#but i just don’t feel like enough for anyone and i feel like a burden and i guess i’m just worried i’m gonna lose the people i love most

[keiette]

KILL SWITCH LULLABY

summary: Nanami provides you comfort

It had been a long day. No, a long week. It felt like your mind was trapped in a fog, a dense, unrelenting cloud of exhaustion, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake it. Every attempt to get out of bed felt like dragging yourself through thick mud, each movement heavier than the last.

You hadn’t left your room much today. The blanket wrapped tightly around you felt like a small shield, keeping you safe from the outside world, from expectations, from everything.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to be productive, or that you didn’t care. But it was hard to explain the weight that had settled in your chest, making it difficult to even find the energy to sit up. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt normal—like yourself. The guilt was gnawing at you, eating away at any ounce of comfort you had left. Nanami deserved someone better, someone who wasn’t as... broken as you felt right now.

You knew he wouldn’t say it, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was too patient with you. Too kind. Too understanding. Maybe he deserved someone who didn’t make him carry the weight of their own mental battles.

That’s when you heard the door creak open.

“(Y/N)?” Nanami’s calm, steady voice was like a balm to your soul, gentle but firm, as he stepped into the room, his usual work attire slightly wrinkled, his tie hanging loosely around his neck.

You didn’t answer at first, unsure of how to explain the mess that was inside your head. Instead, you stayed curled up in bed, the weight of your thoughts holding you captive.

He didn’t press you. He never did. His footsteps were quiet as he approached, and you felt the bed dip beside you as he sat down, close but not too close. His presence was comforting, a steady anchor in the chaos you couldn’t escape.

“You don’t have to talk if you’re not ready,” Nanami said softly, his tone warm but laced with understanding. “But I’m here when you do.”

The sincerity in his words made your heart ache. His patience was something you admired, but it also made you feel so... undeserving. He was so perfect, so composed, and here you were, falling apart. You couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely above a tremble. “I know I should be doing something. I feel... useless, Nanami. Like I’m just wasting your time. You deserve someone who can be... better. Who isn’t... like this.”

A heavy silence hung between you. You could feel his eyes on you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. The guilt was overwhelming, and all you wanted was to hide, to disappear into the sheets.

You heard him exhale softly, and then his hand gently rested on the blanket near you, his fingers brushing against the edge as if he was carefully considering his words. “(Y/N),” he began, his voice as steady as ever but with an underlying tenderness that made your chest tighten, “I don’t need you to be perfect. I need you to be you.”

His words weren’t rushed, and he didn’t pressure you to respond. Nanami never made you feel like you were burdening him, never made you feel like you were asking for too much. Instead, he took his time, letting the silence speak louder than any words could.

“You’re not useless,” he continued, his voice soft but unwavering. “You’re human. And it’s okay to need rest. It’s okay to have hard days. No one expects you to be ‘on’ all the time. Not me. Not anyone. Just... you being here is enough.”

A small sob caught in your throat, and you finally let yourself cry, the tears falling silently as Nanami’s hand moved to gently rest on your back, his touch warm and reassuring. His fingers traced small, slow circles, grounding you in the moment, as if telling you that you were enough—even when you didn’t believe it yourself.

“You don’t have to carry everything alone,” Nanami said, his voice low and soothing. “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

You swallowed hard, the weight in your chest lightening just a little. His words didn’t fix everything, but they did something far more important—they made you feel seen. They made you feel understood.

“I’m sorry for feeling like this,” you murmured, your voice still shaky.

“Don’t apologize,” Nanami said firmly, his tone gentle but insistent.

“There’s nothing to apologize for. You’re allowed to have bad days. You’re allowed to feel down. But you don’t have to do it alone. I’m with you. Always.”

The sound of his voice, the warmth of his presence, and the gentleness of his touch made the room feel just a little bit brighter, like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t as alone in this as you had thought.

You curled closer into him, letting the exhaustion of the day wash over you. His embrace was steady, his body a reassuring presence that made everything feel just a little bit more bearable.

“I’m here, (Y/N),” Nanami whispered into your hair, his voice a soothing lullaby. “And you’re not a burden. Not now, not ever.”

You closed your eyes, feeling the tension in your body begin to melt away. For the first time all day, you allowed yourself to just be.

And in that moment, with Nanami by your side, you realized that you didn’t have to be perfect. You just had to be you. And that was enough..

[guhamun]

❝BUNNY-SHAPED…❞ HE TRAILED off, looking at Jiyan as if he had suddenly sprouted a few more eyes before looking away and shaking his head, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. How utterly ridiculous. ❝I don’t doubt it. Seems like something you’d do.❞ Calcharo couldn’t say that he could recall anyone taking the time to do that for him before. No doubt he would have been incredulous to wake up and see such waiting for him on a small plate by his bedside. What was said next did sober his amusement a little, Calcharo falling quiet as he recalled the day his people had been killed. New recruits, mostly, yet was what made it even worse. None of them were prepared to deal with TD, and so he knew that fight must have been primarily one-sided. However, he couldn’t be everywhere – nor could his more seasoned Ghost Hounds. They protected who they could, and that helped keep the loss of life down to what many might consider a ‘trickle’ for a large organization like his own. But lives were still lost. He had still felt as if he had failed them despite knowing there was only so much to be done.

      That, along with what had transpired back in that underground facility, had just pushed him over the edge. The anger he had felt had overflowed, nearly putting Jiyan’s life (as well as his own) in danger. ‘I wanted to be there for you.’ Words that he had not heard from anyone in countless years. So many years, he couldn’t even recall who had spoken them to him. All he knew, was that it was familiar. ❝So…that was why.❞ Of course. It was so simple, wasn’t it? Jiyan was not an overly complex man, even if at times, his actions and words could leave one feeling a bit off kilter. ❝I see.❞ Regardless, he had…been appreciative of their well-timed appearance. Appreciative of Jiyan trying to ease the burden with his assistance and with the meal he had prepared. It was all such a little thing. Even so, the intentions behind it all had done far more than he would perhaps ever know.

     But Calcharo said nothing to that.

     If anything, he said nothing more about that topic, moving on as easily as Jiyan did. Falling quiet once again, he waited to see what the other would say about what their next ‘adventure’ for the day would be. That never came. All that he was given as a response was a small, ‘there is,’ and nothing more before Jiyan’s head came to rest upon his shoulder. He tensed instinctively, surprised by the gesture he had been wholly unprepared for, soon relaxing taunt muscles quicker than he realized. There were things that he wanted to say, things dancing upon the very tip of his tongue…

     He let those things fade.

     ❝Fair enough.❞

A thin eyebrow lifted in amusement at the offered 'deal'. If he understood well, he had to follow Calcharo's advice, so they would consider following his? Hm, now that wasn't a very fair deal, was it? Calcharo would need to be more machiavellian than that to be able to 'deceive' him. He didn't reply to their question with words, but the amused look he offered in return said more than a thousand words.

That aside, indeed, he wasn't saying 'empty threats' to convince the other to take care of their physical condition. "And prepare bunny-shaped apple slices for you while you sulk in your bed and refuse to meet my gaze, too. I actually used to do plenty of things like that back when I still worked as a medical assistant for my mother." He added, amused. If Calcharo had attempted to be sarcastic, it completely flew over the general's head. But his smile dwindled after what they said next, reminding him of the TD outbreak in the Ghost Hounds' headquarters. "Well, it's only natural. Your headquarters were attacked, and the lives of ten mercenaries were lost. Losing your people never gets any easier," Should never get any easier, Jiyan thought to himself. "I wanted to be there for you." The truth was that the main reason he lingered wasn't because he was worried about how stable they were, he was simply worried about them. He knew that, perhaps, Calcharo wouldn't understand what he meant by that, but he didn't linger on the topic nor offered an explanation for his words.

If there was anything else he wished to do... Jiyan was someone who rarely stopped to think of what he wanted, but he has been trying to work on that since their conversation in the sagaci springs. "There is." If it was a selfish wish or not, he didn't know, but he wanted to remain here, with Calcharo, for a while longer. They didn't have to talk, just their company was enough. But, instead of saying that and risk getting teased by that man who likes to find the smallest opportunity to make him blush, he simply leaned closer and rested his head on their shoulder. A small sigh passed his lips. He was done talking.

[alaskan-wallflower]

how my parents feel after always reminding me how much better my older brother is than me

[floral-hex]

Just canceled all of my future therapy appointments. Big fudgin’ bummer. Did I mention I lost my insurance? Didn’t even find out about that until the day it lapsed. Trying to find a way to fix it now, reapplying and whatnot, but ya know, it’s bureaucracy so who knows how long it’ll take. Just fingers crossed I don’t run out of meds first.

lol it’s underwater 🐠

[jammmbi]

god i need therapy and to move out

[maxivermismind]

A

man I just need somewhere to put my feelings. I’m just so tired of feeling lonely all the time and not being sure of how to make better friends with people or make new friends. It’s so hard.

It’s hard for me to talk about because I feel so selfish wanting to feel like I’m important to someone, and I never want to make anyone feel bad… but sighs.

Sometimes it feels like it would be so much easier to disappear and start over.

[whimsyprinx]

i think at this point I should just give up on relationships

[thnksfrthmmrs]

mental illness rears its head at the worst time

[insanechayne]

~ ~ ~

[addictt-with-a-pen]

losing me isn’t a loss.

[bloomburnburial]

.

[moonstruckme]

If you don’t mind what about poly!marauders (emts version) x reader where she hides a injury that’s kinda serious (idk like a cut that’s pretty deep or smth) but she doesn’t think it’s serious, so she tries to hide it from them to not feel like a burden since they are always busy with work. Basically just a mix of emts marauders and casual dominance

Thanks for requesting lovely <3

cw: mention of blood

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

You’re trying to figure out whether putting your shoe in the washing machine will damage it irrevocably when the bathroom door handle twists. 

You look up like a deer caught in headlights. Sirius’ gaze flits from the shoe in your hand to the bloodstained sock on the floor to your wide-eyed look. 

“Shut the door!” you whisper-yell. He must be reeling, because he actually does it, closing the door with a click and dropping down beside you on the bathroom floor. 

“What’s going on?” he asks. Again, his gaze goes to your once-blue sock, now marred by a dark red stain. “Are you hurt?” 

You see the moment Sirius notices the foot you’re holding, layers of toilet paper wrapped loosely around the arch. His eyes sharpen. 

“Don’t tell James and Remus,” you plead. 

“Are you hurt?” he asks again, sternly now. 

Your lip finds it way beneath your teeth. “Not really,” you say. “It’s not terrible or anything, I just can’t get it to stop bleeding.” 

“That’s not usually a great sign, sweetheart.” Sirius scoots closer, holding out his hands. “Let me see.” 

You know better than to argue, transferring your foot into his lap. He gives you an odd look about the toilet paper before starting to unravel it, the thin material tearing under his rushed handling. Your boyfriend relaxes slightly when the wound is revealed. It’s deceptively small for how much blood seems to come out of it, the cut only a couple of centimeters along the arch of your foot. 

Sirius adjusts his grip, lifting it to the light to see it better, and you try not to look so visibly flustered at the tender way he’s handling you. 

“It’s little, see?” you say. “No need to bother anyone else.” 

He lowers your foot to give you an amused look. “Darling, as much as I love to have our dirty little secrets together,” he says, “you know they’d kill me.” 

“They wouldn’t,” you say, half desperate. “They love you, and I’ll protect you anyway.” 

Sirius’ mouth pinches. He thumbs at your ankle apologetically. “James would have us both flat on our backs in under a minute. Admire your confidence, though.” He sucks in a breath. “Rem, James!” 

The TV shuts off, and then there are footsteps on the stairs. Sirius is impervious to your glare, only picking your foot up again and turning it this way and that to see it better. 

“What?” James calls. You can hear Remus grumbling about how your apartment is hardly large enough to necessitate this much yelling. 

“In here!” Sirius shouts back. 

The door opens a second later, your other two boyfriends crowding the already small bathroom. James is crouched in an instant, setting a hand on Sirius’ shoulder to steady himself. 

“Oh, lovie, what’d you do?” 

You open your mouth to respond, but Sirius says, “Can one of you grab the first aid kit and a pen light? I can’t see if there’s anything still in here.”

“There shouldn’t be,” you say as Remus goes for the kit. “I already took out the glass.” 

Both Sirius and James look up from your foot, eyebrows raised. 

“And what were you doing that you ended up with glass in your foot?” Sirius asks. 

Your shoulders gravitate towards your ears. “Cleaning up the glass that I broke.” 

Remus hums disapprovingly as he passes a pen light to Sirius, who clicks it on, shining it onto your foot. You do your best to pretend this doesn’t make you want to crawl out of your skin. 

“When did that happen?” he asks. 

“This morning.” 

“Sweetheart.” James’ disapproval is evident in his voice. You can’t bring yourself to look up and witness it in his face, too. 

“And why didn’t you say anything when you hurt yourself?” Remus asks. He sits down beside you, eyes on what the other two are doing though you can feel his attention on you. 

“Because I didn’t want to bother you,” you say quietly. 

He tsks, and he doesn’t need to say anything more. It’s plain enough you’re in trouble. 

For a few moments, the silence is thick and hot, torturous, but surprisingly it's Sirius who does you the mercy of putting you out of your misery. 

“It doesn’t look like you’ve got any more glass in here.” He clicks off the pen light, and your hamstrings sigh in relief as he lowers your foot to rest back in his lap. “That’s lucky,” he tells you severely. “You can’t always rely on just picking out the big piece and having that be that.” 

“Stitches?” Remus asks, and you tense. You hadn’t even considered that. 

“I don’t think so,” Sirius says, but he sounds uncertain. “It’s just barely deep enough, though.” 

“Let’s see.” James holds out his hands, and Sirius hands it off to him. You try to ignore the fact that your foot is being passed around like something a child brought to show-and-tell. James takes up the pen light, peering at it for a few moments before nodding decisively. He pats the side of your foot. “I think you should be safe.” 

You must look as relieved as you feel, because James smiles, squeezing up the length of your calf. 

“What I really don’t understand,” he says lightly, “is why the hell you’ve been keeping it wrapped in toilet paper.” 

You can’t help but return his smile sheepishly as you shrug. “It works,” you say. “Plus, Remus gatekeeps the first aid kit.” 

“It’s only in the cabinet above the toilet,” Remus sighs. 

Sirius scoffs, and James reaches across you to pat him on the thigh. “No one can reach it up there but you, love.” 

You look over in time to catch your boyfriend’s eye roll, paired with the smirk he tries to hide. “Regardless,” he says, “it seems as though it wouldn’t be an issue if anyone who can’t reach it,” his eyes slide to yours, and you find new interest in the floor tiles, “would just ask someone else to get it for them, rather than being secretive.” You can feel his gaze searing into the side of your head, but you refuse to look up even when Sirius snickers and pinches your leg meanly. “If you didn’t have the kit, how did you clean it, dove?” 

“It’s clean,” you hedge, but make the mistake of looking up into Sirius’ stern gaze. He cocks an eyebrow as if to say Go on. “I ran it under the tap in the bathtub.” 

Remus sighs, Sirius groans, and James lets his head fall fully forward onto your knee. 

“Sweetheart,” James presses a kiss to your shin, “my love, I know you mean well, but this is why you need to tell us things.” 

“What’s the problem?” you ask as Remus moves to sit by Sirius, opening up the first aid kit. “Water’s just as good.” 

“It’s really not,” Sirius says, “seeing as water doesn’t actually kill bacteria. Do you want to stay where you are or sit up on the counter, darling?” 

“I’ve got a better idea.” James scooches over by you, lifting you by your waist and setting you in his lap. “There. Far more comfortable, don’t you think?” 

“Much.” You grin, turning your head to kiss him. “Thanks, Jamie.” 

“Spent a whole day keeping secrets and still getting the princess treatment.” Sirius’ tone is equal parts teasing and affectionate as he smooths a hand up and down your calf. “We must really love you or something.”

[raeathnos]

.

[moonxknightx]

♡˗ˏ✎*ೃ˚ : IN SICKNESS AND IN CARE : :;

╰┈➤ ❝ [PAIRING] ❞ Logan Howlett x F!Reader

・❥・GENRE: Fluff :))

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆FANDOM: X-Men

ੈ✩‧₊˚ WARNINGS: Literally none!

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥SUMMARY: When you catch a cold and try to hide it to avoid being a burden, Logan quickly notices you're not your usual sunny self. Despite your protests, he steps in to take care of you, showing a softer side as he insists you don't have to carry everything alone. In Logan's gruff but tender way, you learn that even the strongest need someone to lean on sometimes.

Based on this request.

THE COOL AIR THAT DRIFTED THROUGH THE MANSION WAS A PLEASANT REPRIEVE FROM THE USUAL HEAT OF THE DAY, but for some reason, it didn’t quite feel the same. You rubbed your arms, a shiver crawling down your spine. Your normally sunny disposition felt dimmed, and no amount of fake smiles seemed to mask how off you were feeling. Logan had already given you a curious glance at breakfast when you didn’t chatter on about your plans for the day.

He wasn’t the kind of man to prod too much. That wasn’t his style. But as the day dragged on, and you avoided him during training, kept quiet during the team meeting, and all but disappeared into your room, it was becoming impossible for him to ignore.

The door to your shared room creaked open, and Logan stood in the doorway, watching as you sat curled up under the blanket on the bed, tissues scattered around you. Your cheeks were flushed, and your usually bright eyes were dim and watery.

“Alright,” Logan grumbled, his voice rough but gentle, “what’s going on with you?”

You sniffled, rubbing your nose with a tissue before looking up at him. “Nothing,” you mumbled, your voice sounding congested. “I’m fine, Logan.”

Logan stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. His boots thudded against the wooden floor as he moved closer. “You don’t look fine. You’ve been avoiding me all day, and now you’re holed up here lookin’ like death warmed over. What’s goin’ on?”

A heavy sigh escaped your lips as you let your head fall back against the pillow. You weren’t acting like yourself, and you knew it. Normally, you were the ray of sunshine in Logan’s life, always bright and cheerful, bringing a light into his otherwise gruff and hardened world. But today… today, you just couldn’t muster the energy. The weight of the cold was pressing down on you, and it felt as if every part of you was being drained of its usual warmth.

“I caught a cold,” you admitted reluctantly, your voice quieter than usual.

Logan narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against the bedpost. “A cold?” he repeated, as if the idea was foreign to him. “Why the hell are you still workin’ if you’ve got a cold?”

You shifted uncomfortably, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

Logan’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief. “A burden? You think takin’ care of yourself makes you a burden?”

“I just didn’t want to make anyone worry,” you mumbled, feeling a little embarrassed now. “I know everyone’s busy, and you’ve got your own stuff to handle. I didn’t want to be a distraction.”

Logan let out a low growl, his frustration evident, but not at you. He pushed himself off the bedpost and came to sit beside you on the bed, his hand brushing some hair out of your face. The touch was surprisingly tender for someone with such a rough exterior.

“Darlin’,” he began, his tone softer now, “you ain’t a burden. Not to me. Not to anyone.” His calloused fingers trailed down your cheek, feeling the warmth of your fever. “You’re sick, and that’s all there is to it. You shouldn’t be pushin’ yourself like this.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could say anything, Logan’s expression shifted, a mixture of concern and protectiveness flashing across his face.

“Don’t even try to tell me you’re fine,” he said, cutting you off before you could protest. “I know you. I’ve been around long enough to know when somethin’ ain’t right, and you ain’t yourself today. You’re burnin’ up, Sunshine.”

A small, tired smile tugged at the corners of your lips when he used his nickname for you. “I’ll be okay, Logan, really. I just need to sleep it off.”

He wasn’t buying it. Not one bit.

“You’re not gettin’ out of this one that easy,” he muttered, standing up and heading toward the bathroom. You could hear him rummaging around, muttering to himself about where the hell Hank kept the damn thermometer.

You groaned softly, sinking deeper into the covers. “Logan, I can take care of myself…”

“Yeah? Well, I’m takin’ care of you now, so deal with it,” he called back from the bathroom. Moments later, he returned with a damp washcloth and a thermometer. He pressed the washcloth to your forehead, the cool sensation soothing your feverish skin.

You squirmed slightly, feeling a little uncomfortable with all the attention. Logan wasn’t exactly the nurturing type—at least, not outwardly—but the way he was hovering over you made your heart swell. You knew he cared, but he rarely showed it in such an obvious way.

“Stop fussin’,” he grumbled as he stuck the thermometer under your tongue. “I ain’t lettin’ you fight this thing alone, so just stay put.”

The thermometer beeped, and Logan took a look at the reading, his jaw tightening. “You’re runnin’ a fever. You should’ve said somethin’ sooner.”

You shrugged weakly, the energy to argue completely gone. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

Logan sighed deeply, his gruff exterior softening for just a moment as he sat back down beside you. “You worry me more when you don’t say anythin’,” he admitted quietly.

His words caught you off guard, and you looked up at him through bleary eyes. Logan wasn’t one for emotional speeches, but there was a raw honesty in his voice that made your chest tighten.

“I can take care of myself, but I ain’t used to people takin’ care of me,” Logan continued, his voice low. “But you… you’re different. You’re the light in all this darkness, and if somethin’ happens to you… I don’t know what I’d do.”

You reached out, placing a hand on his arm, feeling the strength beneath his skin. “I’m not going anywhere, Logan,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

He let out a soft, almost inaudible grunt before pulling the blanket up over you. “Damn right you’re not,” he muttered, his tone gruff but tender. “Now, rest. I’ll get you some soup or somethin’.”

As he stood up to leave, you grabbed his hand, stopping him in his tracks. “Logan… thank you.”

He gave you a small nod, his lips quirking into a faint smirk. “You’re welcome, Sunshine. Just remember, you ain’t gotta do everything on your own. You’ve got me now.”

With that, Logan left the room, and you closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into the warmth of the blankets. You hadn’t realized how heavy the weight of your exhaustion was until now, but with Logan by your side, you finally allowed yourself to rest, knowing he’d be there to take care of you.

And, for once, you were okay with that.

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[whimsyprinx]

I so desperately want to life a ghibli-esque life where I see the wonders and joy in the mundane parts of life but that’s also impossible besties

[solxamber]

Burn Wild — Leona Kingscholar x reader

Always so close, yet so far away. Leona pushes it down—he keeps pushing and pushing, until one day, he lets it break.

(it's a happy ending, i swear)

Leona Kingscholar has always known his place in the world. From the moment he learned to walk, to stand tall under the endless, unforgiving sun of the Sunset Savanna, he has been acutely aware of how people see him. They don’t need to say a word—he feels it in the heavy silence that follows him into a room, in the guarded glances cast his way.

Most are terrified of what he represents: the second prince, a shadow of the royal bloodline, someone who could inherit a kingdom but never will.

Others fear him for his strength, the quiet, coiled power beneath his lazy exterior, or for his sharp tongue that cuts deeper than any blade, cleaving through pretense and weakness alike.

“Lazy,” they whisper behind his back, as if the word can sum up the depth of his disdain for this farcical game of status and power. “Unmotivated,” they say, because they can’t understand why someone with the world laid at his feet doesn’t fight harder to claim the throne, to claw his way up and tear it from his brother’s grasp.

They’ll never understand. They’ve never felt the weight of a crown that will never be theirs, the hollowness of a title that means nothing but second best. Let them carry that burden for just a day, and see how long they last.

He could laugh at how little they know.

If he could trade this title, this empty prestige, for even a sliver of genuine acknowledgment, he would. To be seen—not as a prince, not as some spare destined to live in the shadow of his older brother—but as Leona, the man. The individual.

The soul that yearns for more than the scraps of attention thrown his way, like bones to a dog. But life, he knows, isn’t fair. It wasn’t made to be. And for someone like him, it never will be.

So he doesn’t hope for fairness. He doesn’t look for understanding. Instead, he pushes it all inward, presses it deep into the corners of his heart where no one can touch it.

When people try to get close, when they think they can soften his edges or pry into the depths of his guarded soul, he meets them with sharp words and a glare that freezes them in place.

They’ll never know how much easier it is to be feared than to be seen, how much safer it feels to keep everyone at arm’s length.

He is second in line, but he’ll never be second to anyone. He’ll make sure of that. He’ll keep himself locked away, out of reach, untouchable.

If they can’t see past the crown, past the sharpness in his words or the laziness they accuse him of, then they don’t deserve to know him. Let them think he’s content in the shadows, in his naps and biting remarks, in the mask he wears so well.

There’s no use wishing for something different. He’ll never be number one, and that’s a truth he’s long since swallowed. But even so, a part of him, buried deep where even he rarely dares to look, still longs for more.

For a world where he isn’t just the spare, where he isn’t second to anyone. A world where someone might see him—not the prince, not the title—but just him.

But that world doesn’t exist, and it never will. So he keeps it all buried, locks it all behind a wall of indifference, letting the bitterness settle in his bones. Maybe, in the end, it’s enough to live in a world that has no place for him.

At least that way, no one can ever mistake him for someone else’s second choice.

Leona doesn’t actually nap. He just lies there, eyes half-lidded, watching the sky or the flicker of light on the walls. Sleep doesn’t always come; it’s not that he needs it.

No, it’s the weight of disinterest, the apathy that’s soaked deep into his marrow, making it seem pointless to do anything else. Why bother? When every glance cast in his direction is the same hollow reverence for a title, a prince without a crown.

When no one bothers to look past that thin veil, why should he try to show them anything more?

There’s a strange kind of comfort in that inertia, a quiet understanding that nothing will change. People like things easy, predictable.

They would rather see the lazy, unmotivated prince who naps through life than ask why. It’s easier for them, and maybe even for him.

But then, there are those like Ruggie. Leona likes people like him. At least Ruggie’s honest. The kid wants what he wants, makes no illusions about it. There's a rawness to his hustle, the clarity of someone who doesn’t pretend to care about who Leona is beyond his utility.

But you? He never bothered to learn your name, never even gave you a second thought. You would be like the others, surely. Just another face in the crowd. Another person who would pretend to care, only to be drawn by the allure of who he was supposed to be.

So when he overhears your voice one lazy afternoon, chatting with Ruggie like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he almost doesn’t bother to look. Almost. Boredom, though, is a dangerous thing, so he tilts his head just slightly, his gaze barely cracking open to take you in.

There you are, talking, smiling with Ruggie like you’ve never had a care in the world. He watches the way you casually hand over your lunch, like it’s the most effortless gesture. Not out of obligation, not for any hidden motive. Just... because.

It grates on him. That smile of yours, that careless generosity. It makes something bitter stir in his chest, gnawing at the edges of his quiet disdain.

You have no idea, do you? That simple act, that thoughtless kindness—it’s not going to change anything.

It won’t make the world any softer for you, won’t stop it from grinding you down until you feel as jaded as he does.

He closes his eyes, shutting you out, trying to shake off the irritation curling around his ribs. Maybe that’s the thing that gets under his skin the most—that privilege of yours, of someone who hasn’t been broken yet.

Of course, life never lets Leona catch a break. He’s dealt with enough by now to know that any moment of quiet is always followed by something—someone—determined to disturb his carefully cultivated indifference.

This time, it’s you. Paired with him for some group project. The usual routine would be simple: the others would either be too intimidated to approach him, or they’d accept a bribe, a few coins to make it easier on both sides. But you? No, you seem hellbent on dragging him into this.

He still remembers the first time you approached him after class, all bright-eyed and earnest, asking for his number like you had no idea who he was. No idea what kind of reputation he held.

He stared you down, letting his eyes narrow into the glare he knows works every time—cold, dismissive, enough to make anyone with half a brain turn and scurry away. But you didn’t.

You tilted your head, smiled at him, as if the weight of his stare didn’t bother you in the slightest. That moment felt like a spark catching in the dark, a flicker of something unfamiliar in his chest.

But Leona, who has long since mastered the art of burying unwanted feelings, shoved it down without a second thought. That’s how it’s always been. If something gets too close, too real, he locks it away, deep beneath layers of practiced indifference. He’s never let anyone chip away at that wall, and he’s not about to start now.

Yet, you’re relentless. No matter where he goes to escape, you somehow find him. He’s sure Ruggie’s been eating like a king for weeks, considering how often you bribe him for information.

You show up in the strangest places, dragging your backpack along, always with that same smile. And, slowly, Leona starts to let you in—not that he’d ever admit it. Not out loud, not even to himself. But for the first time, he lets someone work with him, just to get you off his back.

But there’s something else too. Leona struggles with control. His whole life has been shaped by what’s been taken from him, what’s been denied. Every opportunity to exert control, to hold power, he seizes it, because it’s the one thing that can’t be stripped away.

So when he gruffly barks orders at you, expecting a flash of resistance, a bite back, he waits. And again, there’s that smile. That stupid, persistent smile. You don’t challenge him; instead, you calmly suggest changes, as if negotiating with a lion was just another part of your day.

And for the first time, Leona feels that flicker in his chest burning a little brighter. He doesn’t like it. It’s unfamiliar, and everything unfamiliar is dangerous. That’s the mistake he made before—letting himself believe that anything good could come from letting his guard down. He locks it down again, hard, throwing the key to the furthest corner of his mind.

He won’t make that mistake again. He’s too old, too wise for that now. But the flame, small and stubborn, remains.

Leona Kingscholar knows exactly what he's capable of. Spelldrive isn’t just a game for him—it’s an arena where his talent roars, where his strength becomes undeniable. He knows he's good. Better than most, and yet… not better than him.

Malleus Draconia—towering, unbeatable, and utterly maddening in his ease. The prince of the fae seems to glide through every match, effortless, as if strength itself bends to his will.

And it gnaws at Leona, festers in a corner of his mind that he tries to forget. Malleus has everything Leona could want—power, status, recognition. And the worst part? It’s never enough for Leona to just be good, not when he knows that the world will never see him as anything other than second best.

Another match, another loss to Diasomnia. Another bitter reminder that no matter how hard he fights, talent doesn’t always win. It’s routine now, this pattern of disappointment, of watching the scoreboard flash their defeat while pretending it doesn’t matter.

His teammates look to him with expectation, but Leona only feels the dull weight of inevitability. It’s almost boring how predictable it all feels.

So he does what he always does—retreats to a corner, far from the chaos and the murmurs of his dorm. If the world insists on making him second, he’s learned how to disappear from it.

Leona stretches out, the familiar lethargy settling in like an old friend. His mind tells him to sleep, to let the world fade for a while, but it’s not sleep that drives him here.

It’s the apathy, the exhaustion that sinks deeper than bone. It’s the bitter taste of realizing that no matter how sharp his claws, no matter how strong he is, there’s always someone stronger.

He doesn’t expect anyone to follow him. But the soft rustle of footsteps makes his ear twitch, and he cracks an eye open, irritation already curling in his gut. It’s you. And for a brief moment, he waits for that stupid smile—the one you’ve been plastering across his path ever since you barged into his life. But today, there’s no grin, no lighthearted quip. You look at him with something else. Concern.

Leona stiffens. He knows the look of pity well enough to recognize it, but this isn’t pity. No, this is something far more dangerous—concern. For him. You sit beside him in silence, no words, just the quiet presence of someone who isn’t there to challenge or undermine, but simply to be there. And then you hand him a bottle of electrolyte water, no fanfare, no explanation. Just a gesture, simple and clear.

It feels like a sudden shift in the air. Like a trap laid bare, exposing parts of him he thought he’d buried beneath layers of resentment and indifference. Leona feels naked under your gaze, like you can see past the layers of arrogance and self-assurance, straight into the parts of him he doesn’t let anyone see.

He can’t decide if he wants to snap at you, tell you to leave him the hell alone, or if he wants to let himself drown in the unfamiliar warmth of your presence.

He knows you’re friends with them—Diasomnia, Malleus, all of them. You’re in their orbit, always close enough to the winning side. You could be anywhere right now, basking in the afterglow of another victory, but you’re not.

You’re here. Sitting beside him, looking at him as though he isn’t second. As though he’s worth more than what everyone else sees.

So he asks you, with a low growl edging his words, why the hell you’re here. And your answer is so simple it almost infuriates him. You wanted to be here with him. No pretense, no hidden motives. Just that.

Leona should push you away, should throw up every wall and bury whatever strange warmth is trying to flicker to life in his chest. But instead, he does what he’s good at—he pretends none of it matters.

He settles down again, using you as a pillow, as if this were nothing more than another nap, another way to escape.

But when your fingers brush through his hair, slow and gentle, something inside him stirs. The flames he’s kept buried for so long, the ones he’s always tried to suffocate, flicker just a little brighter. For the first time in a long time, Leona lets them. Just this once. Just for a moment.

Leona doesn’t waste his time on other people’s messes. Why should he? If someone gets tangled up in their own poor decisions, they ought to figure it out themselves. No one ever held his hand, no one pulled him from the darkness when it crept too close.

So he’s learned to stay indifferent, aloof—disconnected from the endless chaos that surrounds him.

So when he sees you in the middle of a heated argument, your back up against the metaphorical wall, three people towering over you, he tries—he really tries—to let it slide. It’s none of his business.

You can figure it out. Why wouldn’t you? You’re always smiling like the world bends for you anyway, always so… relentless. But there’s something about the way those three loom over you, the sharp glint in their eyes, that makes it hard for him to settle back into the lazy apathy that clings to him. He closes his eyes, feigning disinterest, willing himself to ignore the situation.

But then, he hears something that makes his ears twitch, something that slices through his indifference like a blade. You're defending him.

Defending him as though it’s second nature to you, like it’s not even a question. He strains to hear the words, letting them wash over him like a foreign melody—merits he didn’t even know he possessed, traits you speak of like they’re so obvious, like you’ve been holding them in your heart all this time.

It’s the strangest thing. The tension in the air thickens, the argument escalating, voices growing sharper. And before he can even think about why he’s doing it, Leona Kingscholar stands.

He pushes off from his nap spot, his movements slow but deliberate, each step carrying the weight of something he doesn’t quite want to acknowledge yet.

When he gets close, the three people glance at him, and his glare alone is enough to send them scattering, as if the storm that rumbles within him could tear them apart with just a look.

And then there’s you. Standing there, looking at him with that same damn smile, as if the danger you were just in doesn’t bother you at all.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" His voice is low, rough, the edges of frustration still clinging to it. He grabs your wrist, dragging you to a secluded corner, out of the public eye, his grip firm but not harsh.

You blink up at him, unbothered by the ferocity in his eyes, and answer with a simple shrug. "I was just telling the truth."

"It doesn't matter if it's the truth," he snaps, the words leaving him more sharply than he intended. "You could’ve gotten hurt, idiot. You don’t need to get involved in something like that. Especially for someone like me."

For a moment, he expects you to falter, to back down like everyone else always does when they realize the danger. But you don’t.

You stand your ground, and that damn stubbornness that seems to be the core of your being lights up in your eyes. "Leona, I’m not gonna stand there and listen to them trash you. You’re more than they’ll ever understand, and I won’t pretend otherwise. I’m not afraid of them, or anyone."

He stares at you, something twisting deep inside his chest. In the middle of this argument, he realizes something he’s never let himself believe before: you chose him. Not out of fear, not out of obligation, but because you genuinely see something in him worth defending. You chose him, even when it meant putting yourself at risk.

Before he can stop himself, before his mind can catch up to what his heart is screaming, he pulls you close, crashing his lips against yours. The world seems to tilt, everything else fading as your hands reach up, steady and sure, pulling him closer. You kiss him back without hesitation, and when you finally break apart, you press your face into his neck, shy but somehow still so sure.

When you whisper softly, your breath warm against his skin, “I chose you, Leona,” the words settle into him like a promise. His chest tightens, the flame that’s been smoldering for so long finally breaking free, burning brighter and wilder than he ever thought possible.

He lets it. He lets the fire consume him, for once not pushing it down, not pretending it doesn’t exist. Because for the first time in his life, Leona Kingscholar is someone’s first choice.

And he lets the flames burn wild.

I'm not even kidding I made myself tear up while writing this because he's so special to me.

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