. Right now he’s staring at Wade’s profile in the gentle pulsing of the colored lights, thinking a million things. All of them thrum within him harder than his own heartbeat.

I love you.

You’re beautiful.

I hate that you thought you had to change for me.

I would kill for you.

I would live for you.

Ten feet until they’re outside – he can do that. Then he can fix this.

Logan’s eyes are fixed on the door, on the cool air drafting in as it opens and closes, when he’s shoved hard from the right.

“My bad,” says a voice at once. “Shit, my bad man, my bad.”

Logan grits his teeth so tight he feels one of them crack. He swallows the loose piece.

“Don’t worry about it.” Shut the fuck up and let me leave.

The man who bumped into him is so obviously wasted that he might as well be wearing a flashing neon sign. He sways a little on his feet, supported only by the sweet-looking woman he keeps bumping back into, as if she's the only thing keeping him upright. Brawny and dressed like he's just walked straight from his fraternity house, he squints at Logan and Wade like he's seeing double. Shit, maybe triple, at this point.

“Jake, maybe you need to sit down,” the woman says to him softly.

Her face is flushed, more from embarrassment than alcohol. She's staring up at the guy, one small hand on his arm, but Jake is looking at the two of them like he's never seen gays over thirty before. Hell, like he’s never seen a queer in general, which is astounding, considering the bar he’s currently standing in.

Logan can feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up. It’s a rare occasion when someone who’s looked at him like that didn’t end up pissing him off, and he’s already one step away from wanting a good excuse to tear into someone. Anyone.

“C'mon, just sit down with us, I'll get you some water.”

The guy isn't interested. He's too busy looking at Wade now, and Logan can see the thought forming on his face before he dares to speak it.

“Jesus, man, you're kinda ugly, did you know that?”

To Wade's credit, he says fucking excuse me? at the same time Logan's fingers close around the asshole’s throat.

For someone who'd been wobbling around only seconds before, Jake tries to pry them off with surprising accuracy. It only makes him squeeze tighter, watching with brutal satisfaction as his face turns darker shades of red.

That’s better. This, he can understand. For Logan, actions are almost always easier than words, especially when tinted with violence. Especially if he’s needed it for weeks now.

In his periphery, he can tell that several things are going on. The college girl is touching his elbow, asking him to stop, something like I’m so sorry please let him go I know he’s had way too much. Wade is standing back a ways, hands in his pockets, grinning more broadly than Logan’s seen all day. A small crowd is starting to gather.

Their faces are only inches apart. He knows he should walk away, just take Wade and go home.

Somewhere behind him, Wade is having the time of his life calling this frat boy a piece of shit. Logan can’t even keep up with half of what’s coming out of his mouth, but he hears something about getting his haircut off of a middle schooler’s Tiktok FYP but having his dad’s mental health issues, and those both seem like pretty deep cuts. He doesn’t fail to mention, of course, that Logan’s about to turn him into the wet food that they make for cats.

“C’mon, fuckface,” Jake wheezes, trying and failing once more to loosen his grip. “You mad your boyfriend ain’t pretty or–”

That’s all it takes. Logan curls his free hand into a fist and punches the other man so hard his nose breaks with a tidy snap. Blood pours out of him like a busted faucet as he punches him twice, three times, and in seconds he’s howling and pleading for him to stop – he didn’t mean it, he promises he didn’t mean it.

If it were up to Logan, he’d stay there and beat him until the fucking punk was barely capable of stringing a sentence together, then make him say thank you for letting him live. As the situation stands, however, several people are definitely calling the police – and that’s not something Logan has the patience for.

“Hey, Testosterone Tommy, we gotta go,” Wade calls, reading his mind.

Without another word, Logan turns his back to the mess he’s made, and they make short work of disappearing into the street.

By the time they’ve ducked through enough alleys and carved a confusing enough path that they don’t think they’re in danger of being pursued, Wade lets out a breath.

“Thanks for uh, defending my honor back there, peanut.”

Logan shrugs, still tense from the weight of the conversation he knows they need to have.

“It was nothin’. He needed to shut the fuck up. I was happy to provide the service.” He looks over at Wade in the soft light of a street lamp, who chuckles a little at that. “And I knew you woulda hit him yourself if I didn’t get there first,” he adds.

Wade's answering silence makes him wonder if he would have just taken the insult and kept walking, or turned it into a joke even if it made him feel like shit.

When they arrive back at the apartment, Laura opens the door, a wriggling Puppins in her arms, and scrunches her nose at the sight of Logan.

“Thought it was a date, the hell?” she says. “You’ve got blood on you.”

“Don’t all your dates end in bloodshed?” Wade says, shrugging. He turns to let the dog inspect his face with her mouth, which she does with excruciating enthusiasm. “Hi Puppins! Hi baby!! Did you miss us? You did! Anyway, we can’t go to your bar anymore.”

Laura doesn’t look that surprised. “What did you do?”

“Logan tried to kill a guy ‘cause he called me ugly.”

“I did not try to kill him,” Logan growls, passing Laura her phone as she goes to collect her things. “I just shook him up a little.”

“In a very heroic, brash, and manly way,” Wade sings, putting an arm around his waist. “The other guy really did gush, Laura, you would’ve loved it.”

She only shakes her head and sighs. “If you say so. I gotta get home, I work at six tomorrow.”

“Thanks for dogsitting! And catsitting, too, I guess.”

“Haha, I didn’t even see him.”

Logan walks her to the door while Wade wanders deeper into the bedroom. Every time Wade tells him stories about the Other Logan, and this Laura, he tries to imagine if he can feel that connection. It’s not the same as what he feels for her now – not as massive and deep as that love had to have been – but he still cares for her. He wants to see her do well. Growing up the way she had wasn’t easy, he knows that much. And she’s a good kid. Logan knows she’s trying to do her best – even if she sometimes gets into scraps of her own.

“Thanks, kid,” Logan says as they hover in the doorway. “Have a good shift, yeah? Try to behave yourself.” From the stories he’s heard from her working as a lead at a grocery store, people aren’t always the kindest.

“Could say the same to you,” she fires back, smiling before she turns down the hallway.

He watches until she’s gone before shutting their door and locking it. When he turns, Bonnet is staring at him from the little nook under the far left kitchen cabinet, his favorite place to hide.

“Hey, buddy,” Logan calls softly, bending down. Bonnet comes to him at once, tail lifted. “What'd you do today, huh?”

The massive tabby answers him with a quiet mrow, butting his head against Logan's hand. They stay like that for a moment, each of them comforted by the other.

When Logan makes his way to the bedroom, he finds Wade already in pajamas, scrolling on his phone. Wade glances up at him with a soft smile, watching him unbutton his shirt and toss it into the hamper.

“So…overall, was it an okay day?” he asks as Logan shuffles into bed beside him in only his boxers, landing with a heavy sigh. “Worth repeating, sans the whole dramatic knockout bit towards the end?”

His hand is already carding through Logan’s hair. Wade shuffles closer to let Logan sling a leg over his hip the way he wants to, recharging after a long day of being on the go.

“‘Course,” Logan mutters. The gentle way Wade’s touching him makes his whole body go limp and relaxed almost at once. He didn’t realize how much the day had weighed on him until he felt that weight lifting. “‘Course I’d go out with you again. Didn’t really know it was that important or we coulda – coulda gone a lot sooner.”

He feels Wade shrug. “Well, it took me a minute to learn how to get all the stuff right, otherwise I might have –”

Logan sits straight up in a way that makes the bed jolt. He looks Wade right in the eye, taking in the surprise, taking in every inch of his face, aching that Wade doesn’t think he’s good enough to go out without slathering shit on.

“Wade. For once in your life, shut the fuck up and let me say something. Please.”

“Yeah, okay. You’re kind of leaving me no choice, but okay.”

Huffing out a frustrated breath, Logan pauses to think. Everything he’s itching to say will come out angry, or make him want to cry. He doesn’t want either of those options to happen – he wishes he could just fucking say hard things without it being like this. Like his heart’s going to explode out of his chest.

“Fuck,” he says, dragging his hands across his face. “Fuck, Wade.”

“What?” He feels a hand on the side of his neck, feels Wade’s heartbeat pick up. Nervous. “Peanut, what’s the matter?”

“I didn’t want – I didn’t ask you – it wasn’t – you’re not – fuck.”

He can’t breathe. Wade notices.

“Just take a minute. I’m not going anywhere.”

Feeling very small and stupid and embarrassed the entire time, Logan closes his eyes and does as Wade asks. Forcing himself to breathe in and out until his chest doesn’t feel like it’s caved in on itself. Hating that this is so fucking hard. Other people don’t have to do this. Why is he like this?

Finally, he finds his voice again.

“Wish you didn’t go out looking like that,” he admits at last. “You didn’t need to do that for me. I didn’t want it, Wade. Wanted you.”

Logan peers up at Wade, who has a small, bitter sort of smile on his face. It’s probably one of the farthest things he’s seen from his genuine grin in some time.

“As the Irish forest man himself would say, you’re too sweet for me,” he says. “But you’re used to me, bud. You don’t get it.”

Exasperation roars like fire in Logan’s mind. “What the hell don’t I get? Wade. I’ve been lookin’ at you for a year now. I like it. Haven’t I made that clear enough?”

There are fucking tears in Wade’s eyes, though he blinks them back fast, and Logan’s own throat burns in instant empathy.

“I said, you don’t get it,” he says again. “You didn’t know me before. You didn’t see what I looked like then. And if you had, you sure as fuck wouldn’t be sticking around now.”

They’re both bolt upright in the bed now, tense, facing each other. Logan can’t tell whether he’s more angry or hurt that Wade would still cling so tightly to thinking about himself like this, but whatever held him back from speaking before is long gone now. It’s time to be mad.

“News flash, jackass,” he barks. “I did see you. And yeah, maybe you were cute, but you weren’t all that. So pull yourself out of this fuckin’ –” he throws his hands up “-- hole of self pity. I love you the way you are right now, not some fake version you feel like you have to slap on.”

Wade stares at him.

He can only hold the tough act for a half second before he wonders if he’s gone too far. Because getting Wade Wilson speechless? That is a rarity, and a cause for concern.

“Sorry,” Logan says lamely, after another long beat. “If that was too much, then sorry, I just don’t want you to think you’re not good enough to –”

“You mean it?” Wade says, his voice small. “The – the love thing.”

Oh. Oh shit. He’d fully said that.

“Yeah,” Logan answers, laughing a little. “Yeah, I do.”

And fuck, he does. There’s no use pretending it’s not true anymore. He loves the stupid little songs he sings in the morning and the way he hums when he’s sleepy and how much he loves the dog. He loves how much he cares about the people in his life. He loves how fucking smart he is and how he can crack a joke with absolutely no effort. He loves his weird taste in music and how he looks in his clothes.

He loves.

He loves.

He loves.

“I really do,” Logan tells him, cupping Wade’s cheek, pulling him in to kiss him. The way Wade kisses him back is so soft, and he’s laughing too, a breathless little sound against Logan’s mouth. He climbs into his lap and wraps his arms tight around him, and they stay like that for a long time, rocking back and forth, close, warm.

“Sorry it took so long,” Logan tells him after a while. The fact that Wade had said it first, and so much earlier, still fills him with guilt.

“S’okay,” Wade answers. “It was worth it.” He places more kisses to Logan’s forehead, the bridge of his nose, his cheeks. “So…can I fuck you to celebrate this little revelation? Like, a lot?”

“Yeah, please.”

[sturniolo04]

The Confession 1 C.S.

Fwb!Mean!Chris x Fwb!Fem!Reader

A/N: I tried something different :)

*Really long you have been warned.

I dont even know how I ended up in this position. One minute my best friend Madi thinks she likes both Matt and Chris and the next she is 100% Matt. Me and Madi are super close I mean we practically grew up together and when we met the triplets in Boston everything changed, our circle grew just a little bit bigger. Lately, I haven't been the best friend to Madi just because I have been neglecting to confess to her about my secret crush on Chris and I am not the type to run over her if she knows she likes Chris because who am I to tell her she can't like him especially since I haven't told her that I did.

its about 1:50 in the morning and by this time Madi had walked all the way to a park and found a bench to sit and bawl her eyes out she couldnt figure out why she was feeling this bad whether it was that she couldnt articulate how she hurt Matt and Chris or if it is was because she cant choose between chris and matt she knows them both equally for a long time. sighing looking down at her phone finally deciding to call the one person she knew is always there. Holding in my tears as the dial tone rings hoping she wasnt asleep yet.

"Hello Madi"

jess speaks into the phone

"Jess"

she states through choked tears

"Madi what's going on love what happened" 

"i messed up really bad and i dont know what to do"

she exclaims letting her tears fall

"Madi"

"I like chris and matt and ive might have messed up our friendship"

"no madi you didnt okay i promise you didnt they are still your friends and they love you"

you quickly reply feeling that heavy feeling in your chest again as she still thinks she like chris.

"i dont know"

she replies through a fit of tears

"its okay promise try to get some sleep and you will feel so much better tomorrow i promise"

you reply reassuring her.

"okay goodnight"

she sniffles out

"goodnight i will see you when you get back home "

she hung up from jess and sighed out once more calming her nerves proceeding to walk back to the house. as she made her way into the driveway sitting back on the concrete driveway where the night officially started 

"MADI"

you exclaim softly seeing her sitting on the driveway

"hi"

she replies quietly as she turns around to look at you

"i was so worried are you okay"

you ask again.

"im sorry"

you sigh squatting down and hugging her then sitting down next to her

"i fucked things up didnt i"

she huffs out

"what no well i mean chris and matt are not speaking to each other currently but i mean whats new"

you sigh out since madi basically confessed to both of them on the same night and them both finding out in this driveway tonight.

" but it was my fault im the reason they are mad at each other"

"no no youre not okay they are just being them okay they will grow up"

you reassure her

"but i mean i told you had feelings for chris too"

you state smirking trying to shake the heavy feeling in her stomach at that sentence.

"jesss"

"you know i love you"

you say side hugging her

'well im going to bed you think youre going to be okay"

"yeah thanks j" 

"okay"

you say standing up and walking back into the house as madi rests her head on her arms positioned on top of her knees as someone comes and sits next to her quietly

"hi matt"

she speaks softly out noticing his presence

"hey"

"im sorry"

"why you were just being honest" 

he sighs out

"i do really like you" 

she confesses again

"no madi you and chris are perfect and honestly it makes he was at least able to communicate how he feels about you without being oblivious about it im not the one you need madi you are way out of my league and im okay with that honestly"

he sighs out rambling

"what the actual fuck matt stop youre  out of my league why do you just automatically assume your not good enough" 

she exclaims frustrated standing up and wrapping the blanket you had brought her getting upset

"madi no youre not out of league okay just stay"

he says pulling her hand down a little as she sighs and sits back down as matt pulls me into him connecting our lips guiding her on his lap in the process. He tangled his fingers through her messy hair as he continue to make out with her. Her hands wrapped around his neck tightly as he stood up carrying her back into the house. shepulled away quickly he closed the door behind them and set her back on her feet.

"Matt if-if"

she trails of whispering

"wait"

he stops her as he pulls his and her shoes off leaving them downstairs as he swiftly picks her up again by her thighs taking her upstairs to her room quietly being sure not wake up anyone especially Chris. Matt leans back in after setting her on her bad standing in between her legs attempting to connect their lips again but madi halted him in the process.

"matt..seriously come on"

she giggles out as he sighs out stares at her as she bites her lip slowly.

"yes madi you were saying"

he chuckles out

"matt if- if we do this"

she trails off motions towards them

"no one can know yet"

"okay"

he kind of chuckles at the concept

"im serious matt"

she exhales out looking at him as his face softens at her response

"at least until i figure out how to tell" 

"chris"

"yeah because"

"i know i know"

he sighs out moving himself from in between her to next to her laying on her bed. 

"jess' mom might be coming to boston"

"what that so cool"

"yeah she called her when i walked off tonight"

"oh" 

"yeah"

"well im going to go"

he states standing up

"where"

she states worried

"dont worry just in the other room with chris maybe so you can get some sleep"

he chuckles out giving madi a forehead kiss as he walks out of her room.

Madi wakes up the next morning mentally face palming herself considering well she basically made out with Matt after literally confessing to both brothers she has feelings for them. she rolled out of bed hoping everything will return to normal. she shower and put on this And head downstairs to be met with the face of the one and only

"good morning"

"whats up how are you feeling"

"better just like jess said"

"jess"

"i talked to her last night after everything"

"oh okay hey madi listen forget everything i said last night i was just being stupid it was nothing"

he states quickly realizing he also confessed that he liked you.

"chris i dont think it was nothing you dont have to lie about it"

"no im being for real"

"christopher"

"what im serious"

"okay then sound cool"

she states heading back upstairs

"where are you going"

"to wake up matt and everyone else"

Chris couldnt understand why he said that he literally let her get away again. His thoughts were soon interrupted the sound of jess's doorbell ringing. He went over and opened the door to reveal

"oh hi there i was- where is jess"

jess mom trails off

"she's upstairs um"

he trailed off kind of awkwardly since he had no idea that this jess's mom as what sounded like jess's laugh approaching the bottom of the stair case. I turned to see jess walking down with Nick and Madi being carried down the stairs by matt. the lady at the door cleared her throat as they all snapped out of their trance looking in that direction

"Mom"

she exclaims running over and hugging her

"mom"

Chris questions

"yeah.. mom this is chris, matt, nick and then you remember madi"

she trails off as chris waves his hand

"Hi you all"

she says with a raised eyebrow smiling

"jess; mom"

she exlcaims hugging her after jess

"hey madi"

"when did you get here" 

madi asks her

"last night when jess called"

Madi looks over at jess standing next to her as she shrugs her shoulders a little not wanting to talk about last night at all due to the fact she still felt the pit in her stomach of guilt of even allowing herself the like chris and not trust madi enough to even tell her that you liked him.

"so mom do you want to come on in then"

she states as madi and her both step aside to let her in

"how long are you going to be here for"

"just the weekend"

"maybe we can all go somewhere and just hang out for a little bit maybe grab dinner does that sound good guys"

she asks everyone

"im fine with that"

nick agrees nodding his head

"mom"

you question her

"sure plus i want to see all there is about Boston since this is my first time up here"

"well the triplets can definitely help point out those key spots since they've grown up here"

"literally"

chris chuckles out admiring jess' laugh slightly

"cool so do want me to ride with you"

"umm.. im going to ride with jess and her mom is that okay"

"uh yeah of course" 

madi and you grab your shoes and they all head out the door.

"soo"

she trails off looking the mirror at the two girls in the backseat of the car

"what's going on with you and Matt Madi"

"uhh"

" yeah i was going to ask about that i mean i knew you guys made up because i saw him come outside after i left you after you came back home"

"umm i dont know what you guys are talking about"

"are you sure because i remember clearly you being carried down the stairs by him this morning"

"in a skirt too at that madii"

you exclaim dragging out the 'i' in your best friend's name

"oh come on what is that suppose to mean just because we made up doesn't mean we are dating"

"so your telling me he hasnt tried to make a move on you after everything that happened yesterday evening"

she asks as madi kind of stares off into space getting flashbacks to last night of literally her and matt making out in her driveway

"oh my god he totally did didnt he"

"what no jess no" 

"madi"

jess's mom exclaims trying to get an answer out of her

"OKAY maybe we might have made out in the driveway at like 2 in the morning"

"MADISON"

you exclaim at your best friend with your jaw dropped

"what i mean its wasnt like terrible"

she shyly replies.

"that you made out with your bestfriend the best friend you liked for literally ever or that he was actually good at making out"

"OH MY GOODNESS"

madi exclaims embarrassed

" just asking"

"OH MY GOD NO"

"it was definitely the second option"

you giggle out

"shut up Jess"

she exclaims pushing some of her hair behind her ear opening her phone

"just make sure you do and know what your heart wants madi" 

"of course always"

Taglist

@dirtylittleheart333 @stayingstromboli @wh0resstuff @mintsturniolo @spicymuffins03 @emely9274

[dira333]

Of Head-Scratches and Fidgety Hands - Tendou Satori x Reader

Do I know what this is? No. But it was fun to write. - FLUFF

You’re not too sure how you got here in the first place.

Had Semi invited you? Or Reon? 

Too many people had talked at the same time, talking over each other and the words slurred together to a thick syrup until you could barely catch the essentials of “movie night” and “please come” and “dorm room”.

Now you’re tucked into the corner of a bed, trying to make yourself as small as possible because Ushijima is nothing if not massive and you don’t want him to think you want to cuddle or something.

“You’re not sitting up here,” someone announces from above and just seconds later Tendou jumps down, grinning like he doesn’t care. His eyes catch yours in the already dim light.

“Oh, is there space between you and Wakatoshi? Hmm?” He leans in.

“Sure,” you squeak, tucking yourself further into the corner.

Tendou slides into the open space, throwing his legs over Ushijima’s without a care. You’re a little jealous, to be honest. Not that you want to cuddle with Ushijima. You’d just love to be as careless as he is. Or the other girls that got invited.

Ran, for example, just sat on Goshiki’s lap the moment she came in and if that’s not confidence, you don’t know what is.

-

“Pspsps,” Tendou whispers just five minutes after the movie starts. 

You already know it’s going to be some bad horror movie.

“What?” You ask, heart hammering in your throat. “Do you need something? Oh shit, am I in your space?”

“No,” he smiles wide. “You’re just fidgeting a lot. Are you okay?  Are you scared? You can hold my hand if you want.”

You swallow thickly, eyes flickering from his face to the screen where a couple of girls just decided to leave their broken-down car on a dark, deserted street in the woods.

“Can I?” You ask back. “I… I kinda need to do something with my hands.”

And then, to your utter horror, your eyes flick up to his hair. It’s long and red and looks extremely soft, even in the barely there light. It’s the first thing you notice every time you two cross paths and maybe it’s the darkness or the lack of space, but your mouth just opens on its own.

“Can I play with your hair?”

Tendou’s eyes open wide and you wish you could suck those words back into your mouth and make sure they’re never heard.

“Sure,” he croaks out then, which in turn elicits a round of shushing from the other people but Tendou just settles further down into the bed, resting his head on your lap. 

His eyes are open and on you, asking you if this is okay just as much as you hope it is.

The moment your hands are in his hair you know you’re done for. It truly is as soft as it looks.

The movie is soon forgotten as you part strands and braid little braids, rub soft circles into his skin, or scratch faintly at his scalp.

About halfway through the movie, you look down to find Tendou fast asleep, his face nuzzled into your thighs. 

You let him sleep, your hands now a little less restless, just patting his head like one does with a napping kitten.

- - -

“Hey!” You almost flinch back at the loud greeting. Tendou waves at you from the other end of the hallway, coming closer much too fast. “How are you? Sorry, I fell asleep last time.”

“It’s uh… it’s no problem.” You glare at your feet, unable to look him in the face.

“Are you sure? You’ve got really talented hands there-” Your head shoots up to catch his smile, surprised that it’s gentle and shy, not bold and boisterous as usual.

“You sure?”

“Absolutely. It takes a while to put me to sleep, usually. You can ask Wakatoshi.”

You don’t think he meant the last part literally, but Ushijima’s deep voice still rings out, half a step behind him.

“I can confirm.”

“Oh, well, I… you have really nice hair.” What a weird compliment.

But Tendou blushes a soft red, now the one taking turns glaring at his shoes until Ushijima nudges him in an uncharacteristic show of support.

“Oh, right. We’re uh… doing another movie night. Just our dorm, though, not the whole team. Thought you might want to come.”

“Another horror movie?”

Tendou’s eyes open wide. “No, yes, I mean. What do you want to watch?”

“Tendou wants me to watch the Classics,” Ushijima interrupts before you can figure out a movie that makes you sound cool. “He said I need to see ‘The Land Before Time’.”

“Ouch,” you pull a face. “I mean I’m in, but we’ll need tissues.”

Ushijima seems surprised by that revelation, turning to Tendou as if to confirm you’re right.

“I told you that it will make you feel things,” Tendou defends himself, looking at you for help. 

“Lots of things,” you agree. 

“So you’re coming? It’s tonight, right after we get done with homework, so we don’t get to sleep too late.”

“I’m in.”

“Great, it’s a date.” Tendou grins, blushing all the same. 

You just hope you’re not as easy to read as he is.

- - -

“Where’s Tendou-Senpai?” Goshiki asks from the door of the study room.

“Sleeping,” Ushijima explains just as you put a finger on your lips to keep the First-Year from waking your boyfriend.

It’s not the most comfortable way to nap, but Satori’s managed to stretch out over a few chairs, his head in your lap. 

And even though he claimed it was to help with your ever-present need to fidget, you know it’s just a ruse to hide that he hasn’t been sleeping well lately. It probably has to do with the fact that you’re both waiting for your acceptance letters, the one thing deciding if your relationship will have to go long distance or not.

“Oh, sorry. Takai-Sensei asked for him. I’m supposed to bring him back with me.”

You sigh. “And here I thought he could finally take a nap.” 

Gently, you rub your thumb across his chin, up his cheek, and his temple. It’s more of a massage than a caress and it doesn’t take long for Satori to grumble and whine.

“Sorry,” you whisper down at him. “Takai-Sensei asked for you.”

“Five more minutes?”

“Not now, but you can lay down as soon as you’re back, okay? Extra head scratches for you too.”

“Fine,” he huffs, dragging himself up just to rest his head on your shoulder for a moment, breathing against your neck. “You’re lucky you’re the sugar plum fairy of women.”

“I’ll take that compliment,” you laugh, kissing him back when he leans in for a peck.

- - -

The flight to Paris is long and the leg room basically non-existent.

If you had the money for more expensive seats, you’d have splurged, just to make sure Satori could stretch his legs.  

“It’s fine,” he tells you for the fifth time, bending in a way that doesn’t seem humanly possible. “You will just have to head-scratch me into oblivion for the whole flight.”

You huff, exaggerating your exasperation.

“Why do always I have to do the head-scratching? I know I’m a fidgety mess, but you could return the favor once in a while.”

“Can I?” Satori asks, more hope in his voice than you thought possible.

“Eh, sure, I…” You blink, a little surprised. “I didn’t know you wanted to.”

“Yeah, because I didn’t want to mess up your pretty hair. And I don’t know if I can do it as well as you do. But I trained with Ushijima, so I can give pretty good shoulder rubs now.”

“Oh, so you trained?” You ask, raising your eyebrows at him.

“Like I’d risk a chance to hurt you, sweet pea of the fair seas.”

“Young Love,” the old granny on your right sighs, shaking her head at the two of you. 

[fleming-o]

Beneath the surface

Alexia Putellas X Teen reader

TW: sh scars, BAD family life

if this is somthing that you do not find comfortable please don’t read!

---

The sun blazed down on the training grounds, turning the afternoon air heavy and thick. You wiped the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand, panting as you joined the team in a huddle for water. Alexia stood nearby, chatting with some of the other players, her laugh soft but warm, blending into the familiar sounds of the field. You kept to yourself, trying to blend into the background, as you always did.

Training had been intense, pushing everyone to their limits, and your mind felt just as strained as your body. You crouched to adjust your shin guards, pulling your socks up higher, but your kit was sticking to you from the heat. You tugged at the sleeve of your shirt, trying to get a little air. You forgot to be careful.

That’s when you noticed Alexia looking your way. Her eyes had shifted, catching sight of your arm, the faint, silvery lines tracing your skin. You froze. Time seemed to slow down, your heart hammering in your chest. You hastily pulled your sleeve down, hoping she hadn’t really seen, but it was too late. Her gaze softened instantly, shifting from confusion to concern.

You stood up quickly, trying to distract yourself, focusing on the drill starting up again. But your hands were shaking, and your stomach churned. You felt exposed.

As the team moved to resume training, Alexia stayed back for a moment, watching you from a distance. You felt her gaze, heavy but gentle, following you as you jogged into position. No words yet. Just her quiet understanding.

The drills went on, but you couldn’t focus. Your mind kept circling back to that moment, replaying the look in her eyes. You didn’t want to deal with this. Not here, not in front of everyone.

After what felt like an eternity, the coaches called for another break. You walked over to the benches, deliberately putting space between you and the others. Your hands were still trembling, and your chest felt tight, as if the air wasn’t coming in right.

Alexia approached slowly. She didn’t say anything at first, just sat down beside you, close enough to let you know she was there but far enough to give you space. The silence between you was almost unbearable.

“Hey,” she said softly after a few minutes, her voice low, just for you. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your throat felt like it was closing up. You pulled your sleeve down further, fingers gripping the fabric tightly.

Alexia didn’t press, but her presence was like a weight, not in a bad way, but in the way that told you she wasn’t going anywhere. You wished she would leave, but at the same time, part of you wanted her to stay, wanted her to ask.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she added gently. “But I saw.”

Your heart sank. She really had noticed. You stared at the ground, your breath coming in shallow puffs. What could you even say? Your family’s lack of support, the isolation, the feeling of never being enough—it all knotted inside you, too painful to untangle in words.

Alexia was quiet for a long moment, waiting, letting the silence speak. She wasn’t going to rush you. When you didn’t respond, she leaned forward slightly, her voice even softer. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Your hands fidgeted in your lap, fingers twisting the bottom of your shirt. “There’s... there’s not much to say,” you mumbled, your voice thick with the weight of everything unsaid.

Alexia tilted her head slightly, watching you with that same, unyielding kindness. “It doesn’t seem like nothing,” she whispered. “I just... I want you to know that I’m here. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

Her words pierced through the wall you’d built around yourself. You swallowed hard, the familiar ache rising in your chest. You couldn’t keep it all in, not now. Not when she was looking at you like that—like you mattered.

“I don’t... I don’t really have anyone,” you admitted, your voice barely audible. “My family... they don’t care. They never have.”

Alexia’s face softened even more, her expression pained but understanding. She didn’t interrupt, letting you continue at your own pace.

“They just... I’ve tried so hard to make them proud, to be something they could be happy about, but nothing’s ever enough for them. I’m never enough.”

The words spilled out, one after the other, each one a small release of the pressure that had been suffocating you for so long. Your voice cracked, and you felt tears welling up in your eyes, but you fought them back, not wanting to cry in front of her.

Alexia shifted closer, her hand reaching out slowly, as if to give you a chance to pull away if you didn’t want her touch. When you didn’t, she gently placed her hand on yours, her thumb rubbing soft, reassuring circles against your skin.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through that.”

Her words broke something in you. The tears you’d been holding back slipped free, one after the other, and you quickly wiped them away, embarrassed.

“Hey, it’s okay,” she murmured. “You don’t have to hide how you feel. Not from me.”

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees, burying your face in your hands. It was too much—everything you’d been holding in for years, the hurt, the loneliness, the constant fight to prove your worth. It all crashed down on you at once.

Alexia shifted closer again, her hand never leaving yours. “You’re more than enough,” she said quietly, but firmly. “You don’t need anyone’s approval to prove that. Not your family’s, not anyone’s. You’re strong, and you’re talented, and you’re important to this team.”

You didn’t respond, but you let her words sink in, feeling their weight settle into the cracks of your heart. It was hard to believe her, hard to believe that you could be worth something, but hearing it from her—hearing it from someone who didn’t have to care but did—meant something.

“I know things are tough right now,” she added, her voice gentle. “But you don’t have to go through it alone. We’re here for you. I’m here for you. Whenever you need someone.”

Her words wrapped around you like a blanket, offering a warmth you hadn’t felt in a long time. Slowly, you lifted your head, your eyes meeting hers.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. “I just... I didn’t think anyone would care.”

Alexia’s expression tightened, her eyes glistening with emotion. “Of course, we care. You’re part of this team. And you matter.”

She pulled you into a soft embrace, her arms wrapping around you in a way that felt safe, like you didn’t have to be strong anymore, like it was okay to lean on someone else for a little while.

“You’re not alone,” she whispered again, holding you tightly. “You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

---

[starlightsuffered]

Do you think you could write a timmy fic where "it just doesn't fit" like, it hurts whenever they try, how gentle they are.

A/N - I’ve done ones like this before but here :)

It Just Doesn’t Fit

Info - angst, frustrated reader, oral/fingering (female receiving), virgin reader, big dick, using lube, unprotected sex, a bit of praise kink

“Just give it up,” I said, the feeling of sadness overwhelming me.

After a hard month of a difficult work environment and Timothée being gone often, I wanted to feel in control of something. My boyfriend suggest I pick the day we have sex for the first time.

We’d talked about it extensively over text. He would be my first and though many people had told me otherwise, I expected it to be magical. Timothée had promised he would make it as lovely as possible.

Now I felt like shit I lay in my own sweat and rose petals. I was hot and my hair was everywhere. It had started romantic until I’d cried out in pain Timothée had started to push in. It didn’t matter how many angles we tried. We were both grunting and frustrated.

He had offered to finger me or eat me out. We’d already done that and I wanted something new. I wanted one, just one of my plans to come through correctly. I didn’t want to feel like a failure in every aspect of life.

“Don’t bother, it’s just too big,” I sniffled. Suddenly, I was crying. I covered my overheated cheeks as the tears flowed. I tried to stop desperately but it just made my eyes well even more.

“Hey, no, baby,” Timothée said with concern lacing his tone.

“I just wanted one fucking thing to go right this month,” I snapped. I wasn’t angry with him, just the situation.

“Mon amour,” his voice was nearly a whisper that cracked with emotion. I heard a gulp from him and he laid his head on my chest. My hand automatically went to his hair. I made myself breathe more slowly.

“I thought, ‘well maybe even if my boyfriend is gone most of the time, I can at least give him some bomb pussy when he’s around’.”

“Oh baby,” he said mournfully. He pressed a chaste kiss to my exposed nipple. I shivered a bit.

“Look, I don’t want to force you, but I bet I can loosen you up a bit, and I’ve got lube,” he offered in a small voice.

“I want it,” I nodded.

“I know you’d imagine we’d get right into it, but you just need some prep baby, that’s expected. Don’t you dare worry about it, I’ve got you,” Timothée was smiling as he nearly blabbered.

“I want to make it good for you,” I said as I squeezed the last tears out.

“Honey, just let me take care of you. It is your first time. You’ve been going through hell. Let me help you,” he whispered.

I let him maneuver me. He gently spread my legs and kissed my inner thighs. His deft thumbs rolled circles on my nipples. I was already arching and relaxing. I was used to this, I didn’t feel a need to make it explosive because it was good every time.

“Yesssss, yes,” I gasped breathily. Timothée tongued at my clit for a bit before covering his fingers in the warming lube.

“Oh!” I jolted, my legs nearly closing as I felt the slick and tingling lube.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Timmy calmed me like a scared animal. I closed my eyes so I could relax again. His lips kissed up my stomach. He was leaving kitten licks and pecks. My breathing was getting to that familiar pant he made me do.

He nibbled at the place on my neck that made me crazy. My walls squeezed his long fingers. I let out a wanton whimper. My hands were all over him. Finally, his lips touched mine. I dove into the kiss.

I was pressing myself against him as much as I could. Somehow he was putting all of himself into this. I felt the warmth of his love and satisfaction with me. I could have cried. I’d been so lovely and anxious lately. He was making me completely melt.

He was kissing me with such adoration I hardly noticed when his hand changed over to his cock. He was milking the lube onto himself. I was shuddering at sounds of wetness.

“Want to try again?” He asked in a voice low and rumbling with need.

“Yes,” I gasped.

To my surprise he slowly, but surely, was sliding inside me. It still pinched a little but he seemed to adjust himself every so often so I wasn’t in so much pain. Finally, I felt his balls bump gently against me and I knew he’d bottomed out.

“You did it princess,” he breathed the praise. I couldn’t believe how wide I was smiling, in fact I was giggling. Timothée pressed his forehead against mine. He began to pump ever so slowly.

“Yes, yes, fuck yes,” I heaved in whispers of desperation and love.

“You feel so good. You feel like heaven,” he moaned. I loved the ways his brows furrowed in absolute pleasure.

“Fuck babbbbby,” I whined. I wrapped one leg around his waist and thrust upwards.

“Uh, uh, uh, uh,” Timothée grunted as he plunged inside me.

“So glad I could take your cock, so fucking happy I have this,” I groaned and threw my head back in bliss.

“My love, my girl,” he exclaimed and then he was all over my neck. He kissed and bit, giving me marks all over. I wanted to be littered with them. I wanted everyone to know who I belonged to. On those lonely nights when I felt like I could do anything right, I’d caress these bruises and remember this night.

“My cock belongs to you, my body, my heart, my soul,” he promised. His thrusts became faster as he fucked me. His hips snapped as he buried his face in my neck. He was mumbling praises and love into my ear.

“Gonna come,” I whispered.

“Let go on my dick for the first time,” he practically begged.

“Yes, oh fuck, my love, I’m fucking coming!” I cried out and arched against him. I felt my whole body tighten and then delicious release. I saw stars as every part of me exploded with intimate exhilaration.

Wetness and his own release mixed together. He was kissing me over and over as if it were all he knew. He had orgasmed as well, filling me with his gratification.

We were laughing now, all the stress falling away. It was sweet breathy kisses and whispered thanks to one another. It was like we were afraid to break the golden moment and the dreamy haze that surrounded us.

“Thank you my love. If you need it, I’ll carry you around tomorrow you will likely be sore,” he explained. He took my hand in his as he began to pull out.

“Cocky bastard,” I teased in a tight voice.

“I’m so happy I got to do that with you, so you can call me whatever you like,” he told me as he got the cloth to clean me and him up.

@pmak2002 @softhecreator @plutoispurplw @sp1deyyf4ngz @seungcheol17daddy @jesschalamet @vvsdreaming

[erabu-san]

You are literally French. What would you know about any of this, an issue and drama stirred up by anericans.

Blackwashing exists and is used by bigots that hate white people. Its used to erase the ethnicity of asians just because people dont think they are "poc enough" because of their pale skin. Its used to demonize people with pale skin because its becoming more and more the norm to view anyone with pale skin as evil. That anyone who is "too pale" isnt enough or a human being.

They arent real people, and their skintones are fine as is. You wouldnt go up to, for example an albino or mixed race black/poc person and tell them they arent "dark enough". They dont even need to be special like that to be pale. Some just are pale.

Whether you think there should be more characters that are dark or not is not the issue. Its that you think they wouldnt be/arent good enough as is with pale skin that shows how much of a bigot you are.

Blackwashing is not the progressive act you think it is. Its obvious that your only experience with it is through genshin drama. You obviously know nothing about how much red haired pale characters & asian ones are substituted with black characters. How characters are simply replaced in the name of "diversity". How this forced inclusivity and diversity is just bigots trying to "get revenge" on the white people they hate so much, and to tick off DEI boxes on their little bigoted checklist.

You tell me to educate myself but its actually YOU who needs to be educated.

Many are complaining about sumeru and natlan characters with names similar to gods in cultures of our world that are pale when their inspiration is dark skinned. Claiming they want representation and for it to be accurate, to reflect our world on a 1-1 scale.

Yet these same people will make xiao, zhongli, Ei, and many more asian characters darker " because asians can be dark skinned too". Yet so can mostly dark skinned races be pale.

So why cant you (gen) respect such characters, who are gods and divine beings based on a culture where pale is more beautiful, and gods of such cultures are pale?

There is hypocrisy in everything to do with blackwashing. Its okay when its done to pale characters because in real life black people have been oppressed? But these characters are not real, nor are they a reflection of our reality, as far as we have seen they dont even have racism in this fictional world.

It is one thing to explore a character like with the recent hatsune miku trend, atleast there most people arent going at each other's throats saying black miku is better than japanese miku(as far as i have seen)

Seriously how can you even begin to justify this. And who ever told you that dark skinned characters "scare white people" is an absolute fucking liar trying to justify their own bigotry towards white people.

No black washing IS just as disgusting as whitewashing. Neither should exist, and you shouldn't feed into the stupid circle jerk of bigotry that both of them are.

Aaaah that's what I like ! Yes ! Thank you for telling me your opinion, explaining what is wrong. I absolutely love to learn, and I prefer to read this long text calling me ignorant and explaining why that just a simple text of you saying you are annoyed by a fanart.

Thank you for telling me ! First yes I am french, and indeed my culture has more an european pov. But again, I also grow up as a minority "race" with my parents culture !🙏 in france, i don't look like a french. Well. Still I am aware that it doesn't remove anything from what I said

And I totally agree with you, some are just pale !! It just happens I draw Kinich black because I like it like this. Is Kinich true inspiration are actually pale ? Tell me more, I wish to learn !!

Tbh when you talk abt gods being pale is beautiful, I thought about Nahida. I did research when she were out and yes, I do agree, there is character who are fine as they are.

And because I live in France I also see "dark skin scare white" as a true fact. It happens and it is harmful. 🧍 not only in France tho, in country where pale skin is portrayed as beautiful, people who have tan skin are less represented even if it is the majority. I suppose the contrary happens too !!

"Character are not real" and yet you are annoyed, I guess it is the action of "blackwash" that make you mad, more than "a fictional character w diffent skin tone" tho! My opinion is fiction does affect real world, as do real life affects fiction, and this is something I won't debate on

"They don't have racism in this fictional world" sorry but it does in Sumeru. 🙏 about this one npc she is reject by forest and desert because of them being mixed, desert not being access to book and even Cyno said his scholarship was complicated because he is from desert

If you wish to continue, please send me DM with arguments. I don't know if I would change my mind of not drawing Kinich pale, but I am super interested about what you have to say !! 👍👍

[lambilegs]

night in (lee harker x reader)

(contains: calling lee "daddy," her spitting in your mouth, degradation, reader is referred to as having a "clit," "pussy" and "folds," reader receiving fingering)

idea came from this anon!! thank you so much for it hehe 💗💗

⊹₊｡ꕤ˚₊⊹₊˚⊹ ♡ ʚ🎀ɞ ♡ ⊹˚༘⋆🌷🫧💭₊˚ෆ

"c'mon," you whine, wiggling your fingers at lee, cocking your head to the side, "just do it. please, for me?"

she rolls her eyes. "I'm not gonna arm wrestle with you in a public place."

you two are seated at a table in your favourite fast food place, awaiting your order number, 526, to get called out. after spending far too many seconds having stared at your girlfriend's hands, and the way the veins became more defined when she flexed and moved them, you inquired after an arm wrestling challenge.

lee isn't so up for it, tentatively watching the crowd of students surrounding you two. you pout at her, gripping her wrist and shaking it. "baby, please, we'll never see these people again."

she gives you a wry half-smile. "in a town this small, we absolutely will."

she has a point -- one that you choose to discard, tugging on her arm some more. "do it, do it. don't you want an opportunity to flex to me how strong you are?"

her smile widens, just by a twitch, voice lowering. "and here I thought you got enough of that when you watch me work out."

you smack her arm, bristling and leaning back. it's true, and you hated her for having that on you. whenever she worked out from home, you practically ogled her, mouth watering at how her muscles gently rolled as she lifted weights, the way her shoulders tensed and flexed when she did push-ups. there had been all too many workouts of hers that, due to your endless coaxing and flirting, ended with you on your back, her fingers shoved deep inside you.

you feel yourself clench down at the memory, trying to kick the mental image to the back of your mind, far away from the forefront. "well, regardless, there can never be too much showing off." you grab her hand, trying to will her arm into the position of an arm wrestle. "stop being so stubborn and just do it to pass the time."

finally, she heaves a sigh, releasing your hand and shrugging off her jacket. the sight has you holding your breath, eyes nearly shutting when she begins to roll up the sleeves of her turtleneck. she props her elbow on the table, palm open and ready for you.

you giggle at your success, patting yourself on the back.

a small scoff slips past her soft lips. when your hand slides into hers, palms rubbing together, you almost feel like you're back to months ago, when you had held her hand for very the first time. the way her long fingers wrap around yours, how cool her skin feels, the firmness of her grip -- all of which you're now intimately familiar with, but nonetheless, the slow, intentional interlocking of hands just reminds you of how good it feels to have her be yours.

"okay," you mutter, shifting in your seat, a tense flow of anticipation washing through you. "three, two, one."

immediately, you force as much strength as you can into your arm, gritting your teeth and furrowing your brows in concentration. you glance at lee, nearly crying out at how composed she looks. her jaw is tense, and her mouth is tightly pressed together, yes, but she just watches your hands intently, blinking slowly at it, her breathing barely altered. meanwhile, you're gasping at her strength.

it takes approximately ten seconds before the back of your hand smacks down on the table. you wince, bottom lip jutting out as you lift and twist your sensitive wrist around. meanwhile, lee settles back into her seat, a small, satisfied curl to her lips.

"oh, shut up," you grumble.

she tenderly grabs the hand you're rubbing, her thumb's tip beginning to gently circle it, the ghost of her touch nearly turning you into putty. "I didn't say anything."

you grunt. "your stupid face says it all."

"I thought you liked my face?" her voice is lightened with an edge of teasing.

"no, no, we have an amicable relationship only."

her mouth twitches, the near-smirk immediately fading away when you make eye contact. you sigh. "what? what were you gonna say?"

she shrugs, mouth twisting in evident amusement. "nothing."

"just tell me, lee."

"I was just..." she glances nervously to the people surrounding you two, pulling your hand gently so you two can be closer. your breath trembles at the proximity. her voice trickles to a whisper. "I was going to ask if you sit on everything you have an amicable relationship with?"

"order 526!"

you groan, pushing her away, stomping towards the counter. she remains in her seat, fondly staring at you as you grab the paper bag and head out the doors, which does nothing to help in quelling the blush in your cheeks.

as you head out into the parking lot, you immediately shiver at the cold, bitter air hitting your face. almost as though she senses your discomfort, lee appears a moment later, sliding her arm into her jacket, hissing as soon as she feels the weather. she turns to you, wordlessly bending down to hook in your zipper and pull it up. flustered and in awe, you nearly shove your face into the takeout and scream in that moment, the urge only intensifying when she wraps an arm around your waist, leading you back to her car, which of course, she somehow memorized the exact parking spot of.

when seated in the car, her eyes flicker to you, mouth opening and closing.

you don't miss it. "what is it?"

her lips press together, and she avoids your gaze. "was that joke, um, okay? the one I just made?"

at once, your shoulders sag, melting into your seat. you lay a soft hand to her cheek. "baby, of course. I was just messing around when I left the table."

"no, no, I know," she says as she plugs her keys in, turning the car on. "I just hoped I didn't push it too far or make you feel... uncomfortable. I'm, well... worried I wouldn't be able to tell." her eyes are frozen on the wheel.

"you didn't, baby, I promise. okay?"

her wide eyes blink to you, and when you nod gently, her own head tilts in response. it's barely there, but you can see the way her shoulders relax at your confirmation.

you clear your throat, smiling bashfully to yourself. "plus, you may have somewhat had a point."

as she begins driving, the corner of her lip quirks up. "I know."

you smack her arm again.

upon your guys' arrival at her cottage, you saunter through the door, tossing your head back at her. "though, I think we ought to have a rematch."

she practically glides past you, as though the idea is of no serious consequence to her, heading to the kitchen to set the paper bag down. "is there a point?"

you bounce lightly on the balls of your feet. in truth, there really is no point to engaging in any sort of physically challenging competition with her. she's part of the fucking fbi, for crying out loud, her body's probably numb from all the damn training she's spent years doing. but, you're not bringing this suggestion up for the sake of proving her weak. you know you have no chance in that. the truth is really that you haven't been able to get her casual display of physical strength out of your head since you two left the restaurant. the way it didn't even take her a minute before she sent your arm plummeting to the table. just like how it is when you watch her work out, or when she carries heavy things for you, you're worked up. and play fighting with her -- well, it was just one of many fantasies and wants you haven't confessed to her yet.

as she exits the kitchen, peeling off her jacket, which is damp with snow, her eyes scan you carefully, observing you. "why are you looking at me like that?"

embarrassed to have been so quickly caught in scheming, you grab the fabric of her shirt that's clutching around her stomach, yanking her forward. "come, come, one more match."

"baby, I'm hungry."

"so, use this as motivation."

she searches your face, eyes glinting with an unspoken question, before finally sighing. "fine. another arm wrestle?"

you drag her to her bedroom. "no, play fight."

you feel her pause. "is this some sort of competitiveness?"

a laugh bellows from you. "it's just fun, lee."

when she speaks, her voice is small, as though she pities you for the admission. "I'm probably going to win, though."

as soon as you two enter her bedroom, you grip onto her forearm, using her surprise as an opportunity to push her onto the bed. she flings onto it, a small, monotone, "ah," coming from her, and your face cracks at the noise.

"someone spoke too soon," you muse, something churning in your stomach at the sight of her on her back, looking up at you, her pony tail messy with strands streaming out.

she flattens her palms on the comforter, lifting herself up, eyes widening when you push at her shoulders again, an action which sends her sinking into the mattress again.

"babe," she breathes, eyebrows scrunched together, creasing her forehead in confusion. when she starts shifting up again, her eyes are narrowed on you, hooked onto your every single move.

and so, you let her stand up, not wanting to lose. her shoulders are tense, as though she's poised and prepared for your every move. it causes an eager thrill to whirl within you, your stomach flipping at her focused gaze.

"why do you want to play fight so bad?"

you shrug, trying to level your voice. god, even when done for the sake of pure fun, it was hard to lie to her. "just to see how it feels."

when the corner of her lip tilts up, and she looks away with a little snarky huff, you seize the chance, lunging towards her to shove her down again.

your heart beats in your ears when her eyes dart up right before you can touch her, her hands snapping up to clutch at your wrists, whirling you around and pressing your front to the nearest wall. she holds your interlocked hands to your back in one hand, the other flat against the spot between your shoulder blades, pressing you in.

adrenaline shooting through you, you push all your force back into her, trying to send her flying back. but, she's too strong and too acutely aware of your moves now, and she keeps ahold of your wrists as she yanks you from the wall, practically throwing you on the bed.

you kick your feet out, trying desperately to grab ahold of any win you can. what you receive in response is lee's iron grip to your leg that keeps you in place, her body lithely crawling on top of you so her thighs lock in your other leg. you grunt loudly at the pressure, but inside, you're marvelling at just how strong your girlfriend is.

she straddles your hips, knees pressing against the plush sides of your body. when your hands flinch, readying to try to push her off, she's faster than you could dream, long fingers wrapping around yours as she pins them to the bed.

as the heat of the moment wears off, your breaths evening out, her actions of the last few moments soak into your mind, and with it, comes an ache between your legs. the sensation only seeps further into your abdomen when you come face to face with her burning eyes, which are wide with energy, her soft lips releasing warm puffs of air all over your face.

her head dips down to yours, strays of her brown hair tickling at your cheeks. "satisfied? this is how it feels." her voice, like most of the time, is flat, but it's also heavy, deeper, with the charge of the moment, and you squirm under her.

her eyes flick down to your crotch, mouth twitching in realization. "you're turned on."

"no," you whine, shaking your head. "I'm not, I just--"

"stop trying to lie to me," she cuts you off in a hushed voice, smooth and thick like caramel. it's so authoritative and steady, and you whimper at it.

at the meek sound you produce, she blinks down at you, a small, endeared smile on her face. "was this your plan since the beginning?" she pushes her strong thigh between your legs, pressing down. "since we picked up food?"

"no!" you exclaim, indignant at the suggestion (as though you hadn't been hatching a plan since post-restaurant). "no, that was genuine."

"then?" she whispers, her hand languidly sliding from your entwined wrists to down your body. she playfully squeezes a tit, thumb rubbing slow, light circles around your nipple, then continuing her way down. her palm rubs at your tummy, sneaking under your shirt, and you gasp at her cold skin against you. finally, she tugs at your belt, releasing it from your buckle, her gaze never faltering. "since we got home?"

"I... I..." you hesitate, your previous boldness practically dissipating now that you have to confess to her.

"you..?" she drawls out, hand slipping into your jeans. when her fingertips brush against your sodden underwear, she hisses. "god. you've been wanting for a while." she says it plainly, as an objective, hard fact, and her bluntness only makes you even more turned on. at your lack of answer, she tilts her head, waiting.

your voice is small. "yes, I've been wanting it for a while."

"you still haven't specified how long," she murmurs, lips diving to your neck, pressing soft, wet kisses along your skin, pausing to suck a rough, stinging mark, the lovebite leaving you writhing. "tell me."

you shoulders twist in pleasure from her ministrations. "I... you're right. since we got home."

she hums in response, three fingers pressing into your clit, the wet fabric of your underwear stickily clinging to your pussy. she pushes and rubs slow, firm circles against your longing bud, her teeth gently sinking into your shoulder, licking a long stripe to soothe it after you cry out. "are you just always in the mood or something?"

her tone is absent of bite, the words playfully mocking. and as frustrated as you are to admit it, you still let her words get a rise to you. you shake your head hard, nose wrinkling in disagreement. "no! I'm not easy or something--"

she suddenly pushes her thumb to your clit over your underwear, rubbing it side to side with enough pressure to send you tumbling into a slew of moans.

"what was that?" she nips at your jaw, thumb continuing to roughly toy with you clit, her longer fingers massaging against your wet mound.

"I said I'm not easy." the firm intent of your words is made less believable with your moans and whines, you know so. stupid lee.

"yeah?" her hand pushes past your underwear, and the feeling of her fingers directly against your dripping pussy has you crying out. she rubs your folds between her thumb and index finger, lazily playing with them as though she has all day to be exploring you. her knuckles brush against your swollen lips, and she dips two fingers in, dangerously close to sliding into your hole. "are you sure you want to keep fighting that argument?"

her fingers begin to stroke a bit deeper, slipping in, slipping out, the teasing motions sending your hips bucking. she leans her weight onto you more, keeping your hips stuck under her. "just admit it."

your mouth quivers, clit fucking throbbing for more. you can't help but give in. "fine. I'm, um, I'm easy."

"who are you easy for?"

you turn away, face growing warm. "I hate you, lee."

she ducks down, grazing her teeth along your earlobe. "first, it was amicability, now hating me? it doesn't feel that way." to prove her point, she slips her fingers out, smearing your juices against your budging clit. her fingers become slippery against it, smoothly gliding along the bud, hard enough to send you clenching, but lacking in pressure enough to leave the burning in you unsated.

"well, it's true," you gasp out as she suddenly flicks her fingertips.

"mm, well, I suppose I should stop, then."

you groan in frustration, too needy to continue playing such games with her. "fine..." you eye her neck, which is shiny with sweat. "I'm easy for you, lee. I only want -- ah!"

you cry out loudly, nearly sobbing in pleasure when she finally pushes two fingers deep into you. she's ruthless, her fingers moving swiftly, her entire being completely in tune with the body she's lavished her attention on countless of times. her knees lock in, keeping your body still as her fingers curl in you, roughly pounding in and out.

"keep going," she demands, fingers thrusting in you so sloppily, your juices helping her reach in with ease. the sensation of her long fingers rubbing against your sensitive inner walls make you keen.

"I only belong to you," you moan, neck arching up. you'll do practically anything at this point, if it means she'll keeps going. and the longer she does go, the hazier your mind gets, inhibitions pouring away.

"again."

"I only belong to you, daddy." you pant, tongue hanging out as she continues to plunge her fingers into you, spreading you open. the feeling of her digits deep inside you is so distinct, so exact, and the intimacy of her truly being inside such a hidden spot of yours makes your mind hazy with adoration.

after a few more moments of nothing but gasps and moans, it sinks into you what you just said. you jerk up, hand flying to your mouth. oh my god. yeah... that is one of the things you never have told her about.

her movements slow down, and despite your humiliation, you let out a strangled noise.

she sucks in deep breaths, nostrils flaring. "did you just call me 'daddy'?"

you swallow hard, stomach tickling with the acute humiliation from having been caught saying it rather than introducing the idea in a dignified, or at the very least, fully clothed, conversation. "um, yeah. I'm so, so sorry. it just slipped out, I--"

your words melt into a relieved sigh when she presses her mouth down, pink lips slowly pressing and roving along yours. her tongue gently sinks into your mouth, and when you open wider, she slides it in, massaging your own wet muscle with hers. you gasp against her when her fingers begin to skim feather touches to your pussy lips.

"don't," she rasps out against your mouth. she pauses, before quietly admitting, "I liked it."

she meets you for another brutal kiss, lips hard with pressure, teeth gently clashing as her tongue flicks playfully against yours. at once, her thumb begins to circle your clit and the precipice of pleasure has you arching against her.

arousal courses through you as you register her confirmation. "you do?"

"mhm." she drops one last soft kiss to your mouth before her fingers easily slide into your hole again. you cry out at the sensation, and she sharply bites on your bottom lip, groaning into your mouth. she hesitates before saying, "call me it again."

your cry breaks into pieces at the request, hesitating before obeying her. "I-I... okay, daddy."

she sighs, pressing her forehead to your neck, hot gasps hitting your sweaty skin as her fingers speed up, jerking hard inside you. "there you go, baby. take it for me like a good girl."

you choke out a gasp at her words, hips impossibly unsteady. she pauses momentarily to slide her legs between yours. right hand still impossibly deep in you, she uses her left to bend one of your knees up, spreading you open even further.

she presses her torso flush against yours, fingers beginning to ram in you again. the way she's spread your legs out has her fingers' movements even more pronounced, and she has enough room now to tilt her palm up so that it presses into your clit with each thrust.

she bites her lip. "you hear that?" she goes silent for a few moments, nothing but the soaked squelching of your pussy ringing in the room. you softly whine, shivering at the noise and how exposed you feel. but, she doesn't back down. "your pussy is always so ready for me. sometimes I wonder if there's a moment where you aren't wet."

her chiding words have you trembling under her, your pussy beginning to latch on tighter.

she snickers softly, her laugh lines deepening as she smiles. in the midst of your guys' rushed, messy movements, fondness overtakes your chest at the sight. she's so lovely.

"so responsive," she murmurs against your cheek. "have you always been this good at being a slut?"

her words send you into submissive puddle, and you shake your head, whimpering. "no, daddy, only for you."

her eyes widen at the title, becoming heavy-lidded once she begins to speak, watching you fall apart under her. "that's right. this is my pussy. gonna fill you up every night and ruin anyone else for you."

you giggle, feeling nearly delirious with the mix of sensations. "yeah? you're so confident that you think no one else has a chance?"

a small, breathless laugh flies from her lips, and you feel the air of it hitting your skin. "I know no one else does." her forehead presses to yours and her tongue slips out, slowly stroking along your top lip, which parts from your bottom as soon as the contact hits. "the way you open up is proof enough."

your thighs clench at her honest words, burying your face in the sheets. "it's not my fault." your tone softens. "it feels too good, daddy."

something flashes in her eyes. you love what this little nickname seems to be triggering in her, as though each time you call it out, you're only tugging her deeper into her all-consuming state of dominance.

her jaw clenches and she presses the heel of her palm hard against your clit, which sends you squeezing on her fingers again, your orgasm fast approaching. "baby, I'm close, I--" you cry out as her fingers curl, hitting that deep spot in you. she starts relentlessly, ceaselessly pressing down on it, her palm still bumping against your swollen, stiff clit.

"I know, baby, I know," she breathes into your neck. "why don't you let go for daddy? come all over my fingers." her voice is shaking, but the command is firm.

god, fuck, that was so sexy. hearing her call herself it has your mouth hanging open, gasping, wanting her to completely take control of you. she smirks at the sight, grabbing your chin and roughly spitting into your mouth, the sudden noise resulting from it making you jerk up. as you feel her spit roll down your tongue and into your throat, your body twists in satisfaction, swallowing it down. you love when she gets like this -- so possessive and unhinged in her pursuit of your pleasure. she continues holding you in place, her gentle rubs along your cheek at total contrast to the fingers drilling into your hole, making you feel almost confused as to which sensation was which.

when you come, you spasm all over her fingers, walls fluttering and sucking her in, and she grunts as she struggles to continue fingerfucking you. but, she keeps going as best as she can, pushing and pulling, mindlessly sucking at your neck, until you whine for her to stop.

when she slips her fingers out, you feel suddenly empty, and you nearly beg for her to put them back in. but, the soreness that starts creeping in between your legs is enough to stop you. when you tell lee as much, she kisses your head, running a hot bath for you two.

in the warm water, you feel her chest, which is pressed to your back, suddenly rumble with silent laughter. when you turn to her curiously, her teeth flash as she chuckles gently.

"so, 'daddy,' huh?"

[honeybelleee]

Stabbed, You’re Next!

| Chapter Two |

Synopsis

When Y/N's best friend, Wonyoung Jang, is brutally murdered after uncovering a corruption scheme involving the school's staff, Y/N finds herself pulled into a dangerous game. With only a cryptic email and a folder of incriminating evidence, Y/N must team up with Wonyoung's boyfriend, Mingyu and a tech-savvy loner, Jake to expose the truth. But as the body count rises, Y/N realizes the conspiracy goes deeper than she ever imagined-and the killer is always one step ahead. Trust no one, because in this game, anyone could be next.

Pairings

Jake Sim x F!reader (It will progress rily slow)

Genre

Mystery, thriller, crime, heavy angst, slowburn fluff

TW

This story contains themes of violence, murder, and death, including graphic depictions of a stabbing and blood. It also explores corruption, fear, and grief, as the characters deal with loss, danger, and being stalked by a killer. Themes of paranoia and emotional trauma are present.

Notes

First fic posted on tumblr, ignore the details of the text messages places (its unorganized)!

Extra - This is going to be a half smau!!

Prev - Masterlist - Next

____________________________________________

It was 2.30 AM on a Wednesday, I wiped away my tears, trying to focus. I couldn’t fall apart now. Not when there was still so much to do. I grabbed my phone, dialing Mingyu’s number. It rang a few times before he picked up, his voice groggy.

“Y/N? What’s going on? It’s late.”

“Mingyu, it’s Wonyoung. Something’s happened. She’s... gone.” My voice cracked, and there was a long silence on the other end.

“What do you mean she’s gone?” he finally asked, his voice tight with confusion and rising panic.

“She’s dead, Mingyu. I found her in the lab.” I could barely get the words out. “I think someone killed her because of something she found.”

“W-what?” Mingyu’s voice broke, his disbelief palpable. “No, no, no... That can’t be. Wonyoung wouldn’t just—"

"I know, but it’s true. She was looking into something big, something dangerous. She left me a message before it happened.” I didn’t have the strength to tell him everything over the phone, but he needed to know the basics. "Meet me tomorrow. We need to figure out what she was working on. And... you might want to bring Jake."

He didn’t ask questions, his silence filled with grief and shock. “Okay. Tomorrow.”

After ending the call, I took a deep breath, trying to collect my thoughts. I stared at the draft email again, scrolling through Wonyoung’s inbox, hoping there might be more. She was smart—she had to have left something else, some other clue that could help me understand just how deep this went.

Nothing.

It was almost like she’d wiped everything clean herself, leaving behind only the draft that was meant for me. I frowned, frustrated and on edge. Wonyoung wouldn’t have left something so dangerous in plain sight. The evidence had to be somewhere else—somewhere safe.

My mind kept circling back to the lab, to the stack of papers she was gathering before... before she was killed. Could they still be there? Or had the police already collected them? The thought of going back to that room made my stomach churn, but I didn’t have a choice. I needed to know what Wonyoung had found, and those papers could be the key.

The next morning, I met Mingyu and Jake in a quiet corner of the local coffee shop. Mingyu looked haggard, dark circles under his eyes, his usual bright smile absent. Jake, as usual, kept to himself, his face hidden beneath the hood of his sweatshirt.

Neither of them spoke at first, the weight of what we were dealing with hanging heavily in the air.

The next morning, I met Mingyu and Jake in a quiet corner of the local coffee shop. Mingyu looked haggard, dark circles under his eyes, his usual bright smile absent. Jake, as usual, kept to himself, his face hidden beneath the hood of his sweatshirt.

Neither of them spoke at first, the weight of what we were dealing with hanging heavily in the air.

Mingyu’s eyes were bloodshot, and I could tell he hadn’t slept. He read the email with trembling hands, shaking his head in disbelief. “This doesn’t make sense. Why wouldn’t she tell me about this? We didn’t keep secrets…”

“She probably wanted to protect you,” Jake said quietly, surprising both of us. He was already tapping away on his laptop, his fingers moving fast. “You said she didn’t trust anyone. If this was as dangerous as it sounds, she would’ve kept you out of it.”

Mingyu bit his lip, frustration and grief written all over his face, but he didn’t argue. “So what do we do now?”

“We need to find the evidence,” I said. “The police might have taken everything from the lab, but I think Wonyoung was careful. If she didn’t send it through email, then maybe it’s hidden somewhere else. Jake, do you think you can find anything?”

Jake gave me a nod, his eyes already glued to his screen. “If she left any digital traces, I’ll find them. But we need more than just her emails. If she kept notes or files, I need access to her devices—her laptop, her phone, whatever she used.”

I nodded. “I’ll go back to the school, see if they’ve secured her stuff yet. Maybe they haven’t taken everything.”

Mingyu looked hesitant, fear flashing across his face. “Y/N... you need to be careful. If whoever did this finds out you’re digging into what Wonyoung found...”

“I know,” I said, though I wasn’t sure I was ready to face that reality. “But I can’t just do nothing. Wonyoung trusted me with this, and I’m not going to let her down.”

Mingyu looked like he wanted to argue, but instead, he just nodded. “Okay. Just promise you’ll call me if anything happens.”

I made my way back to Riverton High, my heart pounding as I approached the science lab. The police tape still blocked off the entrance, and a few officers stood nearby, guarding the scene.

I didn’t have time to think about what I was doing—I had to act. Taking a deep breath, I ducked around the corner and waited until the coast was clear. I knew the side door near the storage area wasn’t always locked. Wonyoung had told me about it once, back when we snuck in to finish a project late at night.

My pulse quickened as I pushed the door, holding my breath. It gave way with a quiet creak, and I slipped inside.

The lab was eerily quiet, the shadows long and ominous under the harsh fluorescent lights. The sight of the bloodstains on the floor made me sick, but I forced myself to focus. I had to find those papers. They had to be somewhere.

As I scanned the room, something caught my eye—a drawer near Wonyoung’s workbench. It was slightly ajar, and I could see the edge of a folder peeking out.

I quickly moved toward it, my hands trembling as I pulled the folder free. My breath caught. Inside were pages of notes, printouts, and photographs. Wonyoung had documented everything—emails, financial records, pictures of school staff, even a few blurry images of what looked like secret meetings. This was it. This was the evidence that had gotten her killed.

I barely had time to process it before I heard footsteps. My heart leapt into my throat. Someone was coming.

I shoved the folder into my bag and turned, scanning the room for a way out. But it was too late. The door creaked open, and a shadowy figure stepped inside.

“Y/N,” the voice was cold, sending a chill down my spine. I recognized it immediately.

Ms. Kang, the new guidance counselor, stepped into the light, her eyes narrowing as they landed on me.

“You shouldn’t have come back here,” she said, her voice calm but filled with menace. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

My blood ran cold as I realized the truth. She was part of it. She was involved in whatever corruption Wonyoung had uncovered.

And now she knew I was onto her.

I took a step back, my hand tightening around the strap of my bag. “I’m not scared of you,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

Ms. Kang’s lips curled into a smile, but there was no warmth in it. “You should be. Wonyoung didn’t know when to stop. Don’t make the same mistake.” She took a step closer, her eyes gleaming with something dark and dangerous. “Leave this alone, Y/N. Or you’ll end up just like her.”

I swallowed hard, my mind racing. I needed to get out of here. I needed to get the evidence to Jake and Mingyu.

But first, I had to survive.

Taglist

@heeseungspookie @woorcve