#and you deserve it just as much as anyone else

[russo-woso]

Expensive || Kyra Cooney-Cross

Request | Masterlist | Prompt list

Summary You and Kyra go baby shopping and don’t realise how expensive it all is.

“Kyra, please can we go in. Please.” You begged as you walked past a baby shop.

You were currently 23 weeks pregnant and were out food shopping but it wouldn’t hurt if you did a bit of baby shopping at the same time, would it?

You and Kyra had been together since you were sixteen.

You’d both met due to your mums being co workers and immediately hit it off, quickly becoming friends before lovers.

Just before the World Cup, you and Kyra had gone on holiday and she’d proposed to you.

You, of course, said yes, knowing Kyra was the love of your life.

That same summer, it was discussed that you’d be starting a new adventure in your lives:

Moving to England.

And having a baby.

The two of you were young, you knew that, but you both wanted a family.

That’s what leads you to today, 23 weeks pregnant with your baby girl.

“Five minutes, okay? That’s it.” Kyra told you, a stern look on her face which was soon replaced by a soft smile.

You both entered the shop, hand in hand, as you took in all the baby clothes.

“Look how small they are, Ky.” You whispered, taking a baby grow in your hands.

“It’s tiny. I can’t believe she’s gonna be that small.” The Australian said, rubbing your bump.

“I know. Look at these ones, they’ve got flowers on.” You pointed out, also resting a hand on your bump, feeling your daughter kick.

“We’ve got to get them.” Kyra said, placing the baby grows in the basket.

You watched as Kyra wandered, looking at the different clothes, often putting some in the basket.

You smiled, looking at the excitement on her face.

Most people didn’t often see this side of Kyra.

They all saw the side of her where she’d be classed as a pest, where she’s immature and can’t take things seriously.

That’s why most people were shocked when you announced the pregnancy. Everyone thought the two of you weren’t ready for a baby.

You, however, saw the mature side of her. The side where she would do anything for anyone, where she could take things seriously.

“Baby, should we get a car seat too?” She questioned, wrapping her arm round your waist.

“I thought you said we’d only be here five minutes? Getting a car seats gonna take more than that?” You teased

“Yeah, but I figured we might as well get one whilst we’re here.” Kyra said and you nodded, slowly walking over to the wall of car seats. “So where do we start? We’re getting the comfiest one for our princess.”

—

“I think we’re all sorted.” You told Kyra as you looked down at the trolley.

Yes, the trolley, not the basket anymore. You’d ended up getting so much, Kyra had to run and get a trolley instead.

Inside the trolley was piles of clothes, A box containing a car seat, A crib that Kyra insisted she’d be able to build herself, a pump for breastfeeding, bottles, dummies, and anything else that could possibly be needed.

“I think we are.” Kyra agreed, smiling proudly before pushing the trolley to the cashier.

After what felt like an hour of the cashier scanning all the items, the total number of what was due was announced.

“And that would be £632.84 please.” The cashier revealed and your eyes widened.

“£632?” You questioned in shock as the person on the till nodded. “Ky, that’s so…”

“Our princess deserves it all.” Kyra said before you could finish your sentence, pressing a kiss to your temple before paying.

Putting the items back in the trolley, you walked out the shop two hours after when you’d walked in.

“Mama loves you so much.” You told your bump as you waddled to the car.

“I do, I love both of you, no matter how expensive you both are.”

[dovesdreaming]

At his worst

Summary: Reader stays by Logan during his worst and is unable to be pushed away by him

Request

Masterlist

Warnings: negative self talk

-

The night was cold, unusually quiet for the dingy apartment Wolverine had holed himself up in. After all these years, Logan was used to the silence, comfortable with it even. But something was different tonight. His mind, normally sharp, was dulled by memories that felt like jagged knives cutting through his thoughts. Jean. Rogue. Charles. All the people he had failed. All the people he had lost. The city buzzed below, lights flickering against the darkness, but Logan didn’t care. He slumped against the couch, cradling a half-empty bottle of whiskey, his usual attempt to drown out the pain. But even alcohol couldn’t numb the guilt that weighed on him. He was a weapon designed to hurt, to destroy, and now it seemed like everyone close to him suffered the same fate. A quiet knock broke through the silence, so soft it might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone else, but not him. Logan’s senses were always on high alert. He sighed, part of him wanting to ignore it. He didn’t want company tonight, didn’t deserve it.

Another knock, a little louder this time. Persistent. “Logan?" A familiar voice called softly from the other side. Your voice. His chest tightened. You were the only person in his life now who didn’t seem to fear him. The only person who could look past the claws, the rage, the blood. Why? He could never figure it out. He didn’t deserve you. Heaving himself up, Logan tossed the whiskey bottle aside and trudged to the door. He didn’t bother with a shirt, his muscles tense beneath the scars that marked his body, a roadmap of violence. Opening the door, he looked down at you. You stood there, bundled in a jacket, worry etched on your face. “Hey” you said gently, eyes scanning his face like you could read everything going on inside. “Shouldn’t be here” Logan growled, his voice rough, hoarse. “Ain’t a good time”. You didn’t move. Instead, you tilted your head, eyes soft but unwavering. “When is a good time with you, Logan?”. That made him pause, and for a moment, he almost smirked. Almost. But he was too tired for that tonight. Instead, he stepped back, silently allowing you in.

You didn’t hesitate, walking past him and into the small apartment, your eyes trailing over the chaos. Half-eaten meals, broken furniture, and the unmistakable stench of whiskey lingering in the air. You turned to face him, crossing your arms. “You’ve been drinking”. Logan let out a low grunt, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest. “What else is new?”. “You know, you don’t have to push me away every time things get bad” you said, your voice soft but firm. “You’re not alone, Logan”. A sharp laugh escaped him. “Ain’t that simple. People around me... they don’t stay for long. They get hurt. Or worse”.

You took a step closer, closing the space between you. “I’m not them. I’m not going anywhere”. Logan’s jaw tightened, the weight of your words pressing on him. He wanted to believe you, but he knew better. He’d seen it too many times, the look in people’s eyes when they realized just how dangerous he was. How broken. “You don’t know what you’re talking about” he said, the edge in his voice returning. “I’ve done things... terrible things. You don’t wanna see me at my worst”. But you didn’t flinch. You never did. Reaching out, you touched his arm, and for a second, Logan almost pulled away, afraid of your kindness, of the warmth in your touch. But he didn’t. “I’ve seen enough, Logan. I’ve seen you fight, seen the pain you carry. And guess what? I’m still here” you said, your voice unwavering. “Because I care. Because I know that, no matter how much you try to push people away, you deserve to be loved. You deserve to be understood”.

He shook his head, fists clenching at his sides. “I ain’t someone you can fix. I’m not someone who’s ever gonna be... whole”. You stepped even closer, eyes locking with his. “I’m not trying to fix you. I’m here to stay. I’ll take the good, the bad, and everything in between. Even when you’re at your worst”. Logan’s throat tightened, emotions bubbling up that he hadn’t let surface in years. He hated how vulnerable he felt right now, how exposed. But at the same time, there was a small part of him that wanted to believe you. That wanted to trust that you wouldn’t leave like the others.

“Why?” The word slipped out, raw and filled with the pain he had been holding back for so long. “Why would you stay?”. You smiled softly, your hand sliding down to take his, your fingers warm against his cold skin. “Because I see you, Logan. The real you. Not the weapon. Not the Wolverine. Just... you”. For the first time in what felt like forever, Logan didn’t know what to say, he had no comeback. His heart pounded in his chest, his walls crumbling down around him as he looked into your eyes, seeing nothing but honesty. No fear. No judgment. Just... acceptance. A shaky breath escaped him, and before he could stop himself, he pulled you into his arms, holding you close. You didn’t resist, wrapping your arms around him, your head resting against his chest as you stood there in the middle of the mess, in the middle of his chaos.

For the first time in a long time, Logan felt something other than anger, other than pain. It was small, fragile even, but it was there. A flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to be alone. Maybe, with you by his side, he didn’t have to be afraid of his worst anymore. And for the first time in a long time, Logan allowed himself to believe that.

-

Thank you for reading!

[its-rach-writes]

Like Father Like Son - Chapter One

Pairing: Harry Potter x Reader

Summary: In the midst of a brewing war, a Golden Retriever Gryffindor falls for a Black Cat Slytherin. Hadn't this all happened before?

Warnings: angst, fluff, swearing, mentions of character death,

A/N: Soooo, I'm back in work after having 10 days of annual leave :'( I will be posting every other day instead of every day! Hope you guys enjoy this and please let me know what you think! xxx

Chapter One

It wasn’t like you hated Harry Potter, because you really didn’t but you just didn’t get what all the fuss was about. Your dad had always taught you to be kind to people despite their blood status or Hogwarts house. When you arrived at Hogwarts, you tried to keep an open mind but Potter was simply infuriating.

He didn’t deserve to just be put on the Gryffindor Quidditch team in first year, after spending 5 minutes on a broom. And, you definitely wouldn’t admit that he was a pretty good player. Your infuriation only increased in second year when he emerged bloody and dirty from the Chamber of Secrets. If that had been anyone else, they would have been expelled, Potter didn’t even get points taken from him, in fact he was awarded a special service to the school!

In third year, you had to watch your Uncle love Potter more than he loved you, as they bonded over Potter’s mum and dad. The boy had stumbled his way through the Triwizard Tournament, getting favouritism at every turn, somehow beating students who were intellectually better than him. The tournament had come to a sticky end when he reappeared from the maze, clutching Cedric’s dead body and babbling about Voldemort being back.

In fifth year, oh in fifth year, for the first time in your life, you were grateful for Potter. Grateful that your Uncle wasn’t alone as he quietly slipped through the veil.

The woods were silent as you and your dad foraged in the clearing for potion ingredients. You were a perfectionist so you would be damned if you lost marks because your ingredients were old and shit. Besides, the silence seemed to work wonders for your dad.

“I’m worried for you, dad.”

He scoffed as he put some ingredients into your basket, “why in the world would you be worried for me?”

You bit your lip as the worry swirled in your stomach, “the Defence Against the Dark Arts position is cursed,” you tried not to think about what had befallen the previous Professors. Snape had left the school the year before and your dad had explained to you that the old potions master was coming back so he’d been asked to fill the role of Defence Against the Dark Arts.

“I don’t want what happened to Uncle Sirius happen to you.”

“Oh, my little star,” he pulled you into a hug, completely encasing you in his arms, “nothing is going to happen to me.”

“Love you, dad.”

“I love you too,” he kissed your forehead, “try to be nice to Harry Potter, this year yeah?”

You grumbled into his chest, “I’m not horrible to him or anything but he just infuriates me so much!”

Regulus snorted with a laugh, “yeah, I know the feeling.”

You cursed beneath your breath as the wheel of your suitcase got stuck. Again. It brought you to a grinding halt.

“Hey, Y/N!” you heard Potter before you saw him as he bent down to unstick the wheel. He was always so kind to you, despite your infuriation with him.

“Thanks Potter,” you went to turn away, but you saw how sad his eyes were, despite his smile, “I appreciate that Sirius wasn’t alone.”

Potter nodded as he pushed his glasses up his nose, “how are you doing with that by the way?”

You shrugged, “didn’t really know him.”

Potter scratched the back of his neck and it wasn’t hard to miss the guilt that spread across his face. You could see Granger and Weasley lingering behind him, “see you later, Potter,” you weren’t in the mood to bond over dead loved ones.

Draco waved at you as you pulled open the compartment door and sat between Blaise and Theo, “saw you talking to Potty,” he commented making you laugh.

“Don’t call him that. And, is this the part where you order me not to talk to him?”

Draco scowled at you, “I don’t care who you talk to, Y/N. Just leave me out of it.”

“Deal,” you grinned.

You spent the first hour sharing food with your friends, listening to Enzo’s stories about his summer in Italy. No one asked about your summer, to outsiders it might have looked like they were being rude but you knew they didn’t want to cause you unnecessary pain. You loved them for that.

Pansy looked up from where she was painting her nails, “isn’t your dad teaching Defence this year?” when you nodded, she smirked, “your dad’s hot.”

“What?!” you squawked.

“Come on! We’ve all seen the photograph of you and him that you put on your bedside. He’s sexy.”

“I agree,” Blaise spoke up, grinning at you, “Regulus Black is a dilf.”

You gagged dramatically, “both of you can keep your filthy mitts off my dad!”

The teasing continued until an eagle owl flew in through the open window looking bedraggled from the earlier rain. It landed on your lap and you took the note from its beak. Sparing a glance at the others, you broke the seal and read the letter, getting worried with every word.

“Mattheo’s not coming back this year,” you said as you passed the letter to Theo.

“Did you see him at yours over the summer?” Blaise asked. Voldemort had been taking up residence in the Malfoy Manor.

Draco shrugged, “when he wasn’t shut up in the guest room,” he glanced at you, “I’m surprised I didn’t see you over the summer.”

“My dad fell out of favour just before I was born,” ever since you were little you’d lived in a cute little house in a valley, by a lake.

But when Voldemort had returned a couple of years prior Regulus had moved you back to his mother’s house. It was unplottable on a map and had various enchantments to deter intruders though your dad still had to use Polyjuice Potion each time he left the house. Maybe Dumbledore has figured that he’d be safer at Hogwarts.

The rest of the journey was sobering as you all constructed a reply back to your friend, hoping he was alright. As the train reached the platform, Pansy outstretched her hand to Draco who stayed seated while the rest of you got up. He told the rest of you to go in ahead and he’d catch up.

You turned to Pansy as you got onto the platform, “you know, you can do a lot better than him right?” she’d had a crush on Draco for years.

“Trust me, I know that now. But, he really is the safest option right now.”

Draco quickly caught up to you while you were waiting to go into The Great Hall, he shoved his hands into his pockets as he followed you in. As you got to the Slytherin table, Pansy pouted as she looked up at the teacher’s table.

“I can’t see your gorgeous dad because Theodore is in the way!”

“I’m not encouraging your sick crush,” Theo laughed as he turned to wink at you.

“Thanks, Theo,” you giggled.

Soon enough, Dumbledore introduced the new Professors, Horace Slughorn and your dad, “there he is,” Pansy hissed in your ear over all the applause, you could hear the smirk in her voice.

Halfway through dinner, Potter walked in holding a bloody rag to his face as he sat down with his friends.

You turned to Draco, “what the fuck did you do?”

“What makes you think I did something?”

“You’re the only person who would,” you scoffed as you watched the boy mop at his face with an already bloodied rag. You grabbed a wad of tissues from your bag and walked over, “Potter, here,” you all but pushed the tissues into his hands.

“Y/N, thanks!” he grinned, even though it split his lip open, blood immediately running down his chin.

“Don’t get it twisted, didn’t want to watch you make a scene,” you spun on your heel and walked back across the hall, missing the way that Potter watched you with a dazed expression.

------------

Taglist: @hiireadstuff

[mandalhoerian]

sacrosanct | leon kennedy x reader | 2

< PREVIOUS | NEXT (c.s.) >

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.

[2amriize]

˚⟡˖ RIIZE angry confessions

ᡣ𐭩 masterlist genre angst, fluff pairing riize x reader

ᯓ★ SHOTARO

Shotaro had been in love with you for a while, but he always felt that you only saw him as a good friend. Because of this, he decided not to confess his feelings. You two had known each other for years, and although he only realized his feelings a few months ago, he had always felt a bit strange when he saw you with other guys. Back then, he didn't admit it, but he was jealous. He couldn't understand why, despite laughing with him more than anyone else, you still seemed to prefer other guys. Deep down, he felt like he wasn't enough.

Since he realized he was in love with you, you hadn’t mentioned liking any other guys, so Shotaro hadn't felt jealous in a while—until it happened.

One day, while you were having an afternoon snack at a café with Shotaro, something you did often, you spotted a guy from your class who you thought was really cute entering the café. You couldn’t help but feel nervous.

"Oh my god..." you murmured, trying to look away.

“What’s up?” Shotaro asked, turning to see what had caught your attention.

“It’s that guy from my class… He’s…”

“Oh, do you have a crush on him?” Shotaro glanced at the guy for a few seconds before turning back around and letting out a small sigh. “He’s not good for you.”

“Huh? Why do you say that?”

“He looks like trouble. And I don’t think he’s right for you.”

Shotaro had never said anything like that to you before, and it made you a bit angry. What was he implying?

“Since when do you care about what's good for me, Shotaro?” you asked, giving him a serious look, clearly upset by his words. He looked back at you in silence for a few seconds.

“Since I…” He bit his lip and shook his head. “Nevermind.”

“Since what, Shotaro? Why do you suddenly care about the guys I like? It’s none of your business…”

“Because I’m in love with you, Y/N!” Shotaro cut you off, standing up and looking at you intensely. “That’s why, alright? Are you happy now?” He grabbed his things and stormed out of the café.

ᯓ★ EUNSEOK

It was the way Eunseok looked at you that made everyone else realize how much he liked you. Well, everyone except for you. From the moment he met you, Eunseok knew he had feelings for you, but there wasn’t much he could do about it because at the time, you were dating someone else.

When you broke up with that guy, Eunseok was there for you whenever you needed him, supporting you. But that was all he could do—be by your side—because he felt like you didn’t see him the same way he saw you. Even though everyone always mentioned how Eunseok looked at you, you would always reply with, “I don’t know why everyone keeps saying that, Eunseok looks at everyone like that…”

To be honest, sometimes you had thought about it—whether Eunseok really had feelings for you like everyone said—but it didn’t make sense to you, so you would quickly brush it off. On the other hand, Eunseok was finding it harder and harder to contain his feelings. It never seemed like the right moment to confess, especially since you had been going through an on-again, off-again relationship with the same guy for a while, something Eunseok couldn’t stand.

“You got back with him again?” Eunseok asked with a sigh as you both sat on the grass at a friend’s birthday party. You had stepped outside to get some fresh air.

“Yeah… I feel like it’s what I should do.”

“Why, Y/N? Sometimes you make the dumbest decisions…”

“Excuse me?” You looked at him, surprised by the way he spoke. Eunseok had always supported you, and this was the first time he sounded frustrated. “It’s not dumb…”

“Isn’t it? To keep chasing after someone who doesn’t treat you the way you deserve?”

“What do you mean, Eunseok? He treats me well… we just have a few little fights sometimes. Besides, I go back to him because he’s the only one who cares about me at the end of the day, because…”

“Oh my god, Y/N, how can you be so blind?” Eunseok interrupted, looking at you with clear frustration.

“What…?”

As he stood up to go back inside, he murmured, “I don’t understand how you can’t see that the person who loves you the most is right in front of you…”

ᯓ★ SUNGCHAN

Sungchan had been looking out for you since day one. You had known each other since elementary school, and ever since then, you had always been together. He was always by your side, making sure you were okay and safe. You two spent so much time together that people who didn’t know you well often thought you were dating, something you always denied immediately to avoid awkwardness.

Sungchan never took it personally when you denied it—he tried to brush it off quickly—until it happened in a situation unlike any other before. You had never had a boyfriend, mostly because you hadn’t really been interested in any guys… until now. There was this one guy you’d been noticing lately, someone you found intriguing, but you hadn’t told anyone about it because it made you a little shy.

To your surprise, your friends invited this guy to a lunch gathering that you and Sungchan were also attending. When you saw him approaching with your friends, you couldn’t hide your nervousness, which Sungchan immediately noticed. And, as usual, the guy asked how long you and Sungchan had been together.

“No, him and me? We’re not a couple. Not at all. Never,” you said quickly, letting out a nervous laugh.

Sungchan stared at you in silence. He couldn’t believe what you had just done. Normally, you would simply say, “No, we’re just friends,” but this time, it felt like you had overreacted, and it hurt him. As you continued talking more with the guy, Sungchan started to feel left out (and jealous), so he let out a small laugh and walked away to another spot.

It took you a few minutes to realize Sungchan was no longer there, behind you, where he had always been. Confused, you quietly excused yourself from the group to go find him. After searching for a bit, you finally found him leaning against a tree, sipping his drink. You approached and touched his shoulder, and he looked at you with an expression you had never seen on him before.

“Why did you leave, Sungchan? Did something happen?”

“It seemed like you didn’t need me there anymore,” he said, turning his gaze away from you.

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t know you hated the idea of people seeing us as a couple… or rather, that he saw us as a couple.”

“Sungchan, you know that’s not it. We’re not dating, you know? I always say the same thing. I don’t get why you’re acting like this now…”

“I’ve been following you around like a lost puppy since the day we met, yet you couldn’t see?” Sungchan turned to face you, locking eyes with you for a few seconds.

“What… what do you mean…?” you murmured, feeling your cheeks heat up.

“It’s… nevermind,” he said, walking away.

ᯓ★ WONBIN

Wonbin was a friend of one of your friends, and although you had met him several times before, you didn’t really start talking until a few months ago. To both of your surprise, you had a lot of common interests, which meant you had been talking more and more lately.

Whenever you hung out with your group of friends, it wasn’t unusual for you and Wonbin to spend the entire time together, which led to people starting to suspect there was something going on between you two. However, everyone knew that you had been interested in another guy for a while, a guy who constantly gave you mixed signals. But you were so blinded by the way he treated you that you couldn’t see he was just playing with your feelings.

This was something Wonbin knew, and it was starting to bother him more and more. At first, he didn’t care much, but the more he got to know you, the more frustrated he became with how this guy was treating you. And that’s when he realized that maybe he didn’t see you just as a friend anymore. The moment he came to that realization, he regretted it, knowing that you only had eyes for someone else, and he felt like you’d never notice him.

One evening, you were hanging out with your friends, and for some reason, you all decided to drink. Wonbin wasn’t very good at drinking, so it didn’t take long for him to get tipsy, his cheeks flushed. When Wonbin got drunk, he became even more affectionate than usual. You had also been drinking, but it didn’t affect you as much.

At one point, Wonbin went outside to get some fresh air because he was feeling a bit dizzy, and you followed him to check if he was okay. While outside, you started talking about the guy you liked, and unlike usual, Wonbin didn’t respond or pay much attention. When you noticed he was staring off into the distance, you looked at him.

“Wonbin? Are you okay?”

He stared at you for a few seconds, and just when it seemed like he was about to say something, he sighed and buried his face in his hands, muttering, “Do you like that guy so much that you can’t see what he’s doing to you?”

“Huh? What are you talking about, Wonbin? He treats me really well…”

“Yeah, that’s what you think…”

“You don’t have the right to talk about him like that when you don’t even know him,” you said, getting annoyed at how Wonbin was speaking badly about him.

After a few seconds of silence, Wonbin looked at you and shook his head.

“…This is why I knew I shouldn’t have gotten close to you.”

“What are you talking about, Wonbin?”

“I just… wish you wouldn’t keep seeing that guy.”

“You don’t have the right to say that.”

“I wish I did.”

ᯓ★ SEUNGHAN

Everyone, even you, knew how much Seunghan liked you. But you always ignored his feelings because you preferred not to face that reality. You had been friends for so many years that you didn't want to risk your friendship over it. Still, you couldn't deny that you treated him differently from everyone else, being much more affectionate and always relying on him when you needed someone. Seunghan was always there for you, no matter what. It didn’t matter if you were on the other side of the city and only needed a pen—he would come and bring it to you. That’s how much you meant to him, and everyone could see it.

That’s why, when he heard from others that you were starting to get to know another guy, he felt his heart break a little. He knew you two weren’t a couple and that he had never confessed his feelings, but it still hurt to find out from someone else, especially when you knew how he felt. The thought of you with another guy was something he couldn't stand.

He tried to distance himself from you for a while after hearing the news, but he just couldn’t. He couldn’t say no when you asked him to pick you up from class to take you home, even though he knew you probably had an important date. Despite knowing this date might be with the other guy, he couldn’t bring himself to refuse, so he picked you up just as you had asked.

The whole ride, he was quiet and serious, something you found odd since Seunghan had never behaved like this around you. He was always so sweet and cheerful when he was with you.

"Seunghan, is something wrong? You seem really serious," you asked when he parked in front of your house after the silent ride.

"No, don't worry," he murmured without looking at you.

"I know something’s bothering you…"

"Don't you have to go get ready for your date?"

The way Seunghan looked at you and the tone he used when mentioning your date made you realize he knew about it, and he seemed quite upset.

"Seunghan, you know I care about you a lot, but it’s just…"

"You know. You know I love you and took full advantage of the fact that I'd do anything for you. And I know that. I just kept at it, hoping that one day you'd value me just as much."

You froze after hearing Seunghan’s words. You couldn’t help but feel bad for making him feel this way, though it was never your intention. Before you could even respond, Seunghan spoke again.

"Just… get out. You’re going to be late."

ᯓ★ SOHEE

There had always been a sort of romantic tension between you and Sohee. Both of you were playful and touchy with each other, but that was all—just tension. Even though you both probably had feelings for each other, neither of you had confessed.

In fact, you were always waiting for him to confess, but that moment never seemed to come. The longer you waited, the more tired you grew of holding onto hope. Yet, despite that, you couldn’t seem to let go of the idea of him.

Knowing all of this, you still couldn’t ignore the guy who approached you at the party. You had come to the university party with Sohee, but he had gone off to talk to his friends. The guy, someone you hadn’t seen before, wasted no time approaching you once he saw Sohee wasn’t by your side.

You two talked for a while, and the guy even brushed your arm occasionally while locking eyes with you. You couldn’t deny feeling a bit nervous around him. He was charming and very attractive. After chatting for a bit, you excused yourself to go to the bathroom, promising you’d be right back.

You didn’t expect to find Sohee waiting for you outside the bathroom. You quickly noticed he’d had a few drinks.

"Sohee, have you been drinking?"

"Who was that guy?"

"Are you talking about the one I was talking to earlier? He’s a new guy at our faculty. He’s pretty nice. I was about to go back and talk to him."

"Don’t go back to him," Sohee muttered, lowering his head.

"Sohee, you can’t decide what I do."

"I know I can’t, but I don’t want you to talk to him again."

"Sohee, you’re just drunk and saying things that don’t make sense," you said, walking past him, heading back to the party.

"Y/n, I love you," you heard Sohee murmur as he grabbed your wrist, only to let it go after a few seconds. You looked at him, stunned, for a moment. "Is that what you wanted to hear? Are you happy now?" he said before walking away into the party, leaving you standing in the hallway, unsure of what to say or do.

ᯓ★ ANTON

You and Anton had been best friends for as long as you could remember. You went to the same school, and your mothers were close friends, so you spent many summers together. Even after graduating, you both ended up attending the same university, so you still saw each other daily.

It felt like you two were inseparable—until you started getting to know another guy. It took you a while to tell Anton about him since you’d never really talked about that kind of stuff before. When you finally did, you thought he took it well at first, but you noticed him starting to act strange, becoming more distant.

Although he said nothing was wrong, he always had excuses to avoid walking home with you, claiming he had plans to study with classmates in a café, something you found odd since he didn’t like studying in public. Even so, you decided to trust him and give him the space he seemed to need.

One day, as you were heading home, you spotted Anton walking in the distance. It had been a while since you’d seen him in person, so you decided to catch up with him. He smiled briefly when he saw you, but then quickly looked away and started walking faster.

"Anton, I feel like you’ve been acting weird these past weeks. Is something wrong?"

"Huh? No, you know… exams, new people… It’s just that. Nothing’s wrong."

"Are you sure? I feel like you’re pulling away from me, and if I’ve done something wrong, I want to know."

"Nothing’s wrong, y/n. You’ve just got other friends now, and I get it," he mumbled coldly. You stood there, thinking for a moment. In high school, you’d made new friends, and yet you and Anton still acted like you always had. Why was this time different?

"I feel like you’ve been off ever since I told you about Ricky…"

"Y/n. I just… don’t want to talk about it."

"Well, I do, Anton. I feel like you’re being selfish, only thinking about how you feel and not about how you’re making me feel," you said, frustrated, stopping in the middle of the street. Anton turned to look at you, serious.

"Well, I’m sorry I fell in love with you, okay? But it happened, and I can’t do shit about it."

"You… what?"

Anton stared at you for a few seconds, pressing his lips together before turning his back on you.

"Forget it, y/n. I’m just tired from all the studying."

ᡣ𐭩 masterlist taglist: @regularsuh @gacktsa @totheseok @kkumistars @taroddori

[sovonight]

a radri-sarevok swap au but also xan is there:

xan:

refused the moonblade

tried to join the greycloaks and failed

exiled from evereska until he gets his act together (aka accepts the moonblade)

hopped from one adventuring party to another, offering his services as a wizard, but few could stand his company for very long

after he joins radri, she validates his choice to refuse the moonblade & further convinces him that the fact that he's not allowed back into evereska just for that is total bullshit. he cuts ties with his house & devotes himself to her

radri:

gorion raised sarevok, not her. she was eventually taken in by the iron throne for her aptitude in combat, and rose to the point where rieltar anchev came to view her as the daughter he never had

constantly felt out of place her whole life, and instead of turning it inward made it everyone else's problem

cuts (hacks at) her hair herself and keeps it shoulder length at most, and frequently wears a hood to conceal her ears

encountered xan during her work for the iron throne and rescued him from unemployment. 5 years later they've become inseparable

xan/radri:

they each believe the other has had such an unfair life and deserves so much better. they believe this to the point of prioritizing each other over almost anyone else

radri's first memory was of sharing minds with her mother & knowing without a doubt that her mother planned to kill her. she's avoided other elves & elven customs/interactions, and it took her a long time to consider even sharing reverie with xan

despite knowing that shes a bhaalspawn, radri doesn't care about the bhaalspawn prophecy. her motivation for being a boss battle for sarevok is that he's ruined the iron throne (and thus her comfortable livelihood). when radri dies, xan is devastated and loses the will to fight back; he's spared by sarevok's party and is still kneeling beside radri's scattered remains as they leave

in tob, radri is resurrected because sarevok thinks she could be a powerful ally in combat (and not for being a font of bhaalspawn knowledge, bc she isn't really one). she eventually seeks out xan and they go on being cringe and borderline evil together in the epilogue

somehow they went from this:

X, muttered, in elvish: You smell like a human.

R: I know elvish, jerk.

X: And yet you do all you can to pretend you are human, save for cut down your ears. Have you no pride?

R: So that I can look better in the eyes of elves like you? Don't you have a city to hole up in and pretend you're better than everyone else?

to this:

R, about to escalate a random tavern insult into a fight: What did you say?! I'll murder you, you little--

X, grabbing her arm to hold her back: Radri!

X, quietly to her: You have plans in a half hour, and you know how it pains you to arrive late. Allow me to handle it.

R: ... (sigh) Fine, have them rip each other apart.

(R turns away, X casts the spell, and screams are heard as they leave)

[ninjatrashpanda]

The Other Shoe (Waiting for it to drop)

Written for @bucktommypositivityweek Round 2! Today's prompt is "Coming Out Scenes!"

Read it on AO3 here.

“I, uh, I think it’s time to face the music,” Buck whispered, tugging on Tommy’s sleeve. His eyes wandered over to his parents, who had watched him and Tommy like hawks throughout the entire reception, though Buck had a hard time predicting what they were thinking. On one hand, therapy had been going well, and while The Buckleys would probably never be the big happy family Buck had wished for as a kid, Mom and Dad were trying. They had been nothing but supportive about him being Connor and Kameron’s sperm donor last year, and Buck would be lying if he said he hadn’t felt a pang of appreciation when they had stood up for him against Chimney’s father and stepmother.

On the other hand, well, these were his parents, and old fears die hard. While they had apologized for how they had treated him and Maddie and become better, there was a little voice at the back of his head that told him they’d just be disappointed again. The fact that his mother hadn’t managed to get rid of the bewildered look on her face since he had dragged Tommy into Chimney’s hospital room didn’t help.

“Should I be scared?” Tommy asked, raising an eyebrow.

Buck chuckled, though it sounded more like a nervous exhale. He stole another glance at his parents, then shifted his gaze to the floor, kicking at an imaginary speck of dust. “Nah,” he said, though he admittedly wasn’t even able to convince himself of that. “Not scared. Just... prepared.”

Tommy followed Buck’s gaze across the room, where Buck’s parents stood stiffly by a wall, half-empty champagne flutes clutched tightly in their hands. Buck knew they had been mingling just a few minutes ago, but he still couldn’t help but feel that they looked, well, out of place. While they were nothing but polite, they didn’t really mesh with anyone else, and always seemed a little awkward.

“They don’t seem like they bite,” Tommy observed, in that casual, dry tone Buck had grown to appreciate over the past few weeks. In an instant, a part of his anxiety evaporated and bubbled to the surface in a barely held back snort.

“Not literally, no.” Buck ran a hand through his hair with a shake of his head, the slight smile Tommy had brought to his face staying on his face. “It’s just... history, you know? They’re trying, and I get that, I do. But sometimes it’s like...” He trailed off with a shrug, struggling to find the right words. “It’s like I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Tommy nodded, his hand reaching out to squeeze Buck’s. Buck had told him the basics, how Maddie had practically raised him, how their parents had been neglectful and controlling. He vaguely knew about Daniel, too, though Buck hadn’t delved into the whole Savior Baby thing yet. The subject was…touchy, to say the least, and while he knew he had to breach it at some point, he wanted Tommy to have as neutral an opinion on his parents as possible. They were putting in the effort, so Buck figured they deserved that much.

“Well,” Tommy said, squeezing Buck’s hand again, a bit firmer this time, “if things get weird, you’ve got me for backup. Just say the word, and I’ll distract them with my fake mouth static.”

Buck couldn’t help but let out a genuine laugh at that, which surprised even himself. Tommy had a knack for diffusing tension, and Buck was grateful for it. It was one of the reasons he had gravitated toward him in the first place. He tightened his grip on Tommy’s hand, drawing strength from the contact, before letting go and straightening up.

“Good idea. You’re renowned for your fake mouth static after all.”

“Damn right I am.”

They stood there for a moment, neither quite willing to take the first step towards the inevitable conversation. The reception was starting to wind down, (because the nurses were kicking people out now) so at least if this developed into a scene, not too many people would end up seeing. Chimney, now recovering well after the whole viral encephalitis debacle, was in high spirits, chatting animatedly with Hen and Karen. Maddie was close by his side, smiling brighter than he had ever seen, seemingly refusing to let go of her new husband’s arm.

The love between them gave Buck a tiny surge of courage. If Maddie and Chimney could find happiness after everything they had been through, then maybe things could work out with his and Maddie’s parents too.

“Alright,” Buck said, straightening his posture, bracing himself for impact. “Let’s do this.”

They crossed the room together, Tommy a step behind Buck, offering silent support. Buck’s parents straightened as he approached, their faces neutral masks. They clearly didn’t know how to react, and Buck could hardly blame them for that.

“Hi,” Buck said, forcing a smile. “You probably have a few questions.”

His mother’s eyes softened, but there was still a glimmer of uncertainty in them. His father cleared his throat, his grip on the champagne flute tightening just slightly. The atmosphere was stiff, and the air felt thick enough to cut it with a knife.

“Hi, Buck,” his mother replied, her voice wavering just a bit. Buck was actually (positively) surprised that she used his nickname, though he had to admit it sounded almost foreign in her voice. “Yes, we, uh…” She glanced at his father, who nodded, urging her to continue. “We do have some questions, but—”

“We don’t want to push,” his father interjected, his tone uncharacteristically gentle. “We’re just… trying to understand.”

Buck nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. They weren’t throwing accusations and bad faith arguments around, so that was a good start. Still, Buck knew that they weren’t out of the woods yet. He hadn’t spoken about the big B yet, after all.

“Yeah,” Buck said, rubbing the back of his neck, a nervous habit he hadn’t quite outgrown. “I figured. And, uh, it’s okay to ask. I know this is… a lot.”

He could see the moment his mother tried to put on a brave face, her lips curving into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “We were surprised, that’s all,” she said. “When you came into the room with…”

She trailed off, her eyes moving over Buck’s shoulder to where he knew Tommy stood just a foot or two behind him. He took a deep breath. This was it. No going back. He had thought about it for weeks at this point, had said it out loud to himself in the mirror, but not to anybody else, not even Maddie or Tommy.

“Tommy.” He turned slightly, reaching out his hand out to Tommy, who took it into his own with a smile as he stepped up. “Mom, Dad, this is Tommy Kinard. He’s my date. He, uh… he’s the reason I figured out that I’m bisexual.”

The words hung in the air for what felt like an eternity. Buck could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the sound of his blood rushing through his ears almost deafening. He knew this moment was pivotal (one of the most important in his life, probably) and the weight of it pressed down on him like the world on Atlas’ shoulders.

His parents exchanged glances, and Buck could see an onslaught of emotions flitting across their faces: surprise, confusion, and perhaps a flicker of something that could be hope. His mother’s fingers tightened around the stem of her champagne flute, and his father took a small step closer to her.

Tommy, for his part, stayed by Buck’s side, his presence a quiet but powerful anchor. He gave Buck’s hand a reassuring squeeze, a silent promise that he was here, and that he wouldn’t leave. Buck was grateful for that; it reminded him that no matter what was going to happen, he wasn’t alone.

His mother was the first to speak. “Bisexual,” she repeated, as if testing the word on her tongue. Her brow furrowed slightly, but there was no trace of anger or disappointment in her tone. Instead, she seemed...curious. “I…well, I didn’t expect that.”

Buck could see his father’s jaw tighten momentarily before he let out a slow breath. “Buck,” he began, his voice careful, deliberate. “This is…this is a lot to take in. But I want you to know that we’re listening. We’re trying to understand.”

Buck nodded. This wasn’t a rejection, not outright. But it wasn’t exactly acceptance either, not yet, at least. Still, it was something, and in this moment, something was better than nothing.

“I know it’s a lot,” Buck said, his voice quieter now. “And I don’t expect you to get it all at once. I only figured it out a few weeks ago, too. I just wanted you to know, because…because it’s who I am. And Tommy… he’s important to me.”

His mother’s eyes softened at that, and Buck could see her shifting, recalibrating her thoughts, trying to process this new piece of information about her son. “Tommy,” she said, as if tasting the name for the first time. She looked at him then, really looked at him, and there was something in her gaze that was almost…gentle. “It’s nice to meet you, Tommy.”

Tommy smiled, his usual confidence replaced by an almost shy nervousness. “Nice to meet you too, Mrs. Buckley. And Mr. Buckley,” he added, nodding respectfully toward Buck’s father.

Buck’s father gave a small nod in return, though his expression remained unreadable. “Tommy,” he repeated, his voice a bit more measured. “You’re… Buck’s boyfriend?”

Buck sucked in a sharp breath. Obviously that question would come up. He should’ve been prepared for it, but he wasn’t. He and Tommy hadn’t even really had that conversation. He’d certainly like for Tommy to be his boyfriend, he just wasn’t sure if Tommy was at that point yet. It had only been a few weeks after all. They had been on four dates, one of which was a complete disaster, and another that hadn’t even been a date at first, but an apology for the date that had been a complete disaster.

“Yeah,” Tommy said, his tone steady. “I’m his boyfriend. And I know this might be surprising, but Evan…he means a lot to me. I care about him.”

Buck’s breath hitched in his throat. He hadn’t expected Tommy to say it outright. He had expected a lighthearted “Not yet” or “We’re seeing each other.” That he’d gone right ahead… Buck’s heart swelled just a little bit. He squeezed Tommy’s hand a little tighter, grateful beyond words. Tommy’s answer made Buck just a little braver.

Finally, his mother spoke again. “I…I see,” she said, her voice softer now, almost hesitant. She looked at Buck, her eyes searching his, as if trying to reconcile the son she knew with these new things she was learning about him. “And you… you’re happy?”

Buck felt a lump rise in his throat. It was such a simple question, but it carried so much baggage. She wasn’t asking if he was happy with Tommy. She was asking if he was happy with himself, something that would’ve been absolutely unthinkable just three years ago.

“I am,” Buck replied, his voice growing more assured. “I’m happy, Mom. I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time.”

His mother’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and she nodded slowly, as if coming to a decision within herself. She reached out then, tentatively, her hand hovering in the air for a moment before she placed it on Buck’s arm. “That’s all we want, Buck,” she whispered, her voice wavering a little. “We just want you to be happy.”

His father, who had been silent for most of the exchange, cleared his throat again. “It’s…a lot to adjust to,” he admitted, his voice gruff but not unkind. “But if this is who you are, and if this man makes you happy, then…well, we’ll do our best to understand.”

Buck felt a surge of relief wash over him, so powerful that it nearly knocked him off his feet. It wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot, but it was something. Something good. It was yet another step toward healing their relationship, and for that, he was grateful.

“Thank you,” Buck said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you for not, like, freaking out.”

His father gave a small nod, and his mother’s hand tightened on his arm, a silent reassurance that they were, in fact, trying. Tommy smiled and wrapped his arm around Buck’s shoulders, Buck leaning into his side almost automatically, enjoying the warmth of their connection.

His mother glanced over at Tommy, her expression softening further. “You’re welcome to join us for dinner before we fly back to Hershey, Tommy,” she said, a small, tentative smile tugging at her lips. “We’d like to get to know you better.”

Tommy’s eyes widened at the invitation, and Buck didn’t blame him. It was already unusual that Tommy had met his parents this early, but getting invited to family dinner? That was big. “I’d love to, Mrs. Buckley. Thank you.”

Buck’s father gave a curt nod, not quite ready to add anything further, but his stance had relaxed just a little. There was still a long way to go, a lot of conversations to be had, but in that moment, Buck knew they were moving in the right direction.

As the reception continued to wind down, Buck stood there with Tommy by his side, his parents before him, and for the first time in a long while, he felt a cautious sense of optimism. The journey ahead would be challenging, there was no doubt about that, but they were all still here, still trying, and that was more than Buck could have hoped for when he first approached them.

As they exchanged a few more words, lighter now, less fraught with tension, Buck realized that this was what he had been waiting for all along. Not just acceptance, but the willingness to grow, to move forward together. And maybe that was enough to help the wounds of the past heal.

[reyreadersblog]

ALRIGHT Y'ALL MADE ME DO IT!!!

My unpopular tig/tgg opinions!!

FIRST!

These are MY opinions and i'm allowed to have my own thoughts on certian things, just as you are, okay..? Just wanna..get this out of way, i know everyone is respectful in this fandombut still.

1. this is something that should NOT be an upopular opinion. AVERY IS THE MAIN CHARACTER FOR A REASON. okay? She is a girlboss, and she needs more appretiation, cus literally search up tig on tt rn. Everybody and their cat named Stewie is talking about Grayson and Jameson? WHAT ABOUT MY MG AVERY? And if you see any post about her, it's probably a hate vid about how Avery should've kept the money...SHUT UP. Read what she said carefully..."no one deserves that kind of power.." and then think about it deeply.

2. I DO NOT WANT TIG TO TURN INTO A TV SERIES (or even a movie). i can't name all the reasons 'cus then the the list would be endless. First of all, i know, I JUST KNOW, they'll choose the worst cast ever. And even if they find the most accurate cast for the Hawthorne brother i will still be dissapointed, because the images of them i have in my head...THEY'LL NEVER TOP EM. second of all, they will leave out important moments, just as simple as it sounds, and trust me they will, just like they do with most of the live adaptations of books. Third of all, SHIP WARS!!! I phisically can't with ship war, like I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF EM IN THE PAST WHEN THE BOOKS WERE STILL COMING OUT. And just the thought of Averygrayson shipper saying "yeah Avery and jameson were endgame in the books but they might change it in the movie..." GIVES ME NIGHTMARES. and overall, not everything needs a live adaptation yk? sometimes things just have to stay the way they are.

3. ...this is a bit contrevertial.and i don't want to sound like a hater since i've said this a multiple times before but Rohan's pov was my least favourite in the grandest games. Purely bcs whatever Savannah and Rohan had going on...don't get me wrong, i like Savannah (even tho she did and said some fucked up things) and Rohan, SEPERATLY. But them being together...idk man, they were too..."booktokish" for my liking, yk? and i do love banter and teasing, but they were like basic "i like you but i like winning more" "couple". Not to mention they were so random...like where did they come from? I remember when we first saw Sav and Rohan having the same symbols on their cards i was very excited, i expected a different dynamic between them...PLUS THE WHOLE GAME THEY JUST WANTED TO FUCK💀

4. Hating Alisa Ortega and loving Grayson Hawthorne is CRAZYYY, and i'm saying this bcs they're pretty similar in different ways. And the thing is people are mad at Alisa for "saying mean words to Libby" (she was literally doing her job, you would understand if you were at her place) MEANWHILE GRAYSON LITERALLY THREATENED A HEIRESS! (sayin this as a Gray stan) *sigh* y'all are something else🤦🏻‍♀️.

5. Ohh...this one is risky...BUT CAN Y'ALL STOP ACTING LIKE JAMESON IS BLAMELESS?? all i see is Grayson slander, AND I UNDERSTAND, he fucked up, but saying "Jameson was so much better than Grayson" is a lie, at least for me. (He was better for Avery tho) he fs made mistakes that fandoms chooses to ignore. Like lets not act like treating Avery like a toy wasn't wrong. Lets not act like him blaming Grayson for everything wasn't wrong. Let's not act like him reminding Grayson of Emily's death wasn't wrong. And i know that later on both him and Grayson had a great character development, but still, i've never seen anyone talk about this.

6. This isn't about tig. But LIKING JLBS WORK AND BEING HER FAN DOESN'T MEAN YOU'RE GLAZING HER💀 (talking about an argument i had a while ago...) like is it so hard for your brain to understand that it's called having an opinion. Idc if it's JLB or any other author, okay? Like i've read almost every Jlb's books and i love them, AND i also publicly talk about how much iblove her work, does that mean i'm glazing her? UHM NO WTF💀.

7. LET. PEOPLE. HAVE. PREFRENCE. (I'm talking about ships btw) . Someone prefers LyraGray over Averyjameson, and that's okay. Someone loves Averyjameson the most, and that's also okay, someone likes Libbynash more then Xandermax, AND THAT IS ALSO OKAY.

I'll probably do part 2, i have more to say i'm just really tired rn.

Also it's not proof read so sorry if there are many mistakes.

[fatkish]

Y/n x Kimetsu no Gauken

——————————————————————————

Y/n: *in the teacher’s lounge at their desk, sprays fart spray*

Sanemi: and then this kid was like- *sniffs* what the f-ck? The hell is that?!

Tengen: what are you talking about? *smells the air* *gags* what the hell did you eat? That’s rank!

Kyojuro: *takes a whiff* That is quite the offensive smell! However I’m impressed with how bad it is!

Obanai: *smells it* Sanemi what the hell

Sanemi: it wasn’t me!

Tengen: the f-ck have you been eating to make such a smell?

Obanai: did you sh-t your pants?

Sanemi: NO! It wasn’t me!

Gyomei: *cries* we should open a window

Y/n: I’ll do it *opens window and sprays fart spray when they walk past Sanemi*

Obanai: Again! What is wrong with you

Sanemi: the f-ck! It ain’t me! My sh-t don’t smell like that

Kanae: *covering her nose* Sanemi, you might want to see a doctor

Tengen: *gaging* it smells like death’s ass in here

Y/n: *falls over laughing*

Sanemi: the hell are you laughing at?!

Y/n: *holds up fart spray for everyone to see* it was a prank

Sanemi: I’m gonna kill you!

——————————————————————————

Kyojuro: Knowledge is knowing that a tomato is a fruit, and wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad.

Tengen: That's deep.

Y/n: That means that ketchup is a smoothie.

Tengen: That's deeper.

Sanemi: ….You guys are idiots.

——————————————————————————

Y/n: *Gasp*

Sanemi: wHAT??

Y/n: What if soy milk is just milk introducing itself in Spanish?

Sanemi: *inhales*

Tengen, in another room with Kyojuro: Why can I hear screeching?

——————————————————————————

Y/n: If you put a milkshake in one yard and crack open a cold one in another yard, which yard would the boys go to?

Tengen: Schrödinger's boys.

Kyojuro: FUCK!

Gyomei: What about cracking open a cold milkshake?

Sanemi: As we all know, the milkshake brings the boys to the yard. The presence of the boys is a prerequisite for the cracking open of a cold one, but cold ones do not have any inherent boy-attracting abilities. Milkshakes, however, do.

Sanemi: All else being equal, the boys would proceed to the milkshake yard. While it is possible to announce the presence of cold ones in the hope of attracting some boys, the pull of the milkshake is much more powerful by comparison.

Y/n: ...

Tengen: ...

Kyojuro: ...

Gyomei: ...

Sanemi: Mind you, all of this nonsense hinges on whether or not the boys are back in town.

——————————————————————————

Gyomei: Anyone d-

Y/n: Depressed?

Obanai: Drained?

Goto: Dumb?

Giyuu: Disliked?

Gyomei: -done with their work... what is wrong with you people...

——————————————————————————

Kyojuro: You know what I learned from my friendship with Sanemi?

Gyomei: There’s no such thing as too mean?

Tengen: Never let your friends know for sure if you like them?

Y/n: Always hold a grudge?

——————————————————————————

Y/n: *arguing with Sanemi*

Sanemi: you don’t even have the balls to do that

Y/n: yes I do and they’re bigger than yours! They’re on my chest!

——————————————————————————

Y/n: Tell me, what you are mad at?

Tengen: I paid twenty dollars for bottomless drinks.

Kyojuro, in the background: They got to the bottom.

Tengen: What is that? The bottom of the damn glass!

——————————————————————————

Y/n, holding a rock: Kyojuro just gave this to me and said "I feel like you deserve the moon but all I can give you is a rock".

Tengen: If you don't marry them, I will.

——————————————————————————

Tengen: Hi could I ask how exactly does one accidentally set a lemon on fire?

Y/n: Microwave for 40 minutes.

Sanemi: WHY WERE YOU MICROWAVING A LEMON?!

Y/n: I read boiling lemons helps cover up bad smells and I wanted to cover up the scent of burnt oranges, but I didn’t own any pots…

Kyojuro: Did you burn an orange too? HOW?!

Y/n: Microwave for 40 minutes.

——————————————————————————

Tengen: A pessimist sees a dark tunnel.

Y/n: An optimist sees light at the end of the tunnel.

Kyojuro: A realist sees a freight train.

Sanemi: The train driver sees three idiots standing on the tracks.

——————————————————————————

Y/n: Hey, how did my phone break?

Kyojuro: You were drunk yesterday.

Y/n: And?

Gyomei: You threw it.

Y/n: Why?

Tengen: You turned on airplane mode and kept screaming “FLY DAMN YOU!”

Y/n: And why didn’t you stop me?!

Sanemi: We were busy laughing our asses off.

[tragedy-of-commons]

Congrats on 200 followers!!! You deserve everything with how much you’ve made me giggle with your stories!🎉

For your 200 followers event? May I request; Dan Heng + “Let’s meet again, in our next life…” + romantic + angst (I’m not sure if you accept the genre)

I think I’m gonna go crazy with how much angst and fluff I consume in a day

"Let's meet again, in our next life..."

It's a nice sentiment. It really is.

It also just so happened to be the best thing you could come up with, considering you're too focused on the stuttering breaths and tremors wracking Dan Heng's form. He must find it insulting, really, that you'd bring up his disposition like this, but you don't know if he can even hear you at all right now.

The storm normally brewing behind his eyes is replaced by a glazed sheen that you desperately want to remedy. You can barely find it in yourself to speak, words slurring together and becoming lost in the whiplash of the tears and shock. But you keep going. That's about all you can do.

"You--you always said I'd make a good professional nuisance. Well, that one time, anyway - I laughed so hard you didn't talk to me for two days," you ramble, threading your fingers through his matted hair. Your fingernails are caked in red, and it probably doesn't feel good in the slightest, but he doesn't even tense.

Dan Heng is still.

You sniffle, words garbled. "M-Maybe I'll peddle something door-to-door... like vacuum cleaners. Shitty ones that don't even come with a handheld and break right after the warranty expires. You'll o-open your door one day, and sparks will fly all over again."

This hypothetical scene you'd normally be pitching to him over a hearty breakfast or under the twinkling stars doesn't make either of you laugh. Instead you feel bile crawl up the length of your esophagus, threatening to spew with the rest of your guts if you persist with this poor charade.

"Or maybe you'll slam the door in my face. I don't know what could happen," you admit, because of course you don't. You don't know anything else but Dan Heng's nauseatingly cold skin and clammy hands.

There's a small number of people in this universe that will accept you. There's an even smaller number of people who will love you, that will let you inside their heart, no matter how much of a professional nuisance you may be. Finally, there's an infinitesimal amount of people - really just one - who will let you love them in return, despite it all.

And he has just slipped right through the gaps of your fingers.

"Even if you do," you hiccup violently, biting your tongue until you taste iron, "I'll stand out there all night until you recognize me."

There's no response except the buzzing of cicadas, tapping on the soft spot right between your eyes in a dull ache that hurts so bad you can't breathe.

If that's a good or bad thing, it doesn't matter; Dan Heng is not here to soothe the pain with mild-mannered but gentle platitudes. Dan Heng is not here to squeeze your hand back as you try in vain to keep up the one-sided effort.

You are alone, even as you sweep away his bloodied knot of bangs, leaning forward to press your quivering lips against his forehead tenderly.

"You k-know I would," you plead, whispering against his eyebrows and mangled nose, a tiny part of you still holding out for a sign that he's still with you - that he understands how much you love him, even if you didn't say it as much as you should've. "Dan Heng..."

Those three little words are on the tip of your tongue, foreign. It feels like an insult, knowing he won't be able to hear them. Even so, you choke the syllables out, actualizing years of subtle acts of service and inside jokes and wonderful chemistry that you'll never get to share with him again. Cradling your best friend and only treasure, you weep.

When you're torn from his side by first responders, clawing and gasping in abject hysteria, you struggle further, begging anyone who will listen not to take him away. You know he's already gone, you see it in the stiffness of his shoulders as you're dragged away, but you need him. You need Dan Heng, and you need him in not just the next life, but in this one too.

Time passes by in an unpleasant blur, reminiscent of a slideshow. Between clicks, whole days bleed into one another. You feel like you're slathered with monochrome and grayscale while stood against a background teeming with color, terribly out of place and clashing with your surroundings.

Click, you're standing in one place, and then you're not.

Click, you're lying down, only somewhat aware that if you turn over on your side, you'll be met with the barren right side of the bed. Click, you're mulling over flower arrangements and funerary rites without a hint of life in your voice.

Time has never been on Dan Heng's side, you know that for certain. He'd confided in you a few times - in whispers over poorly brewed coffee and in the middle of chaste kisses - that he may never be truly free from the shackles of his past.

Even so, you love him. You'll love him for the rest of your life, and hopefully, all throughout your next one as well. If not, you hope, with all of your shared memories at your back, that Dan Heng will find peace in his next incarnation.

You, however, won't be finding peace until you show up soliciting on his doorstep, peddling those shitty vacuum cleaners.

Until then, you suppose, choking on your tears of yearning.

🏷️: @akutasoda, @aviiarie, @lowkeyren, @synqiri

a/n: did i cry a few times while writing this one? yes. are you evil for forcing me to do this? yes. did i absolutely love every second of it? yes. by the same token, i'm glad i've made you giggle, anon! <3 loved this prompt.

event post here

[finniestoncrane]

Hello Finnie...

Curious...how do you think the rougues would talk to someone who is facing having to move back in with their parents at age 30 due to financial/personal reasons after years of living independently and their self esteem is taking a mahoosive hit 🙃🙃🙃

(I know it's becoming increasingly common nowadays due to cost of living but still...😣)

Asking for a friend...👀

Rogues Headcanons aw anon i feel you, there's nothing like a perceived setback to knock your self-confidence HOWEVER i think you're just being a little harsh on yourself, since you know that it's super common!! but you still deserve comfort and encouragement, and i apologise for how completely sappy i was with this lol 💜 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: fluff, and sickeningly sweet sentiments i hope!!

two face

i think every rogue can say they've suffered setbacks, but none like harvey

by all accounts he was living the perfect life, doing exactly what he wanted to

and then everything kind of crumbled, and he lost it all

but he built himself back up (albeit... maybe on the wrong side of morality depending on the coin flip)

so he considers himself a figure of encouragement to you!!

and he's also gruffly reminding you that self-esteem can be rebuilt

little by little, piece by piece

whether you feel like you're moving "back" or not

you can start fresh and new

scarecrow

his suggestion is a little less than helpful

mostly because his solution to his own financial issues were to... rob people while wearing a costume

and if you want to go down that route he is MORE than happy to help

but if you want to be sensible about it, he can offer support

someone to listen to you while you talk it all out

and he promises he won't psychoanalyse you too much

or talk in his therapist voice

but if after all that you're still lost, he has extra straw and fabric

poison ivy

is your parent's home like a garden? is it nurturing and safe, with a balanced ph level? do you feel comfortable and familiar?

is your parent's home like an unattended back patio made of slabs? cracks with grass? minimal space to thrive?

either way, plants will grow and plants will live

nature pushes on!! and little flowers take pride in pushing their heads up, their stems stretched

to see everything that's good beyond the things that seem so close and current

and with a little help from her, anyone can grow and become their best self, even if they've been uprooted

mad hatter

nothing in this world is perfect, and nothing goes according to plan

trust him, he knows that. he has experience in that. plenty of it

but you have to believe that it's an integral part to your story

what good would alice in wonderland have been if there had been no conflict

if she hadn't been forced to learn about herself, to undergo traumas and difficulties

all in order to get home, which she did

and you will too! he knows you have a happy ending waiting, your own wonderland to get to as a reward

bane

he's never really known a home, so to him it's actually a nice idea

you've got a backup, a safety net

and yeah, you might never have wanted to use it

but it's never a bad thing to know there's another option

and it takes strength to ask for help, and even more to accept it

and while he's pretty sure he's strong enough physically to do most things

even he has to admire the emotional strength it takes to do what you're doing

so he's giving you a pat on the back and reminding you that things could always be worse

(and that pat on the back might cause bruising)

penguin

what do you need? you need money? you need a place to stay?

he'd be offering it all up to you immediately

what good is money if he can't throw it at his favourite people

keeps them under his thumb, yknow? if they own him one

so yeah it might be a favour he'll call you out on eventually

but rest assured he's not thinking of anything else but "how can i help" and "what do you need/want"

far before he'd make any judgements

it's hard to get where you want in life, he knows that very well

zsasz

have you thought about straight up just murdering everyone?

he's kiding, he's kidding!!

besides, that's his thing. don't steal his thing, or you'll end up as a little tally mark on his skin

HOWEVER his advice would be to find something to focus on that takes your mind off of the perceived negatives

it doesn't have to be wiping out humanity in a nihilistic rampage

it can be anything!! and saving some money on rent and having the comfort of home might be all you need to find something new to become skilled at

just as long as it's not murder!!

mr freeze

it might feel like you're losing something, but there's always something to be gained too

and you never really lose what you had, because it lives on in memories and hopes

it stays with you in your plans for the future, in your dreams of what you want when you get back on your feet

or in his case, frozen in time in a glass tube

not lost, just temporarily out of reach

but he's a vehement believer in perseverance and never losing hope!!

you'll both have what you want soon enough, whether that's something new or gaining what you had

riddler

i won't lie i think he's the most likely to turn his nose up at you

like what do you mean there were unforeseen events that you weren't prepared for?

you didn't have 1588729 backup plans, one of which was for that exact chain of events!?

foolish of you really, though he will concede that not everyone has the brain power to strategise like that

in fact, it really is only him who can... so maybe he should lay off

and offer you some comfort instead, since the thought of having to move in with his parents...

well, it literally terrifies him

harley quinn

listen, she's no stranger to "set backs" in your plans

she's had everything taken from her!!

freedom, lovers, career plans (both respectable and criminal)

but she bounces back! and not just because she's a gymnast

(and also deeply out of touch with the trauma it all caused her)

but she manages it because she believes it'll all get better

and it'll all work out

and she believes that for you too!!

[emeryhiro]

What are your thoughts about the whole bethyl thing? I personally saw it more as Daryl finding hope and light when he was in a place of deep despair - she showed him that there's still good to be seen in the world. And so it was a major loss to him personally when she died. Plus she helped him process part of his past trauma.

But I've seen Norman Reedus and Greg Nicotero say that while romance wasn't scripted, there was a taste of it in the air when it came to acting choices. I hate that idea bc she was a teenager and it makes me feel less good about Daryl. I guess I'd hope that if he started catching some feelings "he didn't understand" (as NR puts it), then he would see that they're too far apart in other ways for it to go beyond a father/daughter big brother/little sister sort of bond. What do you think?

Hey Anon!

Thank you for your questions 😊 I'm sorry it took me some time to respond. I just wanted to be careful with what I say and how I explain my opinion since the last thing I want to do is disregard or disrespect anyone else's opinions on the topic.

I agree with you. I always saw that the reason Daryl grew to care so much for Beth was because she gave him hope and didn't allow him to shut off from the world after he thought he'd lost everything and everyone that mattered to him. This ultimately made him feel like he owed her because she saved him, maybe not in the literal sense, but definitely mentally. Her persistence ultimately leads him to finding everyone again.

Only hours before having to be on the run with Beth, Rick had told Daryl about how he'd sent Carol away for killing Karen and David, and we saw how defeated that made Daryl feel. Realising that Carol had to shoulder that responsibility on her own and that he wasn't able to be there to stand up for her put him in a really bad place mentally.

This guilt was then compounded by the governor returning to the prison and killing Hershel infront of everyone, and the guilt that Daryl felt for giving up his search for Governor, which in his mind was the reason Hershel died and they lost the prison.

So all these things combined meant that Daryl felt responsible for EVERYTHING that had just happened TO EVERYONE. And no one was there to help him sholder that pain and responsibility.

Ultimetly his instincts kick in, all the walls that he'd slowly been breaking down come right back up, and he starts to go cold again just to numb himself from everything he's feeling.

And this is where Beth came in. Firstly, her innocence and optimism was the only thing stopping Daryl from completely shutting off from the world. She kept reminding him that the other's could have made it and that if they got out then odds are others must have as well. And secondly, she kept him busy, she was something that needed his protection and that gave him porpose and a reason to keep going.

After Beth gets taken, Daryl ends up with The Claimers, who he thinks are exactly the type of people he deserves to be around, because (in his mind) he can't seem to be capable of keeping and protecting anything good that comes his away, but by some miracle he's reunited with Rick, Carl and Michonne again, and this is where he realises that Beth was right, and if Rick and co have made it then it probably means others have as well.

I think this moment above was the beginning of Daryl starting to believe that he has value again. Rick's words begin to soften him again, but even after reuniting with almost everyone again, we don't actually see Daryl's guard come down until this moment below.

Every single shield/wall he'd been putting up until now is instantly shattered. He's completely exposed in this moment. His mind and body take a few seconds to register what his eyes are seeing and what his heart is feeling, and he's instantly running to Carol and into her arms without any other thought. This is the moment we can get a true reading of his feelings.

Regarding how he felt for Beth...

Yes, I think there may have been some confusion from Daryl's side about what he was feeling for Beth, just like how Norman has described it previously; he cared for Beth, she was nice to him, and that was so rare in his life that he misread the whole situation and couldn't interpret what he was actually feeling. In my opinion, there was no romantic feeling or intent on either side; they were both just navigating a new form of friendship that they'd never experienced before. And if I had to, I'd compare his relationship with Beth to his relationship with Lydia. To put it very simply, he felt responsible for protecting these young girls who, at the time, had no one else on their side, and ultimately, both girls saved him in return and looked up to him as a role model.

~~~~

Thanks again for the questions 🩵 I really hope I did this justice because my main goal is to keep my blog a positive place for everyone.

I know there are many varying opinions on this topic, but I'm glad I got the chance to share mine, and I just wanted to once again say that this is my opinion and not meant to invalidate anyone else's 🩵

[howlsofbloodhounds]

I think the only headcanon I like and remember consistently is Killer having attachment issues in the way

When any relationship gets too real, he does his best to push the other one away. Actively doing things he knows the other one won't like so they'll leave him, because he doesn't deserve any kind of good-ish relationships. He thinks they'd do better in life without him. Uhh I think it's just a case of self-hatred, if I know my emotions right(which I don't)

Yes i agree. Although I think the reasons behind this isn’t as straight forward as it seems. Very important to keep in mind that Killer has a dissociative disorder—this will affect his attachments. Such as in his Stages.

For Stage 2, i genuinely think he is not interested in emotional connections, or at least is convinced he is. He views them as a threat to his independence and emotional detachment, and views himself as not capable of having them.

He prefers to live his fantasies out in his mind where it’s safer and less risk—where he has control. The second anything comes too real, and he starts filling engulfed, he will detach himself and start actively self sabotage to make them leave. This is to protect himself, and only himself.

There isn’t exactly a sense of “I don’t deserve this/you,” exactly. The most I can see this mindset cropping up is in his relationship with Color. For everyone else it’s more like, “I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.” (Which is rich, considering his entire codependency shit with Nightmare. Silly little un-self aware bastard he is.

Although with Nightmare he doesn’t really have to worry about giving a shit about Nightmares emotions genuinely unless they impact him—he just does what he’s told or what he has to, and in return he gets purpose and direction.)

This is his schizoid and antisocial tendencies. Which i headcanon killer to have traits of in Stage 2. I think Stage 2 would have a dismissive avoidant attachment style.

In Stage 1, it’s much like you said—feeling undeserving—but also feeling deeply afraid of being engulfed, controlled, rejected, or abandoned or hurt again—although he deeply craves emotional connection and validation and safety.

For me, personally, Stage 1 is either anxious preoccupied attachment style, or fearful avoidant.

I’m not quite certain about how it’d manifest in Stages 3 and 4—mostly because killer doesn’t really attach much in these states. These two have bigger things to worry about than getting attached—and possibly don’t even conceive things like relationships.

Which, yeah, these are dissociative adaptations meant to keep killer alive or avoid suffering in ways that may be outdated to his current situation. Based on certain interpretations, Stage 3 is more likely to be entirely focused on the immediate moment and himself—nothing and no one else. Stage 4 is entirely unlikely to be focused on itself at all.

This would likely change and develop when Killer manages to form genuine connections and escape the dangerous abusive environment he is in— such as with Color, and then perhaps eventually with the rest of the Epic Sanses and the Chromatic Crew. And of course, the Stages are all still the same person— so there will be ripple effects.

[blackenedsnow]

Hi! I really like the way you write! I would like to make a request. I would love if you could write about P1 Dude cuddling and comforting the reader (his partner) about their struggles with trauma and psychosis. I feel like he would understand these things. The context would be that the person was completely unsupported most of their life and is trying to come to terms with these things, but is scared to open up about it.

held together

WARNING: Mentions of trauma and psychosis, discussion of mental health struggles

PAIRING: Postal (1) Dude x Reader

NOTE: To anyone dealing with trauma and psychosis. I know it's incredibly tough, but you don’t have to face it alone. You deserve love, support, and understanding, just like anyone else. Stay strong—you’ve got this. Take care of yourself!

SUMMARY: You’ve always carried the weight of your trauma and psychosis alone. But Dude has always known more than he lets on.

The house was still, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the next room. The silence weighed on your chest as you sat on the couch, knees pulled up against your chest, staring blankly at the wall. You had been lost in your thoughts for what felt like hours, though time had become a blur.

Dude was there, seated beside you, but his presence was quiet, patient. You hadn’t said much—hadn’t been able to. The disarray in your mind made it hard to find the words. Years of trauma, of trying to survive without support, had left you feeling broken in ways you couldn’t explain.

“You’re real quiet tonight,” Dude finally said, his voice low and rough, but there was no edge to it. He wasn’t prying, just observing.

You hugged your knees tighter, your heart pounding in your chest. There were things you wanted to say—things you needed to say—but the fear of being misunderstood, of being seen as broken, kept your lips sealed. You had spent so long keeping these parts of yourself hidden, terrified of how others would react if they knew.

Dude shifted beside you, leaning forward slightly, resting his arms on his knees. He didn’t look at you directly, but you could feel his attention, his quiet support. He didn’t push you to talk. He never did.

Maybe that was why, of all people, you could almost imagine opening up to him.

“You know…” His voice broke the silence again, soft, contemplative. “I get it. What it’s like to be in your head, and not have anyone really get it. Most people… they can’t handle that shit.” He paused, glancing sideways at you. “But I’m not most people... you know..”

You looked at him then, your gaze meeting his. There was something in his eyes—something raw, real. He wasn’t just saying it to make you feel better. He knew. He understood in a way no one else ever had.

The weight of his words made your chest tighten, but this time it wasn’t from fear. It was something else—something that felt like a mix of relief and terror, like you were standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing that if you jumped, he would catch you.

But the jump was still terrifying.

“I… don’t know where to start,” you finally whispered, your voice barely audible.

He nodded, like he understood that, too. “You don’t have to. We’ll start wherever you’re ready.”

The lump in your throat grew, and you swallowed hard, trying to keep your emotions in check. “It’s just… everything’s so messed up. My head… I can’t tell what’s real half the time. And it’s like… no one’s ever understood. They just… left.”

The words spilled out, shaky and raw, and you felt your chest tighten with anxiety. You’d never admitted any of this out loud before. Talking about the delusions, the paranoia, the way your mind twisted reality until you couldn’t trust anything or anyone… it was too much for most people.

But Dude didn’t flinch. He didn’t look at you like you were crazy or broken. Instead, he leaned back, resting his arm on the back of the couch, and let out a low breath.

“Yeah, I know that feeling,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost reflective. “It’s like living in a bad dream you can’t wake up from. Everything’s off, and you’re just trying to hold it together while the world acts like you’re the one losing it.”

You nodded, tears welling up in your eyes despite your efforts to hold them back. “I… I’ve never had anyone to talk to about it. I’m scared that… if I let it all out, I’ll lose it. And then… then what?”

Dude was silent for a moment, then he shifted closer, his hand resting on your knee—firm, grounding. “You’re not gonna lose it,” he said, his voice steady, certain. “Not with me here. I’m not going anywhere.”

His touch was solid, real, pulling you back from the edge of the spiral your thoughts were leading you down. For the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to fight your mind alone. He was there, steady and unshaken by the storm in your head.

“You don’t have to hold it together all the time,” he added, his thumb brushing lightly against your knee. “You’re allowed to let shit out. I’ve seen worse... I think.”

You let out a small, shaky laugh. The way he said it—like it was no big deal, like he wasn’t afraid of your head—made something inside you ease, just a little.

“I don’t wanna scare you off,” you whispered, though part of you knew by now that he wouldn’t be scared away. Not by this.

Dude snorted softly. “If I was gonna get scared off, it would’ve happened a long time ago.” His voice softened, and he looked at you more closely. “You don’t have to hide that stuff from me. I’ve seen the worst of it, and I’m still here.”

There was a weight in his words, a history that you knew he carried too. He was saying it to comfort you—but he was also saying it because he lived it. You knew about his struggles, his own mind playing tricks on him, pushing him to the edge more times than he could count.

And yet, he was here. Still fighting. Still living.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and nodded, feeling a little lighter, like maybe—just maybe—you didn’t have to carry all of this alone anymore.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t enough to express everything you felt, but it was all you could manage for now.

He didn’t need more than that. Instead, he just gave your knee a reassuring squeeze and leaned back into the couch, pulling you gently into his side. His arm wrapped around your shoulders, firm and warm, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself relax into the comfort of someone who truly understood.

The noise in your mind didn’t disappear. It never would. But for now, with him beside you, it didn’t feel so overwhelming.

[bloggingboutburgers]

cw: discussions of bullying and aphobia

Hearing aroace peoples' existential crises over their friends discussing crushes, as someone who was socially isolated and severly bullied for their whole childhood and most of their adolescence so had NO friendgroup until adulthood and NO community or inclusion in literally anything (and when it came to sex and romance the other kids explicitly considered my potential involvement in either to be impossible / laughible because of how "weird" they found me (my autistic traits before I even realised I'm autistic)), felt like starving while listening to someone else complain about the food they're actively eating.

Food intolerances and dislike of different foods (as metaphor for being aro/ace) ARE important and difficult to grapple with when you're expected to eat specific foods in specific proportions at different times - but man did it sting until I realised why I felt that way and gave myself a talking to since my trauma doesn't justify belittling the very real struggles of aroace people.

I guess since the choice between 'stay alone or conform' was never really a choice because I was rejected no matter how cis straight or allo I was it taught me to go "fuck it" and accept myself regardless of what other people do or say (which ironically has lead to me becoming dramatically popular all of a sudden at uni, which has been weird to get used to since I have literally no experience with any of this - platonic or otherwise - which did lead to some advantage being taken of me but f*ck it we ball ^^'). And I guess it's just been difficult understanding why anyone would care so much about whether they're "normal" or not? You really have nothing to gain from that, safety is not guaranteed in conformity so best to live aroace and damn all aphobes to hell if they have a problem with that.

It's a mindset I'll never understand and that's only ok now insofar as that lack of understanding no longer results in misplaced anger at people who, for a time, I had once considered spoilt, ungrateful and out of touch. Basically, I'm full of sh*t and to every aroace person reading this you deserve good friends that actually respect you for who you are and do not even TRY to get you to change your mind about sex or romance. Have a lovely day x

Sincerely,

An aggressive emotional support anon

I'm genuinely sorry for all the hardships you went through. I don't mean to equate at all, truthfully from reading you and considering I WAS asked some of those questions as a kid regardless (the "who's your crush" bullshit and whatnot), it definitely sounds like I had it less hard than you did, but... I was bullied in elementary school and middle school, also not necessarily because I was aroace (I don't know why it happened really, I don't know if anyone ever knows, I boil it down to... me being me and there being something fundamentally wrong with me ig), and I definitely also get some of those feelings of "oh boo hoo you call that struggle" boiling in me when people discuss their own past struggles sometimes, so... Yeah, every one person's experience is unique, but I can at the very least very much sympathize.

I think a way it manifests in me is that I now have that compulsive, debilitating fear of being "othered" in any way, shape, or form, so I guess being aroace doesn't help my case. But at the same time... Well, like you brilliantly put it, when you're in a situation like that, no matter what you do, you won't be accepted anyway, and having that knowledge back then is probably also what lead me to figure myself out as aroace so early in life. Because I was treated as this much of an outsider, I ironically had that much room in my own head to form my own identity, far apart from others and the need to conform. Yeah, that identity may include a "piece of shit that doesn't deserve to be supported of part of a group" side that's been forced in, buried deep down and can't be erased, but... It also includes asexual and aromantic, and it's been cemented so hard from so early with such self-affirmation that later down the line, it saved me from a lot of stuff. I never had to force myself into a romantic or sexual relationship because I was undoubtably aroace – and people saw me as an outsider and an eyesore anyway. I spent years of being scared to go to school or out in the street every day, but later down the line, somehow, I feel it saved me from doing so many things I wouldn't have wanted to do.

...Bleh, sorry, didn't mean to turn this into me-me-me crap when you had the courage and sincerity of not only showing your experience, but finding the strength to show more love, understanding and support than a lot of people probably cared to give you for so long, despite all the pain you felt for so long. I guess I just wanna say... This take is definitely inspiring, so thank you on behalf of myself and others I'm sure, but also... I hope that, for yourself, you're also managing to own what you lived through in a way that allowed you to affirm yourself more strongly (it sounds like you are, I hope it IS the case), and most importantly, I hope you're in a much better place in your life now and you'll never have to return to that level of loneliness again.

[pruneunfair]

Why Laura is the worst remarried empress character. *crack post*

this bitch here gets on my nerves more than anyone.

Shes one of Naviers lady's in waiting so her sole purpose is basically propping Navier up as the one true empress. I don't hate her for that, if I did then I'd hate all of the ladies in waiting. It's how she does it, all of the ladies have a certain theme to them, Eliza is the motherly and mature one who handles conflict with grace most of the time, Mastas is the badass knight tomboy who can wreak your shit in under 5 minutes, Rose is... wait what even is Rose's thing? I don't think she has anything about her other then loyal servant.

Anyway back to Laura, her thing is that she's a angry redhead who tears down other women who don't emulate exactly what she thinks a good woman is (take a good guess on what she considers being a "good woman) the bitch already gives Navier a poor introduction to Rashta, calling her a filthy thing that was found in the woods and is already looking to steal Naviers man because she's really beautiful and Sovieshus attracted to that so.. I guess it's Rashtas fault for being a slave who took what options she had?

She instigated so much shit that did not need to be instigated. Rashta tears a dress (on ACCIDENT mind you), Laura slaps her, calls her a wench and then it's supposed to be a big surprise when Sovieshu has her locked up for being a bitch, nah you expect me to feel bad for her? I was smirking with Rashta when I read that line. It doesn't even end with Rashta, Laura also wasted no time in seeing Krista as enemy like all the other ladies just because Krista didn't get on her knees for Navier and then insists Navier throw her out of the palace after a misunderstanding. There was NO sex, all that happened was Heinrey had his head on Krista's lap and Krista had NO CLUE that he was drugged, she assumed he came onto her and her only crime was not telling everyone the truth when did learn what happened .

But is that it? Promoting internalized misogyny is pretty bad but is there anything else.

This. "Use it on his majesty."

She considers infidelity to be so awful that she tells Navier to basically drug Sovieshu with a love potion and SA him.. I'm sorry what!? Sovieshu is a POS but in no way does that mean SA should be even considered! Yeah who gives a shit if Rape is the worst thing a person can do to another as long as it's your husband it's fine! (It's not, Marital rape is not only absolutely disgusting, it was used as an excuse for decades that married couples can't be abusive.) Thank God that this was during a season when Navier still had all her common sense.

Also her names Laura. That tells you everything you need to know about her.

I usually like to call her Cinderellas step-sister since she kinda looks like an evil step sis, but you know what? Anastasia doesn't deserve to be compared to that bitch, because she is leaps and bounds better than Laura can ever dream to be. If you want a red haired character that's written with the finest character development Disney could make, watch Cinderella dreams come true or Cinderella a twist in time.