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nightingalescall · 10 months ago

Text

Weight of the World

Kingdom of Ebreau:

prologue|part 1(you are here)|part 2|part 3

"You really do look like God."

Zephyr caressed your cheek with his thumb as he smiled lovingly at you. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours before raising his other hand to cup your face.

He stared into your eyes, awestruck before signing blissfully, "You look just like him....". You remained silent at his blatant display of affection. Zephyr continued, nuzzling his nose against yours as he closed his eyes and let out a content chuckle. In an effort to ease the awkwardness you felt from having the saint be so close to you, you adverted your gaze to the side, landing on your and Zephyr's reflection in the standing mirror situated in a corner of your room.

Zephyr was dressed in his usual white robe but today, he had put extra care into his hair and tied it in a low ponytail using a black ribbon. As for you, you had long since changed out of your old blouse and shorts. In fact, the temple gave you a makeover and threw out your old clothes the moment you stepped foot inside the building, saying your current attire was "unsuited for their beloved Messiah". It had been a few days since your "fall from heaven" as the devotees liked to call it but you still clearly remember the absolute bewilderment you felt when the nuns handed you your new clothes. Holding a golden dress with black beads as embellishments around the collar, skirt and hem of the long sleeves, the nuns grinned brightly at you, expectantly waiting for you to try it on. It looked more expensive than your total salary as the guards' errand girl(which wasn't a lot but you still could never imagined spending all that money on one piece of clothing). You declined at first, unable to accept such a gift but the dejected expressions and teary eyes that immediately came onto the faces of the nuns made you reconsider. Reluctantly, you took the dress from their hands. You stepped inside an empty room nearby and changed into the dress. Oddly enough, the dress fitted perfectly. Not too big, not too small. It was a wonder how they matched your measurements so well.

You slowly creaked opened the door, feeling bashful and self-conscious for wearing something so....Different from your usual attire. Your body felt foreign to you as you struggled to walk normally, thinking you should change the way you carry yourself in order to better match the sophisticated aura the dress brings. Feelings of doubt crept into your mind as you began to regret being so gullible to the nuns.

But what's done has been done. The door opened and dozens of eyes snapped towards you as you reappeared from within the room. The staring made you feel even more awkward.

"Does it look weird?" You asked, hoping to divert their attention and save yourself from the uncomfortable silence. Zephyr was the first to move. He immediately came forward and grasped your hands in his. His smile was wide as he answered. "You look wonderful, Messiah." He seemed a bit breathless.

Thud!

You heard something heavy hit the ground and some frantic voices come from behind Zephyr. You peered over his shoulder and saw that a few devotees had fainted.

"Messiah? Are you alright?" Zephyr's voice rang in your ear, cutting your flashback short. As you came back to reality, you saw Zephyr's reflection in the mirror staring back at you, a concerned frown clear on his face.

"Yes. Sorry, I was, um...." You tried to come up with an excuse as you turned your gaze back at him. Your eyes flickered towards his ponytail and a lightbulb lit up in your mind. "I was admiring your new hairstyle."

A bashful smile spread across Zephyr's face the moment you finished your sentence. "Do you like it? I'll tie it up more often if you like." He blushed slightly. Before you could reply, a knock came from the door.

You saw Zephyr's smile drop before he turned away and excused himself to go answer the door. Now with the saint out of your personal space, you could finally breathe again. Even if Zephyr wasn't cruel or strict in any way, his position as saint was still quite daunting. You felt like you needed to be on your best behaviour whenever he's around.

Sighing in relief, you took a seat on the edge of your bed, the soft mattress sinking lightly with the addition of your weight. You stretched and heard your joints pop softly before you reached for the cup of water placed on the bedside table. Bringing the beautifully decorated porcelain cup to your lips, you took a sip.

You held the almost empty cup in the palm of your hands as you stared down at your reflection in the water after you had your fill. Your face came into view and you were once again reminded of how familiar and yet foreign your face was now.

In the water, a pair of golden eyes looked back at you. This was the mark of Calerus. This was what the temple used to determine you were their Messiah. Calerus had given you the same golden eyes he had when he declared you his lamb that day. You are the one and only human in Ebreauan history to ever possess golden eyes. You're the first person to ever resemble their God. Such was the infatuation the devotees held towards your gaze, fawning whenever you even looked in their direction. So far, Zephyr is the only one who could somewhat keep his composure around you.

You stayed seated on your bed, waiting for Zephyr to finished attending to the person who came knocking. It was taking longer than anticipated.

"...me help the Messiah put them on, Saint Zephyr." Your ears perked up at the mention of your name(or your title to be exact) from the doorway. You glanced over at Zephyr and saw he was conversing with a young monk. You leaned back a on your bed, trying to get a better look at him from your position.

The monk seemed to notice movement within his vision and moved his gaze from Zephyr to the inside of your room. You both make eye contact and you finally notice the brown box he was holding in his hand.

A package?

The young monk's voice suddenly echoed through your room, drawing your attention from the box back to him. "M-miss Messiah. H-hello!", he waved enthusiastically at you, a toothy grin plastered on his flushed face. "Please allow me the honor of-" "Thank you, Brother Esten. I'll take it from here." Zephyr suddenly cut him off, snatching the box from the young monk's hand before slamming the door in his face. You jumped, startled as the door closed with a loud bang.

Zephyr walked over to you, holding the box the young monk had delivered, his usual kind smile back on his face. "Sorry that took so long, Messiah. Brother Esten can be a bit stubborn but he is a good soul." He smiled and handed you the box. You took it from his hands as you nodded. "Did he want something?" You asked, shaking the box gently as you tried to guess what was inside based on its weight.

Zephyr shook his head before reaching for the lid of the box. He lifted the lid and revealed the contents inside. A pair of black ballet flats. You raised an eyebrow in confusion.

You didn't order any shoes.

Zephyr simply chuckled at your expression before taking the flats out of the box. "These are a gift from the temple, Miss Messiah. We thought they would go well with your dress." He said as he went down on one knee in front of you. Placing the flats on the floor beside him, he gestured towards your feet.

"May I?"

You hiked up your dress, revealing the old brown boots you've worn even before becoming the guards' errand girl. They've been with you through thick and thin, through stormy and sunny weather so it pained you a bit having to say goodbye to them. Zephyr slowly undid your shoelaces and slipped the boots off your feet. “Brother Esten had asked to help you put on your new shoes but I informed him that I could do it. He was persistent though, insisting that he should be the one to do it.” He began to recall, taking one of the black flats and slipping it onto your foot.

“In his words and I quote, “A lowly task like this shouldn’t be handled by the saint. Let this humble servant of god do it instead.” I, of course, refused.” Zephyr relayed what transpired at the door just now as he slipped on the other shoe and checked if they fitted you.

You nodded, unfazed by his confession. Zephyr had been constantly at your beck and call ever since you became Messiah, lending his aid even when unnecessary. He goes out of his way to serve you and make your new life as comfortable as possible. In addition, you've also noticed that he had taken over the other nuns and monks' jobs of serving you, such as delivering meals, giving you fresh clothes and other menial tasks after a few days of observation. Sometimes it truly feels like he's your servant rather than your colleague.

You take a look at your new flats too, admiring its design. They fitted perfectly just like every other clothing the temple has given to you. "They're very comfortable. Thank you." You thanked Zephyr for helping you put on the shoes despite not needing the assistance. He smiled tenderly at you before reaching out to hold your right foot in his hand. "You're welcome, my Messiah." He pressed a kiss on your foot.

Your eyes widen in surprise at his action. You blushed and adverted your eyes to the side, too embarrassed to look him in the eyes. No matter how much time you spend with him, you don't think you could ever get used to his odd affection towards you.

"Miss Messiah..."

You heard Zephyr's voice call for you before feeling some weight on you lap. You looked down and saw he had placed his hands on your lap before resting his chin there. He gazed up at you, a look of concern plastered on his face. "You seem distracted today." He frowned. "I noticed you staring at your cup in a daze just now when I was talking to Brother Esten." Zephyr said as he moved one of his hand from your lap and reached for your hand. He gently rubbed the back of it with his thumb as he continued, "Is something bothering you?".

"Oh..." You let out, not expecting him to point out your habit of daydreaming. They've become more frequent after you came to the temple as Messiah. You just had a lot to think about. Your duties, your future, your new role and now the future of Ebreau as well as the well-being of its citizens. The role of Messiah required you to stand with the people and lead them towards a better life. The sudden drop of weight on your shoulders of being Messiah was a heavy one indeed.

"I'm fine. Just a lot to think about especially with how Ebreau is right now." You confessed and sighed, sharing your concerns about the country's current state. Zephyr reached up and cupped your face, making you look at him. "You have a heart of gold, my dear Messiah. I understand that with the way things are presently, you have much to worry about but please remember to not overwork yourself. Too much stress will do no one any good." He stated firmly, his eyes clear and free of doubt, wholeheartedly believing in what he said just now.

You were shaken by his conviction as you fell silent, processing his words. You nodded after a while. "You're right. I'll try my best to manage my anxiety. Thank you, Saint Zephyr." You thanked him, grateful he helped you snap out of it.

Zephyr smiled before leaning in to kiss your cheek. "You're welcome, Messiah. Also, please just call me Zephyr." He pulled back as he looked into your eyes, his gaze soft and warm. "Thank you, Zephyr. You may call me (y/n) too." You smiled back.

For a brief moment, you saw the corner of Zephyr's lips twitched. He suddenly looked down at your lap, avoiding your eyes before taking a deep breath. You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion at his behavior.

Did you say something wrong?

"One would suggest thee to not push the saint's self control too much."

A familiar voice rang inside your head. It was Calerus. You perked up at his sudden presence. "Oh, hello." You thought in your mind. The God of prosperity had a tendency to randomly pop up and speak to you directly through your mind ever since you became his lamb. Sometimes it was advice on what to do as Messiah and sometimes it was just to give one-off comments about the situation at hand. It was the latter this time.

Zephyr suddenly sprang onto his feet, pulling you off the bed by your hands as he did so. Not expecting the sudden pull, you stumbled and fell into his chest. You heard him chuckled as he wrapped his arms around your waist and hugged you tightly against him. You looked up from his chest and stared at him, perplexed. Zephyr simply laughed, "Let's take a walk in the garden, Lady (y/n)."

~✟~

The temple's garden was big and well kept. The flowers here bloomed splendidly, attracting little bees and butterflies to come play on their petals. The soft breeze of the afternoon blew gently, weaving through the yellow leaves of the aurum trees lining the walkway through the garden and shaking them lightly. The soft rustling of leaves paired with the running of water from the nearby fountain was a pleasant change in atmosphere that you desperately needed at the moment.

Zephyr walked beside you quietly as he let you bask in the warm afternoon sun and relax yourself. You sauntered through the garden, going off the pathway and inched closer to the various flower beds. You admired the flowers and couldn't help but smile at the sight of them.

It was a welcomed change of pace. You never found yourself to be a flower lover but here you were. Perhaps it was just a lack of exposure to them in the past.

"This is nice." You mumbled, crouching down and observing a butterfly on a purple flower. "What's this flower called?" You pointed at the flower as you turned your gaze up at Zephyr.

Zephyr smiled and joined you, crouching down beside you. "These are meripurlets."He started as he tucked a loose hair of yours behind your ear. "Their flower language is devotion." He smiled.

You raised your eyebrows at his words. "You know flower language?" You tilted your head. Zephyr chuckled, "Just the few that are commonly used around the temple."

You nodded with a brief "I see." and went back to the flowers before you. Their colours were vibrant and its leaves were evergreen, signifying that they are well taken care of. The shade of purple was nearly identical to that of Zephyr' eyes. You stared as you wondered who's in charge of taking care of the garden, awed by their dedication to these flora.

...

"...siah!"

A voice too soft and distant suddenly caught your attention. You couldn't make it what the voice said but it sounded frantic. You looked around the garden as you searched for the source of the voice, your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Beside you, Zephyr did the same except instaed of being confused, he seemed more cautious and alert.

"Messiah!"

The voice got louder and closer as you heard it call for you. You turned and looked towards the entrance of the garden. A man waved at you as he ran over, tripping on his feet as he did so. Behind him, you see two guards tailing him closely, screaming at him to stop.

"Sir, stop this at once!"

"This is an act of trespassing and will have you arrested!"

The man ignored their demands as he continued to sprint towards you. As he inched closer, you noticed he looked familiar.

Mr. Citris?

Before you could confirm your suspicion, someone blocked your view, shielding you behind them. It was Zephyr. He kept you behind him, his hand holding onto yours in a tight grip as he watched the man approach.

You heard a thud come from in front of him. You tried to peer over his shoulders to see what was going on but unfortunately, he was too tall even when you went onto your toes.

A familiar voice rang and you confirmed who the man was.

"Saint Zephyr! Please let me see the Messiah!"

Mr. Citris pleaded but Zephyr didn't budge.

"My brother, while the temple is open to all followers of his Lord, Calerus, the garden, however can only be accessed by the devotees of this temple." His voice was deadly cold, unbefitting of his usual warm manner.

"I know, my saint, I know! But please! I'm at my wit's end. Please just let me talk to the Messiah!" Mr. Cirtris begged. He really did sound panicked. What got him so worked up? In your mind, nothing could ever shake Mr. Citris.

Mr. Citris is a farmer who sold fresh produce at the central market. You remembered passing by his stall when you were shopping there a few times. He scared you at first. His tough appearance paired with the ever present scowl on his face, it wasn't just you who felt reluctant to approach him. It was only until after you heard more about him from the guards that you changed your opinion on him.

Mr. Citris lives near the northeast outskirts of Ebreau. There, he has a plot of land where he use to plant his vegetables and fruits. His wife passed from complications of childbirth many years ago so it's just him and his daughter at his home.

However, life seemed to be particularly unfair to him as his one and only daughter suffers from a degenerative muscle disease that causes her to have difficulty moving. She still tries her best to help out her dad in his field but she can only work for so long before the pain kicks in. She's been prescribed some medicine to help slow down the degeneration and ease the pain but from what you heard, the medicine is quite expensive and is an extra burden on them when they can only make enough money to put food on the table each day. However, Mr. Citris somehow made it work by selling his products at the market and doing odd job around the city. Tiring as it is, he was able to make enough to afford the medicine and food for his daughter.

From then on, you invested in his small business when you could and even spread the word of his predicament around so people would consider buying from him more. You're not sure if it helped but at least you've seen an increase in customers at his stall ever since then.

In short, Mr. Citris was a big guy with an even bigger heart. Family was everything to him and you admired the lengths he went to for his daughter.

"My brother, the garden is a private resting place for the devotees and workers of the temple. You're intruding on the Messiah's personal time." From your angle, you could see the frown on Zephyr's face as he looked at the man.

Mr. Citris sounded like he was on the verge of crying as he called for you, hoping you would listen to him from behind Zephyr's back. "Messiah, please give me some of your time! It's about my sick daugther!" That immediately caught your attention. Zephyr continued to shield you behind him.

"Brother, you need to leave."

This time, Mr. Citris was silent and you felt a chill run down your spine at Zephyr's demand.

Zephyr stared him down and once he made sure Mr. Citris had nothing more to say, he ordered. "Guards, please escort this man out." Footsteps sounded as the guards approached Mr. Citris.

"On your feet, sir." One of the guards demanded when Mr. Citris remained unmoving on the ground. "I..." Mr. Citris breathed shakily. The guard who had previously ordered Mr. Citrus to move leaned down and grabbed onto his arm, ready to pull him up. Just as his hand touched Mr. Citris, another appeared, its touch soft but firm in stopping any further action.

You stepped forward, coming out from behind Zephyr's back. Pressing your hand onto the guard's, you stopped him from taking Mr. Citris away.

"Lady (y/n)?" "Messiah?" Zephyr and the guards let out in astonishment.

You kneeled down onto the ground as the guard withdrew his hand from Mr. Citris. Mr. Citris kept his head down, his eyes fixated on the ground. Now on the same eye level as him, you could see the redness at the corner of his eyes.

He was holding back tears.

"..."

Something big must have happened for Mr. Citris to be this desperate.

"Mr. Citris, what happened to your daughter?" You finally asked. Mr. Citris' head suddenly snapped up and stared into your eyes, his own wide in shock, seemingly only noticing your presence after you called for him.

"My Lord..?" Mr. Citris whispered in disbelief, his body trembling. "Sorry?" You asked back, caught of guard by his question.

"C-calerus." A invisible question mark appeared above your head.

"I'm (y/n), Mr. Citris. The Messiah. You asked to see me, no?" You attempted to correct.

"Mes...Messiah?" He repeated as if he was unsure of your dentity even after you told him

"Yes." You nodded and smiled at him, wanting him to believe you. Mr. Citris' mouth stayed shut as he blinked, staring at you as he seemed to ponder something profound.

You lightly coughed and asked again, ignoring his stare. "So, tell me, Mr. Citris, what happened to your daughter?" You wanted to get to the bottom of Mr. Citris sudden visit.

At your question, he snapped out of it, shaking his head as he took a breath. "Y-yes, Messiah....Of course..." He mumbled under his breath before meeting your gaze once more.

"I...It's..." Mr. Citris stuttered, his voice shaking and you saw tears well up again in his eyes. "Take a breath. Slowly now." You patted his shoulder reassuringly.

Mr. Citris breathed in deeply and calmed himself. "My daughter....She has a degenerative muscle disease ever since birth but she has been prescribed some medicine to help with the sickness. They are expensive but I am able to pull together enough money each month to buy them by selling vegetables I've planted on my land at the outskirts of the kingdom." He began to tell and you nodded. Nothing you didn't know of.

He suddenly paused, swallowing as he seemed contemplate something. You raised an eyebrow and ushered for him to continue.

"No need to be hesitant, Mr. Citris. Let me hear it."

Mr. Citris nodded and continued. What you heard next stunned you.

"Recently, my house got attacked. By...by the Casvians." Your eyes went wide at his words. Behind you, you felt Zephyr stiffen.

"Casvians?" You repeated, not believing your ears.

Mr. Citris nodded. "They attacked my house, burned my land and my crops with it. I managed to save my daughter and myself before they got to us." He said mournfully. You listened attentively, nodding each time he looked at you for conformation to carry on.

"We've been living at an inn in the capital for the past 2 weeks but with my land gone, I've lost my main source of income from selling vegetables and fruits on the market. I...I can barely afford food for us both now, let alone...." He trailed off but even with no words spoken, you knew what he was going to say.

He can't buy medicine for his daughter.

You bit the inside of your cheeks. This was a tight spot for Mr. Citris. Food, medicine and now accommodation? Even if he did still have his land, you doubt that'd be enough to afford all three of them.

He said Casvians attacked him but how? You knew Mr. Citris' house was near the boarders between Ebreau and its neighbouring country, Casviren but it couldn't be that close to where he would get caught in the crossfire.

Then, assuming he isn't lying, for the Casvians to attack Mr. Citris' house would only mean either the Casvians are getting bolder or...

Ebreau's defenses are falling.

You clenched your fists as your expression hardened.

The situation may be more dire than you thought.

This kingdom is falling apart. Fast.

You took a deep breath and steadied yourself. The state of the kingdom needed to wait for now. First, you need to help Mr. Citris.

You turned back and looked up at Zephyr. "Does the temple have spare money to buy the medicine for his daughter?" You asked, standing back up and facing him. Zephyr was silent as he stared at you, his face unreadable. You felt uneasy at his silence. You glanced downward briefly and saw his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Was he angry?

The thought crossed your mind for a second but you quickly brushed it off. Why would he be? You're helping someone. There was nothing wrong in that.

Right?

Zephyr noticed that you have spotted his curled up fists and quickly release them. He cleared his throat before answering. "While the temple does not lack in terms of money, the Royal family specified that the funds given to us should be spent on strictly temple related matters and nothing more." Zephyr said, his lips turning down into a small frown and his eyes softening in concern.

"Them, is there anyone in the temple with medical training that can help Mr. Citris' daughter?" You refused to give up, searching for another way to help the man.

To your dismay, Zephyr shook his head, a look of sorrow on his soft features. "There are some nuns and monks that have basic medical knowledge but I am not aware of any that are experienced enough to able to take care of someone with this sort of disease."

You bit your lip, your eyebrows knitted together in worry. This was bad. How were you going to solve this...

Just as you were going to begin panicking, Zephyr gave you something that lessened your anxiety. "However, if Mr. Citris likes, he may collect meals from the temple." You tilted your head at his suggestion. Zephyr smiled at you and elaborated. "The temple prepares food for all devotees everyday and most of the time, there will be leftovers. If Mr. Citris doesn't mind, him and his daugther may have the leftovers." Zephyr looked at Mr. Citris behind you. "I know it's not what you wanted but hopefully, it will at least decrease your financial burden." Zephyr added, bowing his head apologetically at Mr. Citris.

You turned and looked back at Mr. Citris. He was staring at you and Zephyr, unmoving and silent.

"I...Thank you, saint. I am grateful. Any help is appreciated." Mr. Citris lowered his head. He sounded... Disappointed.

Everyone fell silent. The light breeze that tickled your face had stopped blowing and the sun that shone brightly had dipped behind the horizon, leaving behind only streaks of its rays as the afternoon turned into evening and soon night. You sighed silently and hung your head like Mr. Citris. You felt so ashamed at your incompetence. As Messiah, the people expected you to lead, to guide, to help but today's encounter showed you that you were still far from fulfilling any of those requirements.

You were Messiah in name.

Power and will?

You can only pray Calerus will give them to you in the future.

Mr. Citris sniffled and the boulder weighing on your heart became heavier. You felt a hand on your shoulder. "You're trying your best, Lady (y/n). Don't blame yourself." Zephyr whispered into your ear. At that, you loosened your fists which you didn't know you were gripping.

Yes, calm down, (y/n). Nothing can be accomplished by moping around.

You inhaled deeply before kneeling back down. Mr. Citris kept his head low, unwilling to meet your gaze. On the ground beneath him, you saw small splotches.

He was crying.

And he didn't want you to see his tears.

Your heart ached at his predicament but what else could you do?

Carefully, you reached for his hands. You clasped them in yours as you pulled them close to you and shut your eyes.

There was nothing left to do but pray.

You mumbled your prayer, loud enough only for you and Mr. Citris to hear.

"Calerus, our lord high above."

Your grip on Mr. Citris' hands tightened.

"A problem arises that cannot be solved by our mortal hands."

I'm sorry, Mr. Citris.

"Please grace us with your mercy and benevolence in this time of need."

I wish I could do more for you.

"Spare the daughter of this follower of yours. Let her pain be subsided. Let her agony be gone."

But, alas, I am a fraud.

"Give the daughter the strength to overcome that which plagues her body. Give the father the strength to overcome that which plagues his mind."

I am only a pawn in Calerus' hands.

"Let your power be seen through this pair of parent and child."

I am at Calerus' mercy.

"Earnestly, we pray."

Clink!

Your eyes snapped opened at the sudden sound.

Clink! Clink!

You looked around, confused at what's making that noise. It sounds like....Coins dropping?

Clink! Clink! Clink!

You gazed down. On the ground between you and Mr. Citris, a few gold coins laid there, some still spinning in place.

Clink! Clink! Clink! Clink!

More appeared, seemingly falling from thin air. They fell rapidly, like they were overflowing from their source. You were perplexed at where they were coming from until you looked at your hands.

Gold coins seeped out from within your sleeves and onto the ground. They flowed like water, their speed and frequency of appearance increasing rampantly.

"What in the..." You gasped as you looked in disbelief. Gold coins were basically pouring out of your sleeves right now.

"Messiah...!" Mr. Critris gasped as he finally lifted his head and saw the scene before him. "I, um," you struggled to find words to say in this situation.

Mr. Citris suddenly bowed down to you, his forehead pressing on the ground. " Thank you, Messiah! Thank you! Thank you! This will be more than enough!" He thanked you before raising his head, a wide smile plastered on his tears stained face. He wiped away his tears, drying his eyes as he continued to thank you. "Messiah! Truly, my Messiah!" He cried, tears of joy (you assume them to be at least) continued to roll down his cheeks despite just wiping them.

The pour of coins slowly calmed down into a drizzle before finally stopping. In front of you, a small pile of gold coins sat on the ground, reflecting the last bits of sunlight and shimmering softly.

You stared in shock at what just happened with a still emotional Mr. Citris kneeling before you, muttering incoherent thank-you's while scooping up the gold coins. Your brain was melting from having to process the weird occurrence. Was that Calerus' answer to your prayers? Or was that your power all along and it was just a matter of you not knowing? Your head was spinning.

A hand suddenly grabbed your arm and pulled you onto your feet. You looked back and Zephyr glared at Mr. Citris over your shoulder, a frown tugging on his lips. He pulled you back behind him, pressing you to him so you couldn't do something he didn't expect again.

"Mr. Citris, it seems our gracious Lord has answered your prayers." His tone was cold despite the miraculous event that called for a joyous celebration. "Now that your problems have been solved, I think it's time for you to go back to your daughter, yes?" He questioned, his voice holding a certain persuasiveness and firmness in it, like he wasn't asking but ordering.

"Yes, thank you. Thank you, my Messiah...My saviour...m-my God!" Mr. Citris smiled, looking up at you. His smile grew into a grin as he began to mumble to himself. You grew concerned at his mumbling.

Mr. Citris isn't usually like this...

Before you could ask if he was alright,. Zephyr tugged at your arm and pulled you away from the scene. "Help Mr. Citris collect his money and escort him out of the temple." He ordered the two guards before quickening his place and pulling you away with him.

You were still in a daze, astonished by what just transpired. You barely even noticed Zephyr had dragged you towards one of the entrance to the temple that connected with the garden. Only when you both stepped back inside the temple did he let go.

You finally snapped back to reality as the familiar white marble walls and well lit halls came into your view. You raised your hands and stared at them. They seemed fine. Nothing looked different from before....Then, what on earth happened back there?

Another pair of hands came into your peripheral before intertwining your hands in theirs. You looked up and saw Zephyr staring at your hands in his.

"Zephyr?" You raised an eyebrow. He's been acting weird since Mr. Citris came.

You felt him tighten his hold as he breathed shakily. "Lady (y/n)..." He whispered, eyes still glued to your hands.

"Are you alright?" You made no move to pull away from his grasp.

Zephyr was quiet.

"..."

"Zephyr? You're worrying me." You voiced your concerns. Zephyr was really out of it today.

At your words, he raised his head and met your eyes. His signature smile still absent from his face.

"Did you know, Lady (y/n)?" He began.

"Know what?" Zephyr was beginning to confuse you. You thought you had a decent understanding of him now after living together for the past few weeks but...

Maybe there was still more to him than what meets the eye.

"Meripurlets and aurum trees have a symbiotic relationship." He rubbed your hands.

"Meripurlets have short roots which causes them to have a hard time finding water especially during dry seasons. To battle this, they grow near aurum trees which have long roots and can easily absorb water deep within the soil. A meripurlet will penetrate its roots into an aurum tree's to take its water. As such, meripurlets are categorized as a parasitic plant." Zephyr glanced outside towards an aurum tree.

"However, if you look in books, they will say that the relationship between meripurlets and aurum trees is mutualism. Fascinating, no?" A small smile finally crawled onto his face. You couldn't help but feel relieved when you saw it. At least he looked like he was back to normal. Wish the same would apply to his voice though.

"That is because meripurlets only take a small amount of water from aurum trees. Just enough to sustain itself. In return, they give nitrogen they absorbed from the soil to aurum trees to let them grow taller and stronger. Research also found that each meripurlet plant only ever get water from one aurum tree. It doesn't matter if another one is planted beside it, once it chooses one, it will depend on that aurum tree for the rest of its life. A very...devoted flower, don't you agree?" This was interesting and all but you couldn't wrap your head around why Zephyr was telling you all this. He continued on with his rambling.

"Despite all the good they do for each other, did you notice that the meripurlets and aurum trees in the garden are not planted together, Lady (y/n)?" This time, Zephyr tilted his head.

You recalled back to your walk. Indeed, the flowers and trees were separated from each other. You nodded, unsure where this was going to lead.

Zephyr smiled wider. "Well, another fascinating thing about meripurlets is they don't like to share."

"What?" You blurted out.

"When another parasitic plant comes and lives off the aurum tree they had chosen, the meripurlets will suck all the water from the aurum tree and will stop giving the tree its nitrogen supply. Slowly, the aurum tree will wilt and die just like any other host plants in parasitic relationships." Zephyr explained as he stepped closer, brushing his lips against the back of your fingers.

"As for the meripurlet, the excessive water will cause it to rot from within until it eventually dies." His gaze darkened and you unconsciously swallowed nervously.

"The meripurlet would rather kill the aurum tree it tethered itself to than share it with another plant. It would rather die than choose another aurum tree to depend on." Zephyr looked back down, his bangs tickling your hands.

"To this, botanists like to say..."

He leaned in and whispered into your ear.

"Devotion can kill."

~✟~

Done! Another chapter in the bag. Thank you all for the immense support you've shown for the prologue. I didn't expect it to blow up like that especially since it's the first thing I've ever posted here. Thank you again for the support and for waiting for the next chapter!(I'm a slow writer so please bear with me!(´-﹏-`；))

Same thing applies, if you find any problems, please tell me so I can make corrections in order to give everyone the best reading experience!

Taglist

@ursinaw @ceeesxy-blog @deepinballs @vash-yuu @fairy-lenaa @fleurescentlight @surprisemodafakas @cerisearan (you wrote master list but I'm gonna assume you meant tag list. Sorry if I'm wrong(T_T)) @avyannasstuff

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mandalhoerian · 3 months ago

Text

sacrosanct | leon kennedy x reader | 2

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pairing: leon kennedy x f!reader

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

The god he abandoned has other plans for him.

word count: 13K

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

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

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

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

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

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

🌀 READ ON AO3 !

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

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

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

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

"You're doing it wrong again."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Like this?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why would he do such a thing?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The manor feels like a gilded cage.

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

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

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

"My Lord."

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not marrying her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From the temple to the palace. Still a pawn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He can’t stay here. Not now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Necessary. The word is poison, burning through him.

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

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

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

He can't accept this. He refuses to.

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

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

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

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

A scent.

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

Lilies.

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

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

It’s your scent.

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

But his soul screams.

He knows it’s you.

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

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

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

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

Gone.

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

But you’re gone.

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

No, you’re here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm afraid I don't—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods, his jaw clenched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Over becoming king one day?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you’re not the Saintess anymore.

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

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

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

"Hey, you okay?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're housing the former Saintess."

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

"You heard me."

"Where did you hear that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.

Leon didn't think about that at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shouldn't.

He really...

"You've changed."

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

"No—"

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

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

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

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

"How did you—"

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

He holds his tongue, waiting for you to finish.

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

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

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

Why.

Now that was a loaded question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The way you say it…

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Leon, what..?"

"Please marry me."

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

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

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

"Wh...Why?"

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

"But why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But you serve. You still serve."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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punkpandapatrixk · 1 year ago

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🌈Would You Marry Me, Honey? ♦︎ Timeless Pick A Card

Ideally, we’d hope for our Future Spouse to be the only person we would ever be married to🎎Having said that, this reading isn’t catering to a Future Spouse aenergy; this reading is entertaining the idea of a dharmic Soulmate who’s destined for our Highest Intended Good.

Our Destined Person—he or she whose soul essence lights up the whole world after we’ve learnt to light up our own world with Love towards ourselves🥰

To those of you reading this who had been married before or are currently bound to a weird loveless contract, please know this reading is still for you in whatever way it resonates for you🌷We all deserve to be happier and happier still at whatever stage of Life we’re in. It isn’t greed we’re talking about; it’s knowing everybody deserves to find Love in the end💝

And aaa~ happy holidays, Witches~!🎄

SONG: I’m Glad There Is You by Julie London

MOVIE: How To Marry A Millionaire (1953)

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Pile 1 – Making A Soft Bed of Flowers with You

VIBE: Schatze Page & Tom Brookman

why I was attracted to you – 9 of Pentacles

Umm…you’re kinda giving off this coldass bitch boss aura that sends news to the entire town that you ain’t needing nobody in your Life. You’re so ULTRA independent it actually scares the living shit out of normal people XD You’re too powerful; too resourceful in your aloneness; too successful in your solitude; damn, are you sure you haven’t got an army of jealous bitches wishing ill upon you?? There are IT girls whom all girls want to be and guys want to be with, but you’re a whole different game, hon.

Girls know they can’t be you however much they pay! Guys know they can’t ever bend you however much they hate that you won’t pick them! Your aenergy is weird…you’re too happy…too authentic. The wrong people can only shake their heads in disbelief, gossiping that there must be something shady you’ve done in Life for you to be this real, this successful without being an ass-licker.

At the top of your game, you make the news go round and round you’re making them money from talking non-stop about you. That’s when your Destined Person hear about you and fell in love with your character. You’re swag, or something. You’re savage and honest. They fucking LOVE that you’re an unbreakable bitch boss. You can be a bitch boss to the world, but to your Destined Person, you’re a Goddess of Realness! And that’s rare AF. You’re a true gem. Finally, an equal to them!

how I fell in love with you – King of Cups

Well, in spite of how you appear to the world, your Destined Person was able to see beyond the façade. You act tough and all that but you have a kind and generous soul. People can’t be strong all alone for so long. If anything, the way you appear strong and unshakable incites your Destined Person’s protective nature LOL Your Destined Person has a big heart and wants to nurture. I think their love language might be gifts and attention just because they really like to give. They will give you all their money and attention LMAO

The main reason they fell in love with you is that you’ve inspired them to get even more in touch with their sensitive side. When your Destined Person sees or talks to you, their minds are opened to new ways to express their emotions. It is because you’re eloquent and you have a great library of words to impart your thoughts and feelings. Your Destined Person thinks you’re inhumanly intelligent and so new wave! Whatever that means XD

They also see that you, too, have a big heart. That you’re more understanding than anybody they’ve ever met. Below the iceberg castle you’ve built to protect yourself, you have an entire flower kingdom of kindness and care. It is your generous nature, your heart your Destined Person truly fell in love with. You’re gutsy and talented; you’re honest and courageous; but most of all, you are a genuine Lover with a divine heart and your Destined Person wants that for themselves…

Umm…with this King aenergy…I think your Destined Person is a possessive and territorial style? ^_^;

when I knew you were The One – Ace of Pentacles

Buhahahah… I think your Destined Person knew you were The One from the very beginning. From the moment they were intrigued by you, they already knew you were made for them! Not saying they never had moments they doubted themselves, especially when it comes to whether or not they are deserving of someone mega awesome as you, but they were head over heels from the get go. They couldn’t deny this attraction and they thought, whether or not they’re the marrying type, if they ever want to spend the rest of their days with someone that would have to be YOU~

When they met you…or got to know you (before meeting)…your Destined Person had been wanting to have a new beginning of sort. I think their Life was already secure and they’d achieved quite a great deal in Life. But that security felt fleeting. They wanted to offer all this greatness to someone. Your Destined Person is undoubtedly a lover LOL They want to be in a loving relationship. They want to share their Life, their riches, their comfort with someone. Obviously, it’s YOU~

With this Pile, rather than the idea of your Destined Person needing time to decide on you…it’s more like they actually had to stop themselves from creeping you out by not proposing to you on your first date! LMAO This is a Ted Mosby saying ‘I LOVE YOU’ on his first date with Robin kinda vibe. Something along those lines. Just pretend you didn’t know they already wanted to marry you from the beginning, hon XD Your whole courtship might feel awkward but cute because your Destined Person struggles a lil with behaving like they’re not crazy about you LMAO

I LOVE YOU🔻💙

in sorrow and in sickness – Gold Historian (Raphael Holinshed)

I vow to be there for you – Priestess of Patience

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Pile 2 – I Could Tell You Were So Much More Than Your Silence

VIBE: Pola Debevoise & Freddie Denmark

why I was attracted to you – 3 of Pentacles Rx

When your Destined Person first saw you, they noticed that you were distant, rather aloof. Not sure if it was shyness or something else. Depending on your Destined Person’s base psychology or the environment they were brought up in, your Destined Person either thought you were a bitch, unfriendly, or they simply wondered by you were THAT shy, THAT quiet. I think it’s possible the day you met them you simply weren’t in a jolly mood, so you were rather uncommunicative.

Be THAT as it may, your Destined Person ain’t a bitch and if anything they were attracted to your coolness. There is something in your aura, your vibe, your body language, that tells them…you were so much more than your unfriendliness. Perhaps it’s in your gentle gesture, perhaps it’s in the way you gaze at someone else, but your Destined Person could tell, you’re a sensitive person who’s careful with who you get friendly with.

Your Destined Person saw…felt, rather…that you must be a compassionate, empathetic person who would make them feel safe. They could tell that you were society’s outcast of sort, that you were not generic, and that because of this you weren’t the type to quickly judge somebody without knowing their story first. Your Destined Person admires that about you. They think you have high morality and that although you aren’t always smiley or anything, for the most part, you’re really a polite person who’s such a delight to talk to once you feel comfortable with someone.

how I fell in love with you – 8 of Pentacles

Your Destined Person could tell that you’re somebody who’s battled your own inner demons. You’ve worked hard on yourself to be the superior version of yourself. And because you’re naturally kind and very keen on human psychology, your Destined Person saw that you’re the type that can easily understand other people’s crazy. That’s why you’re kind, quiet, and for the most part, patient with other people. You’re cool because you understand the world—you’re based. But you’re also aloof because you understand that most Humans are a waste of time LMAO

Your Destined Person thinks you’re the coolest person who’s ever walked on Earth! This is kinda telling me either your Destined Person is a few years younger than you or they could’ve come from a rather easy background so the maturity of their psychology is behind you XD Do you have significant Scorpio placements? Anyway, your Destined Person is charmed by your maturity, deep knowledge about uncommon things, and that once they get you talking, like whoa, your knowledge and perspectives are SO interesting. They could hear you talk for weeks on end.

Obviously, your Destined Person feels inspired by you. They also feel you’re the safest person they could talk to. If anything, you help them overcome their own demons or pains from the past. When they talk with you, they understand themselves better and they love that your perspectives on people and things are genuinely rooted in your desire to comfort and heal. They think you’re deeply spiritual but based, realistic and pragmatic, and before they could put words to it, they’ve already fallen in love with your character🥰

when I knew you were The One – Knight of Cups

I do see that it takes a bit, juuust a biiit, of time for your Destined Person to know you were The One for them, forever. Personally, they themselves are quite wary of people so just because they were curious and subsequently friendly towards you, didn’t mean they wanted to marry you immediately. Which, all things considered, is very sweet because when you met your Destined Person, when you noticed they were trying to get to know you, they were genuine! They weren’t just trying to get into your pants or wanting other superficial things from you.

Your Destined Person, I feel, is a very charming and handsome person. They’re likely popular, too. I think they know a lot of people, have a large family or perhaps have multiple large circles of people they know, so in that sense, they’re not the type of person who’s needing people just to fill in some kind of emptiness inside. They’re very genuine with you and in trying to get to know you, if anything, they’re the one who wants to offer you something precious: their attention and affection. There’s something poignant about you that makes them feel ultra-protective and they genuinely love that feeling of becoming a true romantic in your presence.

I LOVE YOU🔻🧡

in sorrow and in sickness – Green Magus (John Dee)

I vow to be there for you – Priestess of Inspiration

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Pile 3 – Oh, Dreamy Beauty, You Elevate My Dreams

VIBE: Loco Dempsey & Eben

why I was attracted to you – Page of Wands

‘Okay, I’m not trying to be creepy or anything but damn you’re SEXY.’ Your Destined Person was first and foremost attracted to your beauty—your sex appeal, to be precise. They find you incredibly sexy…but why the goddamn hell are you cute?? Is that allowed? Little did they know that this appeal is actually your authentic soul. You’re actually a lot more honest than you give yourself credit for. You live Life quite honestly and you’re just being yourself. You don’t really give a damn if people find your essence offensive. ‘I’m not everybody’s cup of tea and that’s perfectly acceptable to me—so what are you gonna do about it?’

Though you’re strong like that on one hand, on the other you’re also quite stupid because you trust people too easily! At least your Destined Person sees you this way. They think, because you’re always honest you could fall into the trap of believing everybody is just as honest, as straightforward as you, which, most people aren’t! Plenty of people are sneaky and dangerous! And your Destined Person noticed this and felt a pull towards protecting you… *why don’t we have a melting heart emoji?*

Your Destined Person felt a pull to be there for you, protecting your Light, your innocence, your joy and happiness. I feel your Destined Person is actually quite a thinker, but when they were drawn to you, as if falling into a trance they couldn’t follow logic anymore. They were drawn in by your passion and delightful personality and before they knew it, they felt like they’d been swallowed whole by your flame🔥

how I fell in love with you – Queen of Pentacles

You’re a wholesome character and that much was apparent to your Destined Person right after they’ve got to know you a bit better. How quickly your Destined Person fell in love with you varies with this Pile, but some digging, some getting to know each other, and some learning is definitely required with this connection. Essentially, the moment your Destined Person learns that you’re so much more than how you look, they couldn’t help but develop genuine feelings for you. It’s a Soul-based kind of Love that transcends human ego.

I feel like your Destined Person could even shed a tear from realising just how much they care about your wellbeing. It’s pure like that and I promise you they’re not so used to feeling that typa feeling for just about anybody! As much as they see you as this very unique, very strong character in your own right, they want to be there to protect your heart. If your Destined Person is a masculine person, they will also want to protect your body and provide for you. They want to make things easier for you! They’re willing to make sacrifices to give the whole world for you, simply because you’re worth it.

Your Destined Person loves how you’re essentially the main character of your own world and…they want to be part of that world? XD They don’t mind being a side character in your world whom you fall for. I think this person could be younger than you or they’re simply not that mature yet emotionally or spiritually! What they love most about you is how you’re literally the most unique, resourceful, strategizing character who knows how to build your own world from scratch! You’re literally the most wholesome character they’d ever known throughout their Life. And they want a part in that world you’ve built with so much love and care. Now, they want to care for you…

when I knew you were The One – 10 of Wands Rx

Let it be known that your Destined Person is quite an intense bitch LMAO When they love, they love with all of their being and their devotion is no joke. This ain’t a playa over here. Or at least…when it comes to YOU, they ain’t got no game. Trust me. You must’ve done or said something that completely changed your Destined Person’s entire view on love and relationships. I betcha you’re the type of intense bitch who’d never settle for anything less than real Love. And that literally brushed off on your Destined Person. In the beginning, they went to war with themselves over this notion of real Love with a capital L.

They never really knew what Love was all about or if they were even deserving of Love. Just like everybody else, they had a very silly take on romance—this is especially the case if your Destined Person is a masculine being. Because of you, now they understand that money ain’t it; sex appeal ain’t it; status ain’t it. Aesthetics comes after real Love. You taught them that. And they’re grateful and they realise you’re the only person they want to love. It’s kinda possessive like that…I think your Destined Person could have some Taurus or Scorpio placements??

Anyway, in some way, your Destined Person could’ve been so embarrassed about their own childishness and felt super lacking as a person. Like, they don’t really know what to offer a divine being such as you…but they vowed to better themselves and grow up as quickly as possible so they could become worthy of your Love LMAO Gosh! It was around this time they realised they wanted to grow up as a person that they knew you were the ONLY one for them! Umm…like they just knew they could and would never be able to feel this way for any other person that’s not you. It had to be you~

I LOVE YOU🔻💛

in sorrow and in sickness – Silver Magus (Merlin)

I vow to be there for you – Priestess of Innocence

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☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

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thebunnyslibrary · 5 months ago

Text

Movement

summary. You are the visiting princess of a kingdom in need. Instead, Loki will come to the aid of your needs. Having been searching for an element of sweetness for a spell, he finds himself drawn to you, especially when he senses a dark aura shielding your true self.

characters. Loki x Plus Size!Reader

word count. 7.4k

warnings. Asshole Parents, Death of a Sibling, Fatphobia, Dirty Talk, Use of Magic for Bondage

Masterlist

It was yet another frustrating day for Loki. He’d been trying for weeks to perfect a new spell, but for the life of him he couldn’t determine what the issue was.

The recipe in the tomes called for an element of sweetness. He’d tried every sweet element he could think of from every realm, but nothing worked. And now there was this visitation from an allied kingdom to deal with. Dawning his helmet, he took his step on the dais, next to his brother and behind his mother.

“Everything alright Loki?” Frigga asked.

“No worse than usual. Just a finicky spell.” Loki replied.

“I noticed my supplies were disappearing faster than I was using them.”

“My apologies, mother. I’ve been searching for an element of sweetness and cannot figure out exactly what the spell needs.”

Frigga smiled a knowing smile and gave Loki’s hand a squeeze before resuming her royal stature. Loki glanced at Thor, who still looked fairly hungover from the previous evening’s rabblerousing revelries; despite it being long past the morning hour. Loki rolled his eyes and resumed his stoic-ness to prepare for the visitors.

A visiting king and queen were appearing before the All-Father. He knew not why, only that they needed help with their daughter. Loki knew nothing about her. Nobody seemed to have anything to say besides 'Her eyes are nice.' He was half expecting her to just be a giant eyeball. Far stranger creatures had walked the halls of Asgard.

What he was not expecting was the goddess who entered the great hall behind her parents, looking only at the floor. Her rubenesque figure had Loki's hands clenching into fists at the thought of her thighs wrapped around his head. But Loki also sensed a dark, sad energy. This girl carried a true heartache, but why? Loki could not resist looking inside her mind.

Smile. Stand straight. Don't speak unless spoken too. You repeated all this to yourself while trying to make yourself smaller; not an easy feat to do with your wide hips and round tummy. Your parents were the king and queen and it was your duty as a princess to represent the future of your kingdom. Especially after the reputation your older brother had set.

He'd deserted the throne, choosing instead a life of debauchery, opium, and in the end, crime. 2 years ago, news had arrived that your brother, the once crown prince, was found dead in a tavern; leaving you the only child of the throne. Now, with your parents growing older, there was talk amongst the kingdom of what would happen when their reign ended.

Your father and Odin spoke for some time, with Odin expressing condolences for your brother and your father explaining the depth of your kingdom's now precarious situation. But your father was not entirely truthful, choosing instead to weave a story of how your brother died heroically in battle.

"All-Father. We seek your council. We have always been good allies, a healthy tradeship, and now… we seek the hand of one of your sons for my daughter. To carry on our legacy." You looked between the two princes. Prince Thor, who seemed only half paying attention and had barely glanced his eyes at you before your father’s request, was now eyeing you with distaste; something you were used to.

The other prince, though, his face was set and his eyes were calculative, planning. But something about him seemed to draw you in; Almost in a warm and comforting way. You knew less about the younger prince, but you felt connected to him, if only because of his position as the second child. You wondered what his reaction to you is…

A husband?? For you??? Loki's heart raced at the thought. Surely your parents would most likely want Thor. Loki turned to the great oaf who was looking at you like a bug beneath his boot.

Loki however, couldn't help admiring you like art. He kept his face controlled and regal like a proper prince, but inside he felt something drawing him towards you. Maybe it was the sadness he felt coming from you. Your face was very neutral but he could feel an aura of sadness around you. But something was looking to escape; Loki could not determine what, only that it made him feel lighter than air. Loki turned to Odin, awaiting his decision.

"And what does she have to say?" The All-Father asked, inviting you to speak for yourself for the first time since you’d entered the hall. His question surprised you, but your father beckoned you forward; a stern look on his face, reminding you not to say anything stupid.

"I want…what is best for my kingdom" You said, speaking the truth. There were many other things you wanted. You wanted to spend your days drawing, painting, reading, indulging in all of life's pleasures, as you believed all in the kingdom who wish to do so should be. And you weren't dumb by any means, you could easily engage in conversation for hours about literature and philosophy, even policy. But still your parents believed you were not disciplined enough to rule. Especially not with how people talked about you, particularly your figure.

Your mother and father were not exactly small people, and somehow their genetics had combined to give you broader everything, hips, waist, though not as much your chest. This all meant you often drew comments about selfishness; especially with your parents ever increasing taxes.

You truly wanted what was best for your people. And your parents decided this was it. To marry a strong king whom your parents trusted to rule the kingdom while you played the role of silent wife.

The All Father considered you a moment before nodding "Very well. I would like your daughter to stay here in Asgard for a week and allow my sons to court her. So long as everything goes well, a marriage will be arranged." Hearing this, your parents were overjoyed, holding each other closely; but not looking at you.

"Oh thank you All Father!" your father cried. Odin stood up, declaring "Tonight, we will celebrate with a banquet." You froze.

Oh no. Not a banquet. A loud noisy party with too much food. You swallowed your dread as your mother said to you.

“Come, we’ll get you dressed.” You looked back to the younger prince before you exited the great hall, seeing what looked like a smirk playing at his lips.

As soon as the doors closed, Loki had a sudden spark of inspiration in the back of his head. Even though your parents did not see, he'd seen your eyes light up, and the darkness around you flashed…green.

“And where are you off to, my son?” Frigga asked.

“To prepare for banquet, of course.” Loki replied mischievously.

An hour or so later, you were tucked into a slightly ill-fitting purple dress, a corset making you appear somewhat thinner and pushing your chest up (though nothing hid your voluptuous behind). Your mother did her best to comfort you, but she was still in mourning of your brother. Her moods fluctuated between looking through you and criticizing you. Tonight unfortunately, she’d chosen to criticize.

“There will be a lot of food tonight. Remember you do not need to sample anything.”

Your father also took his chance to get a few harsh words in “You may not be able to reel in Prince Thor but the younger son would work too. I’ve heard he’s smart. And strategic.”

“What is his name?” you asked.

“I don’t remember.” Typical of your father, never remembering the details. “I will advise you to be wary though. The younger prince is a master of magic, I’m not sure whether it for bad or good.”

“Stop fidgeting.” Your mother said as she smoothed out your dress, trying to hide anything she deemed ‘too fat.’

“The maids said he had a nickname…Silver Tongue? They said it’s because he is…well, charming.”

“The maids are a bunch of whores and gossips.” Your father said, rolling his eyes. “They call him Silver Tongue because he is a master manipulator. So keep your wits about you. …what little you have. Now, be down in the banquet hall in 25 minutes.”

Your mother gave you one sympathetic pat on the shoulder before they left you alone with your thoughts.

Once again you’d been fooled and your father made you feel like you were mentally incompetent. It wasn’t really your fault though, you just wanted to try to make friends and couldn’t tell when someone was deceiving you. It came from your good-natured heart. But Loki, there was something about him that made you want to truly open up. You wondered where he was, how he was preparing for what you were sure was going to be a disaster of a night.

Loki looked around corner into the kitchen; and the only person there was the head cook, stirring away at some pot for the banquet, muttering about how Odin would throw something like this on her at the last minute. Perfect, so focused on her own issues she never saw Loki sneak up behind her and wave his hand, opening up her mind to suggestion.

“My prince, is there something I can do for you?” She asked him, a faint green glow in her eyes.

“Yes actually. I believe that extravagant chocolate cake of yours would be a perfect desert choice for tonight. Don’t you agree?” Loki said.

“Of course, my prince.

“Oh, and make sure this makes its way into the princess’s serving.” Loki handed her a small green bottle. A concoction of his own brewing.

“Of course, my prince”

“One last thing, forget I was ever here.”

The cook blinked and she was alone in the kitchen, with no memory of the last few moments. All she knew was she had to get to work on chocolate cake for the banquet. And ensure wherever this potion had come from, it was in the princess’ dessert.

The banquet looked immaculate, given the last-minute plans. Banners of your kingdom had been hung alongside those of Asgard, hoping to bring good luck to a potential union. And as you’d dreaded, the food all looked so exquisite and tempting.

Asgardian diet was very protein and fat heavy. Meats, cheeses, mead. There were more grapes in the wine being served than physically on the table. There were a few lighter options, but they were more meant as palette cleansers than actual food. You’d taken the smallest serving of meat and potatoes possible, but your stomach growled and your mouth watered at the delicious sights and smells; longing to partake in every one of them. The food was certainly the highlight of the banquet so far.

You’d danced with Thor before dinner, though he barely engaged you in conversation. He had asked about your kingdom, but when you’d started to talk about the kingdom’s people and the cultures, Thor rudely interrupted to know about your country’s resources, their exports, and you clammed up. Thankfully the dance ended there, saving you from having to answer.

While you knew the country’s resources, you believed more in the sharing of cultures, rather than just buying and selling of things. You couldn’t even enjoy the feeling his strong arms around you because he moved you with no care, as if loading a cart.

After dinner was dessert and then you were supposed to dance with the other prince. He hadn’t come to ask you to dance yet, leaving you to sit and stare at what had to be the most amazing chocolate cake you could ever dream of. It was 3 beautiful layers of sponge with crème in between each layer and fresh raspberries on top. But you knew if you had a bite, you’d never hear the end of it from your parents.

Somehow it seemed your piece was almost double the size of the ones of your parents, making them stare at you accusatory, but you hadn’t done anything. It wasn’t as if you’d asked for a larger piece.

“Why, my lady, you haven’t touched your desert.” A smooth voice broke through your thoughts and you looked up into piercing green eyes. The prince was staring at you. He was dressed as he was earlier in the great hall, including his golden horned helmet and his flowing green cape.. You stared in awe at the way his helmet shined in the light. Until you realized you’d left him unanswered.

“N-no, your highness. It’s alright though. I’m not hungry. And I owe you a dance.” You insisted.

“Oh, princess. I wouldn’t dream of taking a woman from her desert. Especially a chocolate cake as delicious as this.” He said, temptingly. He came around the side of the table to sit in what was now an empty seat to your right. He took your hand and brought your knuckles to his lips, making sure to meet your eyes so you could see the fire burning in them. “Prince Loki, at your service.” You gave him yours, feeling your face heat up as he repeated it back to you, rolling off his tongue like poetry.

He picked up one of the golden forks, and taking a generous sized bite.

“You…you’re going to feed me?” you asked, astonished.

“I am at your service, after all.” When you didn’t react, still hearing your mother’s voice in your head. He took a kinder smile, his eyes softening. “Entertain me one bite, princess. I simply have to the see the look on that face when you indulge in …something sweet.”

Loki was watching your face indeed, and your aura. He knew if you took one bite of the cake, the potion he’d mixed would release your inhibitions and you would be your true self, the self that Loki was dying to meet behind your beautiful eyes and bountiful curves.

You looked around, seeing your parents were busy talking to the All Father and Mother.

“I suppose one bite would be alright.” And you weren’t sure you could deny Loki, the name was different to you but it seemed playful and fun, certainly as much as the man looking at you now. He hadn’t asked you a single question, hadn’t even asked for his dance but was instead urging you to…have cake? You opened your mouth and he slipped the fork between your lips.

The taste was anything far better than you’d imagined. The cake was made with rich Asgardian chocolate that legend said was the aphrodisiac used to conceive the gods. The sponge of the cake itself was pillowy soft. While the tartness of the raspberry managed to cut through all the sugar to compliment the edge of bitterness that gave way to a sweet aftertaste as the silky frosting melted in your mouth. You couldn’t stop the moan that let loose from your lips.

You covered your mouth in shock. “Please, forgive me your highness. That was highly inappropriate.”

“Perish the thought darling. I’m glad you enjoyed it. I certainly did.” Loki said. You looked at him confused. Surely he was jesting? “Come, I believe I’ll have that dance now.”

The feeling of Loki’s arms was much different than that of Thor’s. While Thor handled you like a bag of flower, Loki held you with great care. Making you feel safe and secure. While not as bulky as his brother, Loki seemed to possess a different kind of strength. One meant to fight to defend, not necessarily attack.

A sweet soft song filled the room as the musicians began to play. You’d never considered yourself a dancer, always worried what someone would say of your form. But now, with Loki, you felt like a leaf drifting in the wind. With Loki leading, you felt free to just enjoy yourself in the movement.

“I suppose you want to talk about my kingdom’s resources? Thor certainly did.” You said.

“Believe me I am nothing like my brother.” You could relate to that. “And you don’t seem all that interested in talking about resources, though.” He looked at you inquisitively. And though your instincts ordered you to clam up and nod, you couldn’t help yourself from saying

“No, I believe we should use our resources to help our less fortunate. Keep some to trade as needed, but I believe we should exchange cultures, not currency, first.” You froze in disbelief; you couldn’t even imagine how stupid you sounded.

“I agree.” Loki’s velvet voice shook you from your self-doubting. “Royalty must think of the people; otherwise they’re likely to lead a short rule with a bloody end.”

“Something my family has had to re-learn; for example, ignoring a kingdom to focus on one royal member.” Despite your newfound willingness to keep talking, you did give pause when the conversation started to shift to your brother.

Loki sensed your usual instinct weighing out his potion and decided to change the subject. “I completely understand. Tell me about your kingdom instead.”

“We were once a society that valued great art.” You explained, wistfully.

“Once? No longer?” Loki inquired.

“No; our kingdom has unfortunately turned selfish and judgmental, choosing to value a high standard of beauty, not just passion and creation for passion and creation’s sake.” Your angers and frustrations flowed so willingly; despite the years of repression your parents had forced on you.

“I see.” Loki pulled you closer to him. You two were quiet for a minute, letting you admire his face. You knew plenty about his eyes; sparkling like a thousand emeralds in a dragon’s hoard. But now you were close, you could see the pink plushness of his lips, the angular jaw of his chin, and you could feel his inky black hair tickling your fingers as you moved your hand up his back slightly. Not to mention the solid muscle you felt underneath his fine Asgardian leather.

“It’s such a pity that a kingdom who cannot see beauty when it’s right in front of them.” He certainly lived up to his nickname. You were sure he was just being polite, playing his part as royal prince. “Tell me, princess, do you value great art?” His question caught you off guard.

“I-I certainly do. In fact, one reason I was excited to come to Asgard was to see the great gallery.”

“Perhaps you will allow me to give you a tour of them?” he offered.

“Allow? Your highness, it is my understanding that you are to be in charge.”

“And it is my understanding; that I am far more interested in what you want, princess. And I’ll hope you want to call me by my name. It sounds so lovely coming from your luscious lips.”

“Y-Yes Loki.”

“Good girl.” Those two words; you’d read them plenty of times in the books you squirreled away from the royal library (grateful that the elderly librarian was your confidant). But you’d never dreamed that someone, especially someone as handsome and with a voice like Loki’s would actually say them to you. Hearing them sent a shiver down your spine that settled in your core, making you clench your thighs.

“Are you an artist yourself, princess?” Loki asked, carrying on as if nothing happened. But he knew, Your aura was glowing a brilliant bright green. You were his element of sweetness.

“I…I do like to paint sometimes. But I’m not very good.” You admitted, finally finding your voice again.

“I’m sure they are lovely, princess. Even so, if you enjoy something, good or bad does not matter. Only that you have enjoyed it and put yourself into it. That is what makes ‘good’ art. I’d certainly love to see it.”

Loki’s words were a far cry than what you’d always heard. People mocked your art, believing it childish and unprofessional.

“What else do you enjoy?” he asked.

“Well, I read.”

“What exactly do you read, princess?” Loki asked with a waggle of eye brows that had you giggling like a school girl.

“Poetry, preferably. But anything and everything I can. At least when I am able.” You caught your mother’s eye across the room and though she looked approving, she still gestured at you to keep your smile “gentle” as she called in, meaning not too big. Your smile faltered and Loki noticed, as well as the reason why. In an attempt to re-lift your spirits, he said

“Well, I shall have to show you the library on that tour as well.” His voice sounding genuine and full of promise.

The song ended and Loki escorted you back to your seat, pressing his lips back to your hand one more time.

Your mother took your other hand and squeezed it lovingly, seeming proud that you had somehow managed to intrigue Loki; which also left yourself in a slight state of disbelief. You weren’t quite sure how’d you’d done it, but all you knew was that you were craving more of his touch and presence.

Loki had left you, not by choice but nature called even to royal princes. As he returned to the dining hall, he made eye contact with you instantly; and was more than delighted to see you rise, say a few words to your mother and start to come towards him. But his mood changed as Thor moved into his field of vision

“Loki I’m surprised. You cannot be genuinely interested in that princess, can you?”

“And why would that be, brother?” Loki replied, his voice tense on the last word.

“Surely you see her Loki? She’s not worthy of being a queen. A queen has to present a beautiful image to her people and she’s…not. I suppose if you were king you could take a consort. Or perhaps a COW-nsort.” Thor said, starting to laugh boisterously at his own joke. Loki was going to brush Thor aside when he saw you standing right behind the brute, and knew that you had heard every word. Your aura, which had been shining brilliantly green when Loki had left you, returned a dim grey. Even though your face showed no reaction.

Loki however, reacted before he could stop himself, drawing his arm back and landing a solid blow to Thor’s face, knocking him back and onto the floor. All eyes were now on the scene; including your parents, who were looking at you accusingly and you wished the floor would just swallow you up.

Instead, you felt Loki grabbing your hand.

“Come with me, princess.” Before you could say a word, he was pulling you out of the banquet hall and through the corridors of the palace until he pulled you into corner. Now that you were alone, the last few moments finally caught up with you.

“Loki, you punched your brother.”

“Trust me, it is taking all my strength not to go back and doing it several more times. And a few other things.”

“But why? I’ve heard far worse about me.” You explained and Loki’s eyes seemed to fill with sadness hearing this before they lit up with an idea.

“Would you like to see my garden?”

“What?”

“Would you like to see my garden? It might be best if I hide for a little bit considering what I’ve done and my garden is the most secret place in the whole palace…except maybe my mother’s.” You could hear what sounded like guards coming towards you and nodded quickly. Loki took your hands and you felt a warm gust of wind blow over you.

When you opened your eyes, you were not standing at a garden but at the edge of a forest. Loki waved his hands and the trees seem to part.

“My garden has a secret entrance at the end of this pathway. I could have teleported us directly, but it is such a lovely night. I was sure the moonlight would make you look even more beautiful.” He offered you his hand and feeling as if you were in a dream, took it and allowed him to take you down the road. The full moon overhead cast everything in a dim light, along with some bioluminescent plants, bathing the scene in a romantic mood. You couldn’t believe it; things like this didn’t happen to you.

Along the way, Loki continued to ask about your passions and interests, Even when you rambled too much about your favorite books, or at least what someone else might’ve called talking too much, Loki hung on your every word. And you in turn were intrigued by his stories of Asgard, answering every one of your questions, even if he had to pause his story to do so, but showed no annoyance.

Finally, you two came to a large clearing. In it were all varieties of flowers in a rainbow of colors; including a group of roses that grew in an actual rainbow. The flowers emitted such a strong aroma that it made your hear feel light as a feather. Several small bushes bore exotic fruits and what appeared to be an herb garden caught your eye. A small hut sat next to a river at the far end of the clearing.

“I built a small workshop out here for when I need to get away from the palace to research magic.” You came to a beautiful wooden bench at the edge of a river, with lavendar growing along banks. The bench itself was surrounded by glowing flowers and it seemed to have formed between two trees. The backside was carved intricately with Asgardian designs and runes.

“Come, sit.” Loki offered you a seat which you gladly took, admiring the breathtaking view. Before Loki sat, he removed his cape and wrapped it around you, leaving his arm over shoulders. He waved his hand and a beautiful golden rose grew up towards you. A small gasp in awe passed through your lips as Loki smiled.

“Tell me, darling what would you do if you were the queen?” Loki asked you.

“What does that have to do with defending me?” you asked In return.

“Well, would you not expect your husband to defend your honor?” That last word took you aback.

“I suppose but…”

“So, what you do if you were queen?” And you paused for a moment, never having given a lot of thought, because you thought it would never be.

“I don’t know. Make sure the people were happy?”

“How would you do that?”

“Let people do what they want, so long as they’re not hurting each other and the kingdom is not in flames.” You shrugged half-heartedly.

“And what would you do to punish those who were hurting other people?” There you had pause. You wanted to be fair and just; wanted to take care of your citizens. But you knew there were people like your brother out there; those who would hurt just for harm’s sake, no matter how anyone tried to help.

“I’m not sure, honestly. I suppose the obvious answer is jail, but it’s more complicated.” You sighed. “It’s always more complicated.”

“You speak from experience?” Loki asked. The pause was pregnant. You could reveal the truth now, but would it bring shame on your house as your parents worried?

“My brother. The story my parents told is not entirely true. He is dead, but not from battle. From a life of debauchery. He cared for nothing but his own selfishness, no matter who it harmed. Leaving me to bear so much responsibility." Loki squeezed your hand.

“I can understand that. You might’ve noticed Thor is not exactly the most graceful.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” You smiled weakly. Loki cupped your cheek with his hand, gently guiding you to look into his emerald eyes which gleamed in the moonlight.

“I know my apology does not seem much in the way of things, but I want to tell you how sorry I am. Not just for Thor’s behavior, but for how life has treated you. And that I see you; And I wish to give you everything you have ever deserved. You have a thoughtful brain, a strong but warm heart, and a passion that is simply intoxicating and admittedly contagious. I want to indulge you in every of life’s pleasures.” Loki cupped your other cheek and brought his lips to yours in an amazing kiss.

You were stunned at first, but as what you’d been thinking about all night suddenly became real, you let yourself melt into it. His kiss reminded you of the winter snows back home, brisk but it made you enjoy the warmth of his hands on your face all the more. Finally he pulled away and you could not help the tears that sprung to your eyes. Loki’s faced was instantly concerned.

“Are you alright, pet?”

“I am. I just…I’m convinced this is a dream. I’ve never been, wanted like this before.”

“Does this mean you are a maiden?”

“Not…exactly. There was a member of father’s guard once. But he never spoke to me again afterwards. Left the guard entirely. And told all his buddies I ‘wasn’t worth it’.” Loki’s temper flared, but he focused back on you.

“Forget about any past experiences, pet. I cannot wait to spend hours making you moan and quiver at my touch. I want to explore every inch of you with my hands…and my tongue.” He said, his voice low and raspy and you squeezed your thighs together. “Do you like that idea pet? If we were to wed, maybe I’d have you sit on my lap during court sessions. After all you do want to let people…do what they want, don’t you? So long as they’re not hurting anyone.” You bit your lip, considering the idea. It was almost as if he could read your mind. He placed a kiss to your forehead.

“I can pet.” He said with a smirk.

“What? For how long” You asked, covering your face in embarrassment.

“Since you were hiding behind your parents.” Loki cupped your cheek, bringing your face back toward his. “And I heard all your pain and heartache. But beneath it I saw a guiding hand, needly only a strong sword to wield. Or…perhaps a dagger.” Loki smirked. “If you’d like, I could be that dagger. I know Thor is destined to be All-Father, but I could settle for being a king with a beautiful queen. What do you say?”

What did you say? You could hardly believe what he was saying. It was all too good to be true, but as you looked in his eyes, searching for any hint of malice, and finding none, decided to throw caution to the wind and you leaned in to kiss him now, wrapping your arms around him. “I say your father was right about planning a wedding.” You and Loki both chuckled.

“It would be more proper if I sent you to bed, but I am afraid before I become king I must throw propriety to the wind at least once.”

“You don’t seem the type to care for propriety, kinghood be damned, Loki.”

“You’ve caught me. But that only means I will have to show you how fun being improper truly is.”

In a flash you were back in Loki’s chambers. A beautiful bedroom with a massive wooden frame and green silk sheets. There was one door that must’ve led to a bathroom; and two double doors that probably led to the rest of his space.

“Now, I promise I did not dig too deep into your mind, darling. But I could certainly tell what you were thinking when you look at me." Loki waggled his eyebrows, and your face warmed. "I think I know exactly what you need. And if you are uncomfortable at any point, I will stop. But I think you desire someone to take charge in the bedroom. Not to control but to take care of you. Is that right, pet?”

“Yes, please…my king.” You said, smiling sheepishly. Without warning, Loki bent down to scoop you up and throw you over his shoulder, making you gasp. “Loki! No, you can’t…” But your words were cut off with a yelp as Loki brought his hand down upon your ass in a sharp spank.

“Can’t what, darling?” Loki asked, incredulously.

“P-pick me up. I’m…I’m too heavy.” You whined as Loki spanked you again.

“I’m sorry kitten did you say something?” Loki’s tone daring you to say something else bad about yourself.

“No, my king.” You whimpered, the blood rushing to your head making you slightly woozy.

“Good, because if I thought you were doubting my abilities to take care of you, by say, suggesting I am not strong enough to support and love every inch of you, I might have to punish you.” You got the message from his tone and tampered down any further injections.

“Yes, my king.”

“Good girl.” Loki carried you over to his bed, and you certainly appreciated not just the feeling of being carried, as you’d read about in so many books but only imagined for yourself, but the great view of Loki’s backside. Since he’d shed his cloak you could see how the fine Asgardian leather clung to his back. He was not nearly as bulky as Thor was, and you were glad of it. Loki’s strength wasn’t for show, but he still made you feel safe and secure.

You landed on his bed with a soft oof but could barely relish how soft the sheets were before your arms were tugged above your head and your ankles spread wide. But Loki wasn’t even touching you. He waggled his eyebrows playfully.

“Did you know your king was a master of magic, pet?”

“I had heard you had some powers…and I’d heard your nickname…Silver Tongue.” You said the last words in a hushed voice, scared of finding out people had been messing with you again.

“Oh you have heard correctly.” And I’ve been thinking about showing you why since I first laid eyes on you” Loki crawled on the bed, making the top half of his armor disappear, leaving him only in his trousers. He was kneeling between your legs. “First, I need to see what is hidden beneath this beautiful dress. I can’t wait to see you bathed in my colors.” He waved his hand and your dress suddenly vanished. Leaving you only in your corset and silken panties.

“Fuck, you’re better than any yuletide gift.” Speaking to his metaphor from earlier, Loki summoned a dagger into his hand and slowly ran the blade up your chest, slicing off each individual button to release your flesh. The sight of the blade in his strong hand as he held it so carefully, combined with the freedom as the corset fell away you sucked in a deep breath made you try to clench your thighs. But Loki’s magic bonds held strong.

“I promise my pet, from now own, corsets will be your choice to wear; not so you have to hide this luscious body from me.” Loki’s hands grabbed your hips, and you were half hoping he’d leave bruises, then ran over your stomach, tickling you slightly, before moving to your breasts.

Your nipples had perked up at exposure to the air and Loki’s hands were now cold as he tweaked them into even harder peaks. “Loki…my goodness…your hands are like ice…”

“Sorry pet, I couldn’t resist playing with you just a little bit. You’re so adorable. And there is one more thing I must confess to you. You are familiar with the frost giants of Jotunheim?”

“Just in name only.” Loki let out a small sigh in what seemed like relief. Before your eyes, Loki’s glimmer faded for a moment, revealing blue skin with rigid marks all along his face and chest. “I too know what means to be judged by appearances.” Loki paused, scared of your silence. But his fears washed away when you spoke.

“I only wish I were untied so I could trace every one of those markings on your chest, my king.” Your kind heart, the innocent way you looked at him, without a hint of fear or disgust. Loki could feel his magic flare and he felt something feral within him snap. He returned his Asgardian glimmer.

“Fuck darling I have to make you mine, now.” Loki growled, pressing his face between your legs. He tongue was indeed cold as silver, but it only made you moan louder as he seemed intent his promise and explore every inch, starting with your pussy. “Your little cunt is absolutely dripping for me, pet. And you called me improper.” He resumed his ministrations, moving his tongue to circle your clit and pushing two fingers into you and curling them up, causing your hips to buck into his face

“Someday soon, I will have to make you show me how you touch yourself, my pet. So I know how to better please my queen.”

“Y-yes my king.” You panted out as Loki added a third finger; the utterly sinful noises coming from between your legs were only driving your arousal further. Not only did Loki seem determined to make you cum, but to make an art out of it.

“Good girl, pet. You will have two thrones. One in public,” He grinned wolfishly at you, green eyes flashing with power. “and one in our chambers.”

“Uhm-I don’t…I don’t think…” Loki’s other hand smacked your clit hard, making you cry out.

“If you can still think about denying me, or worse, INSULTING what is mine…I clearly haven’t done my job right.” Loki growled as he withdrew his fingers from you, making you clench around nothing. He brought his fingers his lips and made a show of lewdly slurping your juices off them. “Oh yes, far sweeter than anything I have tasted in my lifetime.”

Loki leaned down to kiss you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips. You were amazed at how powerful and confident his kiss made you feel. It was almost like you could feel his magic flowing through you. And it was driving you crazy with want. Especially with the way Loki was rolling his hips against yours. He moaned into the kiss. “You can feel my energy can’t you, my powers? That’s you, My sweet little pet.”

“Wha- what do you mean?” your head was swimming in pleasure you’d never experienced before and here was Loki speaking in riddles.

“You’re the final piece to my latest spell, my element of sweetness.”

“What spell?”

“To make my siedr stronger; allowing me do things like keep you pinned to this bed and much more. There’s a spark inside of you that I’ve been able to draw out.”

“I have…magic?” you asked

“Not exactly, pet. But you make a wonderful conductor. And I know what’ll the sparks really fly.” His lips found yours in a kiss that made you understand true passion. Your toes were curling and you were pressing your body against his as much as you could against his magic bonds.

“Whatever your heart desires, it is yours pet. I shall pluck every star from the heavens, raze any planet to ash, I am your dagger, my queen. Wield me at your command.” Loki promised, his voice heavy and lustful.

“Loki, please…fuck me.” You whimpered out, his words, the feeling of his cock grinding against your cunt, it was all so overwhelming and you were beginning to feel like you needed him like you needed oxygen.

“Since you begged so sweetly.” With a wave of his hand, his trousers were gone. You gasped when you saw his cock. It was twice the size the guard’s had been, and far thicker. Dribbles of pre-cum ran down the side. You found yourself licking your lips, having never been a fan of the act before, now you were imagining Loki using your throat to warm his cock while sitting upon a throne.

“Another time, pet.” Loki chuckled. “Right now, I must claim you as mine.” He leaned in to kiss you again as he pushed his cock inside you. He moved slowly at first, gently rolling his hips and allowing you to adjust to him. When he pulled his lips away, your heavy breaths turned to moans as you relished in the feeling of him. It was far better than your fingers had ever been able to reach and when he finally bottomed out, Loki used his thumb to rub small circles around your clit, making your pussy clench around him.

“Oh my pet, you feel so warm and perfect around my cock. Like you were made for me. Made to be my beautiful queen, and my slutty fucktoy.” Suddenly he grinned and his eyes flashed with an idea… “In fact…” He snapped his fingers and your shoulders felt instant relief as you were able to move your arms; but only for a moment as Loki leaned down to grab your wrists in each hand. Before you could question him, you found yourself being turned over so you were looking down at loki now. “Now, my sweet little toy. Bounce for me.”

Your wrists were tugged behind your back again by his magic, leaving Loki’s hands free to fondle your curves. When you didn’t move, he gave your waist a playful pinch. “I said, bounce, little rabbit.”

“But won’t I…hurt you? I mean, I’ve never had a partner want me in their lap cause I know I’m…” your words were cut off by Loki squeezing your cheeks. He brought his face so close to yours you could smell your cunt on his breath when he spoke.

“My gorgeous, beautiful, queen; If I hear another word from these perfectly plump lips that is detrimental to your shapely figure; I shall be forced to keep you bound to my bed until you can’t remember a single thing but your own pleasure. Is that understood?”

“Y-yes, my king.” You said, not sure whether you were more scared of his threat, or how pleasurable the idea sounded.

“Now, I believe I gave you a command, little bunny.” Loki reminded you, pressing a surprising chaste kiss to your cheek before resuming his hands’ ministrations.

You slowly started rocking your hips to move up and down. The position wasn’t easy on your knees, but when your clit brushed against the hard chisel of Loki’s body, nothing else mattered. Loki kept one hand on your hip to help guide you while the other rolled your nipples between his fingers pulling every now and then and making you grind down on him hard.

“That’s it, my pet. I shall show you how to walk the edge between pain and pleasure.” His hips were rising to meet yours as he chased his own pleasure. “Your quim is perfectly fit for my cock; and you are a true call to motion. I will have to have you painted like this.” His words were poetry that only drove you towards your climax faster.

“Loki…my king…I need to…”

“Yes, yes my pet! Cum for me and feel me filling you up. The first of many times to…come.” He said before his own orgasm grabbed hold of him; contorting his angelic face in pleasure while crying out your name and pushing his hips up, somehow forcing his cock even deeper within you.

You swore you were seeing genuine stars behind your eyes as your climax crashed down over you. You could feel Loki’s cum inside you and running down your thighs as he rutted into you a few times, riding out his own orgasm. When you both were stilled, your arms came free and you were able to let yourself fall onto his chest.

Loki’s arms engulfed you and he held you close to his chest. Your mind raced as your finger absently minded drew shapes on his chest.

“Pet, I promised I wouldn’t read your mind, but I still can hear the thoughts twisting around.” He placed a kiss on your forehead before using his index finger lifted your chin to meet his eyes. “What troubles you?”

“I just…I have never been the chosen favorite, the one actively pursued, But the way you look at me… I suppose I still worry that the rug will be pulled from beneath me.”

“Oh my pet, When you move, I could never define all that you are to me. You are the rite of movement. When you move, I move. And your movements drive me to do impossible things, all for you.” Loki promised with another passionate kiss.

“Rest now, darling. When we wake; we will have a wedding to planned.” He drew you in and you considered his words. When you move, I move. You smiled, allowing the truth of Loki’s devotion to you to wash over like the ocean and you resolved to be as devoted to him.

“Yes, my king.”

#Loki #Loki Laufeyson #Loki Fic #Loki Odinson #Loki Laufeyson x Reader #Loki Odinson x Reader #Loki x Plus Size!Reader #Loki Odinson x Plus Size!Reader #Loki Laufeyson x Plus Size!Reader #Loki x Reader #Loki Smut #Dom!Loki #Loki x Female Reader #Loki Fandom #Loki fanfiction

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evenmorefatallyobsessed · 6 months ago

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Noblesse Oblige AU (Thoughts and ideas)

Okay so I have another AU idea I've liked for a long while now. Noblesse Oblige.

The concept is fairly simple Aura doesn't manifest quite so easily as in canon RWBY. Only 10 percent of the population of Remnant can actually manifest their aura.

This not due to aura being weaker in people or something like that but the ability to Kickstart it being a much more difficult threshold.

Example being that when Pyrrha unlocked Jaune's aura it seemed to be taxing on her to do. In this AU's case that effort is much more difficult.

People's souls don't express themselves as easily, and more aura is required to Kickstart the process then usual.

Because of this I'm Narrowing down the people who unlocked their auras to just 2. Jaune and Nora.

Remnant is changed drastically by this as you can imagine with a lot less Huntsman the influence of the schools is both stronger and weaker in a sense.

stronger because the importance of Aura users is now much more important. As each Hunter can be well worth a entre unit of soilders.

But weaker cuz without as many aura capable user's to fight the Grimm the need for a military remained in each Kingdom.

I can actually see two big things being that 1.) everyone is required to go through the process of having their auras unlocked to see if they can manifest their aura and then being required to be a hunter if it does.

And 2.) said Hunters being trained to lead a squad of elite soilders to act ad their support against Grimm.

Hunters have much more sway given their rarity and value. Such as Nora insisting Ren be her support regardless of anything else.

Because of this people's lives are drastically changed. Ruby for instance not having aura means she doubled down on her weapon obsession and so works even harder to make weapons that can be used by Hunters and the Military.

Blake due to her more wary (Cowardly tendencies) never joined the White Fang since it was far more life threatening an endeavor.

Weiss I'm not all around sure of yet.

Pyrrha is a star athlete who aims to join the military as a support for a Hunter and so on.

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naeverse · 4 months ago

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Fortis Et Liber (1/2)

A/N: Hi guys, this is my first story back from my 'hiatus', I guess I'd call it, lol. But I hope you all enjoy it, I enjoyed writing this a lot and was heavily inspired by my recent binge watching of Game of Thrones and now partaking in watching it's prequel, House of Dragons. After finishing watching GOT, I knew I had to write Miguel as a Kingsguard. I hope the story is enjoyable, and thank you once again for your patience!

👑⚔️staring: Kingsguard!Miguel x Fem!princess Reader

🔷 Preview: You were the future of Valoria, and he was but a Kingsguard sworn to protect you—the very duty he had accepted when he was given his cloak.

His hidden desires and thoughts for you needed to cease.

They must…

“Let us…put our swords away, Your Grace,” Miguel stated, his voice hoarse, deep, and strained, but unable to break his gaze from yours. He waited for you to remove his sword from his neck, his body tense, heart pounding in his chest, with a silent plea to the gods to keep him from making a grave error here—far from the Kingdom and in the seclusion of this very forest.

You gulped, almost missing his suggestion. Nodding slowly, you drew his blade away from his throat, setting it on the grass nearby; but you found yourself incapable of moving from the spot atop him.

Your eyes roamed his face once more, finding the Kingsguard of age eight-and-thirty years old to be exceptionally alluring. You’d always found him attractive, often marveling that this was the man chosen to protect you until the end of your days.

Yet, despite your constant fascination, he seemed to have a new glow to him—a glow that made you meet his conflicted amber orbs, and your own eyes to flood with desire.

“I-I believe…I deserve a reward for my victory, Sir Miguel,”

💜summary: Being the Princess of Valoria comes with expectations of being proper, respectful, caring, and, above all, perfect. However, such a title is one you detest. You seek escape to your hidden meadow in the forest to indulge in your favorite yet forbidden pastime—swordfighting—a hobby you grew to love from observing your Kingsguard, Sir Miguel O’Hara, practice in the training yard. With this adoration for the blade, nevertheless, come taboo feelings towards the one meant to safeguard and protect you until the end of his days.

Sir Miguel O’Hara, since his early days as a knight, has learned the importance of remaining dedicated to his duties and keeping his cloak unsullied. With a raging temper, brooding aura, and an undefeated reputation in combat, the Kingsguard takes his duty seriously and handles any misdeeds with an iron fist. Yet, he harbors improper feelings for his charge, you, the Princess of Valoria. Upon discovering you training once again in your secret glade in the nearby forest, Sir Miguel finds himself torn between his duty and his own desires once more.

💎tw/cw: Age Gap, Body Worship, Cockbulge, Class differences, Cunnilingus, Desperation, First time (kinda), Forbidden love, Oral Sex, Outdoors Sex, Power Difference, Virgin Y/N

🪻Pet names: Cariño (Darling), Querida (Dear), Mi Amor (my love), Alteza (Your highness), Princesa (princess)

💙 Rating: 18+ explicit I SMUT I

💜 Word Count: 5.8k

Heavy footsteps and the clank of metal rang through the quiet castle of Valoria, a scowl adorning the always stern Kingsguard, Miguel O’Hara. But this morning, he was angrier, more furious than usual.

Like normal, Miguel awoke at the hour of the bird, the sun just rising to kiss the peak of the tallest tower of his glorious kingdom where he began his morning routine. Waking up from his bed, stretching accompanied by a few strength exercises and combat training, a quick bath, inspection of weapons, application of his armor, and lastly, to check upon you, the Princess of Valoria, his charge until the end of his days. However, upon reaching your chambers, knocking on the door, and asking if you were awake, he didn’t hear a reply.

Miguel’s jaw clenched, his mind wandering to the possibility that your adventurous spirit had grasped you once more this morning, as he called out to you again, only to be met with silence.

A growl escaped the Kingsguard, announcing his intent to force entry before kicking the door open with his metal boot. As he feared, you weren’t there.His amber eyes narrowed upon the sight of your disheveled sheets that were missing your presence. With a huff, he spun on his heel and charged down the hall.

“Out of my way! Mudarse!” he shouted, roughly pushing servants from his path, annoyed that no one had noticed the princess’ disappearance. When his eyes made contact with the guard standing duty at the front entrance, his fury blinded him.

“You.” The word was a growl as in two long strides, Miguel grasped the collar of the man’s armor, hoisting him off the ground like a ragdoll. A surprised yelp escaped the lad as the Latino’s infamous temper engulfed him.

“The princess is missing, and here you are oblivious to it. A damn jackass could guard better than you,” Miguel gritted out, his jaw clenched harshly. The man’s stammered excuses went unnoticed as Miguel couldn’t bother himself to listen.

How could he when his sacred charge, the fucking princess, was the one missing?

With a snarl, Miguel slammed the guard against the pillar behind him, knocking the air out of him and instantly silencing the male. Harshly, the Kingsguard yanked the man close, his metal hands tightening on the collar of the younger lad's armor.

“I want six guards searching every nook and cranny of Valoria for the princess, or I’ll have you thrown into the dungeons for your incompetence. Is that clear!?” Miguel shouted, his anger getting the best of him as his gaze alone was enough to melt wax.

Hurriedly, the distressed guard nodded, his body shaking in fear in the eight-and-thirty-year-old man’s grasp. Miguel’s stern amber eyes glared at the trembling man for a moment longer before dropping him to the ground at his feet.

“Good,” The Latino muttered, turning on his heel, not sparing the troubled knight a glance, his blue cloak swaying behind him.

The older man hastily transverse outside of the castle, the morning sun beaming down upon his face and only stoking the hot scorching ball of rage that was rampaging inside of him. He moved down the stairs of the kingdom, his mind spinning with a tumultuous mix of emotions: fear, concern, irritation, and anger.

‘The King is going to be furious if I don’t find her,’ Miguel could only think.

The mere image of the troubled and disappointed face of his Highness hastened the Kingsguard’s pace, his metal boots leading him to the stables of the castle where his horse resided.

Secretly, Miguel already knew where his princess had run off to. You were an adventurous woman who hated the life of royalty and the suffocating vice it seemed to have on you. The Latino knew your troubles well as you spoke of them often; but he’d prefer if you didn’t cause such an uproar in the kingdom every time you decided to play the role of daring rogue.

“You better be there, princess. I don’t know what I’ll do if you’re not,” Miguel whispered under his breath, knowing you’d surely hear a mouthful from him when he found you.

Slinging a leg over the saddle and snapping the reins, Miguel’s black stallion raced through Valoria’s gates, into the city, and beyond to hopefully find you.

In the heart of a secluded forest, the clear swish of steel and the occasional sigh of exertion could be heard, accompanying the natural melody of chirping birds and rustling leaves. In the clearing, bathed in dappled sunlight, stood you, the princess, defying all laws of royalty, titles, and societal expectations. However, this wasn’t an uncommon occurrence.

You detested the lavish life of being a princess, from dancing with suitors to kissing babes and even the simple act of donning a corset. The entire castle knew of your disdain, especially your father, the King.

Your father despised your rebelliousness, always desiring you to be what the Princess of Valoria was meant to be: kind, respectful, well-mannered, ladylike, an inspiration and hope for the people, and most importantly, perfect.

Perfection wasn’t exactly an expected trait of being the Princess of Valoria, but you figured it should be, as one slouched back, faltered smile, or ignored suitor would instantly bring scandal upon you from the court. And you were certain any scandal would ruin your father, turning him into a madman. You always believed that in his deranged state, he might do something he’d never believed himself capable of doing to you, his beloved daughter: enforcing abdication upon you—leading you to give up your royal birthright and heir to his throne to become a mere commoner in Valoria.

The idea always made you shiver in terror; but you also deemed it quite vast, hoping your father’s love for you would overcome his need to erase the soot upon his once shiny reputation if a scandal did arise.

But one would believe the fear of abdication would deter you from sword fighting— from running away from your duties to chase a dream that was truly of imagination and fairytales.

But, honestly, you could not…

Cutting arcs of silver through the air, the wind brushing through your hair, and the exhilaration you felt with each precise stroke of your sword was everything to you. Although you had been training with your sword for only two years, the weapon felt like an extension of you—taking it away would leave you hollow, dull, and lifeless.

You were sure of it…

At the age of seven and ten, you encountered sword fighting for the first time when venturing down to the training yard of the castle, your adventurous spirit leading you all the while. At the time, you were merely escaping your handmaiden, Lady Mary Jane, who was seeking to fetch you to begin your early piano lessons; so seeking refuge behind the nearby wall of the training yard would be the least likely place you’d be found.

Peeking around to check if the coast was clear, you saw a duel—a battle between Sir Miguel O’Hara, your Kingsguard, and four soldiers. What seemed initially like a serious sparring match between four exceptional guards quickly turned into a farcical display.

Your Kingsguard, a man known for his raging temper, ability to strike fear into any being—man or beast—with just a glance, and always holding a deadly red glint in his amber orbs when his longsword was in his grip, easily evaded, parried, and played the three guards like fools.

Like playthings, the three men were handled just as quickly as the battle began, ending with them in beaten heaps on the ground all without Sir Miguel moving an inch out of his initial position.

From that day onward, your protector awakened something inside of you, but you were unable to figure out what; so every day, at the hour of the bird, you watched your Kingsguard train with the guards. And after training, which was your favorite, was the dueling with Sir Miguel O’Hara.

During these matches, you became engrossed in your Kingsguard’s strategies and fighting techniques. And slowly, you fell more in love with sword fighting and the idea of defending oneself.

But there was one memory of observing your guardian fight that was held closer to your heart than others.

Mostly because that time was different…

Sir Miguel was always known for challenging himself, pushing his very limits to ensure his capability of protecting you. You had never seen him sleep and if he did, it was only a little, as he was always glued to your side like a hornet’s nest to a branch.

At times, you found the older Kingsguard’s presence overbearing, until that night when you discovered him in secret.

It was long past since the final birds tweeted their final messages for the night and the stars rose in the darkened sky when you heard Sir Miguel leave his rooted post outside your bedchambers. You knew your Kingsguard slept at some time of the night, but he never just…left.

Not this soon.

It felt…odd.

Being awake due to restlessness, you decided to discover the mystery of where your Kingsguard had wandered off to. Slipping out of your bed, you adorned your royal slippers, slung a thin cardigan over your nightgown, and followed him.

It wasn’t surprising that you found him in the training yard, sword in hand and cutting invisible intricate patterns into the air; but it was how he looked that shocked you.

Taking your usual hiding spot behind the wall when spying on the guards’ training, your innocent eyes took in your shirtless Kingsguard in the yard, practicing in his mere trousers under the moonlight.

His burly muscular arms wielded his large longsword with ease, and his pecs adorned with a pair of dark nipples seemed to tighten with his every swift and powerful jab. The massive male moved in a manner similar to a dance, however, different from when he sparred with the other guards.

Despite taking in the sparring methods of your protector like you normally did, you found yourself noticing everything else. His flexing olive abs of eight, sharp jawline of stubble, concentrated gaze, deep and occasional grunts of exertion, parted lips, and the happy trail of coarse hair that descended from his perfect navel to slip under his trousers like a cunning serpent.

A shaky breath you didn’t know you were holding while admiring your Kingsguard escaped you. Your face flushed a deep red at the mere thought of how long Sir Miguel had been hiding such a sculpted form underneath his layers of armor.

You couldn’t help yourself, continuing your spying, but this time, peeking your head out further than before, needing to see more.

Your Kingsguard swung his sword again, his footsteps light yet purposeful upon the gravel. His every movement calculated in taking down his invisible opponent. Following his counter, he swiftly dodged, his dark brown hair flapping in the wind.

Every gulp caused his defined adam's apple to bob, and your Kingsguard’s slender waist twisted to evade with practiced ease. The sheen of sweat coating his muscular chest and backside shimmered under the moonlight, causing you to begin to find your Kingsguard rather attractive…

This memorable moment was a complete shock to you as you had never seen a man so…exposed before. Your father was certain to remove any paintings and stories that expressed erotic or sensual displays of any sort with the intention of keeping his royal daughter pure for any eligible suitors. So seeing him like this was as if you were taking a bite of a forbidden fruit that opened your eyes to the wonders of man and…

Sensations…

Seeing Sir Miguel in such a state, practically unclothed before you made you feel things—feelings that you hadn’t noticed but felt familiar in a way.

Perhaps, being the same sensation that engulfed your being when seeing Sir Miguel spar for the first time—his ability to fight, defend, and protect in such a powerful and courageous manner being what led you back here, each and every time to see him train again and again.

Perhaps these feelings were love like in fairytales?

Did you hold affections for Sir Miguel?

The idea felt absurd, especially with him being a member of the royal guard—meant to protect and serve Valoria until the end of his days. Indeed, love between a Kingsguard and a princess would be a grand scandal, so why did your heart palpitate at the possibility?

Why did your body heat up at the thought of the older man kissing your knuckles, not in respect for your title, but in adoration for you?

Why did your stomach stir with butterflies at the desire to know what your Kingsguard’s torso would feel like under your fingertips? His bulging arms? His chiseled face? Perhaps…

Lower?

But, it didn’t matter what you felt—what heinous and disgraceful ideas plagued your mind just from that one memorable moment.

It was forbidden.

You, the Princess of Valoria, could not fall in love with your Kingsguard.

Right…?

Since seeing him in such a manner for the first time, your respect for your Kingsguard grew. From that day forward, you greatly admired your protector and most importantly, the thrill of fighting; so instead of simply watching Valoria’s knights spar from your hiding place, you began to take notes. Engrossing yourself in the techniques of wielding a sword, and weaknesses and strengths in opponents, and how to outwit them.

After nine moons of observation, you waited until the castle was asleep and the last bell for midnight to chime before donning your commoner’s attire, to blend in with the people of Valoria and sneak off to the local blacksmith.

You desired to purchase the creation of your sword, believing it was time to put your knowledge of sword fighting into action. After some bribing, you paid for the requested price from the blacksmith and handed in an additional gold coin pouch for speedy labor and your desired stylization list of your masterpiece of defense.

Due to this being your first sword, you wished it to be the grandest, so you wanted it to be perfect. You had thought of the blade for moons, considering how the steel would be decorated, the comfortable hilt, and how light yet balanced the sword would feel in your palm.

You wanted it to be the finest and precisely how you’d envisioned it.

The next day, you waited in anticipation, and when night fell, you traversed to the blacksmith in town once more. There, you were able to hold your sacred weapon in the palm of your hands and see it styled just as you had requested.

To ensure a firm grip, the hilt was skillfully wrapped in dark leather, with a crossguard intricately designed with floral motifs and blue gemstones that caught the light with every movement. At the end of the hilt, the pommel was shaped like a blooming rose, crafted from polished silver that was as beautiful as you had imagined.

Reaching approximately thirty inches, the blade itself was made from high-quality Damascus steel, renowned for its durability and distinctive wavy patterns along the length. The edge was razor-sharp and honed to perfection, capable of slicing through even the toughest material with ease.

Yet, your eyes lingered upon the engraving elegantly inscribed along the fuller of the blade, near the hilt. The words, written in an ancient language of Latin, resonated deeply with you: ‘Fortis et Liber,’ or ‘Strong and Free.’ This flowing script was a mantra personal to you, symbolizing your inner strength and desire for freedom from your constricting royal life.

Indeed, the blade was a masterpiece…

In that moment, holding the sword, you felt a surge of empowerment. The weapon was not merely an instrument of defense but a manifestation of your will and determination. Each detail, from the rose-shaped pommel to the shimmering Damascus patterns, spoke of the silent promise you had made to yourself: to fight for your freedom and protect yourself and those you held dear.

Just like Sir Miguel does…

From there, with sword in hand, you traversed to the forest on horseback—your desired destination just on the outskirts of Valoria that you used to run off to in your younger years before watching the guards spar. There, in the hidden clearing of your sanctuary, you began your training in secret.

Like all things, initially, you weren’t good at it, but after endless training and some assistance, you became what you are today…

Holding your sword lightly in your palm, you moved gracefully, each step and turn like a waltz that your father ensured you knew to perfection. Your blade’s soft swish through the air was like music to your ears, the whispers of steel guiding you further in your dance.

Whipping your blade through the air, your unladylike boots moved featherlight upon the grass. Your form of elegance and determination, along with your focus, never wavered, staying engrossed in your training until the rustling of bushes behind you disrupted the usual chatter of the forest and the crunch of leaves under your boot heels.

Despite the interruption, you continued practicing. A smirk adorned your lips, already knowing the identity of such a disturbance. Spinning in your morning gown, the blue hem twirling with your movement, and your unrestricted breasts underneath swaying with the motion, you turned to face the newcomer, your blade aimed at their throat.

“Here to lecture me again, Sir Miguel?” You asked with a grin, the playful tone in your voice contrasting greatly with your raised sword.

Miguel O’Hara, your Kingsguard, who had raced here on horseback as swiftly as possible, stood before you. Miguel knew where his princess' secret training ground was, as he was the only one with the knowledge of it. He always found your desire to sword fight like some commoner conflicting, but he knew where he stood when you decided to escape your royal duties to partake in the forbidden activity.

Your protector’s height and build always made him appear massive compared to you; perhaps he truly was. His metal armor only brought more width to his being as you peered up at your Kingsguard. Despite always holding a scowl, the evident glare upon his features was simply hard not to notice.

“Scolding, perhaps.” He agreed, his voice a low rumble, pushing the blade of your sword away from his neck with a shove of two fingers. “You’re not in the castle, I found your bedchambers empty, and you’ve done all this before the morning bells of the Kingdom have rung.” He stated sharply, his anger clinging to every word. “You’ve no idea the trouble you’ve caused by vanishing like this. I’ve had the entire city turned upside down in search of you.” He scowled in irritation down at the Princess of Valoria, whom he surely knew didn’t care how much he would rip the city apart for you, as your adventurousness would never cease.

“And I not only find you in this secluded glade once more, sword in hand, but clothed—” Miguel’s eyes drifted down your body, taking in your mere sleeping gown that you didn’t bother asking the servants to undress you out of and into proper clothing before escaping here. But what really caught the older male’s eyes was your lack of a corset.

It wasn’t the first time the Kingsguard had seen his princess without a corset. It was practically something one must become acquainted with inside of the castle. You detested the constricting undergarment, choosing to not wear it even outside of your chambers, which was greatly improper but not uncommon to the Kingsguard.

Yet, every time his amber orbs caught sight of those beautiful, perky tits practically begging for one’s attention through the fabric of your dress, the Latino felt somewhat similar to a starved beast.

Clearing his throat and shifting his narrowed eyes back onto your face, he continued the scolding that he had thought of on his travels here. “—But clothed less than appropriately,” he continued, making sure your eyes were on his, his face moving with your wandering one whenever you turned your head.

“This forest is no place for a princess, much less the future of Valoria, and you are hardly dressed as one should be for combat of any sort,” Miguel lectured, searching the princess' gaze for any sign of defiance, only to find bucketfuls of it.

His attention faltered down to your distracting breasts once more before quickly looking away, heaving a sigh of exhaustion. “Your Grace, I only implore you to think of your safety. What have I incessantly told you about that?” Miguel inquired, looking down at the princess, hoping to not hear any words of rebuttal, but simply a straightforward answer.

You rolled your eyes at his dramatics, lowering your sword to your side. “You’ve always told me that my safety is top priority, but you and I both know I despise being locked up in the castle, dancing and conversing with individuals that only wish to be in my place.” You retorted, sheathing your sword to your hip, the soft hiss satisfying to your ears.

“As you've stated time and time again, Your Grace,” Miguel muttered in irritation as you pressed on. “And I will not be forced to endure the torture of the corset. Women of Valoria do not wear one, why must I?”

“But you are not a mere woman of Valoria, princesa, you are Valoria!” the older man of eight-and-thirty- years shouted.

Miguel ran a hand through his dark brown curls, trying to control his temper at the sight of furrowed brows and slight jump at his sudden outburst. He had frightened many people countless times because of his temper, but never did he desire to scare his charge, you, his beloved princess.

After taking a deep breath and recollecting himself, the Latino spoke once more. “The corset is a symbol of your station, a reminder that you are Valoria’s future. It’s not for your enjoyment—nor discomfort, but it is necessary for the protection of your person, and indeed… your honor.” Miguel stated, unable to stop himself from glancing down at your free bosom. The breeze of the clearing seemed to make your nipples more prominent—noticeable, seen.

An annoyed snarl escaped the Kingsguard, mostly in anger with himself for his insistent and dishonorable staring. “Please, simply tell me what I can do to assist? What must be changed to make things better suited for you in Valoria, because this,” he growled, pointing at the blade on your side, “this cannot be your outlet, Princesa.” He insisted with a shake of his head, his wavy curls swaying with the motion.

You always found your protector’s voice to be deep and soothing to you, but currently it was only causing the burning feeling of frustration to bubble up inside. “Why must everything be so… constricting?!” You exclaimed in agitation.

“Why must I feel content in a garment meant to tightly squeeze me like a grape whilst damaging the very bosom it’s meant to conceal?” You asked, running your disheartened fingers through your wild hair, free from the usual royal styles of Valoria to take on a more free look—a look you adored.

You met eyes with the alluring amber orbs of your guardian, your gaze begging for acceptance. “Everything in Valoria only further distresses me—only this helps, Sir Miguel. Please, I implore you to understand that.” You tried to get him to see, a soft sigh escaping your lips. You hated arguing with your Kingsguard, as it always led to doubt.

You very much respected Sir Miguel, always finding him wise, and his dislike of your ‘hobby,’ as he called it, constantly made you believe it wasn’t right to choose it over your life in the palace, no matter how despicable it was to you.

Silence filled the space between the two of you, the chatter of animal life and the rush of the passing wind replacing the lack of words. However, to your surprise, this time it wasn’t you who broke the silence.

Miguel stepped up to you, his heavy boots crunching the soft grass underneath him as he closed the distance. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, and his normally hardened face softened upon seeing your troubled expression.

“I’m glad to see you haven’t forgotten everything I’ve taught you, alteza.” He uttered, wishing to calm the situation. A rare smile graced Miguel's lips as he cupped your chin to lift it, wishing to meet your gaze.

When you reluctantly did, Miguel’s eyes roamed your soft features, his metal thumb giving your chin and cheek a stroke. “You are strong, Y/N, no doubt about that, but you must be wise as well.” He advised, his gruff tone a tender rumble throughout the clearing.

“Your safety and our kingdom’s security should be your utmost concern, not the… discomforts, no matter how hard they might be.” Miguel stated, his thumb lingering longer than it should upon your face, tracing the line of your jaw slowly as if trying to imprint it to memory. “You are Valoria's future, after all, princesa. I implore you to behave as such.”

You thickly gulped, his words and touch striking your heart sharply. When his hand left your cheek, the coldness of his gauntlet seemed to leave a cold handprint upon your skin, ensuring your remembrance.

Despite how crucial Miguel’s advice was, it just didn’t settle correctly in your mind, in your skin, nor your bones.

Valoria’s future.

This title was the cause of your escapes—the reason you sought refuge outside of the castle. That title was too much to bear—too much for one to hold, especially a princess like you.

Slowly, you shook your head, watching the handsome features of your Kingsguard fall. “I did not request nor ask for such a title, Sir Miguel.” You admitted. “I do not wish to live the boring life that has been planned out for me. I desire fun, freedom, and happiness—something that isn’t of attending balls nor forcing a smile at every suitor my father brings me!” You exclaimed in exasperation, heaving a sigh and turning away from him.

“I am Valoria’s future. I am Princess of Valoria, yet, I am never, simply Y/N.” You whispered, feeling like it had been forever since you had uttered your own name. “My father, the people of Valoria, and even you want perfection, someone to hope for, but that is something that I cannot give.” You confessed, grasping the hilt of your sword tightly for comfort.

“And I try, goodness, I try. I wear a smile, I try to go to gatherings, luncheons, gosh, I even try going on simple walks through Valoria just so the people may see me, and I…can’t handle the pressure.” You declared sadly. “The need to be perfect, to always smile, stand straight, speak properly—it's too much.” You said, shaking your head as your Kingsguard was so quiet, one would believe his presence behind you nonexistent.

“But this,” you said, tapping a thumb upon the rose pommel of your sword, “this doesn’t require me to be Valoria’s future. This doesn't require me to be Princess of Valoria—to be perfect. It just needs me…

Y/N…”

You acknowledged aloud, the thought making you smile. “And sword fighting isn’t structured; it can be wild and free, and that’s what I yearn for.” You concluded softly, running your finger along the ridges of the perfectly shaped flower of your sheathed sword, the action always calming you.

Miguel’s gaze roamed along your backside, your being showcasing a blend of sadness and delight that he’d never seen in any other being; but he couldn’t shake his annoyance with you.

He felt for you, his princess, he truly did. The Kingsguard always believed your duties were too much for you—too demanding on anyone who must hold such standards upon their shoulders.

But what you desired instead wasn't any better.

It was his duty to protect you, the Princess of Valoria, and what you wanted would only get you hurt…

Or worse.

With the clanks of his metal boots, Miguel approached you, placing his hands on your shoulders and turning you to face him once more. “You do not want sword fighting, Y/N, you want adventure—that’s what you truly seek.” The Latino told you sternly, his features returning to their usual stoicness.

“And adventure comes with a price, Your Grace. There are dangers in the world, and I won’t have you waltzing into them without a thought.” He said, his piercing eyes holding a silent plea behind them, hands caressing your shoulders under your ruffled sleeves.

“Your safety is the most precious thing I guard. I’ve seen men die from a well-placed dagger, women kidnapped into slavery, children left alone in this world without a mother nor father to protect them.” The Kingsguard stated, hands moving to brush a strand of your hair behind your ear, the idea of anything happening to you tugging greatly at his cold heart.

“The life of a commoner—the one you seek when you run off with your blade—is a harsh one, and one no being with their right wits would go seeking if they knew it well.” The older male told you in a sharp tone, wanting you to understand that his duty was to protect you, even if that meant protecting you from yourself.

Your lips trembled, your frustration and overbearing feeling of entrapment engulfing you like smoke filling a pair of lungs. “Then why teach me even a quarter of sword fighting if I am never to use the skill?” You demanded. “Tell me, Sir Miguel? Why broaden my knowledge on a skill you deem dangerous?”

Your protector’s jaw clenched, hating to see you in this way. Eyebrows knitted together, nostrils flared, fury found in your beautiful eyes. This wasn’t a look he liked upon his princess' features, always finding himself wishing to erase it as swiftly as possible.

“Your tutelage in combat is to ensure that if someone wanted to harm you, you’d have a fighting chance, not for you to run into battle with a head of iron.” He scolded, letting the gravity of his words settle. “And I would remind you, I’ve only taught you the basics, so while you’re skilled, you are not of high standard. Not like a normal guard. Not like a soldier.

Not like I.”

Your guardian emphasized, needing you to know the hard truth, hoping to ease the hurt of his words with a gentle squeeze of your shoulders. “And I advise you that it goes against my cloak to teach anything of the sword to a woman of royalty—especially, the princess,” He reminded. “If the King so happens to discover your fascination in the sword and further knows I had a hand in it, my head would be upon a spike by next sunrise,” The older male warned, his last words cutting you deep, your hand tightening upon the pommel of your sword.

“I…acknowledge the reasons and importance of my learning of the sword isn’t for entertainment, and that it is dangerous for both of us to be here, but I can't help but want more, Sir Miguel.” You implored, looking up to him with furrowed brows.

“You said so yourself, the adrenaline one feels from danger is exhilarating, did you not?” You asked, watching a flash of regret cross his features for a moment before disappearing as you continued. “I understand the danger of adventure, and like you, I wish to feel the same, even just a mere moment of it.” You tried to coax, the wind lapping up at your disarrayed strands of hair.

Your guardian’s lips twitched at your recollection of his own words, feeling like a fool for saying such a thing in front of you. “Adventure…does have its allure, my lady, but that thrill of danger pales in comparison to the terror of losing the one I swore to protect.” He said, pulling away from you with a final stroke to your shoulders.

You scoffed, shaking your head in defiance. “A small trip to a neighboring village to purchase mere trinkets is too much?”

“Sί, I cannot and will not risk putting you in harm’s way, my lady. You being in this meadow so far from the kingdom is already too much a risk.” Your protector replied sternly, his words bothering you further.

You couldn’t help feeling upset—upset that your skills felt like a waste. Upset that you’d never be able to use them truly, and even further upset that the man you secretly adored was the one to tell you these things.

As you stood there in silence, his scolding of the day resting heavy upon your chest like a boulder. The highlights of the lecturing on danger, scandal, trouble, entrapment, duties, and being Valoria’s future came rushing in like a tidal wave. And once more, you clung to sword fighting as your escape. Hand gripping the handle of your sword, you allowed your mind to wander.

All the memories of your secret retreats here, your discreet practices with your blade filled your head.

You knew you were an exceptional fighter, believed so anyway. You just had to get your Kingsguard to see that too.

‘One small adventure, that’s all I wish. If he witnesses my skills in person, perhaps he’d feel more comfortable joining me in just a small task.’ You pondered, meeting his gaze that was already staring back at you. Giving the rose pommel of your sheathed sword a final squeeze for good luck, you expressed your proposal.

“I do wish to express that despite your teachings of the basics, sword fighting is extensive, Sir Miguel.” You explained with a small smile, eyes tracking every feature upon the older male’s face. “One can learn uniquely and expand upon the skill on their own, and with the many times I ran off to practice…

I have no doubt that I can take you, Sir Miguel.”

A/N: I know, I know, cliffhangers are the worst, but I promise it's worth it! I hope you all enjoyed the first part of Fortis Et Liber, like mentioned previously, it was quite fun to write and I adore the two characters so very much!

If you also found this part just as delightful as l did reading and writing it, comment down below some of your favorite parts or what you liked most about it! I adore reading all of your wonderful comments!

Make sure to like, comment, reblog, and follow! If you'd like to add a request to the kink series, Entangled Desire, or have an idea in general, just message or submit an ask! Don't be nervous, your idea could be really good!

I hope you all have a wonderful day and stay safe!!

Want to read the second part of Fortis et Liber? >> Click here

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venusphoriia · 2 years ago

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࿐྄ྀ˖ ⌜2:43 𝐀.𝐌.⌟ ─ 𝐋𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐚 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐫 ཿ⠀ in which Leona grows infatuated with you after a one night stand. [Part 1]

He’s the second born prince of Sunset Savanna, often disliked because of his arrogant and lazy persona. His lack of motivation more often than not makes him fall short of his wild ambitions. Despite his lazy, apathetic nature, he wields powerful magic that strikes fear into even the hearts of his own people. The power to cause a drought at will.

His well known reputation has caused many to view him as “unapproachable.” The second born prince, of course, seems to care little of how others perceive him. Taking naps wherever he deems fit, skipping important events when lacking the motivation to go, and caring little to form meaningful and genuine connections with others has formed the reputation that Leona carries today.

Despite his lack of wanting anything in life, there is one thing he yearns for more than peaceful naps under the cool shade of a tree in the hot afternoon of summer—

To be king.

Although he long gave up on that ambition the moment his nephew was born.

He officially became the second born prince of Sunset Savanna, who was as lazy as he was prideful with no motivation nor will to make anything of his life.

Until he met you…

A dancer who had performed at a grand banquet held for his brother celebrating yet another great deed he had done. There was nothing special that caught his eye the first time he looked at you, it was when you approached him after the banquet that captured his attention.

You spoke so freely that he wondered if you knew who he was and his reputation among the kingdom. When you acknowledged his status and his reputation, but gave little care to the gossip surrounding him, you had him enraptured.

Your relaxed, comforting aura whisked him away into a night of sin. The way your lips felt so soft against his felt almost ghostly. With every mark he painted across your skin, he felt himself becoming more and more enchanted with your very being. The way you breathe, your whispers of his name, even the taste of you against his tongue—everything. You felt as warm as the savanna’s sun and as comforting as its cool breeze.

He was infatuated with you.

He had found his new ambition, and he’ll be damned to let it go.

You will be his. You don’t have a choice.

#twst wonderland #twst smut #twst yandere #twisted wonderland #yandere #yandere x reader #leona kingscholar #leona kingscholar x reader smut #leona kingscholar x reader #leona kingscholar smut #twst leona

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ironwoodprotectionsquad · 3 months ago

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While I’d love to hear six hours of discussion, perhaps we can hear your top 10 reasons you like Ironwood? Don’t want you to lose your voice after all my fellow Dadmiral friendo

Look I stream for 6 hours straight some days but that’s beside the point lolz. Also sorry this took so long. Life has been a thing.

1. James feels…human. I know the point of characters in stories is to make them feel alive and to immerse you into the world I know. But stay with me there are just little details like James adjusting his tie and little laughs at R/WBY’s antics that just make him feel more real.

2. James is strong. And not just in the physical sense but the emotional one. Between him in volume 3 holding it together despite the world falling apart around him and him taking on all of Atlas and Mantles hatred and vitriol while trying to protect them is incredible. Everyone hates him despite him trying his best and it’s both incredible and heartbreaking to see.

3. James is compassionate. I am not even slightly referring to volume 8 that bullshit is not canon at all just no. After watching Yang with his own eyes break (who he thought) was an innocent students leg unprovoked after the match ended and his aura was down, he believed her when she said she saw him attack first. He assumed the best of her even when all evidence showed that she was being malicious. Or in volume 4 when Weiss accidentally summoned a Grimm that attacked someone, he stood up for her or after Ruby failed to stop Cinder in volume 3 (? Or 2 can’t remember for sure) and he told her she did well and she took action which is what huntresses do. He is strict but he shows kindness to people.

4. He’s kind of silly sometimes. He’s normally very strict so it makes his funny moments stand out more. Like when he laughs when the girls admit they stole an airship or when he grins at Winters comment about how he couldn’t pay her to smile for the cameras.

5. He’s not a good public speaker. Now I can hear you say “but wait, he speaks publically all the time and while yes he does, he also does the equivalent of error 404 when things don’t go exactly as he mentally prepared beforehand and we see this in volume 7.

When the girls don’t react at all to his announcement that they’re all huntresses now he just freezes because this man needs to preplan everything and he did not have a plan b prepared and panics and it’s so relatable I adore it so much.

6. He’s awkward. While similar to the last point, people can suck at public speaking and still be able to converse well with people in a smaller setting but sometimes James seems to even be a little awkward even in less formal moments.

7. In early volumes he was allowed to make mistakes and still be a good person. I like it when characters are allowed to make a mistake and still be seen as a good guy. People make mistakes and screw up but that doesn’t make said person evil. Sometimes we can’t fix something or stop a bad thing from happening or even make a decision that winds up causing more problems. But the intention of the decision is the important thing. James wanted to protect people in volumes 2 and 3 so he brought his army because he had a feeling Salem was up to something. Cinder used said army to cause even more chaos but at the time the narrative refused to demonize him for this and allowed people to understand what his intentions were. That’s way more compelling than the narrative twisting itself to try and somehow prove the mains are always correct and never make mistakes. Learning and growing make stories interesting.

8. James is willing to make the tough decisions. Time and time again we see James making really difficult calls to try and navigate a war that most people don’t even know they’re fighting. He makes the plans to transfer Ambers Aura to keep it from Cinder. He pulled his armies from the other kingdoms to try and maintain peace, he decided to focus on Amity instead of the wall to try and restore global communication, he decided to try and save who he could when he was put between a rock and a hard place. He made the tough calls and stuck by his decision and that is admirable.

9. James trusts people. After James’s talk with Glynda she took his advice to heart and was more open and honest with people. When Winter tells him something is going on at Haven, he takes her word for it. When Ruby and co lie to his face he trusts their word. He trusts Yang when she says she saw Mercury attack her first during the Vytal Festival. (Despite what the narrative tries to tell us) James gives people the benefit of the doubt and is willing to trust people.

10. James is an incredible fighter even without a typical offensive Aura. Pretty self explanatory but James is able to go toe to toe with some dangerous adversaries and hold his own despite not having a special “super power” like everyone else does. Or even a special weapon really he kicks ass with just a pair of guns and that is so badass of him lolz.

And a bonus more meta point because I want to talk about this so there. But one thing I loved about Ruby and James’s volume 7 fallout is that we can see exactly how and why each of them made the decision they did during that breakdown. On one had we have Ruby who is full of hope still and sees the best in the world. She lost her friends and is still dealing with the trauma of that and doesn’t want to ever lose anyone else again or let people suffer a loss like she did during the fall of Beacon. On the other we have James who is equally traumatized from Beacon but in a very different way. He did his best to fight back against Salem and it was in the end used against him and caused even more pain and suffering. He’s terrified of going toe to toe against Salem again and wants to protect what he knows he can until he knows they are able to take on Salem. It’s realistic and painful and neither side is really a perfect option. It’s a bad situation and we can see how the characters respond to it and it feels in character and real and I wish that we got to see that writing continue into volume 9.

Sorry again for how long this one took! As I said life’s been all over the place and chaotic and it still is but I got a burst of motivation so I decided to finally type this out.

#rwde #james ironwood #ironwood protection squad #pro james ironwood #pro ironwood #general ironwood #general dadmiral #dadmiral ironwood

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oniontheif · 3 months ago

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I'm still here

oh my glorious king Varian... Every time I see your beautiful face I swear my heart skips a beat. Your magnificent blue eyes, your questionable safety choices, your beautiful smile... I swear I could just look at you for all eternity and I would never get bored. I'm always thinking about you, how amazing and perfect you are. I don't care if you canonically don't wear any socks, or if you tried to commit domestic terrorism on the kingdom, or if you unintentionally encased your father in amber. You have no flaws. Your pure beauty and pristine soul know no stain, no imperfection.To me, you are perfect. My pookie, my soulmate, my wife, my husband, my skibidi alpha... Ever since I first saw you, I've loved you. I've always loved everything about you. I know everything about you. I know your backstory, your personality, the things you like... I'd be willing to bet that there's nothing about you I don't know. I have over 200 photos of you saved to my phone, my notebook has your face all over it. I've read through your entire wiki page 2 times, I've even seen you randomly appear in my dreams. I've quoted you before, I have you as my wallpaper on my ipad, i've even considered making a cardboard cutout of you.If that's not devotion, I don't know what is. My pookie wookie... My love for you knows no bounds. You are insanely skibidi, your aura is overwhelmingly alpha. Every time I see you, I can't help but notice how you mog the other TTS characters You are so goddamn CUTE it's honestly insane. I don't know what it is, but you are just so adorable I can't take it anymore

#tts varian #rta varian #varian tts #varian #rapunzels tangled adventure #tangled the series #tangled #my art

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auspicioustidings · 1 year ago

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The War Duke

Blue Blood Part 2

Summary: Continuation of the Wild Prince. You awaken the next day wondering what the future holds.

Words: 3.4k

CW: Mentions of abuse, smut

You dreamt of the Prince. In your dream your eyes were open and you could watch what he had done to you in the bath tub, see the heaving of your breasts as your breath quickened. In this dream you saw the glow of your skin and the dilation of your pupils and you found you thought yourself beautiful like that.

There was an ache in you when you awoke. It was intense like it had been the night before, some coiled thing in your belly roiling to be snapped taught. You felt the thrill of doing something you knew to be wrong as you trailed gentle fingers down your body for the first time, pulling up your nightgown to give you access to that place the Prince had touched.

This was wrong you thought as you experimented with how hard to touch yourself. It was a sin you thought as your fingers soon found they glided easily with your growing wetness. Your father would find some way to punish you for your wickedness. He would order a stop to your meals or douse the fire in your chambers for a week of cold nights or he would make you kneel in rice for hours until all you wanted was to be obedient and never have to feel the sting of those grains on flesh again.

You felt the coil shrivel within you, the burning of shame overtaking any pleasure you may have been able to give yourself. You could not have said no to a Prince of this Kingdom, that was no sin. What was sinful was that you hadn't even thought to try. He had been warm and then aggressive and then gentle and the sudden changes in his passions had been exciting. The idea that perhaps such emotions had come from you made you feel as you thought drunkness must have felt, giddy and flushed.

The shame began to rise like bile. How ridiculous a thought, that someone of his stature would feel such heights of emotion for you. You did not know much, but knew enough that what had transpired had been intimate beyond what was proper. Was it merely dominance of a conquered foe he had been exercising?

Although you felt disinclined to do so you got out of the soft warmth of the bed and readied yourself with shaking hands. You must find out what had become of your father and the now fallen Kingdom. You had met the King once when you were younger and were in no hurry to do so again, remembering how his hand had left a bruise on your hip from how he had squeezed it while asking for more wine. But it was still your homeland, still your responsibility. If what the Prince had said was true, your responsibility would be not just to your father's lands but those of the whole territory now. You had never strayed beyond your own castle grounds until you had been brought here and had not thought it strange before. Now you felt ill at ease, like a whole world of critical knowledge had been kept from you.

When it came time to brush your hair, again a task that you had not done yourself until a month ago, you found that you felt the pain was deserved from pulling the bristles roughly through the strands. You pulled harder and harder, tears welling at the sting. A whole month and not once had you thought to ask for a book or a tutor, something to learn anything about this place. A whole lifetime and you would not even be able to point out the neighbouring Earldoms, Marches and Counties to your fathers Duchy on a map. Useless, wicked thing.

"There now, none of that."

You were shaking, new voice the only thing that broke you out of your dissociation. Your eyes focused again, seeing that you had tears streaking down your face in the mirror. There was a hand on yours, stopping your brush strokes. The man it belonged to was older and had such a bearing of quiet confidence that it soothed you somewhat. Never had you seen a man with such solidity about him, such a safe and strong aura.

"Here, let me" he said with the firm gentility one might use to calm a scared animal, pulling the brush from your hand to tenderly run it through your hair.

You stared at him through the mirror, watching how he focused on the task at hand. Slowly you came fully back to yourself, fully back to being human. His clothes were that of a solider, hands rough. And yet here he was brushing through your hair like no more than a ladies maid. You screwed your courage tight.

"Who are you?"

"Good, there you are. Was worried you had forgotten how to sing little birdie. My name is John Price, I believe you've heard of me" he replied with a wry smile, the brush set down now that your hair was soft and untangled.

Duke John Price, the War Duke. They said he was a demon on the battlefield, that he commanded monsters as others would men. The smaller Kingdoms offered up their Princesses in their dozens to him, but he remained a Bachelor. You had heard rumours that he was demonic, that no woman would be able to stand in his presence without burning from terror. He razed whole Kingdoms to the ground and left only enough alive for his Druid to sacrifice to a hungry God. Perhaps you were only seeing a distortion through the mirror. Perhaps if you turned to look at him properly you would turn to ash.

"Are you scared of me Duchess?"

"I... the Western Kingdom. The Prince said it had been taken."

"Gaz spoke truth."

"My father?"

"Alive. He surrendered quickly, betrayed his fellow countrymen" Price said, not doing anything to conceal his contempt for the man.

To betray your country like that was the act of a coward. But then the man had also been quick to offer up his only daughter to a bastard soldier reputed to be a monster behind the mask. Ghost had immediately denied the offer until Price had intervened. A tiny Kingdom the Western lands may have been, but a Duchess was still a Duchess. With no male siblings her husband would inherit the Duchy and title that went with it. They had been trying to get a title on Ghost for years against his wishes. He suffered greatly for this Kingdom, was the best solider that it had and a good man. It was ridiculous that the circumstances of his birth meant he would never own lands or receive the honours he was due. The Queen was ruthless about it, ensuring he could not even attend celebrations due to his common blood.

He knew it was pettiness on her part, still so bitter over Gaz being legitimised that she sought to hurt him through those he loved. She could do nothing to him as a Duke and she certainly could not keep Johnny from celebrations, a Druid from the Northern isles was a dangerous thing that not even she would seek to destroy. But some wretched bastard of her own lands she could inflict indignity after indignity on without consequence.

It was a marriage far below someone of your rank, small Kingdom or not. The fact that your father eagerly offered you up was an insult to you, a marriage like this being something that would mark you as undesirable. Price had assumed perhaps you were broken in some way or that you had faced some unforgivable scandal. Neither would excuse such a move on your father's part in his eyes. He knew that Simon Riley was a good man, but surely your father did not. And he had offered you as sacrifice anyway.

Marked undesirable or not, a marriage to Ghost would make you happier than whoever else your father would offer you to for military aid. At the time Price had not met you yet and even then he felt his protective instinct kick in at the thought of you sold to some brutal warlord in the mountains. So he made the deal against Ghost's protests. Simon Riley would become a Duke and his Duchess would be protected and that was that.

"He said he was married, that she is with child."

"Did you meet her?"

"No, is she...?"

"She is alive and well Duchess. Our Druid declared the marriage void under the eyes of the Gods. She is very young, and we have betrothed her to one of our best soldiers. He will treat the child as his own when they come."

You felt a flash of something foreign. Anger. It was anger. Anger at how casually this woman you did not know had been taken and given over to some stranger. Like you had been. It ran through your blood and made you invincible, turning and standing quickly to look at the War Duke who could burn women to cinders with just his presence. He was tall and it did not matter to you then. Let him be tall. Let him tower over you. You were not afraid.

"Just another bounty of your war then? Allowed to survive the burning of her home so that a man could be rewarded with a new trinket?"

You didn't know where this bite had been living all of these years. You had not once raised your voice to anyone before last month, least of all a man of ranking. You were braced for him to hit you as your father had at this behaviour, readying yourself and being disappointed that you still flinched when his hand raised. Only the hit never came, his hand only landing softly on your cheek to caress your face.

"I will not deny that it is common for men to be rewarded wives for war. The woman was not of noble blood and she was terrified of your father, that was clear. The soldier she will marry is a good man, gentle and full of adoration for her. Whether or not it is right is not as important to me as whether or not the end result is justified."

Your anger didn't have anywhere to go, his words flowing like honey against your rough edges. There was something of that coil again, waking blearily in your stomach. It would not do to feel like this every time a man touched you, you needed to stop looking at him and compose yourself.

"Let's go Duchess, time to show you around the grounds."

Price thought you a more dangerous thing than he had accounted for, so easily soothed and eager for affection that his mind wandered to all the ways it would be so easy to make you soft and pliant. The images his imagination conjured were enough to make his self-control take over and get you out of this room so you were not alone together.

The thought lingered that you would likely taste sweet.

You could not look the Prince in the eye and it irritated you that it seemed to cause him no end of amusement. Duke Price had escorted you around the castle and you had eagerly tried to take account of everything, determined to not make the same mistakes you had been. You had run into Prince Garrick on the ramparts, Price taking you out onto them to give you a full view of the landscape around you and of the training grounds far below.

You thought you handled yourself well, greeting him properly and keeping your eyes down. He had only replied with a laugh that he thought you were close enough to drop the title now, although he would be fine if you wanted to call him Sir. It had made you blush horribly, not used to men flirting with you. The Duke had smacked the Prince in the back of the head after he continued his teasing and you had been frozen in shock, completely disbelieving as the Prince only pouted and apologized. He was the King's son and he would let a Duke act in such a manner? It was against everything you had seen in your homeland, so used to lines of authority being something to use as weapons.

You felt a little unsettled at their easy companionship, yearning for the same. So to avoid looking you cast your eyes to the training grounds below. Price and Kyle turned to you when you gasped sharply. There was a man with a half shaved head, only clothed in tartan fabric. It was then that you knew that Blood Druid was not just a title meant to scare. He was from the Northern Isles. You were petrified instantly.

The Prince took up residence right behind your left shoulder, bending slightly so he could speak quietly into your ear.

"You know they say the men from the Northern Isles mate with wolves and drink the blood of their enemies."

You shivered, having heard that and much worse about their savage ways. Why was everyone around him acting like it was safe to be there? They were laughing at something he had said, bodies relaxed.

"He's going to be overseeing your wedding vows you know."

You snapped your head around, looking at the Prince and his eager grin with horror. Druids from the North worshipped old Gods, Gods who did not let any reward come unearned. You had heard how their weddings were blood soaked affairs, brides hunted for sport and left half dead. Grooms drinking the blood from their torn flesh and howling to the moon.

The Prince only chuckled at your expression, planting a soft kiss to your throat that tinged the sourness of your fear with the heat of something else entirely. The Duke took up a post on your right side, hot hand resting on the small of your back and burning through your clothing.

"Calm Duchess, Gaz is only teasing you," he said, his own voice sympathetic but with the same undercurrent of amusement. "His name is John MacTavish. He won't hurt you in any way that doesn't serve a greater end for you. Nobody here will."

How could you be calm? The Prince was gently moving your head back to the front, making you look down at the Druid and giving him space to brush your hair to one side of your throat leaving the skin on his side bare and enticing. When his teeth dragged lightly against your skin you thought you might die, a high whine leaving you and your hands going to grip the low stone wall in front of you for support.

The hand at the small of your back was tense before the Duke bit off a curse. He leaned to speak into your ear, his voice lower and more aggressive than before.

"You're going to stay quiet Duchess, can't have the whole castle guard rushing out to see what the problem is can we?"

Prince Garrick laughed and left your throat alone, instead now standing respectfully by your side with a hand discreetly looped around your waist to keep you still where you were. There was movement, the thud of knees hitting the ground beneath your feet. The Duke had went to his knees, the Prince pulling you back slightly to give him room to get in front of you.

Your body flushed and your nerves set on fire at the image below you, this Duke on his knees in front of you and looking up at you with a grin that felt animalistic. He was hidden by the wall from any eyes looking up from below which made it all feel even more dangerous.

"Eyes on MacTavish Duchess, you keep looking down at Price and everyone is going to know what's going on."

You snapped your eyes back to the Druid, watching how his back moved as he stretched. Oh Gods, the Duke was under your skirts now, breath hot at your core.

"Deep breath Duchess" the Prince said.

"I don't-"

You could not finish your sentence, not even sure you could identify what you had been going to say. All you could think of now was the wet tongue lapping at that bundle of nerves you had tried touching that morning. Your blood was singing.

"Gods I- oh!"

"Didn't he tell you to be quiet? Come on now, be a good girl and take it. If you keep crying out like that he'll stop."

You bit your lip and made a small noise of protest. It had been horrible this morning, feeling yourself climb so close to the top of that mountain only to come crashing down before the peak. This was far more intense, this mountain far higher. If you could not see the view from the summit, you thought you might die.

The texture of a tongue against you was not what you had expected, it was rougher, wetter. The Duke was so precise that you thought he must be practiced and the thought made you shiver. His hands were gripping your thighs firmly and you almost wanted him to grip you tighter, give you some sort of pain to make the pleasure less overwhelming.

Anytime he felt you tense, ready for the inevitable, he would slow. It was maddening. You wanted to cry when he teased your entrance with his tongue after slowing again, your insides clenching hard at the promise of something to fill you. He would kill you. He would kill you and the Prince was by your side watching you with fond amusement rather than doing anything to help.

Kyle watched as mumbled begging finally started to spill from your lips. You were doing such a good job being quiet and keeping your eyes forward, the threat of Price stopping enough to make you obey him. Even now as a flurry of pleases came from you, your crying was soft on the air, barely above a whisper. Fuck it made him hard again even after having cum in his hand barely 5 minutes before meeting up with you and Price, easily conjuring the image of you in the bath tub to get him there. Ghost was going to be mad about you. Already was if his reaction to the cut on your face that first day had been anything to go by.

He watched as your eyes widened and followed your gaze to see Johnny grinning up at you, sharp incisors making him look more beast than man. Kyle felt a sick satisfaction at the knowledge that he would know exactly what was happening on the ramparts. Johnny had a knack for always knowing.

Price felt you tense again, knowing this time it wasn't fully from him sloppily eating you out. He was usually much more refined than this, but you tasted even better than he had imagined you would and it sent him into a frenzy. It was only that self-control that let him edge you instead of just wringing orgasm after orgasm from you. If what they suspected was true then you had only been touched for the first time last night, they would have to build up to that.

His efforts weren't in vain, you were so wet now, dripping and soaking his beard. He was surprised it had taken his Druid so long to look up at you, that being the only reason he could think for the tension in your muscles now. He had seen how terrified you were of him and had scolded himself for part way finding it erotic to see you so helpless. He would make up for it though, giving you something positive to associate with Johnny so you wouldn't be as scared. He sucked hard at your clit.

For his part, Johnny enjoyed watching you cum. Even from this distance he could see your pupils completely blow out, your legs give way so that Gaz was the only thing holding you up. Got him half hard under the kilt, but then when wasn't he? He howled with laughter when Price emerged, dragging the back of his hand against his mouth in an attempt to clean himself up.

"What the fuck are you laughing at Johnny?"

He looked to the shadow in the doorway with a grin, waving at the wrecked Duchess on the ramparts before heading into the castle proper.

"Wisnae laughin' at anythin' in particular Si, just thinking that whit's fur ye'll no go by ye."

"English MacTavish."

He only laughed again.

#cod #cod au #tf 141 x reader #gaz x reader #price x reader #mhairiwrites #pls be nice I am really not confident about this one at all #kyle garrick x reader #john price x reader

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