#god i was frothing at the mouth last night

[h0estar]

alright, i know being a manga reader makes you... dissatisfied about how certain scenes played out but literally after finishing the recent ep, i understood WHY.

I WAS CLUTCHING MY PEARLS AT 1 IN THE MORNING BC OMFG???????????????????????????

The cute Jinmao interactions in the beginning may not have made the cut but they sure as hell went up and beyond with their cave scenes and i gotta say, those were necessary sacrifices for the greater good 🙏

BECAUSE HELLO?!?!??!!!!!!!!??!

THE WAY JINSHI LOOKS AT HER HAS ME FLOORING MAOMAO IS SO STRONG

(she definitely wasn't tho. i saw the way she gaped at his face. I KNOW YOU MAOMAO!!!!)

and the way jinshi instinctively locked her in place with that delicious waist grab?!? my guy did NAWWTT do all that in the manga but if his slutty outfit and hairstyle in the beginning had to be sacrificed for this, then to hell with them 🔥

ALSO HELLO????????? THE CLOSE UP OF JINSHI GIVING HER A PASSIONATE CPR HAS ME WEAK ON MY KNEES

This can be taken out of context and I'M GLAD IT CAN BC HELL YEAH

the animators had to set their priorities with this ep and I'M GLAD THEY DID. THEY KNEW WHAT WE WANTED AND THEY GAVE ITTTT

I can't wait for the next ep!!!!

[mazekingdom]

yo everybody in the world has been sleeping on Pantheon including myself

[n0cturnalp1g]

The Dragon, The Bitch, and the Sheer Audacity

Summary: Prince Daemon Targaryen was in a familiar predicament/ But this time aroundit wasn't him that was avoiding his wife, it was his wife doing everything she could to avoid him. Characters: Daemon Targaryen x Female!Reader!Hightower. Gwayne Higtower Word Count: 1,040 Chapter Warnings: Not Edited. Just got inspired to write a short chapter because of @just-some-random-blogger Thank you for the commentary, really made my day when i read it!

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Prince Daemon Targaryen was cursed with the consequence of his own actions. He stared at the empty bed of his marital chambers. Yesterday he had married you and forcefully made you his wife, but he wasn’t much of a monster to force himself onto you–once again he finds himself not consummating his second marriage.

“Where is she?” Daemon had questioned the servant trying to busy themselves with cleaning the mess in the room.

“She is with her sister, the Queen, your Grace.” The mousy servant spoke, fear all the more evident in her eyes–he remembers her to be one of the servants helping with tending to his new wife last night, the verbal lashing they’ve found themselves into and cups and daggers being thrown at one another after. “They are praying in the Septs.”

Daemon couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the notion of the Sevens. Of the devout faith his new wife had because of your own family. One of the few flaws he was willing to overlook at this moment. But he couldn’t help but wonder if it would have been better if you had married in the tradition of his house, he could already imagine Otto and his spawns frothing at the mouth at the possibility.

“Tell the dragonkeepers to prepare Caraxes for flight, and ensure that the saddle will be big enough for myself and my wife.”

The eyes of the servant widened but did not voice her reaction out loud as she bowed and left Daemon to his own thoughts–a dangerous thing to do at this moment. It didn’t take long for him to also order to have his wife be brought  to the dragonpit, maybe a semblance of the reality of your new life would do you some good.

His eyes lingered on the mess that still remained in the room. His eyes zoning in on the familiar cloth that was stained in blood–blood cut from his own hand instead of what everyone perceived to be your maiden blood. It was better that way, for everyone to believe a consummation that has already transpired than an avoidance that was all too certain that came between them.

He sighed, slouching his head in frustration.

But somehow, anything that has to do with his own wife means he will no longer know peace. Chaos was now a constant for the Rogue Prince when it comes to his Wretched wife.

“Your Grace.” A guard has interrupted the momentary peace of his chambers.

“What?”

“Your Lady wife has been requested to return to Oldtown to assist Lord Hightower.”

“Of course she was.” He muttered under his breath already knowing the mess his day would be with his wife and everyone that involved the Hightower name.

All your life you had always believed yourself that there was no such thing as a God, and even more so multiple one that would ever place you in such a predicament. But here you were. Newly married, unconsummated and much preferring the presence of your younger sister than your new dragon husband–until her brother had requested her to return back to Oldtown.

“How easy it is for our Uncle to kick me out of Oldtown and demand me right back because of his own incompetence.”

Gwayne spoke your name gently but there was an evident warning in his tone. With nothing but the clothes on your back, you had joined your brother as you were demanded to return back to Oldtown as you were the only one capable of dealing with report reviewing–who knew your insistence of studying more than what was required of you would end with you in this predicament.

The pride of a lord is his ultimate downfall. You know all too well and made good use of it in your time under your Uncle’s ward. You’ve nearly burned down his tower as he tried to prove a point and failed to do so.

One of the only things that brought you immense pleasure was the small little fact that you made sure not to inform your husband of your departure. It brought a glimpse of satisfaction knowing that you were able to one up him and insist upon yourself that you still had control on yourself and your own autonomy.

“I’m afraid of asking why you are smiling, so I will not ask.”

“Nothing that needs your concern at the moment, brother.” You reassured, galloping your horse further.

The sooner you arrive in Oldtown, the sooner you are ensured that you will be further away from your tyrant of a husband.

For the next few days, you and your younger brother travelled by horse from King’s Landing to Oldtown. The presence of your younger brother brought a momentary peace, away from the judgement of your father and sister and away from the control that was not bestowed upon your husband since your marriage to him.

“I’m actually surprised your husband allowed you to travel away from King’s Landing, just a day after your marriage.”

You said nothing as soon as your eyes lingered onto the tower you had known all your life. As many memories of pain and turbulence you’ve endured here, it was a home that you always wanted instead of King’s Landing. You wanted this, the peace and tranquility away from the politics of the throne.

Now you were smack dab in the middle of it all.

“Home sweet home.” You muttered under your breath welcomed with the cautious eyes of the numerous guards lingering at the gate.

But neither you nor your brother could have ever expected that instead of your Uncle Ormund waiting with contempt for you, the sight of a large ugly dragon and equally large and abhorrent rider would come waiting for them both in Oldtown.

“Do you expect you can leave the Keep without informing your Lord Husband, My Dear wife?” Daemon Targaryen smirked, the swagger of a man that was constantly given what he wanted.

Behind him was his dragon, the vicious Blood Wyrm that brought fear and power to his family–and this sense of entitlement that knows no bounds in this day and age.

“And just a day after you wed me, you’re already running away, Dear Wife?”

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

God ever since reading A Gilded Cage I cant get the thought out of my head of a part 2 where Reader doesn't see Jason for a few days after the revelation. Like maybe he thinks he's being kind and giving us some time to process, maybe he's on his angst again, or maybe some outside factor has taken his attention so the only time he's able to visit is while we're asleep.

And the whole night of the reveal feels like a fever dream when we wake up but there's a blanket draped over us and a fuzzy little kitten purring up a storm on our chest (in my heart his name is Bean (short for Toebean)), so we're at least kind of sure it happened. But as the time passes with no sign of Jason our certainty begins to wane and until we finally get fed up and write on the notepad the first thing we've asked for since that night: "You."

Or something like that idek okay I've been over here clawing at my walls frothing at the mouth I never really even liked ak!Jason before reading your stuff and now I'm feral for him and its all your fault and I'm not even mad about it

A Glimmering Collar

AKA Part Two of this series. Ahh, nonnie, you literally cooked with this. I love when my fics inspire people enough to keep thinking on them! Seriously, ty for dropping these ideas in my inbox cause I had nothing going on in my brain for a part two initially. Hope you enjoy!

~2.6k words

You wake up to something tickling your nose. Your body feels heavy, your mind even more so. Nothing in you is ready to open your eyes, to face the fact that last night could all have been a dream. That he isn't– that was just a dream.

Something soft flicks your nose again, and you force your eyes open. You blink hard once. Then twice. It's a kitten. It's tiny, and it's sitting by your face. Every few seconds, its tail sways and brushes your nose.

Oh. You sit up slowly, trying not to frighten the small thing. It looks at you contently over its shoulder and meows. The kitten stretches as you stare at it, then plops itself directly on the blanket resting over your lap.

Huh. There's a blanket you definitely don't remember grabbing sprawled over your legs. You carefully reach down to pet the kitten's head. Your heart melts a little when it nuzzles your fingers and purrs.

You look around the room slowly. Nothing else looks different. The notepad is still in place, but the kitten and blanket all point to one thing. Last night was real. Jason is alive. Jason is the Arkham Knight.

You're trying to wrap your brain around that when the door flies open, nearly making you jump out of your skin.

"Good morning!!" A flurry of voice call from the doorway. Your eyes widen as three brightly dressed people strut their way into your apartment, "Are you ready for your shopping trip, hun?"

"My– excuse me?" You stumble out, tucking the kitten to your chest as you stand.

They giggle, and one of them steps forward, "Your shopping trip, sweetie! And spa day, of course. Oh, ha, we haven't even been introduced, have we? I'm Krystal with a K, she's Destini with an i and he's Robbi also with an i."

Robbi huffs and walks up to you to pet your kitten, "Why can't you ever introduce Destini second? She can be Destini also with an i, ya know."

The other girl walks up to you as well and picks affectionately at your clothes, "Because it's alphabetical that way, Robbi. Now you better go get dressed, we have brunch reservations and mimosa plans!"

"I– sorry? What?" You ask, eyes darting between the three of them. Whatever this is, you can't keep up. You've barely processed Jason kidnapped you, and now you're supposed to go get a massage and drinks?

"The boss wants you to go out," a flat voice cuts in. You're the only one that stiffens at the sight of two large men stepping through the door.

Krystal speaks up, "We're here to make sure you have a good time! And Mack and John are here to keep us safe!"

"Mack and John," You echo weakly.

"Your body guards, silly," Destini chirps, ushering you to your room. She plucks the kitten from your hands, "Now get dressed! Wear something nice!"

You stare at the door as she shuts it. What just happened? You hear them chattering happily in the kitchen, idly talking about pregaming your shopping trip.

Your whole mind is a mess, and you sluggishly get ready, thoughts whirling. You've barely talked to soul since you were kidnapped, and now you have five new names to remember, a kitten, and a day out.

You're not exactly sure if you should be unsettled or grateful at how quickly Jason worked to get you what you asked for. By the time you've opened your bedroom door, Krystal, Destini and Robbi are passing around a flask, and playfully trying to get your 'bodyguards' to drink it.

You wonder what they must think of all this. Who they think you are. You're struck with the realization that Jason must be paying them to entertain you today.

You don't get to linger on the thought before Robbi hooked his arm with yours, dragging you towards the door, "Let's gooo, the brunch place we're going to does the best pineapple mimosas. Or cherry, if that's your thing."

"Wait," Mack– or John, you're not exactly sure which one is which– stops you, "Boss wants you to wear this."

The girls and Robbi coo in awe when Mack opens a box, revealing a glittery, jaw-dropping choker. You waver at the sight of it. It's not that it doesn't match what you're wearing. You'd dressed up like Destini suggested, but it feels like some kind of trap.

You reluctantly pick up the necklace, eyeing how it catches the light, "Is it– are sure it's safe to wear this out?" Safety isn't really what you're concerned about at the moment.

You're more worried about the crushing weight that this means more than you understand.

John nods once, "There won't be any problems."

Krystal happily plucks the necklace from your fingers, and before you have time to argue, she drapes the necklace around your throat. "It's beautiful, hun. Just like you. Let's go get you something to eat," her voice is soft, measured, and full of so much understanding it makes you want to cry.

You don't know much they know, but when she hooks her arm with yours to guide you out the door, you have a feeling there's more awareness than their bubbly attitudes let on.

The day ends up being wonderful. Being around people, out under the sun (the sun Gotham does get), was rejuvenating. You had fun, joked, smiled, and for a day, it was almost like you didn't have a prison cell to go back to.

The food was delicious, the spa relaxing, and you didn't have to carry back a single bag. Krystal had flashed a black card at every payment, every place ever could want to shop at, reassuring you it's all been taken care of.

But the time you've collapsed on the couch, exhausted but content, the uneasy feelings from this morning are gone.

You settle on the cushions to wait for Jason. To thank him for listening or to yell at him for still keeping you here, you're not exactly sure yet.

But he doesn't come, you fall asleep in your expensive necklace and pretty clothes with one hand petting your kitten. He doesn't come the next day either, at least not while you're awake, but Krystal, Destini, and Robbi do.

Your friends, the people being paid to entertain you are nice, perfect even. They're exactly what you would have asked for.

Your kitten is perfect too, it cuddles with you at night and nuzzles under your chin after you're left alone, when the unease finds its way back to you.

It's been days since you've seen him. It's starting to feel like a lifetime. You know he comes back after you fall asleep, he moves things. You think it's his way of showing that he listened, that he came back because you asked.

The notepad, the one you haven't written on since that night, shifts closer to you on the glass table if you sleep on the couch.

The glimmering choker gets pulled out of the drawer every time you try to put it away. Your kitten has a growing collection of toys and things to climb on.

It's obvious he's visiting, so why won't he let you see him? Day five of dancing around each other breaks you. You want to see him, want to talk to him, and understand. You want Jason.

Your hand shakes a little, when you go to write on the notepad, and when you wake up the next morning, the paper is blank again.

You wait. You wait some more. All day you wait for him. No one else comes. It's strangely quiet, with just you and your kitten. You've just about given up, collapsed in your bed, when the glowing whites of his helmet catch your attention.

You sit up quickly and throw your legs off the bed as you stare into the doorway, "You came."

"Did you mean it," he asks, any emotion he's feeling hidden by the aggravating modulator.

"Mean what," You question, standing off the bed to walk closer to him, "Will you take the mask off?"

He doesn't move for a moment, just takes in the sight of you. The silence that drags almost makes you regret the question, but he carefully pulls off his helmet, "What you wrote. That you wanted me."

"I– yeah, Jason. I haven't– it's been days since I saw you," You only notice mid sentence that his hand is reaching for your face, it makes your voice waver. "You never answered any of my questions," You finish weakly.

His hand stills and he drops it, "Questions. That's what you wanted?"

You nod a little, searching his face for any hint of what he's feeling, but he gives nothing away.

He sighs softly, and looks away, adjusting his helmet under his arm. You think he might look disappointed, "I can't give you the answers you're looking for."

"Why not," You question softly, worried to push him away.

Jason turns his focus back to you, "I just need you to stay here. Please," he sighs out your name, and his hand twitches as if to touch you, "Don't fight me on this."

"That's not fair," You mumble, "Why am I here, Jason? You know I would have listened if you came to talk to me instead of– this."

Silence falls again, and he steps past you into your room. He sets his helmet on your dresser and picks up the choker resting on the wooden surface, "I wish you would wear this. I picked it out for you."

"Jason," You start, tracking his movements.

"I know," he cuts you off, "but I told you, you don't need to understand anything." You stiffen when he steps back towards you and guides you to turn around.

The air leaves your lungs as his gloves brush over your skin. He sets the necklace around your throat, and even after it rests heavy against your skin, his touch lingers.

"You just need to stay here. It's safe. I've given you everything you've asked for, and everything you haven't," Jason says softly, stepping out from behind you. His gaze lingers on your neck for a moment, and the stifling, unexplainable feeling sets back into your gut.

Your words stick in your throat. There's a sense of danger, one that doesn't make sense. Jason wouldn't hurt you. Not the Jason you know. But is this the Jason you know? The thought makes you want to tear the choker from your skin and throw it at him.

"It feels like a collar," You say quietly, and your breath hitches when his gaze snaps go yours, "I mean, it's pretty. Really. But, it feels– like it's more," You stumble out.

He nods slowly, and he doesn't stop himself from touching you this time. His fingers trace the choker, linger over your collarbones, brush along your pulse, "Maybe it is."

You blink at him, every thought flying from your brain, "What?"

He hums softly, hooking a finger under the shiny jewels to draw you closer, "Does that scare you? Knowing that you can't leave? Knowing that no matter how pretty these are, it's just another way to keep you?"

"You wouldn't hurt me," you say instead, it sounds like you believe it, but you're not sure if you're trying to convince yourself or him.

"I don't want to," He admits, fingers leaving your throat to trail up your jaw, "but I probably could."

"I don't believe that. I remember–" He tuts, tapping your cheek. Your heart drops when you realize he's mirroring where his own brand is.

"I'm not what you remember," he says firmly, before whispering your name, "I'm not that Jason. Not really."

"Then who are you," You ask, even though you don't want to know the answer. You want to pretend he's still something you know.

His eyes dart over your face, then back down to the necklace, "I'm still Jason. But I'm also the Arkham Knight."

"What does that mean," You push, reach up to grab his wrist, demanding his attention, demanding real answers.

"It means that you stay. It means that I give you what you want. Everything and anything except leaving," he says, voice lowering to something kinder, gentler, "it'll make sense eventually. You'll be happy here. Safe."

"Will that make you happy?" You ask, fingers tightening on his wrist. Half of you wants to pull him away, stop him from tracing patterns over your cheek, but the other part of you wants to press his hand closer.

Something flicks in his eyes at your words, "Yes."

"Will it keep you safe?" You murmur, eyes locked on his.

He doesn't answer, clenching and unclenching his jaw for a moment, "Safety is an option I don't have."

"It could be, if you wanted it," You say, dropping his wrist. It must be true. Even with all the secrets he's keeping, his evasive disappearing act, he could take off the armor. Leave behind the new symbol engraved over his chest.

He laughs a little and swipes his thumb under your eye, "I'm glad that you don't understand. It's good, that they didn't twist you into something unrecognizable."

"Understand?" You prompt, unsettled by his laughter.

"That they need to pay. All of them do," he smiles a little, it's a mockery of the one you remember. Jason traces the choker one last time before stepping back.

"You're leaving," You say, not a question, a statement of fact. He's leaving, without explaining anything again.

"I am," he affirms, moving to grab his helmet.

"I want you to stay," You breathe out and he freezes in place.

He exhales softly and faces you again, "You don't know what you're asking."

"I do. I want you to stay," You repeat, reaching out to push his helmet back towards the dresser.

"And then what?" He asks lowly, a warning, "What do you expect to happen?"

It makes you waver, "I– I don't know. But it's what I want."

It's another long moment of nothing before he answers, gesturing towards the bed, "Go to sleep."

"You'll stay?"

He nods at your question, unceremoniously dragging the chair from your desk to your bedside.

"Is that going to be comfortable–" You begin, settling yourself in the bed.

"You're overthinking it," he mumbles, waving at you to lay down. You do, watching as your kitten jumps into his lap, curling up like this is something that happens all the time. (You have the feeling it is) "Have you named him," he asks quietly.

"The kitten? Mm, no. Wanted you to," You say softly, carefully not to unsettle either of them.

"I wouldn't be good at it," Jason protests, eyes flicking between you and the kitten.

"I don't mind," You murmur, "anything's better than 'kitten'."

He pauses, so quiet and still you think he won't answer, "Bean," he mumbles, reluctant as the newly appointed Bean cuddles into his armor.

You smile, "Bean's a good name."

He doesn't answer, seemingly engrossed with watching the kitten.

You take him in for another moment, memorizing his face before closing your eyes. It's not an accident that you leave your palm open and face up by the side of the bed.

There's no more pleasantries exchanged, no sweet goodnights or the gentle touches against your face you've grown used to. But just as you finally start to drift off, as darkness finally draws you to rest, a warm, rough hand weaves itself into yours and squeezes.

Part Three

[emmyrosee]

I literally so badly just want to play w Samus waistband like I’m frothing at the mouth for this man and he’s not even real ???

Honestly no, bc why is this actually me?

(also uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh just to be safe minors look away and look at the other pieces on my blog <3, but here's an osamu picture to make up for it)

Sleepy osamu who comes out in a wrinkled lil tank top, sweats that hang low enough to expose the waist band of his boxers, and ruffled hair that has him looking far too god for his own right, and you merely stare shamelessly at him as he knuckles and eye and stalks closer into the kitchen. "mornin'."

"how'd you sleep?" you hum, eyes continuing to glaze up and down his body.

he shurgs, "ya kneed me in the damn spine last night," he huffs, and god he just looks so warm and cozy you could bite him and curl back on his chest. your eyes settle on the cinch of his waist where the boxers rest in the dips of his hips and god he looks so god you could kick him.

you giggle, "sorry... maybe dream-you pissed me off, had it coming."

"maybe next time i'll knee ya back."

"yeah, okay," you snicker. you make your way over to him and slip your index fingers into the waistband of his boxers and tug him close, relishing in the little squeak he lets out. "you know you'd never risk waking me up."

"it's 'cause ya get cranky when you wake up."

you give him a pout of your lower lip, "i know you're tired, your accent is full fling right now."

“dont bully me.”

“when i bully you, you’ll know it.” your fingers linger in the waistband of his boxers, relishing in the way his muscles tighten up and watching the abs that live there come out from the tickly sensation. "but i do love these hips of yours."

"oh yeah?"

"yeah," you mewl, and when you tug him closer to you, you're finally pressed flat to him, your neck craning to look up at him, his head down at you. "just so handsome."

"i'm glad," he chuckles. "glad you think im so handsome."

"you are." you trace your fingers to fiddle with the fabric, and as he whines from the sensation, you rise up to kiss the noise from his lips.

"my handsome man."

[landograndprix]

woman ✾ l.n - ii

❧ you love max, you really do but your little brother has been getting more on your nerves each day as he tries to set you up with one of his friends.

❧ verstappen!reader who's older than max so if age gaps freak you out, don't read 💀

❧ prev part – next part

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y/nverstappen

📍 Monte-Carlo, Monaco

liked by kellypiguet, landonorris and 178,672 others

y/nusername only valid reason to visit Monaco if we're being completely honest 🥐

tagged: kellypiguet

view all 462 comments

maxkellyp y/n taking her aunt duties very serious

bott_ass where to apply to have you as my sugar auntie? asking for a friend?

zhou_ey time to have your own babies 😍

y/nverstappen I'm actually good with being the wine and sugar aunt for now 🍷

zhou_ey that's a pretty cool job too!

kellypiguet bring her home before dinner? 😂

y/nverstappen what do you mean, we're already on our way back to the netherlands, this my kid now.

lewham44 still a better mother figure to p than kelly 🤡

landonorris I know a few spots in Monaco you can't miss 😉

fewtrelllando spot number one: my bedroom

carlito55 lmao @.fewtrelllando jail for you 😭

dandoo mate, this is a post about her niece and you're flirting with y/n or making and attempt to do so? 😂

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y/nverstappen posted to their story

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landonorizzzz

liked by 563 others

landonorizzzz lando in Monaco last night after the GP ❤️

view all 188 comments

norr4slan screaming crying throwing up 🤯

lanlan frothing at the mouth..

norstappen wait a damn minute, was that y/n verstappen?! 😭

norrizzfour yeah but if you look closely she's just walking past with her friends and kelly lol they probably all went to the same place

maxiell nah my girl is avoiding him for real 💀

landoscar oh my god he's so pretty 😍

supermaxv MOTHER AND LANDO?

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y/nverstappen

📍 Monte-Carlo, Monaco

liked by charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1 and 199,752 others

y/nverstappen Monaco dump 🇲🇨

tagged: sannetje, maxverstappen1, kellypiguet

view all 988 comments

dannyricric man I'd do anything to live a life like this

tom1967 she's living off her brothers wealth..

dannyricric I'm pretty sure she makes enough money herself to live a life like this. 🙄

julieeeexo you and sanne served absolute cunt on the grid! 🤩

bobnorriz not the picture of the charles, max and lando podium :')

kellypiguet was really nice to have you around this weekend, we should definitely do this more often, P absolutely adores her auntie 🥰

Comment liked by y/nverstappen

charles_leclerc it was very nice we got to hang out together☺

Comment liked by y/nverstappen

sharllekler this guy makes me cringe so hard but it's so endearing, like did he pull all his girlfriend's by being awkward? 😭

sixteenleclerc girl have you seen y/n? She's got something that'll make most men awkward as fuck

victoriaverstappen so sad we couldn't join you two this year

y/nverstappen we should already plan for next year then 😉

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y/nverstappen

📍 Amsterdam, the Netherlands

liked by landonorris, kellypiguet and 201,432 others

y/nverstappen protect your peace 🌸

view all 999 comments

bananaclerc hey, yes, hi..I'd like to be you 😭

norrisoscar I've only known this woman for a week but I'm already obsessed with her

keirarobins do I spy new products for the store? 👀

y/nusername keep an eye open 😉

zhou_ey I don't know if I want to be you or if I want to be with you 😭

sannetje is that my hat?

y/nverstappen don't know what you're talking about..

sannetje sure..

landonorris I need that candle

maxv1 boy go to her store lmao, this is no webshop 💀

landonorris 🔥

grussell63 man I really thought you had more game than this..who taught you this, Charles? 😢

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taglist

@hockeyboysarehot @beatricemiruna @starwarssavy23 @be-your-coffee-pot

[mandalhoerian]

sacrosanct | leon kennedy x reader | 1

NEXT >

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: 14K (i am so sorry)

warnings: descriptions of war, suggestive themes, slow burn so it's only sensual for now, religious shame and guilt

disclaimer: this work contains Catholic imagery that is a part of rofan manhwa worldbuilding tropes. "the saintess" trope itself isn't a saint in accordance with Catholic traditions, it's just a character archetype that developed over time in the isekai genre and means more of a "holy maiden chosen by god" and "healer" with "divine powers" protected by the "church" of that specific fictional world. however, i did my best to do my research. this work has nothing to do with Christianity or any other religions and is totally fictional. please keep that in mind as you proceed!

author's note: mandalhoerian goes back to her reader era! please say thank you to @chesue00 for allowing me to use her artwork in this fic, I wrote a whole scene that depicts the art piece which was the whole inspiration for this 3-day frothing at the mouth frenzy!!!!

now, Sacrosanct is a blend of tropes i love in rofan manhwa/webtoon/mangas that are my favorite, so prepare for misunderstandings galore in the future 😭 but leon specifically is inspired by malthus from hilda furacao. which just means yearning and sexual repression. re2!leon to re4!leon pipeline is just the sweet commoner knight to cold duke of the north pipeline in manhwa, and if you understand what that means, im personally sending you a virtual kiss LMAO Happy reading, I hope yall like it!

don't forget this is the first part only.... heh. the template credit

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The first blush of dawn trickles through the gaps in heavy drapes, bathing your chambers in apricot hues. Crisp echoes of rustling silk resonate as you delicately lift the mask from its velvet perch. Bathed in daybreak's golden light, coloured glass chips embedded into the mask shimmer in lost constellations. The caress of velvety smooth fabric against your skin sends shivers dancing down your spine as you tie on, freshly laundered linen smell intertwining with lingering scent of last night’s incense used in nightly prayers, hints of lavender meet smoky frankincense.

Your gaze shifts to the mirror, the mask now concealing your mortal features, intricate filigree swirling across your face in an ethereal web and tiny crystals dotted along the lines sparking like stars. Taking a deep breath to stand a little taller and square your shoulders, you reach up to adjust your veil, ensuring no errant strands of hair are visible. The gauzy fabric falls in diaphanous folds around you, the whispers arising with your every movement the only sounds in the stillness of dawn.

Though the sacred mask and veil hide your earthly form, they cannot conceal the weakness of the human soul in your eyes.

The gateway to your wishes is wide open, one closer look is all one needs to see how you yearn to walk unencumbered through the gardens, to feel the caress of sunlight on your bare skin.

But the edicts are clear - when you leave these chambers, the Saintess must be fully shrouded, an exalted vessel and naught else.

You amble down to the sacred chapel for morning prayers before breaking your fast - a custom enacted in hushed reverence. As you descend stone steps weathered by time, you're swaddled in the scent of smoldering incense permeating from open timber doors, trailing invisible veins into the invigorating morning air. Inside, familiar faces of fellow sisters and brothers offer gentle nods of greeting as you find solace before the altar, sinking onto the cushioned bench tailored specifically for you, in the name of quiet contemplation and prayerful kneeling.

In honor of Ethelion, your one true Lord, silence descends—a pause amplified by its gravitas. Then with an authority that makes everything else seem trivial in comparison, there's the priest: his directing is ripples on still water reaching out towards infinity—sound molded into sacred words known only too well to heart.

The humming drone of faith-soaked chants serves as a welcome breather from the constant ponderings on war and sacrifice that’s been plaguing you for weeks. Those gnawing realities always sneak up and nibble away at your moments of peace, but here in this church, Ethelion’s mercy reigns supreme—the refuge is heard in the choruses belted out emphatically, slicing through any weighty thoughts, their lyrics loftier than any worldly worry.

As the sun stands at its zenith above and sends shards of golden light filtering through the stained glass canvases, the ceremony unwinds. It feels like saying goodbye too soon amidst vibrant echoes of hymns that grip onto ancient brick walls built upon stories spanning centuries, currents of history carrying their inevitable fade. Here, they stand still—if only for a while—pinned by lingering notes lost in air rich with incense burn and oakwood musk coupled with memories tasting of sacramental wine still clinging to tongues.

Stepping into the courtyard, you're swathed in a prism of pastel hues—blossoms unveiling their sugared whispers to the inviting warmth of a lingering breeze. You catch wind of their fragrance; it hooks you, a blend of sweet floral undertones and spring's renewed vigor carrying history within its essence, and you cannot wait to check on your lily garden.

Children dart amongst looming pews, mischief gleaming in their eyes as they engage in hushed games, shards of laughter echoing softly around the otherwise hallowed space. The sight tugs at a wisp of nostalgia, memories when life was simpler, less layered with expectations and daunting futures.

The youngest ones eyeing your departure don't miss a beat. Like mini warriors possessed by unruly spirits, they break rank from the congregation to run after you—a whirlwind of giggles and shouts lacing the air. Their excitement thrums against your skin, buzzing like electricity—an unexpected surge that leaves behind a ghostly imprint.

Yet before they can reach you or even conflict with stone-faced paladins on guard duty, an adult hand restrains them. Respectful bows font towards you as if to acknowledge an unspoken understanding—a solemn line between what is allowed and what isn't negotiated under sacred roofs and watchful gazes.

The breaking of your fast happens solely in the intimacy of your chambers, where you can abandon the weariness of your mask.

Fresh fruits and bread baked by the monks in the kitchens await you on a simple wooden table, their colors vibrant against the muted tones of your chamber. The apples gleam like polished rubies, their skins taut and inviting, while clusters of plump grapes spill over from the plate. The bread, golden and crusty, emits a warm aroma that fills the air with comfort; its texture promises a satisfying chew that will sustain you through the day’s trials.

You pour yourself a glass of tea, steam curling up like ethereal wisps as you set it beside the fruits, its sweetness rendered by generous dollops of honey that transform each sip into liquid amber. As you bite into a slice of bread, the crust crackles under your teeth, giving way to a soft and airy interior that melts on your tongue. It’s simple fare—yet it nourishes not just your body but also stirs echoes of childhood memories spent in the kitchens, where laughter mingled with the scent of baked goods.

The weight of your impending sacred duty hangs over you like storm clouds heavy with rain.

It's not just a responsibility; it's an anchor dragging you into the depths of despair, each step forward to navigate it is like wading through molten lead.

You peer through the frost-kissed window, and the courtyard below unfolds like a battlefield before a decisive clash. Figures clad in armor move with the grace of dancers and the determination of warriors bound for glory or doom. The pieces of gleaming plate mail reflects the pale light, casting fractured rainbows on the cobbled ground.

The gleam of virgin armor, polished to a high sheen, is nothing more than a facade.

It's an ornament, untouched by the brutality of combat—it’s their holy calling that these paladins embrace, not the bloody stain of war. And yet, you sit there on your throne and hesitate to send even one amongst them into the fray for your crown's sake.

How easy would it be to fool yourself into believing that time has frozen, and these young knights in training are simply rehearsing under the guise of some distant uncertainty. But your eyes have skimmed those sealed parchment letters, their inky truths seeping more dread into an already strained air; you're not as naive as all that. The chilling certainty of the Holy War lurks just on the other side of these weathered stone walls—it's only a matter of moments before a gasping messenger dispatches reality like storm clouds breaking open.

Regardless of how fervently you pray or how deep your self-sacrifice runs, it won’t alter this predetermined destiny.

Even as you grip your blessed rosary so tightly it leaves hardened impressions in your palm's soft flesh. Even when unshed tears blur your vision, scalding hot yet stubbornly refusing to fall free, and a knot of shame twists low within your stomach like vile poison—an uncomfortable squirming inside that is almost visceral. Your journey forward leaves much to be desired–mired with dark ambiguities, where faith resembles something more akin to a clumsy blind groping in the vast unknown.

Your heart twinges—a raw ache—at the sight of blond hair all too familiar.

"Leon," escapes in a murmur from between your chapped lips against the icy window pane—the cold seeping into your skin; tiny tendrils numbing any sensation away.

The young paladin has blossomed into a towering figure since his personal guard duty by your side the last month, his frame enveloped in the armor that’s bigger than his still-growing form. The sight of him clad in battle gear is a poignant one, for the metal plates seem to engulf him rather than adorn him. He looks anything but menacing, sweet consideration towards those he’s sparring with, despite clad head-to-toe in battle gear, with such carefree confidence that threatens to split your aching chest.

In a split second, on the other side of that cold glass wall; Leon’s focus latches onto your unveiled and unmasked presence like a sunflower bending towards light.

It's as if you've breathed some forbidden word into the wind - an inaudible gasp tingles the silence and ripples off his lips. He stammers mid-battle stance, frozen under some unseen celestial hammer, scorched into oblivion.

You step back hurriedly, yanking your veil down over your face once more; it's rough underneath your fingertips, but nothing compared to the turmoil swirling inside you. His own stunned gaze falters, tugs itself away as if burned - damn those beautiful eyes! But that moment costs him dearly as his rival lunges and he crumbles under the assault, and your heart won’t stop racing, undeniable fondness with a foreign heat creeping up your neck.

Leon bounces back from the blow almost instantly, staggering back to his feet like it's second nature; like he hasn't just had the wind knocked out of him and seems more rattled than before.

His opponent’s moves are unforgiving, one after another until Leon's guard slips. With a resounding thud that sends shudders up your spine, Leon gets slammed into the dirt floor.

His helmet soars through the air with an eerie ring that echoes around the courtyard, tumbling to rest at the boots of a nearby Paladin whose gaze is stuck on Leon’s prone form - filled with something close to pity but still masked by pride. A comrade extends a roughened hand, helping Leon upright, his comforting pat lingering just a moment too long on his shoulder blade as if unsure whether to leave or stay for strength. Jovially yet sternly, the older knight cuffs Leon on his arm, gauntlet striking armor with a dull clang.

As you retreat from your voyeuristic post at the window when reverberating tolls from the grand temple's bells signal practice time has run its course, there's an adrenaline rush buzzing under your skin even though you were merely watching. The upcoming blessing ceremony casts its shadow over you – all consuming and much larger than life; leaves no space for silly fancies.

Sunset paints the temple grounds in a bronzed hue as Leon treks alone back to the barracks, his mind adrift. Training bruises throb under his armor, though it's the sting of his fractured pride that truly wounds him.

None of it matters in the face of the glimpse of divinity he accidentally caught.

He nearly bends with the weight of it, an abyss of greed that he fears his brothers-in-arms can sense infecting his spirit. It maligns his growth as a paladin; he's sure Ethelion sees the invasive avarice lurking beneath skin and bone, an illicit truth residing within him nipping at him from the inside like a woodworm.

The seed of which had been planted over a decade ago, in these lily gardens, in the healing hands of a young Saintess whose presence and unmasked face lingered in his heart and grew into an infatuation with her holy touch.

He was but a boy back then, brittle and broken in body, his fragile skin stretched thin over bony limbs, rife with illness that stole the color from his cheeks and the air from his lungs. His very life seemed held together by prayers of his parents alone, fluttering like leaves in the wind. He'd stumbled into the garden by accident, chasing a stray cat with his siblings, not realizing he was lost.

Yet fate cast her sanguine smile and Ethelion himself turned an eye on him, sending the Saintess his way.

A warm glow drew him further through the bushes, and there you stood, cloaked in a robe that made your radiance seem as if it were born from moonlight. His eyes should have burned upon landing on you unmasked, youthful face that unmistakably belonged to a human girl of his age and not that of Ethelion in the flesh, but instead, his lungs expanded with an unknowable strength because of the divine power around you, an easiness that made it feel like he was breathing for the first time.

Not met with punishment for such audacity—he was instead gifted healing through your sacred touch–and got left laced with a perpetual yearning, sickness eradicated from his being and infused life onto starved limbs.

A lesson was disclosed to him later on when he’d become aware of himself, about why the Saintess had to be veiled.

His desires knew no end. It was for her spiritual purity that the Saintess could not be seen unmasked or reveal herself to mortals. Could one imagine the consequences of men akin to him lying eyes upon such magnificence, gracing skin intended only for Ethelion's touch? The impressionable child that he was had bloomed into an adult consumed by her divinity, hell-bent on basking in it all life long. Surely kingdoms would fold, as mortals were bound to disrupt natural balance attempting to seize the maiden of god.

So, when you appeared in the tower window today, he was overcome with a sensation so powerful it felt like angelic apparitions traced their wings down his back.

Divine grace embodied, shining forth in ways he couldn't articulate.

An inexplicable need arose from his bones for him to go to you, throw himself down in worship, confess sins one by one and receive penance:

In the hush of many nights when the temple halls were empty, he would wander like a ghost and always come back to kneel at the feet of Ethelion, daring to touch the cushions before the altar where you prayed, his fingers lingering where only your robes should caress. The audacity of his gaze tracing the delicate embroidery of your veil when he stood guard by your side, seeking to unveil something meant solely for Ethelion’s eyes, was but one of his many transgressions against the sanctity that cloaked you…

His form of worship seemed askew, borne more out of desire than devoutness; staining the starkly white fabric of his duty with its off-colour ardour.

He could never allow you, the revered Saintess, to know about this sinful sentiment dwelling within him; tarnishing every sweet memory associated with you.

The fantasy he harbored diminished his image, trendlessly etched as an obedient paladin's plight – but for him, you represented something significantly more profound. To even admit how dreams featuring you bewitchingly bathed in grace tainted his oath of celibacy would risk jeopardizing the hope invested in recognizing his service towards Ethelion.

The desire to earn the highest recognition, a Paladin's title and acceptance of his fealty to protect you as such – got increasingly tangled in a visceral wanting lost somewhere between sacrilege and worship that left a devout hunger echoing within him for your sake.

To satisfy this, he threw himself fiercely into arduous training channels to strengthen both his body and mind with every challenging day that went by - striving ceaselessly with dreams of deserving a place by your side.

Now, he stands precipitously on the verge; holding on desperately to this undisclosed confession – harboring a stolen glance of you from earlier as a secret talisman.

How could he go into the Holy War with his brothers now, knowing he'd seen beneath your veil and… Felt.

“You seem troubled, Sir Leon.”

Leon doesn’t dare turn; a jagged lick of dread splinters down his spine. He recognizes that voice—how could he not when it haunts his dreams night after night? Instead, he stares into nothingness, rooted to the ground, his mind unable to process that you're speaking to him.

But he does turn, finding you standing serenely beneath an archway covered with tangled fragrant vines in the Temple's back garden.

Your presence fills Leon with equal parts awe and unease, as if Ethelion himself is shaming him from above for desiring what should be beyond mortal reach.

Yet your countenance remains unchanged, unmarred by his inner turmoil. The mask stays in place, an extension of your divinity—only now, Leon swears that beneath it, your eyes are smiling at him.

Leon stands within the cool shadow of the ancient temple, its weathered stones holding an age-old embrace that wraps around him like a cloak. The air is thin with the delicate scent of lilies that’s wafting towards him from the garden—from you, and outside, where sunlight filters through the leafy canopy, you stand amidst color. Your garments catch the sunset, casting a shimmer that mirrors the beauty of your surroundings.

The difference between his shadowed presence and your radiant figure is a shaming from above, showing Leon your place in His divine light while he remains shrouded in sin.

The clinking of Leon's loose armor rings as he lowers himself to one knee before you, “Forgive me, Saintess. I did not mean to disturb your meditations.”

The rustle of silk heralded your approach, brushing against the cool stone floor like a gentle breeze stirring a field of wildflowers. He inhales sharply, his breath hitching in his throat as the fragrance of lilies envelops him.

You stop before him, your robes cascading around you like a mirage of opal waves, he is captivated by an urge so primal that it sends a flush of heat to his cheeks and makes his palms sticky; he longs to press his lips to the delicate fabric that seems to breathe with divine grace.

“Please rise, Sir Leon. I saw you training today. Your skills are formidable.”

His pride swelled silent and strong within his chest – a sudden weight that could unbalance him more than any physical blow ever could.

"Your words honor me greatly," he manages to speak to the stones at his feet, even after he is back up at his feet.

"Yet you seem to have much on your mind."

He cannot meet your eyes; it feels overwhelming to face such beauty and concern directed solely at him.

"Pardon me, that was a silly question, wasn't it? Of course you have much on your mind. You're about to ride into battle. Such thoughts are not easy to bear. Do you wish to talk about it?"

"It's not my place to trouble you with such things, Saintess. They will soon be far from here, and you will be safe in the Temple.”

He glances at you, and the look in your eyes is enough to make him forget how to breathe. It’s a blend of curiosity and tenderness; an innocence that nearly pierces through his mask and grazes the wicked depths of his heart.

You tilt your head, much like a bird contemplating a worm, and gently ask, "Would you indulge my curiosity and share one worry with me?"

It's an impossibly generous gesture, for you to extend this small piece of yourself to him in the middle of your meditations. Leon's teeth ache at the sweetness of it, at your kindness that extends even to him.

“I’m doubting my worthiness to serve,” he confesses unceremoniously. “I train relentlessly, but I lack the innate spark my brothers were born with. It's as if... as if I'm play-acting at being a Paladin.”

Those aren't the only doubts that torment him—but the ones he can actually say out loud without burning at the stake for.

"Do you remember the day we met, Sir Leon?" you begin, clasping your hands and turning around to face the gardens, the gentle breeze is making your veil flutter.

Leon nods, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. Even so many years later, the memory still has the power to stir his soul, churning something in his chest that makes it hard to think straight.

"It seems like it was yesterday that a young boy came stumbling into the garden, barely able to stand up, and looked me dead in the face. What do you think I saw in him?"

He always assumed the Saintess would have forgotten such a brief encounter, yet it was etched firmly into his memory and to hear it spoken aloud has his pulse miss a couple beats.

"Do you think I saw weakness as he lay gasping in the dirt? Or did I perhaps see an innocent curiosity that was easily swept up by the cruelty of this world and tamed into obedience? Or maybe I saw something else entirely.”

He shakes his head, trying to make sense of your words. It sounds like you're making a statement, but it's not clear which part you agree with.

"Tell me, Sir Leon. What is a spark? Does it come to life, or can it be nurtured from the smallest ember of resolve?" you whisper, fingers trembling as they ascend, tracing a path as delicate as a petal's fall, nearing his cheek with hesitant affection.

He’s paralyzed when your touch indeed lands instead of drifting away.

Your fingers linger, tracing the curve of his jawline with such gentleness, demure and awkward; and the pressure of it makes his skin sing, sparks dancing along every inch.

It's barely a caress, but he feels it in his bones—this ache—that swells and burns, a fire set alight inside his chest that’s on the precipice of consuming him whole.

A whole-body shiver breaks free, but you remain unfazed—your hand is still there, stroking his flesh with such tenderness; soft against the corner of his jaw.

"One is not born to greatness, one achieves it." You're calm, yet firm, a voice that commands respect. He's reminded of the many times he heard you deliver blessings on high ceremonies. There's something about the cadence of your words that pulls at the strings of his soul, drawing him in closer—deeper. "What truly matters is the conviction behind your actions. And, Sir Leon, you may not see it yet. But there's a spark inside your chest that burns brighter than any candle. Don't let anyone dampen it, for it shall shine a path forward unto others and bring glory to our land."

You pull away, leaving a void in your wake. Leon finds himself wanting to reach after you, wanting nothing more than for your skin to keep pressing against his, for your warmth to bleed through his own and ease the burden that's crushing him.

He wants to kiss those fingers that have—

Red hot shame enough to set firewoods aflame shoots straight to settle on his cheeks, flushing them as a wicked feeling sinks in his stomach, a heavy sinking pit. The meaning of your words resounds in his heart like a thunderclap after the lightning that was your touch, your holy words washing over him like a balm—or a warning.

He's brought back to reality abruptly with the harsh cackle of metal against stone as a group of paladins walk by and salute him and bow for the Saintess, pulling him out of a daze as he greets them. Their voices seem distant, faces a blur. It's a miracle Leon manages a nod at them in acknowledgment.

He finds his tongue eventually, his face still aflame with embarrassment at the realization of being in front of the Saintess, an idol of the Church, a woman he thinks of during his late-night ruminations, and still feels guilty for.

"T-thank you, Saintess,” his voice wavers, trembling even with those two simple words that leave him shaking, stirred to the core as if a sudden storm just swept him away to sea, and you are the shore he longs to return to. He fears he might drown in the depths of those beautiful eyes, pulled under by the current.

"It is I who should be thanking you, Sir Leon. You're risking everything to ensure peace for our realm."

Your words wrap around him like a hug, holding him in place while also offering a moment of comfort, like coming home from a long trip away. He treasures those precious few seconds, committing them to memory. But you are a Saintess, not a fellow knight, and there are no hugs or handshakes in his world.

"I'll see you in the ceremony," you continue, before leaving Leon with his heaving chest and a pressure knotting deep in his stomach, walking back to the serenity of the Temple, robes fluttering around your feet like snow settling over frozen earth.

Once you have disappeared into the confines of the temple, he lets out a deep breath. His heart is still beating wildly; the memory of your fingertips brushing his skin is seared into his flesh, an indelible mark that cannot be scrubbed away. He is unable to shake the feeling that he has committed some unspeakable sin; his body a living, breathing violation of his vows.

Leon washes himself in the barracks' bathing chambers, and as he stares at the naked flesh beneath steaming water, his thoughts turn to the ritual that awaits him. In the heat and sweat of it, he wonders if you can wash him clean, baptize his tainted heart.

His sweat trickles down his back, leaving shimmering beads of perspiration in its wake, he can feel each droplet sliding down like a ghostly caress overheated skin glistening under the light of flickering candles; his head is thrown back, and wet hair is slicked away from his face as he reclines in the wooden bathtub. He reaches up to trace the lines of his jaw with trembling fingers that hover just above his skin, remembering what it felt like to have your touch there. He closes his eyes and lets the steam envelop him; he feels the heaviness in his groin, thick and full between his thighs.

In this moment, he is alone with his guilt and shame; but underneath all that self-recrimination there lies a deeper emotion he dares not acknowledge: hope.

The blessing ceremony unfolds with the break of dawn the next day.

Rows of paladins stand at attention, forming a formidable barrier outside the towering chapel. You make your way up the marble steps, flanked by your retinue, and lift your veiled face to behold the regimented paladins before you. Their armor catches the sunlight in a dazzling display, swords resting peacefully in their scabbards. Every single one of them is an anonymous guardian, faces obscured by identical helmets and billowing white capes adorned with a shimmering blue starburst emblem emblazoned on their chest plates.

Upon reaching the summit of the staircase, the massive oak doors swing wide open, revealing an expanse filled with devout worshippers immersed in fervent prayer. Bathed in hues of multicolored light filtering through intricate stained-glass windows, their worshiping forms kneel upon the cool marble floor. Sunbeams caress their bowed heads like a halo, creating a mosaic of ethereal radiance that plays upon their serene features.

The hush that descends as you cross the threshold is whispered benedictions through the hall, enshrouding all present in a solemn embrace as you draw nearer to the altar at its heart.

At the altar stands the head priest, garbed in ceremonial robes—the deep hues of white and gold intertwining with ancient symbols. His palms are raised towards the statue of Ethelion, supplication etched into every line of his face. Before him sits an empty altar table covered in rich crimson velvet trimmed with gold brocade, and at its center rests a silver bowl filled with holy water, reflecting shards of light like fragments of a broken mirror.

Beside the basin stands a golden chalice and a sharp blade gleaming ominously.

You sink into a curtsy before the priest—your knees grazing the cool stone floor—as he intones your full title: "I salute the Beloved of Ethelion, Avatar of Eternity and Renewal,” before he gently beckons you to rise.

Taking your place before the altar, you feel the weight of an entire kingdom resting upon your shoulders. This ritual isn't mere superstition; it's a tangible link between mortal and divine—a celestial promise that Ethelia is indeed favored by the gods.

Yet beneath this grandeur lies urgency cloaked in ceremony: you're chosen by Ethelion to channel his blessing—a gift that comes with strings attached. It promises good health and protection from injury but depletes as quickly as candles flicker out in gusty winds.

You've done this countless times, yet it never becomes easier. You can only hope that the god residing within you answers earnestly today—gracing the paladins with divine strength and healing their wounds as you pour every ounce of yourself into them.

A hushed silence envelops the chamber as the priest lifts up the basin and blesses its water. He then raises it above your head, pouring its contents slowly over your body. The liquid cascades down your shoulders like molten gold—cool initially but warming as it mingles with your skin—and pools at your feet like melted sunlight. It seeps into the hem of your flowing robe which now shimmers like saffron touched by daylight's first rays.

The priest murmurs prayers of consecration while taking up the gleaming blade from beside chalice's stem. Gesturing for everyone gathered to join hands, he swiftly cuts into your wrist without warning—precise and unyielding. Blood oozes forth; dark as ink with whiffs reminiscent faint iron scent permeating air around tendrils curling upward almost ethereal fashion dripping fingers’ tips.

"May Ethelion guide thy swords on this path forward!" you invoke in a solemn tone. The words carry an authority that rings throughout the entire Temple, sending vibrations through the gathered crowd as they repeat your verse.

With a sharp exhale, you approach the priest and rest your open wound over the golden goblet, watching your blood drip into the vessel, drop by painstaking drop. All the while, the attendees recite their blessings in a swelling crescendo, their voices echoing back from the domed roof like an urgent prayer caught between earth and sky.

Your arm throbs incessantly—a dull ache blossoming into searing pain, but you press on, undeterred. Despite how difficult it becomes, there's solace in sharing this burden with others, knowing that they too have a part to play.

Finally, when enough blood has been collected, the priest holds the chalice high and exclaims, "For the kingdom! For Ethelion!"

On command, the paladins march forward with military precision, lining up in single file before the altar, the line extending out of the doors. With measured steps, they kneel in succession, resting their forearms atop the surface in a gesture of humility. You are handed the holy sword, its blade shimmering beneath the lights, its hilt ornately decorated with rubies and diamonds.

Placing your bleeding wrist atop the hilt's cool metal surface, you hold it above the first kneeling paladin's helmeted head. Slowly and carefully, you dip your finger into the cup of crimson liquid and anoint him with your blood by marking his crested forehead—a tangible sign of his sworn loyalty. Whispering a blessing so only he can hear it feels almost intimate—the sword becoming a conduit for divine power. The tip of the blade descends upon his crown; his shoulders instantly stiffen under this sacred touch—they tremble when it grazes one shoulder then moves to deliver an ethereal blow to the other.

The process repeats itself, endless and exhausting, as you move down the line.

Each anointment saps more of your energy reserves until you're left weak and nearly hollowed out from within. Yet pouring every bit of life force into each paladin so they may be shielded on battlefields ahead brings bittersweet satisfaction mixed with aching relief—you find strength anew just enough to persevere.

By the time you reach the end of the rows, your skin feels as paper-thin as the gauzy fabric covering your body. The edges of your vision have started to blur, and it takes considerable effort to stay upright, gripping the edge of the altar to steady yourself. Your heart is fluttering beneath your ribs like a frantic bird, wanting to burst free from its cage of bone and muscle and escape this agony. Your palms are clammy; you're sweating profusely beneath your robes, but despite this, you must see this rite through till its completion.

The ancient wooden door of the chapel creaks open, its mournful groan deafening in the silent night. A thin beam of moonlight slices through the gap, illuminating the dusty air. Inside, flickering candle flames cast warm, trembling light on Ethelion’s marble statue, which gazes down at you with unblinking, expressionless eyes.

You place your mask at the base of His effigy; unveiling yourself like this is a crucial part of the ritual—a moment of communion with the deity. You stand exposed before Him in every way—physically, spiritually, and emotionally. He serves as a mirror reflecting your deepest essence—a piece of you laid bare without fear or shame. Hiding from Him would be like refusing to acknowledge your own existence.

Summoning all your bravery, you remove the fragile veil that acts as your last shield against the world’s curious eyes, letting it rest gently next to your discarded mask. With both face and hair now revealed, you kneel before His statue. Your head bows low in penance, hands squeezed together in a gesture of deep devotion.

"Blessed Ethelion, forgive your servant," you plead with a tremor. "I have doubt in my heart. I'm afraid."

The statue remains silent; only overpowering stillness fills the air as seconds stretch into eternity. Then warmth radiates through you—starting from your chest and unfurling into your limbs—like sunshine poured into your veins, igniting every fiber with radiant energy.

"I don’t want any of them to die," you confess quietly, tears spilling free to splash against the cold flagstone floor. "They’re innocents caught in a war not their own."

There are no words in response, yet you feel an undeniable answer; Ethelion’s reassuring presence envelops you like a warm embrace. He is there to listen to you in silence.

This ritual is a moment of weakness—where fear manifests openly for release. These men are about to step into hell itself beyond the walls. Though they fight for honor and glory, deep down you know it will become a bloodbath—a massacre that will rend this kingdom apart.

"There's nothing sacred about this; yet here I stand sentencing Your children to death," you lament as tears trickle down your cheeks, mingling salty bitterness against trembling lips. No further sign comes; Ethelion appears content merely to observe from His heavenly perch—perhaps reminding you gently of your divine duty—the role He has ordained for you. "I beg forgiveness, O Lord. I could not change the minds blinded by ignorance. My heart bleeds for those suffering because of this conflict. Please protect them so they may come back to bask once more in Your radiant light."

You bow deeply before Him; rising again is a struggle as your knees quake beneath you.

"Saintess."

You jump at the familiar voice that slices through the sanctity of silence, eyes widening in recognition and trepidation.

This is the third time Leon has witnessed you this vulnerable without the holy artifacts shielding the flesh beneath, yet he remains unassuming and gentle; shock absent from his spirit this time. He stands close behind you in this hallowed space belonging solely to Ethelion's infinite wisdom, and you dare not breathe—afraid of shattering this ethereal moment.

"Avert your eyes, Sir Leon.”

The hairs on the back of your neck prickle, standing erect. You remain there unmoving, save for the tiny droplets of sweat gathering on your hairline as he moves with the grace of a shadow, his steps measured and deliberate, until he stands by your side, his eyes unwaveringly fixed upon the towering statue of Ethelion that looms before you both, as if seeking solace in the stone divinity rather against the evil of your human form.

He drops down onto both knees, bowing so low that his forehead nearly kisses the cold stone floor.

A subtle movement draws your attention, and you steal a glance from beneath your lashes. The moonlight caresses strands of golden hair and spins them into threads of silver. His attire deviates from the usual paladin's armor; instead, he wears a simple cotton shirt, its sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, veiny forearms sculpted by hard practice. The fabric clings to his form, hinting at the sinewy strength that lies beneath. Riding breeches embrace his legs snugly, tucked into worn boots that have weathered countless journeys.

The collar of his shirt is notched open, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of the base of his throat and the expanse of his upper chest. Your gaze traces the contours of muscle defined beneath the sheer material, and traitorously ventures lower, lingering on the curve of his bent knees before daring to explore further down to where his knuckles rest—taut and unyielding atop thighs etched with power. It leaves your mouth dry.

The intensity with which he shuts his eyes mirrors that boy from years past—the one who clenched his fists tightly against pain, refusing to cry as he battled an illness that should have claimed his life but didn't.

You yield to an impulse, enveloping him in the ethereal embrace of your veil, a shield against the world's gaze and your own. His body tenses beneath the delicate fabric as you glide it over his features, a soft gasp escaping from deep within him. With a trembling exhale, he quivers imperceptibly, fingers pressing into the cloth with a fervor that leaves faint dents on his skin, hands strained from the intensity.

"Open your eyes," you murmur tenderly, reluctant to disrupt the fragile moment.

Gleaming blue flickers into view through the white, translucent shroud, their clarity distorted by the gossamer material. You observe his swallow, the rhythmic rise and fall of his Adam's apple as he tentatively reaches to draw it down over his face.

Through the veil's prism, you must appear as a kaleidoscope of hues and forms to him; a phantom of your true essence, an elusive apparition hovering at the edge of reality.

"The… The blessing went well today," Leon sputters, cracking at the end like glass under pressure.

"Why did you come here, Sir Leon?" you ask gently, sensing that beneath his stiff formality lies a multitude of untold emotions.

"Are you alright?" The genuine concern for your person sends shivers cascading over your skin; fine hairs on your arms lift as he touches his wrist—mirroring right where your blood had been drawn. "Does it hurt every time the blessing is performed? I've never watched it before. It's..."

He falters, mouth opening and closing, and you notice how the fractured light from the windows bathes the swell of his cheeks in a tender luminescence. His words hang between you both, delicate strands of silk trying to knit themselves into coherence.

"It's awful, Saintess. To see your suffering laid bare before everyone."

"I would drain my whole body if it meant those brave men will go out knowing they are protected," you say with resolute calmness, though deep down, you're curious about how he truly perceives you now.

A barely audible "I know," escapes him. It feels like a confession—an unpleasant truth he doesn’t like being faced with. Whatever it holds makes warmth surge through you, igniting your skin and causing another involuntary shiver as he moistens his lower lip with a slow sweep of his tongue. "I know."

"Don't worry about me, Sir Leon. Your job is out there defending these lands, while mine is to ease your burdens. Think only of protecting those who need your shield.”

“Is it wrong to care for those I serve?” His wholehearted question tightens something within you—stirs an undefined yet potent emotion ready to bloom.

"Not at all," you reply almost breathlessly as he gazes intently at the curve of your jawline—your face blurred but memorized by him with stunning accuracy. "Remember whom your sword serves; we live only to honor Ethelion."

"I wish the world were different," his words seem hollowed out, lacking meaning, and yet there's an unmistakable conviction there, a resolve that drives him.

"As do I."

You glide your fingertips over the altar's slick surface, taking in a deep breath that fills your lungs fully with the sanctity of this space.

Then he straightens up suddenly; determination shines in his posture. He doesn’t rise from his kneeling position, yet it frightens you in the same way it would if he had shot up to stand.

"If you'll allow it, Saintess," he says, venerating, and the delicate fabric of his veil brushes against the embroidered sleeve of your robe. That fleeting contact sends a jolt through you, reverberating like a soft, whispered promise. His simple gesture, his proximity—it shouldn’t mean anything. But you feel he might as well have taken your hand in his. "I would pledge an oath to you as well."

There’s a deliberate slowness in how he pulls back, the motion of a man lingering at a threshold he has no right to cross.

Your chest tightens, your breath coming slower as you try to compose yourself. “Of course, Sir Leon,” you manage, though the stillness between you is filled with your uncertainty. What if you're not worthy of his devotion? Of his sacrifice? If he saw what lay beneath the veil, beyond the role of saintess, would he still look at you this way? Or would he recoil, realizing the truth of what you are: flesh and blood, no more divine than the earth beneath your feet?

You feel his stare. It’s as though they’re tracing the length of your body, reaching you through the barrier of the veil, and somehow, that makes the sensation more intimate than if he were standing before you fully revealed.

His breath catches, just slightly. You hear it, feel it, even though the veil between you muffles the sound. "It’s not about whether you’ll accept it," he continues, and there’s a shift in his stance. You can’t see his face, but the way he holds himself, the slight movement of his shoulders beneath the fabric, tells you that he’s grounding himself. "I give this vow because it is mine to give. For you, not for recognition or reward. It’s my choice, my will. No one needs to know."

His spine is ramrod straight now, but there’s a softness in his words, a slight tilt of his head as his eyes search yours. “My loyalty belongs to you alone.”

You swallow hard, the meaning of his words sinking deep into your soul. A lowly servant of Ethelion, that’s all you are. A vessel. No name, no family, no identity beyond the veil. His words... they speak of individual loyalty, devotion to you, not to Ethelion, not to the divine purpose you embody. You are no one. You have no right to such things. How could you take from him what rightly belongs to the god you serve? Wouldn’t you be struck down for such hubris? For leading a paladin astray, pulling him from the only true master he should follow? You tremble at the thought.

"Sir Leon, I cannot accept this." Your fingers curl around the skirt of your robe, the fabric twisting beneath your grip. “It’s—”

His chin lifts, eyes steady on you. "—wrong?"

You start at his interruption. Your voice sounds so feeble as you finish the sentence with a meek, "Yes."

He stays rooted, motionless, but something in the atmosphere shifts again. His breathing, though controlled, seems deeper, and you sense the quiet resolve in the silence that stretches between you.

"Then let me be the one who wrongs Ethelion." His tone carries a weight that presses against you, not through sound but through the way his body holds firm, unwavering. His movements are subtle, restrained, yet the soft brush of his hand grazing his side signals something deeper, a release of tension. "I pledge myself to you, Saintess. To your will, your desires. You are my strength."

The air feels dense, thick with the weight of what he’s offering.

These words flow from him like water spilling over stones, filling up spaces where it couldn't previously reach. The warmth in your chest expands, spreading outward until it seeps into every fiber of your being. Your fingers twitch, the edge of your sleeve twisting between them as you try to ground yourself.

"Please grant me a token of your favor."

Your hands tremble at your sides, your pulse quickening as you fidget with the fabric between your fingers.

What can you possibly offer him?

You glance down, but everything feels out of reach, the world reduced to this one moment.

"But I..." you begin, unsure, your fingers tugging nervously at your sleeve, "I am not a Lady."

There’s a pause, the kind that stretches, and though you can’t see his expression, it feels charged. He shifts ever so slightly, enough that you catch the faint rustle of fabric as he moves.

"All the more reason," he says, a shy smile in his words. "An unworthy paladin asking for a favor from the Saintess—what could be more fitting?"

"Then you may pick whichever object from the temple you desire—"

"I want something of yours, not an icon, nor some relic," he replies immediately, cutting you short, the butteriness sending shivers running down your back. "What do I lack that you have plenty of, that you won't miss, even if it's just a small trinket?"

Your heart stumbles in your chest, the weight of his request crashing into you like a wave. Real? What could you give him? What is yours to offer?

"A lock of hair?" you whisper, feeling your pulse quicken as you say it. The words feel small, vulnerable, but they tumble out before you can stop them. "Would that… suffice?"

Silence follows, his breathing seems to stop.

A lock of hair would belong to you, not the Saintess. A proof of your worldliness, beyond the connection to Ethelion's divine essence. Something that is of the girl and not the holy maiden. Is that what he seeks?

"Your hair," he breathes out in an exhale, as if tasting the words. He appears completely entranced and you become conscious of yourself, the inappropriate nature of just what you brought up.

You draw a slow, shaky breath, the idea settling uneasily in your chest. There’s something intensely personal, too intimate about the exchange. "No, you misunderstand—"

"Your hair, Saintess," he repeats it again, this time more forceful than you've ever seen him; you'd never dare refuse this request and it steals your breath, silencing every protest rising in your throat. "I will accept no less."

Leon rises to his feet, dwarfing you with his broad frame. For the very first time, in Ethelion's presence, you feel small and helpless, like a child who's wandered into his garden. There's something overwhelmingly disarming about sharing this space with him. A foreign sensation blooms within you— a spark that threatens to ignite your world into flames—but you dare not give it voice.

Leon had once worn his armor with pride, each plate fastened like a second skin, the weight of his sword as natural as the rhythm of his heartbeat. Every step forward felt as if he marched hand in hand with something divine, a force greater than himself guiding his every move. The blessing of the saintess had lingered on his skin, a quiet touch that had etched itself into his soul, fortifying his resolve. He had believed, back then, that he was a vessel of the god’s will.

That was years ago.

Now, standing at the edge of the battlefield, the familiar weight of his armor feels heavier, pressing down like an unbearable burden. The bitter taste of dried sweat clings to his lips, and a dull ache pulses beneath his ribs where his armor had done little to stop the last blow. The sun glares down on the blood-soaked earth, the cries of the wounded melding with the clash of steel and the sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground.

This was not what he envisioned. There was nothing divine here.

A shout rises above the noise, sharp and commanding, drawing his gaze toward the horizon. The enemy soldiers draped in black, surge over the hill like a wave of shadow. His grip tightens around his sword, the hilt slick with a mixture of blood and sweat, fingers straining against the leather-bound grip.

“Leon!” A voice, rough and worn from years of battle, cuts through the din. Leon turns, his eyes locking onto Captain Krauser, a veteran whose gaze is as sharp as a hawk’s. His expression is hard, impatient. “Orders from the Temple: we flank their left side!”

Leon’s heart clenches at the mention of the Temple.

It had been a long time since the orders felt pure, righteous. The Church’s demands had grown more questionable with each passing day. What had once been a campaign to protect the kingdom and its people now reeked of ambition—land grabs disguised as divine conquest. Territories seized, villages razed under the pretense of holy duty.

But Leon doesn’t question. He never has. He is a soldier, a paladin. A servant of Ethelion.

The memory of you—serene, always hidden beneath the mask you wore as the Saintess—surfaces in his mind, unbidden, his anchor to the divine, the blessing you placed on him sacred. You believed in him, blessed him with your blood, and for that, he would fight. For that, he would fulfill his duty.

He moves after Krauser, silent as a ghost, maneuvering through the throng of soldiers until they reach the flank. The enemy’s forces are spread thin, their attempt to push the kingdom’s army back leaving them exposed. It should be an easy victory. A victory that would tighten their grip on the region, crush the enemy’s morale.

The order comes swiftly, brutal and final: Leave no one alive.

Leon hesitates, his sword held in a grip that tightens until his knuckles ache. Leave no one alive. The same command they’d been given in the last village. And the one before that. What once felt justifiable—crushing the enemy for the kingdom’s safety—now sits like lead in his bones.

Those they slaughtered hadn’t been soldiers. They were farmers, villagers. Innocents. Women and children.

He closes his eyes for a brief moment, and the memory of the last village rises unbidden, a flash behind his eyelids. He can still smell the smoke, hear the anguished cries of mothers shielding their children. His punishment for hesitating, for not cutting through them as he did the soldiers, feels lighter than the weight of that memory.

“Are you deaf, shiny?” Krauser says with a low growl, dragging him back to the present. “I said move.”

Leon’s jaw tightens, the muscles in his neck pulling taut. His body moves automatically, his sword rising as he steps forward, following the rest of the paladins into the fray. Steel clashes with steel, bodies crash against one another, but the noise fades, swallowed by the gnawing doubt lodged deep in his chest. He strikes down another soldier, their blood splattering across his already stained armor, but the pit in his stomach only deepens.

He had been blessed to protect the kingdom, to serve the saintess. How did it come to this? When did righteousness turn into this—bloodlust veiled by holy orders?

Each swing of his sword feels heavier, as though the weight of every soul he cuts down drags him closer to the earth. He fells another enemy, watching as the light drains from their eyes, but it’s not just the life that drains from them—it’s something in him too.

This war, it’s nothing like he’d imagined. In the temple, they had spoken of glory, of righteousness, of battles fought in the name of Ethelion. His fellow soldiers had whispered about the honor of dying for the Temple, the promise of eternal life in the afterworld. They had made war sound like a divine calling, a sacred rite of passage where every death was sanctified, every act of violence blessed.

Out here, there is no glory.

Only blood.

The blood of his brothers, mingled with the enemy’s, staining the dirt beneath their feet. The screams of dying men linger in his ears long after the fighting stops. He’s seen cities burn, watched women and children scramble through the streets, faces twisted in terror, only to fall under a volley of arrows or be trampled beneath the horses of his comrades.

Leon had thought he could stomach it. He’d steeled himself for the brutal reality of war. But nothing prepared him for the guilt, the crushing weight of it, as each atrocity committed in Ethelion’s name piles higher on his soul.

At first, he’d believed the bloodshed was necessary, part of the divine plan. But with every passing day, that belief crumbles a little more, cracking like fragile glass.

Now, standing over the bodies of men who’d once fought to protect their own, Leon can barely remember why he’s here. He can’t recall the saintess’s face anymore—only a faint echo of your eyes, the memory fading like a forgotten dream.

How did the lines blur so completely?

He tightens his grip on his sword, but the weight of it feels foreign, like a weapon forged for someone else.

Facing the fire, Leon watches the flames dance, their orange glow casting restless light over the camp. The logs hiss and crackle as they blacken, edges curling inward with each passing flicker. Every so often, flares shoot out from the heart of the fire, sending sparks spiraling up into the night before falling back down into the pyre. Heat washes over his face, warm yet uncomfortable, the kind that burns if stared at for too long. Leon turns away, unable to face his own reflection in the fire’s glow.

Around him, shadows shift across the ground as torchlight flickers over tents and hastily constructed barriers. Laughter rises from nearby campfires, men gathered in groups, boasting about their conquests in battle, their stories of women left behind growing hazy with time. The smell of roasting meat mingles with the sharp bite of smoke as soldiers cheerfully drink from their ale rations. Some play cards or dice, animated, full of hope for victories yet to come. Others simply bask in the temporary lull, telling tales of their glory to fill the silence.

Leon keeps his distance, seeking refuge near a cluster of trees where the light barely reaches, and the noise fades to a murmur. His back rests against a sturdy trunk, sword and shield propped beside him, the armor around him a forgotten weight. He has no desire to join in the revelry. Solitude feels more fitting—more honest. He closes his eyes, trying to relish the brief respite, though the chance of true rest feels distant, as elusive as peace itself.

"If you don’t eat, you’ll lose your strength." A gruff scoff breaks the silence, drawing Leon from his thoughts. He glances sideways to find Captain Krauser standing above him, holding out a steaming bowl of stew. The smell of the meat, thick with gravy, rises into the cool night air, but Leon’s stomach churns at the sight of it.

"Captain Krauser," Leon mutters, accepting the bowl out of obligation more than hunger, balancing it on one knee. "Didn’t feel like celebrating with the others."

Krauser doesn’t move. He stands there, arms crossed, his bulk casting a shadow that blocks the faint moonlight. His scarred face is half-illuminated by the fire’s glow, the deep lines etched into his skin more pronounced in the flickering light.

Leon stirs the stew absently, blowing on it before taking a small bite. It’s warm, but tasteless. Each mouthful feels like ash, though he forces himself to swallow.

Krauser lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. He lowers himself to the ground beside Leon with a heavy sigh, the earth shifting beneath his weight. "Is that guilt weighing you down, shiny?" His voice is rough, edged with a mockery that barely conceals his weariness. "Because that’s a damn waste of time."

Shiny. The word used to grate on Leon—an insult for paladins whose armor hasn’t yet been sullied by enough blood and battle. His once-polished metal has long since dulled, but the name lingers. Now, he doesn’t care what anyone calls him. It’s just another word.

"Just a bad feeling," Leon replies with a shrug, forcing another spoonful down. The broth is bland, lukewarm at best, but he eats slowly anyway, chewing as if it will somehow ground him in the present.

Krauser grunts, his large frame shifting uncomfortably as he leans back against the tree. "You’re learning." He pauses, eyes narrowing slightly as he glances toward the distant glow of campfires. "New orders came in. We move south at first light to intercept a convoy carrying supplies."

Leon keeps eating, though his grip tightens slightly on the spoon. He waits. There’s always more.

"Intelligence says there may be hostages," Krauser adds, his voice turning grim. Leon notices how the lines around his eyes seem deeper, more etched than before. There’s exhaustion in them, though it’s well hidden behind his hardened exterior. "Our task is to eliminate the threat to the kingdom."

"Kill the hostages?" Leon’s response is flat, more a statement than a question.

A heavy silence falls between them, stretching like a weight neither of them wants to bear. The fire crackles on, sending occasional sparks into the air, while the distant hum of soldiers' voices fades into the background. The smell of burning wood fills the space between them, thick and stifling.

Krauser doesn’t answer immediately. His jaw clenches, the scar on his face pulling tight as he looks ahead, not meeting Leon’s gaze. "You know the orders," he says finally, the words dropping like stones into the quiet. "We do what we’re told."

Leon lowers the spoon, the taste of the stew forgotten as his stomach twists. He’s not surprised, but that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow. He stares into the fire again, watching as the flames curl around the blackened logs, reducing them to nothing but ash.

The sword feels heavier today.

Leon rides ahead of the troops, the rhythmic clop of horseshoes striking the stone path echoing across the endless stretch of open land before him. The morning sun climbs lazily in the sky, casting pale light that stretches the shadows of soldiers and horses over fields soon to be stained with blood.

His breath puffs in the crisp air, small clouds that vanish as quickly as they form. His fingers tighten around the sword’s hilt, knuckles whitening under the strain, even though there’s no immediate need to wield it. Sweat runs in a thin line down his spine, sticking his shirt to his skin beneath the armor.

Behind him, the sounds of the army in preparation are a constant hum—swords being drawn from scabbards, armor buckled into place, horses snorting in nervous agitation. Soldiers march in disciplined ranks, though their faces carry the tension of men too aware of what’s to come. Some are barely more than boys, fresh to the battlefield, eyes wide with fear they think they can hide. The village lies beyond the next ridge, nestled in the hills. The command had been clear: leave none alive.

Leon shifts uncomfortably in the saddle. His throat tightens with the weight of it, as if each breath is a struggle to swallow the bitter taste of what they’re about to do. He glances to the soldiers beside him, seeing faces too young, too eager to kill or die, all in the name of a god who remains as distant as the stars.

There was a time when Ethelion’s will felt as close as his own heartbeat. When the saintess’s blessings had filled him with purpose, your touch a reminder of the grace he fought to protect. What would you think of him now? Would you still offer him your blessing, knowing the blood that stains his hands? The lives he’s taken, the innocents who died beneath his blade?

As they near the village, Leon pulls back on the reins, slowing his horse. The captain riding beside him narrows his gaze, a sharp glance cast his way, but Leon doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Captain,” Leon’s voice comes out rougher than intended. “What if we’re wrong?”

The captain scoffs, not even turning his head. “Wrong? These people are traitors. They must be dealt with.”

Leon’s grip tightens around the reins, the leather biting into his palms. “But we have no proof. No confirmation that they’ve—”

“There is no what if, shiny,” the captain cuts him off, his tone as cold and unyielding as iron. “Our orders are clear. Or have you forgotten your place?”

Leon swallows hard, his throat dry. His place. To serve, to obey, to carry out the will of Ethelion without question.

But his place has never felt so wrong.

They crest the final hill, the village coming into view below. Smoke rises lazily from chimneys, the scent of cooking fires carried on the wind. From a distance, it looks serene. Peaceful. The villagers go about their day, unaware of the army bearing down on them, unaware that in moments, their world will be torn apart.

Leon’s stomach churns. His horse shifts beneath him, sensing his unease, and he forces a slow breath, trying to calm the storm of doubt swirling inside him. His brothers-in-arms march forward, steady and resolute, their swords ready, their minds set on the task ahead.

But Leon’s horse won’t move. It stands rooted, mirroring the weight in his soul.

The captain urges his own horse forward, barking orders to the soldiers to fan out and surround the village. Leon watches as they obey without hesitation, without question. Their faces remain emotionless, minds focused on the task at hand.

How can they not feel it? How can they not sense the wrongness of what they’re about to do?

As the soldiers advance, the first shouts of alarm rise from the village below. Leon can hear it—the panic in their voices, see the sudden fear on their faces. Mothers pulling children close, men scrambling to gather their families. Chaos erupts as arrows fly and swords are raised, and yet, Leon remains frozen in place, his hand trembling on the reins.

The first bodies fall, the clash of steel and screams blending into a cacophony that drowns everything else. The world tilts beneath him, the ground shifting as the sickening sound of death fills his ears, louder than the wind, louder than anything.

I can’t do this.

The thought slices through the haze like a knife.

I can’t.

His grip tightens further on the reins, every muscle in his body tensing, ready to move, ready to do something. Anything.

A shout from behind jerks him from his paralysis. “Sir!”

Leon turns sharply, his pulse racing. A young messenger rides toward him, his face pale, fear etched into every line as he pulls his horse to a stop, barely managing to speak through gasps for air. “Urgent orders from the capital! Princess Ashley has been taken by the enemy. We must mobilize immediately to retrieve her.”

Leon’s heart slams against his ribs.

The princess. The heir to the throne.

For a brief, blessed moment, the chaos of the battlefield fades away, replaced by the only thing that matters. He can save her. He can stop this madness and do something that truly matters.

But the church has other orders.

The captain rides over, his brow furrowed as he tears the sealed letter from the messenger’s hand, the royal crest glinting in the sunlight. He scans it quickly, his expression hardening with each passing second before crumpling the parchment and tossing it to the ground.

“We proceed as planned,” the captain snaps, his tone cold, final.

Leon’s blood runs cold. “But the princess—”

“The orders stand,” the captain repeats, not even glancing at him. “We were sent here to purge this village of traitors, and that’s what we’ll do.”

The sound fades from Leon’s ears, replaced by a sharp ringing that drowns out the Captain ordering the messenger away and trying to direct him to the nearest base.

His pulse pounds in his temples, each beat like a hammer driving nails into his resolve. This isn’t just another village. This isn’t just another order. It’s the future of the kingdom hanging in the balance, and they’re about to throw it all away for what? For bloodshed masquerading as faith?

The bile rises in Leon’s throat, bitter and burning.

He thought he could stomach war. He thought he could follow orders, no matter how brutal. But this?

The last thread of the leash holding him snaps.

Leon’s hands shake on the reins as the captain’s sharp gaze lands on him. “Leon,” the captain growls, noticing his hesitation, “Remember yourself.”

An oath. To serve, to obey, to protect.

But as he looks out over the village, sees the smoke rising, the screams tearing through the air, Leon knows the truth.

This isn’t the will of Ethelion.

This is the will of men.

Men who’ve twisted the divine into something grotesque, something that demands blood for power. Men who’ve forgotten what they were supposed to protect.

Your face flashes before him—soft, kind, with that quiet strength. The words you once spoke come back to him, clear in the chaos.

One is not born to greatness. One achieves it.

“I can’t do this,” Leon whispers, the words slipping out before he can stop them. His voice is barely a breath, but the weight of the truth in them rings louder in his mind than any shout of command.

The captain’s gaze sharpens. “What did you say?”

Leon meets his eyes, feeling the fire build inside him. “I won’t do this,” he repeats, stronger now. “I won’t sit by and watch us slaughter innocents while the kingdom’s heir is in danger.”

“You swore an oath.”

“I swore an oath to protect,” Leon retorts, his breath catching as conviction tightens his chest. “And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

For a long, tense moment, silence stretches between them. The captain’s face twists in fury, his hand hovering near his sword. “You defy the Temple, and you defy Ethelion himself. You’ll be branded an oathbreaker. You’ll never be able to return.”

An oathbreaker. Cast out from the temple, from the faith, from you.

But Leon knows, deep down, that this decision was made long before he spoke the words.

“If following the Temple means abandoning the kingdom, then I’ll bear that title gladly.”

The captain’s jaw tightens, fury flashing in his eyes, but Leon doesn’t wait for the response. He turns his horse with a sharp tug, spurring it forward. The wind rushes against his face as he rides, faster and faster, leaving behind the chaos, the orders, the lies.

He knows what this means. He knows what’s waiting for him at the end of this path. There will be no place for him in the temple, no return to the saintess’s grace.

But as the wind cuts through him, sharp and freeing, he knows one thing for certain:

He’s made his choice.

And now, he’ll live with it.

The streets of the capital are thick with people, their cheers rising in waves that echoed off the towering stone walls of the city, the air alive with the sounds of celebration—laughter, music, the rhythmic beat of drums that thrummed through the cobblestone streets like a heartbeat. Banners of blue and gold flutter in the breeze, catching the midday sun and casting fractured patterns of light across the throngs of spectators who lined the streets.

And there, at the center of it all, rides Leon, astride a massive warhorse clad in gleaming black barding, the royal crest of Ethelion emblazoned on its chest. The horse’s hooves clatter against the stones, a steady, rhythmic sound that matches the beat of the drums, though Leon barely hears it. His focus is elsewhere—distant, cold, fixed on a point far beyond the horizon as the cheers of the people wash over him like distant waves.

He sits tall in the saddle, his body encased in full black armor that gleams like polished obsidian despite the streaks of dried blood splattered across the metal. His cape, once a regal white, fluttered in the breeze, its edges torn and frayed from the brutal campaign that had crowned him victor. Though battered, the helmet is tucked under his arm, leaving his face exposed to the cool autumn air.

The cheers from the crowd echo off the stone buildings, filling the air with a roar of excitement and adoration. Cries of “Long live Sir Leon!” and “Hail the hero!” ring out from every direction, the people pushing and jostling to catch sight of him as he rode by.

It all means little to him.

They shout his name, faces alight with joy, hailing him as their hero, their savior. He has returned from the war triumphant, Princess Ashley safe at his side, the enemy defeated and the kingdom secured. To them, he is a figure of legend, a warrior draped in glory and victory.

But to Leon, the glory feels hollow, like fool’s gold.

He fought for close to a decade, driven by a purpose that no longer existed. The blood on his armor, the lives lost in his name—it all seems to blur together in his mind, a swirling mass of faces and screams that he can’t escape. Even here, amidst the fanfare and celebration, the battlefield clings to him, its shadow cast long and dark over his soul.

The people can’t see it. They see only the armor, the crown of laurels resting atop his head, the bloodied sword at his side. They don’t see the burden of it, the way it presses down on him like a sin he could never lay down.

He glances to the side as the parade moved forward, the crowds pressing in closer as they strained to catch a glimpse of the soldiers coming home. Children are perched on their parents’ shoulders, waving small flags, their faces painted in the colors of the kingdom. Women throw flowers from their balconies, petals raining down like confetti, their bright colors almost a mockery to the dark steel of his armor.

And then, through the sea of faces, something catches his eye.

A small blur, darting between the legs of the adults, weaving through the crowd with surprising speed and determination. Leon’s gaze sharpens, his body tensing instinctively as he tracks the movement, his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword.

It’s a child.

A little girl, no more than seven or eight years old, her hair tied in messy braids, face flushed with excitement. She breaks free from the crowd, slipping past the guards who stood watch along the edges of the street, and before anyone can stop her, she runs toward Leon, her small hands clutching something tightly to her chest.

The crowd gasps, a murmur rippling through as the girl reaches Leon’s horse. The guards move forward, ready to intervene, but Leon holds up a hand, signaling for them to stop.

He looks down at the child, eyes dark and tired. The little girl stares up at him, her chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths, wide eyes filled with awe and something else—something Leon hasn’t seen in a long time.

Hope.

For a moment, the world slows, the noise of the crowd fading into the background as Leon and the girl lock eyes. She is so small, so fragile, standing there in front of him, her little hands trembling as she holds something out to him on her tiptoes.

A flower.

A single white lily, its petals slightly crumpled from her tight grip, but still intact, still whole. She raises it up to him, her hands shaking, lips parting in a shy, nervous smile.

“For you, sir,” she yells, her voice barely audible over the distant roar of the crowd. “Thank you for saving us!”

Leon stares down at the flower, his heart constricting painfully in his chest. The blood on his armor, the dirt caked beneath his fingernails, the weight of the sword at his side—all of it feels wrong in the presence of such innocence. He’s a soldier who threw away his oath, a killer, a man forged in the fires of war, and yet here stands this child, offering him a flower as if he were something more than just the weapon the kingdom had wielded.

His hand, still encased in the cold metal of his gauntlet, moves slowly, hesitantly, as if it doesn’t belong to him. He reaches down, the armor creaking with the motion, and gently takes the flower from the girl’s outstretched hands. The petals brush against the bloodstained metal of his gloves, stark and bright against the darkness of his armor.

“Thank you,” Leon mumbles, rough and strained, the words catching in his throat. His grip tightens around the delicate stem of the flower, careful not to crush it. For a brief moment, the warmth of the child’s gesture pierces through the fog of guilt and weariness that’s permanently settled over him, a glimmer of light in the darkness.

The little girl’s face lights up with a smile, her eyes shining with pure, untainted joy. She stands there and jumps up and down with excitement, beaming up at him as if he were the sun itself, as if his presence alone could banish the shadows that lingered at the edges of her world.

But Leon knows better. He feels the lock of hair curled inside the locket above his heart burn his skin.

The grand doors of the royal palace groan open with an echoing creak, revealing the hall beyond—a glittering display of prosperity and flamboyance that seems to scorn the simple austerity of the life Leon has known. Polished marble floors gleam beneath chandeliers of wrought gold, their light refracting off mirrors that line the walls. The air here is crisp, almost sharp with nose-breaking blends of perfumes, with none of the heavy warmth of the temple's incense.

Leon’s boots click sharply against the marble as he enters, each step ringing out in the cavernous hall, a sound swallowed by the murmurs of the courtiers who line the edges of the room. The steady hum of muted conversations fills his ears, escorted by the occasional clink of glasses. They watch him with calculating eyes, the nobles dressed in silks and velvets of every hue, faces painted with smiles too precise to be genuine, as suffocating as the armor that once bore him through battle.

He feels naked without it now, standing here in formal garb, his sword sheathed and distant at his side, a mere symbol of his victory rather than a tool of survival. The dark fabric of his tunic hangs heavy on his shoulders, trimmed with the royal blue of the kingdom.

Ahead, at the far end of the hall, the king sits on his throne. The high-backed chair is a towering edifice of dark wood, inlaid with gold and precious stones that sparkle under the dazzling chandeliers. The king himself is an imposing figure, draped in royal blues and deep purples, a crown resting atop his graying hair. He watches Leon’s approach with the same detachment as the nobles—his gaze that of a man weighing the worth of a tool rather than acknowledging the triumph of a soldier.

As Leon reaches the dais, he stops, kneeling—an action that should feel natural after years of service, but here, it is different.

The king rises slowly, the robes trailing around his feet like the velvet shadows of dusk, and approaches with the same calculated precision that governs the court. A ceremonial scepter gleams in his hand, more ornament than authority, but its significance is clear.

“Sir Leon,” the king’s words cut through the room like the edge of a blade, each syllable crisp, measured. “You stand before this court as a hero of our realm. For your valor in battle, for your unwavering loyalty to the crown, and for the rescue of Princess Ashley, I bestow upon you the title of Margrave.”

The tap of the scepter on Leon’s shoulder is light, almost delicate, but it might as well have been a hammer.

The king returns to his throne, settling back with a rustle of silk, and gestures for Leon to rise. “Rise, Margrave.”

Leon pushes to his feet, the formality of the moment bearing down upon him as the court claps in practiced politeness. Their applause is soft, a murmur of sound that fades almost as quickly as it had begun, leaving the room in an expectant silence.

It is time.

A low ripple of movement stirs at the far end of the hall as the clergy step forward. Robes of pristine white trail across the floor as the procession approaches, a stark contrast to the vivid blues and purples of the nobility. At the head of the clergy is the Archbishop, his ceremonial staff clicking rhythmically against the floor with each step. And beside him—veiled, serene, and radiant in her holy robes—is the saintess. The mask is a pure white, veil milky and opaque; the contrasts of light and darkness across its fabric give the impression of a reflection on water, of a thousand shifting stars under the sun. On your head rests a delicate crown of silver thorns, interwoven with fine filigree, glimmering like fresh snow, hands folded in your lap are covered by silk gloves, so smooth they almost shine.

Leon’s heart stutters.

This is the moment he has been longing for, the only prayer that’s ever left his lips even after his faith had fallen.

He has endured the war, survived the bloodshed, all for this. For you. For the woman who has been his guiding light, the saintess who had once healed him with her touch, whose presence had filled the void within him during the long, cold nights on the battlefield.

He steps forward, his hands trembling at his sides, his breath catching in his throat as the group approaches the dais.

His knee wants to bend before he even realizes it, the instinct to kneel before you stronger than any other impulse.

But as when you take your place atop the steps of the dais, hands raised in the familiar gesture of blessing, something gnaws at him—an unease that creeps along the edges of his mind. The movement of your hands, the tilt of your head—it is all wrong. Too stiff, too formal.

He hesitates.

The room holds its breath, the nobles watching in silence as the saintess descends down towards him, the veil obscuring your features, body swathed in layers of white that flutter with each step.

Leon’s pulse quickens, and his eyes—despite his every effort not to—search for yours through the veil and the mask. He needs confirmation that it’s him who has changed. He needs to see, even if it is just the glimpse of the eyes he had held in his memory through every moment of agony, through every victory.

But as you draw closer, his stomach drops.

The eyes behind the veil—dark, unfamiliar, and cold—are not yours.

His body freezes, his muscles locking in place as the realization hits him with the force of a blow.

This isn’t you.

This woman—this stranger—isn’t the one he had fought for, the one whose face had kept him alive in the blood-soaked trenches of the war.

The saintess lowers her hands, preparing to lay her blessing upon him, but Leon jerks back, his knees refusing to bend, breath quick and sharp in his chest. The room grows still, the murmurs of the nobles faltering as the tension thickens around him like a noose.

The Archbishop’s head snaps toward him, the ceremonial calm in his expression faltering for just a moment. His fingers tighten around the staff, the knuckles turning white beneath the pressure.

“Margrave,” the Archbishop’s reprimand is sharp, cutting through the air like the crack of a whip. “You must kneel to receive the Saintess’s blessing.”

Leon’s fists clench at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking under the strain. His body is trembling, but it isn’t from fear. It is from the fear-soaked anger that is building inside him, slow and burning like a fire stoked too long. His gaze fixes on the false saintess, his heart thundering in his chest, his mind spinning with questions that have no answers.

Where are you?

The walls close in, the air thick with the silent judgment of nobles and clergy. Each breath is a growing struggle, laden with the oppressive load of their expectations. His limbs feel anchored, refusing to bow before this stranger, this imposter.

“Margrave,” the Archbishop’s voice cuts through the tension, sharp and commanding. His eyes flash a stern warning. “You will kneel.”

The pressure shatters.

Leon’s body moves before he can stop it, his hands flying out to grab the front of the Archbishop’s robes, yanking him forward with a force that sends the man stumbling, the ornate staff clattering to the floor. A collective gasp sweeps through the room, the nobles recoiling in shock as Leon’s voice, low and ragged, spills out.

“Where is she?” His hiss is a harsh rasp, breaths coming in short, jagged bursts. “Where is the real Saintess?”

The Archbishop’s face twists in fury, his hands flailing against Leon’s iron grip. “Unhand me, you fool! You stand in the presence of Ethelion’s chosen—”

“No.” The word is a snarl, the growl of an animal promising to get violent. Leon’s grip tightens, the anger boiling over, his muscles trembling with the force of it. “What have you done with her?”

The room descends into chaos. Nobles rise from their seats, the sound of their hurried footsteps mingling with the low murmur of alarmed voices. The clergy shift uneasily, their faces pale, but none of them dare to move. The paladins stationed near the walls exchange nervous glances, their hands hovering near their swords, but none step forward.

They have seen what Leon is capable of.

“Release me!” The Archbishop’s voice cracks, his pale face contorted with fear and rage. “You dare attack the church? You will be branded a heretic for this!”

Leon barely hears them, his body trembling with rage as he stares down the terrified clergyman clawing at his arm, nails digging into Leon's skin, leaving behind bloody scratches.

“I don’t care.” Leon’s voice is low, silent, the words spilling from him like venom. “Tell me where she is.”

Before the Archbishop can answer, a hand—small, yet firm—clamps down on Leon’s shoulder.

Princess Ashley doesn’t release his arm as she pulls him toward the side of the throne room, guiding him through the side doors that lead into a quieter, more secluded hallway. The heavy wooden door closes behind them with a dull thud, cutting off the noise of the throne room and leaving them in a sudden, suffocating stillness.

Leon exhales, his breath shuddering as he leans against the wall, one hand coming up to palm at his face, and between his fingers, stares down at the ground with a wild look.

[lokis-coconut28]

A Green & Gold Sundae

A/N : Hello! Thank you so much for your patience on this one! Life got wild. Thinking about a Part 2?

I appreciate the love and support you all gave on Sports Bra! I hope you enjoy this one as well :)

Warnings: Food play, Smutttt, 18+ ONLY Minors DNI

Summary: (Y/N x Loki) Insomnia leads to late night dessert with the God of Mischief. WC 2.3k

Masterlist Here

Toss, turn, repeat. Insomnia washed over you like a tidal wave dragging your mind into the sleepless abyss. You focused on the alarm clock atop the desk inquisitively - 12:18am, Sunday morning. With a discontented sigh you emerged out of bed in hopes of quelling your restless night. 

Meandering into the kitchen, you glanced over at the common room. Loki was nestled comfortably in the corner chaise, studying a leather bound tome reservedly in the soft light. Thor clad with headset shouted an incoherent threat at the television to a “NoobMaster69”. You quietly opened the refrigerator, scanning the shelves for a midnight snack, unaware of the eyes that were lingering on your form.

You heard commotion, rolling your eyes as you witnessed Thor throwing his headset on the ground. He tromped your direction, countenance mellowing as he spotted you rummaging in the ice box. 

“Y/N!” Thor beamed. “You cannot sleep? Up for playing a game with me?” 

You shook your head, declining, while grabbing a can of whipped cream from the door. You took the cap off and sprayed it directly into your mouth. 

“Nohhh fank youh.” You slurred, mouth full of froth. 

Thor chortled and snagged the can from you, dispersing a mighty tower of cream into his mouth. You jovially bantered, laughing whilst requesting, “Another!” 

“Of course!” 

You leant back, Thor squirting more cream into your mouth. Loki's eyes widened, subcontiously clenching the book in his lap. His focus sharpened in surveillance of his brother in such close proximity to you. He felt- no he couldn’t. He certainly did not feel jealous. 

“Loki? Want some?” You jocundly inquired from across the space, fracturing Loki from his envious thoughts. 

“Only idiots and fools play these witless games, mortal.” Loki venomously spat at you. He slammed his book shut, abandoning it on the chair, strutting with haste out of range down the hall. 

The joy you had exuded moments prior shriveled inside your heart like a dying flower. Loki had never spoken to you so harshly. 

Thor noticed your discomfort at Loki's insult. He leaned down and whispered, “He is adopted,” into your ear. You stifled a half-chuckle and smacked his large bicep. 

“Be nice!” You scolded lightheartedly, beginning to head toward your own room. 

There was a soft knock on your door, barely audible. You glimpsed at the clock and grumbled. 3:30am. Tony. Stark was notorious for recruiting you to work in the early hours. While you were grateful to be part of this team, briefing documents were the last thing you felt like reading in your insomniatic state. 

Moseying over to the sound, you swung the door open in exasperation, bracing yourself for Tony’s middle of the night assignment. You froze ice cold when you saw Loki before you instead.

“What brings you to my room, Laufeyson?” 

Loki winced internally at the tone of your words. You never called him that. 

“An apology. May I come in?” He said with an air of sincerity that riddled you with regret. 

Silently stepping aside, you observed Loki as he cautiously entered your room. His hands dwelled behind his back, arms tight to his sides. He loomed with the utmost formal, stiff posture. Your interest was piqued at his bravery not only to come to your room, but to also offer an apology. Core tightening at the sudden realization you were alone with Loki in the middle of the night, you listened to him intently as he began to speak. 

“Y/N… I owe you an apology for what I said tonight. How I spoke to you - it was harsh…” he shifted uncomfortably on his heels. “It’s just- it is not proper for royalty where I come from to do - well… fun things… Midgardian things.” Loki confessed in the tenebrosity of your bedroom. “And with Thor there… Well… He would tell The Warriors Three. I would never hear the end of it Y/N. Gossip spreads like wildfire in Asgard...” 

You could tell Loki was being vulnerable, something that did not come first nature to him. 

“...I find it difficult to let go of those customs. I am trying... So - if you would still have it… If the offer still stands…” he continued, revealing the can of whipped cream from behind his back with pleading eyes. 

You raised your eyebrows at him with a playful grin. “Really?” 

Apprehensively, he bowed his head in permission, handing over the canister. 

“Come here.” You giggled, seizing the can. You crawled onto your bed, scooching to one side. You tapped the mattress beside you twice, beckoning the God of Mischief to come join you. 

Following your lead, Loki tried to ignore the flutters in his stomach. Sitting next to you, he was painfully poised. Yet even in the late of night, he looked as collected and composed as he ever did, stature dripping with elegance. 

“Lean against my leg.” You hushedly instructed. 

Loki shimmied down low on the bed, resting his head carefully against your slightly bent knee. He looked straight up at you, seeking guidance. Allowing someone to have control of himself was new. Steadily, he rested his body perpendicular to yours. 

“Tilt your head back.”

You cradled his scalp and gently tugged his hair, encouraging access to his mouth. All traces of awkwardness melted away as he arched slowly into your palm. You admired Loki’s Adam’s apple as he swallowed, the new angle exposing his alabastrine flesh. Your eyes lingered, watching the heartbeat quicken in his strong neck, deep veins coursing like a sapphire river. You shifted your left leg slightly, arousal starting to stir from forbidden thoughts of your colleague.  

“Good.” You praised, loosening the grip on his obsidian curls. A small smirk formed on your lips. “Open up, please.” 

His breath hitched as he willed the tension in his jaw to release, slightly parting his mouth. He wet his lips with his tongue, allowing access for your dessert. Gently, you pressed the nozzle downward, forcing sweet cream to squirt from the star-shaped tip. Loki flinched, startled from the sound of the pressure that was built up in the can. You smiled reassuringly, sliding your hand down to support the nape of his neck. 

“It’s okay. Relax your body. It’s good right?” You soothed.

“Mmm-mmhmm. Another,” he hissed, mimicking your words to Thor earlier. A familiar burning swept over your stomach at his new inflection, laced with lust and possession.

Loki’s hands fidgeted near his groin, attempting to hide his arousal as you pressed down again. He allowed his eyes to fall shut, appreciating the feeling of you. The way you were cradling him felt so intimate. Your delicate hand holding him sent him to a state of tranquility he hadn’t felt in eternities… 

You made a large swirl in his mouth. Not nearly enough to make him choke, but certainly more than filling it. Loki’s eyes snapped open and glared at you in artificial anger. 

“I’m sorry… I had to do it.” You feigned your most innocent and apologetic look. 

Loki deftly dipped his pointer finger through the peak of cream in his mouth before consuming the rest. He tilted his head toward you, observing your expression. You were at ease with him. Peaceful and serene… Not afraid. 

Loki raised his finger to your mouth. He hoped this was not too forward of him, he hoped not to scare you away. 

Loki’s outstretched arm revealed the erection straining against his pants. His dormant hand began clenching his thigh as you bewitchingly leaned forward and sucked his finger clean of the foam, eyeing his visible arousal. Setting the can down and mindlessly draping your free hand on his abdomen, you felt his diaphragm rise and fall under your fingertips. A blush crept across your face at his hungry eyes taking you in. 

“Satisfied?” You questioned.  

Loki leaned in close to you, gently sitting up in one fluid movement. 

“It was quite good… However…” He tenderly rested his palm on your cheek, demanding eye contact.  “I crave something sweeter.” 

Loki ran seductive circles on your cheekbone, exalting the features of your profile, hesitating only for a moment's time. Forthwith, he captured your lips in a sultry embrace, comfortably fitting them between his own. You hummed in approval as you allowed him access to glide against your tongue. You both gave in to a sacred dance, tongues entwining in a passionate display of affection. Tasting each other, a heated frenzy between yourselves was created. 

Loki pulled away searchingly. He studied your face for any trace of protest. 

Coyly you lifted your lashes up at him, admiring the beauty in his irises. Being this close to him was enchanting. 

“Yes?” You chuckled. 

“I just - I want to be sure that was okay. I do not want to betray your trust, Y/N.” He whispered bashfully.

You pressed an affirming kiss on his lips, running your hand down his side. You spoke as you began to swap spots. 

“Lay on your back, Prince.”

Loki leaned backward as you knelt between his spread thighs. Slight panic was evident on his face as your new positions did not allow for him to hide the bulge in his trousers. 

And Gods. You were kneeling. His swollen cock throbbed at just the sight. 

“Spray it for me now… Your Highness. Spray where you want me to taste.” You mewled sweetly, looking for approval as you slid his sweater up. 

You drew a line with your finger on his exposed skin, bobbing your head once encouraging him to follow. Loki understood the instruction and sprayed a lawless line from his belly button to his sternum. 

You hovered over his sculpted belly, stalking the cream line. You slid your tongue over the messy map he had drawn for you, licking it from the top of his navel up to his chest. You planted a kiss on his jawline. Out of your peripherals there was a flash of green resulting in the disappearance of Loki’s pullover. 

“No cheating!” You playfully tugged his head back, massaging his scalp while he sprayed another line up his collarbone. You followed with a trail of kisses and sucks against his throat. He eased his eyes closed once more, letting his mouth drop open at your heated, sticky laps against the nerves in his neck.

“So- Sorry.. Y/N. No more cheating-”. You cut him off with a suction that was sure to leave a mark.

Cautiously, Loki drew a line down his happy trail. You locked eyes, licking the line up to his belly button whilst simultaneously pulling his bottoms down. He moaned in bliss as you placed a small peck above his pubic hair, continuing to tug the trousers down at a sinfully slow pace. His penis sprung free, dripping with pre-cum. You watched him pulsate as he gracefully drizzled a crown of whipped cream on his tip. His pupils dilated, dark in anticipation. 

You thumbed Loki’s hip bone, drawing an invisible heart shape on his sensitive skin. His stomach flexed involuntarily at the contact. The corners of his mouth curved upward, noting the shape you had chosen. 

“Command me, Loki.” You instructed him, sensually. “What do you want, Prince?” 

“Suck, Pet.” He demanded, firm, yet lovingly. Obediently you leaned down and sucked the mix of whip and precum from his cock. Pleasure surged from his base to his tip as your cheeks hollowed. 

“Another?” You sexily teased.

Loki let out a grunt of ecstasy and relief. He had been jealous of that word only hours ago, but now, how you said it to him, it was utterly intoxicating. 

Tasting his silky knob, your saliva ran down Loki’s length. You pumped your hand, gliding up and down with a rhythm so divine not even magic could mimic the sensation. Loki looked down at you, working sweetly between his legs. You were absolutely delicious. His cock trembled, threatening release as your mouth and grip repetitively jerked his most private anatomy. 

One hand stroking in pattern on his shaft, you allowed the other to gently fondle his testicles. He jolted forward into your mouth, relishing at the contact,  feverishly humping upward.

“Y/N…” Loki panted. You tugged his scrotum, massaging each nut gently. Your eyes flicked up to the Prince’s hand clasping your duvet. You could tell he was dangerously close to the edge. Watching his chest rise and fall at a rapid pace, you hummed at the taste of his precum, taking him further to hit the back of your throat. 

“Gods - Y/N…” he mewled . “Fuck! I’m - I’m going to cum Y/N…” 

You winked at him as you rolled your tongue sweetly over the hole that was begging for relief. Relentlessly, you pumped and sucked Loki off, taking delight in his sugary taste. His body began to quiver, commencing his inevitable orgasm. 

Loki’s hips lifted off the mattress, eyes squeezing shut tightly as his body bucked and vibrated. The intensity of pleasure washing over him as he expelled his seed into your mouth caused him to exhale a libertine moan. You supported his raised back with your hand, rubbing in encouragement as he let go, messily suctioning along with every shake and spurt of release. Tears of euphoria pooled in his eyes as he allowed you every last drop of his ejaculate. Once you were sure his release was complete, you swallowed Loki’s load. Sliding up next to him on the bed, you gently curled to his side, listening to his respiration. 

“How does Midgardian dessert compare to Asgard’s?” You perked your eyebrow at him. 

“Well, I have only had one Midgardian dessert.” He breathlessly purred against your ear. “And I think it may have caused me to develop a sweet-tooth.”

A long morning of dessert education was paved before you both, with Loki accepting your offer of a cherry on top, next.  This was your favorite Sundae.

Thinking about a part 2 to this...

[tavs-brainworm]

Got something NASTY cooking for my fellow sub!Ascended Astarion enjoyers, and I'm finally far enough into it that I feel comfy posting a preview. There's no telling when it'll be finished but I'm just frothing at the mouth to share it.

More under the cut (~750 words) for those of you who want to read about two deeply pathetic people having terrible sex. Enjoy.

** Quick note: There's nothing too crazy in this preview (just a little blood and orgasm denial), but keep in mind that the full version will come with a very long list of content warnings, including blurry consent and ptsd flashbacks. Unfortunately my Tav is a bad person and subsequently a bad dom. ** Btw Io rhymes with Leo **

Astarion squirms, pushing against her finger and the warm hand on his hip to communicate his frustration, but Io’s touch remains measured and pianissimo and not enough. Her humming ends in a melodic chuckle.

“I’m not neglecting you, am I, love?”

Astarion huffs and drawls sarcastically, “Oh, don’t mind me, darling. You said this would be your pleasure, remember?”

Another laugh and the finger withdraws from him completely. Astarion grinds his teeth to keep a whine from slipping out.

“And everything that is mine is firstly yours, is it not?” She leans over to pour more oil in her hands, rubbing them together to warm it. “I’m yours to command, always. If this isn’t to your liking then, by all means, turn me over and fuck me however it pleases you.”

Astarion’s teeth grind harder as Io gives the tip of his cock a chaste kiss, and her finger returns to its leisurely massaging of his hole. Her offer is… tempting. It was surely meant as a taunt. Astarion knows that Io would, in fact, be more than happy to play pillow princess for the rest of the night if that was what he wanted from her, and, often, it is.

But that’s not what he wants tonight. Astarion can admit to himself that he’s come to crave this kind of attention from her, and it’s been too long since the last time she offered this.

“You would try to trick me into doing all the work, wouldn’t you, you greedy little thing?”

Io grins toothily up at him, and Astarion thinks he might have told the little devil exactly what she wanted to hear. “Don’t you worry, love,” she says, finally, finally, pressing into him for real, and Astarion lets out a sigh of release. “I know what you need.”

Io pumps her finger in and out of him, slowly, not yet going for his spot. She wraps the fingers of her other hand around his cock, pumping him there, too.

Astarion sighs blissfully, sinking further into the sheets. Io’s touch is skilled and confident, but not like his. Fingers trained to draw sound from string, not bodies, and the working of her hands is rhythmic and deliberate, in and out, up and down. A second finger joins her first inside him, the two of them pumping a steady rhythm and just barely teasing the edge of his prostate, feather light pressure that makes Astarion’s breath come hard and his hands clench into fists around their silk sheets.

A bead of precum dribbles out of him and – Gods, he should’ve asked for this sooner, it’s not like Io has ever told him no – she swipes over it with her thumb, adding his slick to the oil before Astarion can think too hard about how worked up he is over so little.

“Beautiful, just beautiful,” she coos, moving up to kiss him on the mouth. The praise and the thick curtains of her hair fall around him like a pleasant haze, and Astarion wraps a hand gently around her throat to keep her close.

At last, Io drags her fingers hard over his spot and Astarion moans unabashedly into her mouth where she devours it, kissing him so hard that fangs gnash into flesh and they taste the mixing of their blood. Io whines, chasing the taste of him, and Astarion’s grip on her throat tightens in tandem with hers on his cock, and, for a moment, it seems things might be nearing their end mournfully soon as Astarion can’t help but to buck his hips up into her grasp and grind down on her fingers caressing the inside of him, over and over and over, his pleasure bubbling up from his throat and from his cock and it’s so good, Io is so, so perfect, so good for him, so-

The hand on his cock stops. Io clamps firmly around the base of him and withdraws her fingers. The moan halfway out of Astarion’s throat ends reedy and high-pitched as his hips buck against the cruel grasp, chasing a climax now hopelessly out of reach. Frustration keeps his grip tight around Io’s throat, but when Astarion opens his eyes, she looks no worse for wear. She stares at him hungrily, licking the blood smeared on her lips.

[sakachichi]

Sunday Meal

You and Satoru have known each other ever since you were kids, your families were very close which obviously meant hanging out every Sunday night for dinner — seeing Satoru every weekend was a routine even in adulthood.

But why even still attend? You're an adult now and can make your own choices, but you never fail to be at every Sunday dinner — why? It’s because of him. On the outside it’s friendly, a nice hug, maybe a kiss on the cheek, nice and short conversations, holding the door for you, and even engaging in gossip.

But in secret, god your such a cock drunk slut just for him, meeting up with each other secretly in the bathroom of his or your parents homes just to get fucked silly by him. You honestly don’t know why you both are so secretive about this, your parents would be so happy to hear about you two being in a relationship.

So why keep it a secret?

Now, it’s Sunday 8th, the day after Satoru’s birthday. Both families gathered for a nice brunch to celebrate Satoru, everything was decorated really nicely and most importantly the food looked so delicious.

When you arrived you made sure to greet everyone in attendance, taking a few moments for small talk with a few people before taking a seat next to your parents. “Sweetie, have you seen Gojo?” Your mother asks quietly.

“Mmm no? I was wondering where he was” you replied in her same quiet tone, looking around the room for him, “he hasn’t arrived?” Your mother shook her head.

Honestly you would love to be concerned but you're not, he’ll eventually show up so you really don’t care. The party continues with sweet mellow music in the background, slightly muffling people’s conversations, drinks kept coming out and appetizers as everyone continued to wait on Satoru.

After an hour of waiting for Satoru Gojo himself, he finally decided to show up, looking almost disheveled — his suit was messily buttoned and his hair was a slight mess, still looking tipsy from last night's party. But at least he made it!

“Oh god” your mother said, covering her mouth, you couldn’t help but let out a scoff.

“Everyone, Gojo is here!” His father announced as he wrapped an arm around Satoru’s shoulders, regardless of his appearance his smile made up for it. Satoru’s mom did fix his suit though.

After a few minutes of greeting everyone, the food is now being served, the spread looked extremely delicious, your eyes glazing over at the sight of the hot steamy food in front of you. It’s been almost 2 hours since you’ve been waiting to eat, plus all the time you took to get ready, you're extremely famished. As you reached your hand to grab one of those tiny tea sandwiches, Satoru’s long fingers beat you to it, you looked at him through your lashes.

“It’s my birthday, I go first” he flashed a cunning smile before popping the entire entire sandwich in his mouth, “by the way…you haven’t wished me a happy birthday” you rolled your eyes as you grabbed a sandwich,

“Happy birthday Satoru” you said to which he smñiled,

“Thank you!”

After brunch, you sat around with your cousins, gossiping about anything. Everyone was so engrossed in the conversation you didn’t notice Satoru standing tall behind you, as you sipped your drink everyone in your circle slowly got quiet, leaving you confused. “What happened?” You asked as you covered your mouth.

“I’m behind you silly” Satoru's voice rang through your ears, “ohh, hi” you replied as you turned to face him, god he looked so good. The way he was looking down at you with the most prettiest smile, his snowy hair glowing frothe sun, you couldn’t help but flash him a sweet smile back.

“Do you have a minute?” He asked as he motioned towards the door with his head, “uh yes” you cleared your throat before standing up, “I’ll be back” you said as you took your leave.

You followed behind Satoru, your pretty heels clacking on the marbled floor. The grasp of his big hands is slightly painful as he drags you into an empty room, as soon as the door shuts it is absolutely quiet — only the sound of his footsteps making their way towards you rang. You watched as a smile crept into his lips, the sunlight beautifully shining down on him giving him a soft glow.

“I didn’t see you last night..” he nearly whispered, creeping towards you, analyzing as you sat down on the couch immediately crossing your legs after.

“I told you I couldn’t make it” you simply replied, looking at your nails as you tried to avoid eye contact with him, he was dangerously close — his growing bulge nearly yelling out in desperation. Satoru could scoff, “and no gift with your name on it… did I make you mad or something?”

You shook your head as you leaned back, now you're making eye contact, it’s so intense as a few seconds of silence go by. But of course he made you mad, he’s been planning his party for the past two months and sent you the invitation not even a week in advance. And it’s not like he mistakenly forgot, you had to ask him for the invitation. Oh maybe he’s busy, yea maybe but after many years of saying you’re his number one girl surely you would’ve been the first to be invited.

“Say yes, you’re mad at me. I know you are” Satoru added as he slowly began to kneel before you, his hands snaking their way under your pretty silk skirt, his cold skin colliding with your warm thighs. A sweet hum followed as he tilted his head to the side, and you could only stare. There’s no need to afirm, he already knows.

Lazily Satoru rested his head on one of your thighs, his hands still rubbing your thighs, the feeling so sweet and tender. His eyes were soft as they silently pleaded with you, biting your lip as you hesitated to speak. “Ok fine yes, I’m a little mad” you rolled your eyes and Satoru pouted, his fingers so dangerously close to your pussy as they fidgeted the delicate lace of your panties.

“But it’s in the past so whatever” you continue, crossing your arms around your chest — ignoring the fact that your cunt is fluttering around nothing. Satoru just kept looking into your eyes, “yea? You forgive me?” His tone so lewd as it made its way into your ears, and you couldn’t help but smile and nod — you fold so easily for him it’s embarrassing. Who can blame you though?

And now his fingers were making their way inside your panties, curiously exploring your supple skin before gently dipping into your sticky pussy — and oh wow was the feeling so good, making you sigh from just a simple touch. Relishing the delicious feeling of his fingers as they slowly began to rub tight circles around your clit, biting your bottom lip stifling your moans in the process.

“I wanna hear you” Satoru demands, pulling up your thin silky skirt to reveal your see-through lace panties gasping at the sight of them. Just the way that they ever so slightly conceal his fingers rubbing against you, and that sweet dark spot of your arousal peeking through. And it’s all just for him. You let go of your bottom lips with a sigh, rolling your head back and letting out pretty sighs. Your fingers twitch as you struggle to figure out where to put your hands.

God it’s so mesmerizing how wet you got just from his fingers, nastily squelching around his fingers, coating them in your shiny essence. His middle finger abusing your sensitive clit, your body on fire from the pleasure as you arch your back and curl your toes. The sweet melody of your moans serenading him as he keeps fingering you sooo good, enjoying the soft whispers of profanity coming from your sweet lips — drunk off your arousal you grind on his fingers creating a dizzying rhythm.

“Fuck, look at you” Satoru practically moans, you looked so hot, making his poor cock cry out sticky drops of pre-cum. Aching for any type of attention, so hot and bothered from your pretty sight.

Your hands finally get a mind of their own and lift your shirt up, revealing your bare chest, nipples hardened from the pleasure — wasting no time in flicking the sensitive perky buds with your nimble fingers. Gradually getting louder as you slowly reach your highly anticipated orgasm, Satoru moans as he observes your every move.

Stars started to sprinkle your vision as you came onto his fingers, coating them in your silky essence. A guttural groan coming from Satoru as he rides out your high, “I don’t even have to try hard with you, one touch and you’re gone” his words almost taunting you as he smiled before bringing his fingers up to ur plump lips, “open” he asks and you obey, his slim fingers finding solace in your warm mouth — your tongue swirls around tasting the bitter sweetness of your cum.

“What are we gonna do about my gift?” He asks with his fingers still your mouth, tauntingly cocking his head to the side as he watches you suck his fingers. Slightly opening his mouth to let out soft groans, he’s so hard it hurts, the way your tongue licks in between his digits isn’t helping. Satoru starts to retract his fingers from your mouth, a glittery web of saliva keeping you two somewhat connected before he stands up — unbuckling his pants before pulling them down along with his boxers, letting his raging cock get a breath of fresh air.

“Suck it, hm?” He sweetly asks as he bunches up your hair in his hand, and you wasted no time in wrapping your mouth around his achy cock. The taste of pre-cum hitting your taste buds as you swirl your tongue around, the nasty sound of saliva squelching and slurps filled the room harmoniously with his pretty boy moans.

Satoru placed his hand on his hip as he started to buck his hips into your mouth, the tip of his dick threatening to hit the back of your throat, slightly gagging you in the process. The grip on your head getting tighter as he continues to lose himself in ecstasy, the pain masking itself as pleasure, making your poor pussy droll.

And he could only roll his head back as he kept going further down your tight throat, “yesss, take my dick. F-fuckk”.

Your nails digging into your palms as you tried so hard to breathe, tears rolling down your face nonstop as you coughed and gagged around him. Oh and he was so loud, moaning and whimpering so sluttily. And when you couldn’t take any more you pushed your head back, desperately coughing for air, thin glittery strands of saliva keeping you two connected once again. Your legs trembling as you take such shallow gasps, a crazy smile found a way onto his pretty lips as he watches you — so amused by the sight before him.

“Fuck Sato, are you trying to kill me” you gripe throwing your head back, feeling dizzy. Satoru pouts as he caresses your chin, “aww baby I’m sorry”. Was he though?

Gently he raises you back up, your eyes falling upon his fist slowly fucking his fuming cock, fingers slightly shiny from your leftover saliva. “Open your mouth for” he adds, his thumb helping you open wide, “yeaaa, just like that” he groans out just before he starts to fuck his fist faster, creating such nasty squelching sounds.

You whimper as you watch his face contort so effortlessly, his mouth forming a nice ‘o’ shape as he races to his orgasm. And you decide to help him a little as one of your hands goes up to play with his sensitive swollen balls, and he gets even louder as he feels your cold fingers on his warm skin.

“Sh-shit babe” he whines out, his legs trembling as he reaches his high, balls and dick twitching in anticipation as he cums hard. The hot sticky substance squirting all up on your face and mouth, you giggle as you stick out your tongue to catch his precious seed. Everything you do makes him moan, watching you act so filthy for his cum.

You close your mouth to swallow his cum, then shortly after opening to reveal your sweet clean mouth and tongue. Satoru can only smile in triumph, so proud of you, so proud of how filthy you are. His hand roughly cups your face, painfully squeezing your cheeks together as he leans in for a passionate wet kiss. His tongue is so mean as he practically thrusts it down your throat, cleaning his cum up from your face. You taste the bitter lingering taste of alcohol, almost getting you drunk from the strong flavor.

This was all too much for your poor brain, sooo delirious, basically melting for him, forgetting about anything and everything. Focusing on your sopping throbbing cunt, your makeup disintegrating as we speak. How can you go back to the party looking like this, your fucked expression will do nothing helping you look normal.

But oh my god you couldn’t care less, all you wanted right now is him soooo deep in you, literally crying for him and his delicious dick. The salty tears and cum fill his taste buds as he continues to lick and kiss you, and all you could do is sit there, mouth slightly open with your tongue sitting nicely on your lips.

“Hmmh, Sato~ please please fuck me, pleease” you cry to him, your hands squeezing his biceps as you look up at him with so much need. All he could do is smile stupidly at you, this is what he wanted, he wanted you so vulnerable and needy all for him. “Is this my gift?” His tone is so cocky, you pathetically nod your head, eyes still pleading him.

“Yea? Say it, tell me that you’re my gift” his fingers softly run through your luscious hair, his hands touching your face as you gather the courage to respond. “Yesyes, I’m your gift, I’m all yours”, god were you a whining mess, so dick hungry.

Content Satoru lays you down on the couch before placing a pillow under your hips, sliding his tip all over your drenched cunt — coating it with your sweet juices. Teasingly he dips his tip earning a whine from your lips, and he does it again and again, “Sato please” you plead, your hands latching onto his shoulders.

“Oh? Sorry?” He annoyingly replied, you let out a frustrated sigh, defeated as he ignored your pleas. He continues to tease your poor entrance, rolling your hips at the slight touch of his mushroom tip. Finally, after signaling him with so many frustrated sighs, he dips himself into your slippery pussy. You arch your back as his thick girthy cock stretches so deliciously, letting out a loud moan as he bottoms himself out, warm swollen balls gently resting on you.

You let out a soft ‘yes’, enjoying the feeling of his heavy dick buried in you. Your gummy walls flutter around him as you get used to his girth. “Relax yourself baby, breathe with me” his calloused hands gently rub your sides as he guides your breathing, releasing your tight grip on him. You both nod at each other before he slowly starts to buck his hips, rolling them so nicely, making the slight arch of his dick hit so good inside you.

“Yeaaa just like that” he groans, rapidly thrust faster and harder into you leaving speechless, your jaw slacked as strained groans flow from your throat. He’s fucking you so silly, his nails digging so painfully into the supple skin of your hips, your toes nearly cramping as you curl them sooo tight. Your eyes threatening to roll so far back it kind of hurts, breathing is so staggered as he’s literally balls deep in you.

And he’s enjoying this so much, rolling his hips so deep in you, he could literally laugh out in happiness. This feels too good for you both, making you two go insanely feral. If he could stay like forever he would, loving his pussy drunk state so much. Meanwhile you are on the verge of losing your mind, his speed is too much, feeling it all in your hips and stomach as he bullies your cunt. Your body going limp after so many attempts to get yourself together, your fingers grip onto his disheveled blazer to keep yourself from slipping off the couch.

“Mm’Sato ‘m gonna cum, oh my god” you whine, bringing your hands up to his face, wiping away his sweat. “F-fuck me too” Satoru admits, but it doesn’t slow him, no way, he continues his speed grunting with each thrust. He greedily lifts both of your legs onto your shoulders, letting go even deeper hitting your sweet spot so right, making you cry out in pleasure.

Taking advantage of your already sensitive state, his fingers find their way to your perky nipples, kneading them in between his fingers, sending you so far over the edge. He’s insane, literally. Your mind is so mind blown, turning into mush.

“Yesyesyesyes!” You chant, smiling as you feel your orgasm creeping, Satoru moans as he feels your walls grip around his length so good, watching as he continues to lose you to ecstasy. And there it was, your juices gushing all over his pelvis, coating him with your glistening essence. You sigh satisfied with yourself, “oooh fuck, you just fucking squirted” he said amazed, reaching one of his hands to feel your sweet essence.

You smile as you watch him amazed, as if this is the first time you’ve ever squirted. Meanwhile you roll your hips against him as he lets your legs fall free, wrapping them around his hips, slowly and gently fucking him back. And he lets you take full control, watching you sluttily move your hips against him. “Fuck keep doing that, yesss” he moans out.

Shortly after he cums, filling you up, deep in your pussy as he moans embarrassingly loud. Both of your seeds mix together, leaving you swollen cunt in such a messy state. “Oh my g-god Sato… did you?” you gasp, pushing him away, dipping your fingers into your pussy before bringing your cum coated digits into view.

“Oopsies!”

AAAAAAH I’m so shy rn it’s not even funny 😫🙏 buuuut I hope u guys like this frrr!! My first post in a million years guys omggg 😳

[professorspork]

Not sure if you've already done this but could you either rank or tier list the Glindas and Elphabas you've seen?

lmao you know, very true to form for me how even with 59 different boots and 6 live performances under my belt i'm still like "NO I CAN'T POSSIBLY CHOOSE, I NEED MORE DATA"

like. girl. you know your own taste, be real, how much more do you really need???

but constitutionally something about me still resists lists and tiers, so instead i'm gonna do CATEGORIES.

so welcome to:

THE OZCARS

every category will have explanations, five nominees, and one winner. nominees will be listed in chronological watch order, and specific boot dates will be noted when appropriate. fair? FAIR, I THINK.

also lmao there's no way i have the self-control to limit myself to just gelphie, and please note the obvious caveat that this is a time capsule of opinions that are as ever subject to change, and this may be revisited after more things are seen

i have no idea how long this is gonna get, so maybe let's put this under a cut, huh.

BEST FIRST IMPRESSION (Elphie Edition)

(i.e.: the actresses who really impressed and made a mark on me right from the jump)

NOMINEES:

Shoshana Bean [Bway 1/9/05]: Smol Bean Too Good For This World, Too Pure

Nicole Parker [Bway 3/8/09]: Oh That's Why They Say Comedians Make The Best Dramatic Actors

Mamie Parris [1NT 11/30/11]: Green Bean Thinks Of Nothing But Murder All Day

Emmy Raver-Lampman [1NT 5/31/14]: Shockingly Steady Standby Holds Night Of Pure Chaos At Bay Like It's Easy

Mary Kate Morrissey [2NT 8/4/18]: Wow People Weren't Fuckin Kidding About Double Name Witches Being Gay On Purpose Holy Shit

WINNER: MAMIE PARRIS

I'm still two installments away from talking about this particular bootleg in the Punctum Project, but my WORD what a tour de force Mamie is. she stalks onto stage in act 1 frothing at the mouth and full of charisma and bile, and you just can't take your eyes off her. fucking amazing stuff.

BEST LAST(ING) IMPRESSION (Elphie Edition)

(i.e. the actresses whose performances have really clung to my bones and have longevity and mental staying power)

Shoshana Bean, giving YOU THINK YOU DON'T LIKE NICE ELPHIE? TOO BAD MINE WILL HAUNT YOU

Eden Espinosa, giving YOU NEVER FORGET YOUR FIRST

Carmen Cusack, giving WHY THE FUCK DID THEY NEVER LET YOU DO BROADWAY WHEN YOU'RE THE BEST AT THIS

Mamie Parris, giving NO SERIOUSLY DID I MENTION THE RAGE

Laurel Harris, giving WATCH ME GROW WATCH ME CHANGE WATCH ME MATURE WATCH ME BE SO BISEXUAL

WINNER: EDEN ESPINOSA

Reader you have no idea how hard this was for me to pick, because I do think this comes closest to "favorite" or "best" and i ALWAYS WANT TO GIVE CAVEATS. like especially I need to shout out Sho for making both lists and just like... doing the impossible work of opening the door to a post-Idina Elphaba and what that might mean and doing it with such fearless brightness. and also shout out to Carmen who I do think is maybe the most "complete" Elphaba for me, who comes closest to like, the version of Elphaba who lives in my head and whose voice I would use as my litmus test when writing fanfiction

but Eden was my first Elphie when I was a girl of but 14, and there's no getting around the fact that so many things I love in other Elphabas are, fundamentally, Little Eden Things. the combo of humor and pathos and riffs is just. in my DNA.

BEST FIRST IMPRESSION (Glinda Edition)

(These ones ARE in watch order despite not seeming like it you'll just have to believe me)

Kara Lindsay [LIVE on Bway 10/24/15, no boot exists to my eternal sadness]: My Glinda Girlie Awakening

Katie Rose Clarke [Bway 5/12/2013]: Reactivated Me Like A Sleeper Agent

Kendra Kassebaum [1NT 3/14/06]: Listen to the Sound... of Violence

Brittney Johnson [Bway 9/XX/19]: I'll Never Do It As Gay Again But My God Was This So Gay

McKenzie Kurtz [Bway 5/30/23]: Playing The Classics And Don't They Sound Great

WINNER: KARA LINDSAY

much like with Eden above this isn't really one I can like, make an argument against with any real strength or integrity. falling for Kara's glinda got me hooked on wicked for YEARS last time, and getting to her era of boots was a big motivator for how i approached the great rewatch. ultimately i fear they may not translate to those who never saw her live and can only go by recordings-- her early boots are marred by matt shingledecker giving her NOTHING and in her later boots she was lowkey carrying jenny dinoia, so you kind of have to squint i think to See It the way i know it in my bones, but. when she was good she was perfect. and so much of what i love about McKenzie was that she was Giving Kara.

BEST LAST(ING) IMPRESSION (Glinda Edition)

Megan Hilty, giving I MADE GLINDA SWEET THAT WAS ME I DID THAT

Kendra Kassebaum, giving I MADE GLINDA WEIRD THAT WAS ME I DID THAT

Annaleigh Ashford, giving I MADE GLINDA GAY THAT WAS ME I DID THAT

Katie Rose Clarke, giving I MADE GLINDA AUTISTIC THAT WAS ME I DID THAT

Kara Lindsay, giving I MADE YOU OBSESSED WITH GLINDA THAT WAS ME I DID THAT

WINNER: KATIE ROSE CLARKE

I mean. a) she's the longest Glinda so she kind of had a leg up here but b) lbr she was the longest Glinda for a goddamn reason. SO MUCH of what is now codified by fiat as things glinda Must Do are things krc just like. made up on tour and lbr got in trouble for at the time! her impact isn't just on how i understand Glinda but how EVERYONE understands glinda and like, i don't think anyone else really has a shot at that crown here other than maybe Cheno herself (who, yes, wasn't nominated and I realize that but having the staying power of being on the cast album is a whole other thing)

BEST AT GIVING GELPHIE

(Self-explanatory, but PAIRS ONLY everyone's gotta pull their weight or there would be too many caveats, even though LMAO that does skew this somewhat)

Stephanie J Block & Annaleigh Ashford: We Are The Gay Agenda and The Gay Agenda Is Hands

Carmen Cusack & Katie Rose Clarke: This Bitch Is Everything To Me (Even When She Drives Me Nuts)

Donna Vivino & Katie Rose Clarke: This Bitch Is Everything To Me (And We Have To Cry About It)

Mary Kate Morrissey & Ginna Claire Mason: Gay Agenda II Electric Boogaloo, We Have Clearly Spent Hours In Our Shared AirBNB Optimizing Every Moment Of This Show

Laurel Harris & Katie Rose Clarke: This Bitch Is Everything To Me (And For A Moment You Can Dream We Might Make It Work)

Honorable Mention: YES I KNOW I'M CHEATING but if I'd seen more boots of Alyssa Fox and McKenzie Kurtz they had a chance of knocking out one of the Katies I think and it's worth saying so

that said

WINNER: Mary Kate Morrissey & Ginna Claire Mason

This one was AGONIZING to narrow down and yes pitting Katie against herself three times does skew the results somewhat. but like. i think that if I met someone who was like "I've never seen Wicked but people tell me it's gay, what's the gayest version?" my instinct would be to point them at Double Name Witches before anyone else. I do love that (with the slight aberration of Laurel coming AFTER double name witches) this is two bookends of actresses very clearly going in with a game plan and executing, and then the insides of the sandwich is krc just like going into a dykadelic fugue state for several hours for years at a time and occasionally lucking into people who could keep up with her

BEST AT GIVING THROPPLE

(Yes this is a whole other thing than Gelphie, NO THE VENN DIAGRAMS ARE NOT IDENTICAL YES THERE IS CONSIDERABLE OVERLAP)

Carmen Cusack & Katie Rose Clarke & Cliffton Hall: True Love In Three Directions Has No Chance Of Running Smooth

Donna Vivino & Katie Rose Clarke & Richard H Blake: Crying Breakfast Friends Wish To Be Gentle And Fail

Mamie Parris & Katie Rose Clarke & Kyle Dean Massey: Young And Dumb and Full of Cum

Rachel Tucker & Carrie St Louis & Jonah Platt: Two Stressed Cheetahs And Their Zoo-Assigned Therapy Golden Retriever

Laurel Harris & Katie Rose Clarke & Ryan McCartan: Teenage Dirtbags Can't Do Feelings But Can't Stop Having Them

WINNER: LAUREL & KRC & RYAN

Blame my wife for this one y'all she converted me; the more I think about this trio the more I feel like they really do just have a balance to them that's very appealing -- getting both the sharp corners and the soft underbellies

FIYERO MOST WORTHY OF HAVING A CATFIGHT OVER

David Burnham, giving ACTUAL POPULAR GUY CHARISMA

Kyle Dean Massey, giving MOVE THEM HIPS

Michael Campayno, giving GENTLEST BOY

Ryan McCarten, giving DON'T YOU DARE CALL ME MEOW MEOW

Xavier McKinnon, giving IT WILL NEVER OCCUR TO YOU TO CALL ME MEOW MEOW *slutty wink*

WINNER: XAVIER MCKINNON

It took 20 years to find the man who was MADE IN A LAB TO BE THE PERFECT FIYERO but we did it boys, we found him. do you have any idea how hard it is to make his goofy-ass lines actually sound suave and THIS BOY MAKES IT LOOK EASY. he PULLS OFF THE GAZELLE LEAP. WHAT CAN'T HE DO. (well the answer is give thropple he's a fiyeraba truther but he's only been on tour less than a year give him time)

MORRIBLE BEST AT BOTH THE ACTING PART AND THE SINGING PART WITHOUT MAKING YOU CHOOSE

Carole Shelley: the OG

Alma Cuervo: Always Serving (all entendres intended)

Myra Lucretia Taylor: That's My Mom

Sheryl Lee Ralph: That's My Queen

Aymee Garcia: Those PIPES

WINNER: SHERYL LEE RALPH

Sheryl should have gotten a goddamn Tony for her turn as Morrible, she stole the fucking show, she was perfect in every possible way, the MENACE the HUMOR the VOICE my god.

WIZARD WHO MOST MAKES YOU GET WHY HE'S THE WIZARD:

Sean McCourt: I'm An Understudy Making A Meal of It (Pt I)

Lenny Wolpe: That's My Dad

Gene Weygandt: Peak Used Car Salesman Energy

Wayne Schroder: I'm An Understudy Making A Meal of It (Pt 2)

Michael McCormick: He Just Loves Drama

WINNER: LENNY WOLPE

Michael gives Lenny a real run for his money, but I have to go with my heart. Lenny talks like the penguin in Toy Story with the broken squeaker and 97% of the time he's the most nonthreatening sweetiepie ever and then he'll suddenly Get Serious and it's like OH DAMN OK.

BOQ BEST AT BEING NOT JUST TOLERABLE BUT TRULY LOVABLE

Telly Leung: bright spot in dark times

Alex Brightman: SO BABY

F. Michael Haynie: flustered and sweet

Jesse JP Johnson: didn't mean any harm

Michael Wartella: genuinely kind

WINNER: MICHAEL WARTELLA

I PROMISE THIS ISN'T JUST RECENCY BIAS Michael I think truly is best at navigating the swings Boq has to take without ever coming off as creepy or over-the-top. He's so GENTLE, even with Nessa, even at the end, and I'm very pumped to see more of his early work in my second go-around of boots

NESSA MOST EQUALLY GOOD AT BOTH ACTS OF THE SHOW

Deedee Magno Hall: unafraid of conflict in act 1 without being cunty about it

Stefanie Brown: makes the high highs and low lows tonally of a piece

Catherine Charlebois: years of excellence

Gizel Jimenez: Care Bear Stare

Kimber Elayne Sprawl: hell yeah i'll growl

WINNER: DEEDEE MAGNO HALL

And no, she's not winning just because my wife and I can't stop giggling any time she says any line and we mentally fill in it starting or ending with "sTEVEN--"

Deedee just has such a memorable presence, and never phoned in a single second; the line deliveries in act 1 for nessa can be so rote or surfacy and NOT FOR THIS LADY NOPE.

MOST PAINFUL FLUB

Bway 1/9/05: Joey McIntyre cannot find his note for like a full verse and a half of ALAYM and there's nothing Sho Bean can do to help him

1NT 2/26/09: Paul Slade Smith as Dillamond tells Elphaba to "go enjoy your students," leaving poor standby Merideth Kaye Clark (WHO HAS THE FIRE ALARM GO OFF ON HER LATER DURING NGD) to have to quickly improvise "That's okay, the other students aren't my friends."

Bway 6/30/2017: Kara Lindsay gets so lost in Jenny DiNoia's eyes that she ALSO sings "two good good friends" at the end of One Short Day

Bway 3/XX/20: Lindsay Heather Pierce flubs Elphie's entrance by saying "No I'm not green, yes I've always been green" instead of "seasick."

Bway 3/XX/24: Donna McKechnie says "Miss Elphaba!" instead of "Miss Upland!" as she enters the Ozdust Ballroom

WINNER(?): JOEY MCINTYRE

I'm so sorry Joey but this was your personal last show and it will live in infamy and there's nothing anyone can do about it

KOOKIEST GLINDA

(i.e. who is most in danger of being accused of having "a lot of personality")

Kendra Kassebaum, giving FISTICUFF REALNESS

Katie Rose Clarke, giving I AM AN AUTISTIC BABY DEER FROM OUTER SPACE

Alli Mauzey, giving THE ONLY THING I LOVE MORE THAN ME IS ATTENTION

Amanda Jane Cooper, giving MY FAVORITE GLINDA IS KATIE ROSE CLARKE LET'S TURN IT UP TO 11

Jennafer Newberry, giving I HAVEN'T FOUND MY GLINDA THESIS STATEMENT YET SO I'M GONNA DO THIS UNTIL I DO

WINNER: AMANDA JANE COOPER

Believe me, I am more shocked than anyone that someone was able to out-Katie Katie on this, but like. My word. Amanda Jane Cooper is A Lot, bless her, and VERY inventive. I stand by my decision to not include Annaleigh Ashford as a nominee; considering how Annaleigh plays every other role I've ever seen her in her Glinda is shockingly normal.

MOST BULLYABLE ELPHIE

(i.e. whose "The Wizard and I" and classroom scenes most have me going "oh honey good luck with all that, no wonder people keep putting Kick Me signs on your back.")

Teal Wicks, giving THEATER KID TRIES AND FAILS TO ROUGHLY APPROXIMATE DARIA

Dee Roscioli, giving MY POSTURE IS AS BAD AS MY SELF-ESTEEM

Jackie Burns, giving RACHEL BERRY OVERACHIEVER

Jessica Vosk, giving IT'S NOT MY FAULT NONE OF YOU LOSERS CAN SEE MY VISION

Natalia Vivino, giving INSUFFERABLE KNOW-IT-ALL

WINNER: DEE ROSCIOLI

Dee I think visibly has Glinda most stressed out and helpless during Popular because she cannot do it which takes the cake here

GLINDA I FIND IT EASIEST TO BELIEVE IS POPULAR WITHOUT THE SCRIPT TELLING ME SO

Kristen Chenoweth: Literally I Invented This Why Do My Predecessors Struggle When I Laid It Out

Annaleigh Ashford: Who Wouldn't Be Obsessed With Me?

Meggie Cansler: JAP Regina George And Making It Work

Gina Beck: The Fact That I Cannot Mask My Accent Is An Asset Actually Because I'm A Fascinating And Mysterious Exchange Student, Go With It

Brittney Johnson: Best Hang At Girl's Night/Throws Awesome Bachelorette Parties

WINNER: GINA BECK

I've only seen Gina once but I was fascinated by her Glinda, and how she commanded every room she was in with such ease. She's just someone you Pay Attention To, she's got this effortless magnetism that shows-doesn't-tell why it's not about aptitude it's the way you're viewed.

BEST POPULAR OOPSIE

(i.e. the improvs that weren't planned)

Bway 1/9/05: After like a FULL MINUTE of trying to get the flower to stick behind Sho's ear, Jennifer Laura Thompson gives up and puts it between Sho's tits instead

Bway 3/13/08: Annaleigh takes the flower off in the scene transition because it was falling out and stashes it in the shoe closet, then forgets which pair she hid it in when it's time for the finishing touch, has to dig through every single one, and chirps "I keep things in my shoes!" when SJB asks what she's doing

1NT 11/1/08: Katie Rose Clarke, still holding the lipstick she almost dropped as she grabs the mirror to set it on the bed, blurts out "I got so much stuff in my hands"

1NT 11/2/08 (yes literally the very next night): Katie Rose Clarke bodyslams herself so hard into her bed at "Fiyero and I are going to be married" she not only breaks a shoe and has to do the rest of Popular barefoot, but the impact sends the preset lipstick tube flying so that she has to spend the entirety of "when I see depressing creatures..." scrambling to find it in the pillows only to realize it's not there and then do a casj lean against the headboard and give Carmen a nod like she meant to do that

Bway 09/XX/19: Brittney can't get the flower to detach from her wig and finally has to let Hannah do it for her with a sad little "help!"

WINNER: 11/2/08 KRC

This one takes the cake because it's a two-parter, and because there are also like 18 different bonkers things that happen in that Popular that we do not have time to get into

IF THERE ARE OTHER CATEGORIES YOU WISH FOR MY OPINION ON, KINDLY LET ME KNOW. but this is getting quite long so I'm gonna stop it there for now

however, some people are so far and above in their respective categories, it was not worth naming four other nominees. so!

Various Senior Superlatives:

Elphie whose lack of a full video boot most kills my soul: Lindsay Mendez

Glinda whose lack of a full video boot most kills my soul: Patti Murin

Most Equal-Opportunity Bisexual Elphaba: Alyssa Fox

Most Affecting 'The Wizard and I:' Saycon Sengbloh 3/29/06

Fiyero Happiest Just To Be Invited (bc he ships Gelphie): Jon Robert Hall

Most Sizzling Sexual Chemistry Between A Wizard and Morrible: Michael McCormick and Alexandra Billings

Most Original Take on Morrible: JoAnne Worley and her ten packs a day American working-class accent

Most Frustrating Missed Opportunity for Comedy: Kyle Brown taking over for Timothy A Fitzgerald as Fiyero mid-show on 5/31/14 and NOT going for a laugh on "Fiyero, you frightened me. I thought you might have changed"/"I have changed!" LIKE COME ON MAN YOU LITERALLY HAVE CHANGED, LET IT BREATHE AND GIVE THE AUDIENCE A GIGGLE IT'S RIGHT THERE

Performance as Elphie closest to book!Elphaba: Mary Kate Morrissey 7/21/23; the most uncannily unsocialized and autistic Elphie I've ever seen and VERY unlike MK's usual portrayal. strikingly original and almost painful to watch at times. sensational.

Best sustained low note at the end of INTG: Julia Murney

Best delivery of "Yeah or maybe it scratched me or something:" Kristoffer Cusick

Best 1NT tour stop to use as a punchline: Appleton WI

Best Dillamond at actually making his lecture sound both interesting and like a legitimate classroom interaction: Harry Bouvy 9/24/17

All-Time Horniest ALAYAM: 2NT 2/XX/25 Carly Augenstein and Xavier McKinnon. No this is not recency bias, they kept kissing so long after the song ended the audience literally started to get uncomfortable. it ruled.

ANYWAY THANK YOU FOR ASKING I HOPE THIS SATISFIES

[hopefulidiocy]

Hello love! Can I request something with our main HOTD man Daemon & the prompt “I’m always going to protect you.”

Mine

Prince!Daemon x Fem!Reader

Authors note: thanks for the request! I’m not too happy with the writing but thank you <3 hope you enjoy!!

Content warning: SA

MINORS DNI

🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀

Marriage was a must in this world. Arranged marriage, usually to those in your family. You reacted just as any girl would when your family came to you with an arrangement to marry the young Tully Lord named Nathaniel. You knew nothing about each other except he was marrying you, the virgin and innocent girl, to save his reputation as a woman pleaser. He was known throughout the whore houses and you dreaded the day you would meet him at the end of that altar.

Your mother tightened your corset around you, squeezing your breast tight against your chest as you had your sisters puffing out your white feathered skirts. You felt horrific, bloated and disgusting by a large amount of alcohol being drank last night with Prince Daemon. Your last night of freedom, the last night with him in your bed, you missed him feverishly like you were a young girl in a drought. You wanted him more than anything, your heart was deeply with him, you were one. One person. You melted into him whenever he was around, you could never take your eyes off him and you wondered how you would be able to stop those festering feelings about him, how could you watch him marry someone else that wasn’t you? How could he walk you down the aisle to another man? A knock on the door brought you out of your daze, your mother excitedly opened the door. Daemon stood there, his head kind of down but he was looking straight at you. He looked beautiful. In a tight fitting suit with his Targaryen badges on, his sword sheathed beside his hip where his hand rested on it. He walked in, slowly, and stood before you.

“Lady Y/N. You look mesmerising.” His voice was raspy at the beginning before he cleared his throat to sound more normal. You saw the flicker of despair pass his eyes, your heart squeezed and you wished to reach out for him and hold him the way he held you last night.

“Thank you.” You said, trying to swallow. “Sorry, mother, sisters, can you leave us?” They nodded, exchanging looks but they left soon and instantly when they were gone you were in his arms. He embraced you, his fingers grazing your waist, his lips kissing your jawline softly as he cradled you in his strong arms.

“Gods, y/n. I’ve never seen you look so beautiful.” He whispered, sniffling. You pulled away from him, holding onto his elbows, he was smiling sadly but a tear was rolling down his cheek. You reached up to him, thumbing the tear from his cheek and welling up.

“I wish this wasn’t happening. I wish I was marrying you, Daemon.” You hung your head but he caught you, curling his index finger flat underneath your chin and pulling you up to his eyesight.

“I know. Same here.” He smiled softly, bringing you to his lips. You placed your hands flat on his chest, wishing to hold him harder and never let him go, his lips were like pillows as you landed on them, tasting a bit of heaven you will likely never taste again. “It’s time to go. You are the most beautiful woman in the kingdom, never forget that.” He offered his arm and you took it, walking slowly out of the room to your family who were adoring over you, basically frothing at the mouth.

All the Hightowers, Tully’s and Targaryen’s were at attendance for the wedding, they were dressed in their finest attire and you tried to divert your eyesight, looking in front of you to the Sept instead of anyone else and trying to ignore the soft shaking of Daemon’s hand. At the end of the altar was a very fine looking man, quite obviously eyeing up your sisters but frankly you didn’t care, you were never going to love with him or even become fond of him simply based on his reputation. You broke away from Daemon, his fingers lingering on your elbow and you didn’t dare to look his way, everyone must’ve noticed that lingering touch. You came face to face with someone who must be a year or two younger than you, a baby face with no facial hair that made him at least look a bit older. He winked at you, staring at nothing but your breasts, he was fucking disgusting. By the end of the ceremony, you were hand in hand, he pulled you to his side harshly as you walked down the aisle towards the banquet hall.

“I can’t wait to fuck you later.” He whispered. “I’m a beast in bed.” You literally shivered as he pulled open a chair for you at the bridal table, people began milling about, listening to the music and grabbing some alcohol. You watched Daemon, who stuck to the sides of the hall, just watching and then watching you, smiling sadly before looking away.

“Shall we dance, wife?” He asked, leaning towards your breasts and placing a wet kiss on your breast bone. You squirmed away and out of his touch, saying yes to the dance because hopefully he will leave you alone for the rest of night before you dedicate your life to him. So you allowed him to roam your body with his disgusting, sweaty hands, his bad breathe and the way he licked your neck with a grizzled tongue, you were squirming away from him subconsciously but he kept you close.

“Let me see what’s under here. I’m sure everybody else does as well.” His smile was oily, the way it snaked on his face as he began untying your corset. You started to sweat, he was undressing you in front of everyone and you felt under a spotlight, a hot spotlight that trickled down your bare back as he magnified your breasts in front of everyone. They were whispering but no one was coming to your aid. He licked his lips before going to them, his teeth bare, and then someone did intercede. Daemon. He shoved himself between you and him, his sword glinting in the candlelight, sharp and fierce as his eyes grew dark and deadly. Nathaniel laughed wickedly, cracking his neck and pulling up his fists.

“You think you are the saviour?” He laughed. “I’m gonna fuck that woman tonight. In fact I might do it right now. Let everyone watch me deflower her.” He knocked Daemon out of the way, he stumbled slightly and intercepted once again before they broke out into a massive brawl. Everyone was screaming as Daemon brought down his sword and sliced his head clean off, causing the Tully’s to crowd around, using their fists and legs to start rallying up. But Daemon took your hand, pulling you forcefully out of the crowd that were turning on him.

Both of you ran through the hallways, the night air filtering in as he snuck you behind the bedroom door.

“Daemon, what are you doing?” You said breathlessly.

“I couldn’t let you marry that man. I can’t see you with anyone else but me.” He pulled you in for a kiss.

“Daemon, this is insane! I don’t know how we are going to survive. You didn’t have to save me like that.” You were crying now, hard, fat tears streaming down your face and he enveloped you into his arms, holding you hard to his chest.

“I will always protect you.”

[leverage-ot3]

time for the obligatory post about what episodes I want to see in the upcoming leverage season(s)

(for reference, I made this similar post in 2020 after the reboot was announced. I'm pasting some from that post bc I still want them to happen lol)

new ideas:

I mentioned a date night episode in the last post (apollo really did bless me with foresight for the date night job on that one) but for considerment: ot3 date night. possibly their first date night after they all get together. breanna and sophie know it's happening (harry is, like, peripherally aware) and some crime hijinks are going down and the three of them are frantically trying to stop bad things from happening that are going to interfere with the date. I want to see them going through it behind the metaphorical curtain. I want to see breanna fighting for her life trying to out-hack the hacker that is going to ruin their ten-part itineraried date. harry has to get in a fistfight and eliot is so proud about it when he finds out after everything is over

tree law episode. harry has been frothing at the mouth about it since it was made. his life has been moving him towards this penultimate moment. breanna thinks it's HILARIOUS and cheers him on 100% of the way. she is VERY enthusiastic about this con

I'm not going to mention certain things because I've seen jrogers posting on bluesky social and I know he might be already writing some of those plots

con that the food trucks have plot-relevance. like, one of his food truck stations is being harassed /victimized by, like, a local gang or something that takes advantage of food truck/cart workers and the team steps in. the actual (veteran) food truck workers get involved in the con. leverage international might just have gained a few retainer members

quinn should come back for an episode. I know the actor is friends with ckane. they should make it happen because it would be iconic and I said so

on a similar note, ckane is friends with jensen ackles and. guys. wouldn't it- wouldn't it be extremely funny if a flame from eliot's past named sean sylvester who is a rugged drifter with a questionable past

episode where tara or maggie (or BOTH, can you imagine how powerful that would be???) come back and there is slight flirting with sophie possibly??? that or very obvious chemistry from a past tryst. sophie has slept with both of them, I know it in my heart of hearts. bonus points if tara and maggie fall in love (I think it would be funny. maggie's taste in men is canonically atrocious, I think she deserves someone like tara at this point)

I just want a lot of side characters to come back, okay? sue me I miss them

gonna put the rest under the cut since this post has become obscenely long

not episode-specific, but I want more mentions of the korean leverage team. and all the other teams too! we know that in canon there is the south korean one, the nigerian one, and one in london (I think that's it for mentions so far, but correct me if I'm wrong!)

episodes addressing issues with american imperialism and its effects on minorities and marginalized communities, specifically within this country (there aren't a lot of episodes where they are actively out of country)

dear fucking god take a more abolitionist stance on policing I'm begging. would it KILL you to not be weird about cops? pls just punch some more cops. take down white supremacist cops, I'm sure you can scrounge something up bffrrn

women's rights episodes. I know it's kind of recent, but episodes about accessibility of stuff like birth control, abortion access, etc. y'all are capable of making excellent episodes on that I know it

more climate crisis-related episodes. god knows you're feeling it in the deep south

taking down a corrupt megachurch pastor (although lbr, there is no ethical megachurch anything and you can fight me on this)

something to do with ace rights bc I think it would be really cool to see the team advocate for that stuff, especially since breanna is canon ace

helping a polycule that is being victimized by X organization/entity (maybe a housing association or medical or something???). breanna is bombastic side-eyeing the ot3 the entire time. it is making hardison sweat. sophie thinks it's hilarious

taking down 'writers' that use ai and self-publish AND/OR people that take original/fan works off of like ao3 and wattpad and publish them for personal profits without the author's consent. breanna would have a field day with this (god herself could try to convince me that girl does not read/write fanfic and I wouldn't believe it)

episode about underfunded public schools. we saw corrupt private schools in the fairy godparents job but I want an episode that would make abbot elementary writers proud

episode addressing native/indigenous. eliot is from oklahoma, I'm sure he is well aware of the health/job/economic/etc disparities on reservations. I will email jrogers about it myself if I have to- it anyone can get people going about native rights through a tv show it would be leverage.

I sent an ask to wil wheaton once asking if he was open to returning to leverage and I think he said he would be down for it. but chaos either has to be a reluctant ally to leverage international and is being handled by quinn as a hitter OR he is just. in jail. bc he sucks.

bpas and/or pfas episode. breanna has mentioned microplastics before but I want more

the team tears the shit out of conversion therapy camp owners and plants the seeds for legislation that will punish parents that try to send their kids to those hellscapes

while we're at it, I'd love to see an ep where they tackle the trans bathroom issue. god knows the news doesn't talk about it nearly enough

something to do with foster care. they end up starting some sort of foster care network that past clients/allies can take part in. maybe a mentorship program for kids that want to do what they do one day (they are very reluctant to encourage kids to participate in crime BUT if that is the avenue that they are going to inevitably go towards, they guide them in the right direction). nana makes an appearance (*insert 'everybody liked that' meme*)

prison industrial complex episode. I KNOW we had the jailhouse job BUT we really need this in our year of 2024

another episode on corrupt influencers. maybe influencer parents? dear god pls take them down a notch

ep where there is an underlying message that tells you how to avoid becoming victim to scams or something, or like is a tutorial for how to identify scams you might fall victim to (sorry, I just have to say this after two separate people tried to pig butcher me in less than two (2) weeks))

not to say I want them to do an ep calling out cop city, but it would feel really good to watch the leverage team rip that concept to SHREDS

the minimum wage job. need I say more? we deserve the catharsis

pls go after goodwill execs, esp the ones in the pnw that have their sector as for-profit and have become millionaires+ because of it while paying their staff (especially disabled staff) fucking pennies

while we're on the topic, pls call out salvation army (the corporation)

I can probably go on for like five hours so I'll stop here

ep that we get to see harry and his daughter bond :)

job where they get to lower the price of insulin (and other drugs)

actually, you know what? an episode where the crew annihilates big pharma and terrible insurance companies

I think that breanna should be able to go off about mass/over consumption as a treat. I 100% believe she has Thoughts about it. like, she will absolutely call out the corporations that are responsible for these trends, but also she should be allowed to mention our tendency for overconsumption as a society. obviously there are a few corporations that are doing most of the world's pollution/ecological damage, but we should be doing our part too and I KNOW it would be in-character for her to go off on it

I bet she has a LOT to say about influencers, tbh. obviously not all influencers are bad, but there are sooooo many problematic ones and problems within the influencer industry

sizing discrimination in the modeling/clothing industry. let eliot talk about how there are no perfect bodies. also while I'm on the subject, can we PLS have more body-diverse background actors on the show? I know this is nitpicky but I'd really love to see some more people that look like me, even if they are just in the background

a thinly veiled writers' rights episode (I'm looking at you media execs and the stupid amount of time it took for you to comply to the WGA demands)

something to do with media companies making entire movies/tv shows and then fucking cancelling them/not releasing them and using them as tax write-offs. every time it happens it baffles me. that is cartoonishly stupid villain shit. I can't imagine lovingly working on a project for a year plus and then the company just going, nah, we aren't going to release it because you suck and it's a good business move

ai art and ai in general. please. let it BURN

okay now I'm done

ideas from the previous post that I still want:

comicon job. I said it before and I will say it again- we deserve it!!! come on, it's the age of the geek after all!!! (in the last post I also said a ren faire ep, but I will let the card game job count for that)

summer camp ep? I saw a tumblr fic about it and I think it could be cute. it could kinda be like the fairy godparents job- eliot in charge of some type of sports (archery, fencing, etc), hardison would be in charge of arts and crafts (this boy might be a genius with tech and in general tbh, but the show did such a good job of showing that he’s also very talented with the arts- sculpting the statue for the miracle job, forging the old diary in the king george job, etc), parker would LOVE to be in charge of a high ropes course. breanna would totally be down for some sort of nerdy kid robotics or simple, traditional camp games (can't go wrong with the classics. everyone loves making bracelets!) I feel like it's too stereotypical to have sophie have kids put on a play but we all know that's exactly what she would do. idk for harry? I think he has the same traditional camp activities vibe as breanna. he's in it for the nostalgia. OR something to do with videogames

please, please, please, please, please make an episode where they take down a cult, im begging. that would be such a good episode. definitely a mindfuck episode like the experimental job (4x11). I’ve seen a few posts about a job dealing with a cult (here’s one) and I think it would be really interesting 

MORE STERLING being DONE with leverage shenanigans!!! give me feral!sterling like in the frame-up job (5x10)!!! give me sterling that protests every step of the way but conveniently looks away and “whoops, the team just disappeared, I have no idea how that happened!!! diddly dang darn it, they got away again!!! sorry guys!!!” bonus points if mcsweeten is there too and also participates in intervening hijinks

the team takes down a circus that is still using and abusing wild animals!!! because first I’d LOVE to see acrobat!parker swinging up in the air like a pro and being in her element, but also because those places are the fucking worst and need to Go Down. give me eliot having to pose as an animal trainer with deep sympathy for the animals being abused, quietly talking soothing words to them when he thinks no one is around (correction: hardison is, in fact, around, and filming his boyfriend’s softness to save for later). give me charismatic hardison playing the role of ringmaster, running and flaunting about and being passive-aggressive to the circus master. give me eliot freeing the animals from their chains when they are finally able to shut the place down and relocate the animals to sanctuaries (his hands shaking just a little as twists the key in the lock, because he too was once an abused, caged animal in his own right and he knows how liberating it is to finally be free). 

[see-arcane]

Last Night

It isn’t a dream. It isn’t moonlight or mist. It’s him.

The pretense shed, the door at his towering back, the teeth bared with a glee that borders on the giddiness of a child finally unwrapping a gift dangled out of reach until the appropriate holiday. All the world is shrunk down to the pieces of him Jonathan has had to endure by increasing increments. Mouth, hands, eyes. The latter are trying to hook him. He feels the push of them just as the Weird Sisters’ influence had fogged his sense when he was too near to sleep to fight.

But he is awake now. So horribly, implacably awake with that fearful energy which visits all prey spotting the pursuer’s jaws. Run! that energy demands. Run! Hide! Fight! Something, anything!

With no mode in which to answer any of these instincts, the energy is left to pace through his veins in frantic circles. It feels as if his own blood is leaping to answer the Count’s wishes, churning itself into a froth. Sickly, he thinks he sees exactly that answering delight in the horror’s pallid face; a twitch of the nostrils, a salivating shine on the saber teeth, a darkening of the eyes. A wolf before a lame calf.

“I do wish to thank you before we part. Most sincerely.”

Jonathan doesn’t answer. Doesn’t dare meet the trap of the eyes. Watch the red mouth. The white hands.

“You have given me so much more than I dared hope for after all this time.”

“I only,” his voice is thinned down to a rasp. A raw quavering. “I only came to sell you a house. That was all.” The flatness of the fact seems almost comical when said aloud. A noise that can’t decide between a laugh, a sob, or a scream lodges in his throat.

“And so you did. So anyone might have. Anyone else,” the Count takes a step closer, as Jonathan moves back a pace, “would have come and gone within a day. Less than. A mere workman, a living appliance good only for one thing before being discarded. Not so for you, my friend. You have gifted me such aid and pleasure in your company that it merits mention. That and more.” Step forward, step back. The door is visible over the high cloaked shoulder. Locked? Unlocked? Does it matter?

Jonathan digs for a response that isn’t bile, begging, or more incessant playacting to suit the damned game. All he can dredge up is more hot coal in his throat, more wet burning behind his eyes. He wants to wake up. Please, God, now if no other time, let the nightmare end, let him out, let him wake—

But you are. You are awake.

A single word makes it past his tongue. Empty and pleading, but there.

“Why?”

“Because.” Step. “Since your coming, since your staying, I have been met again and again with a joy I thought dead in me.” Step. “Dust piled on the clockwork of my mind has been swept away.” Step. “You have brought lifeblood into my nights and made me feel things I feared were buried in long-gone ages.” Step. “A lifetime of paling distractions, suddenly alight with something worth attention.” Step. “Such a perfect prelude to dear England. But more than that…”

Jonathan’s heel strikes a leg of the bed.

Door, door, get to the door—

He gets scarcely an inch before the white hands are on him. One is the manacle grip on his arm that first stole him up into the caleche and drove him away to this benighted hell. The other locks around his jaw like a cold vise, seizing him where the crucifix had once barred that touch on the night of his last shave. With bleary inanity, Jonathan wonders if there would be any difference if he wore it now rather than leaving it pinned as scant protection on the wall. The Son hangs his tiny head and cannot guard him from his spot above the bed.

Not that Jonathan could look him in his carved eyes now. The hand at his jaw has wrenched his face up and the red eyes are worming their way into him like maggots coiling through loam. A braided sensation of dread and calm, terror and welcome stitches itself through him. When he tries to open his mouth for a last word—he can’t guess whether it would be a prayer or an animal-cry of protest—there’s only the slackness of a doll.

“…you have made me feel young, my friend. In so many ways.” Cool digits stroke and cradle. “For that, you deserve all I mean to give.”

The red stare does not blink. Does not move. Does not end as the pressure of it softens the world’s edges into a dreaming haze. Jonathan feels himself going away. Away…

Dracula says things he can no longer hear. The room tilts as he is tilted, neck taut, back folded over the strut of a dead man’s arm, and it is bliss not to know the words whispering their endless litany in his ear. Murmurs of youth, of forgotten pleasures, of life, of love, of a dozen other endearments made profane through the sieve of those lowering teeth are all lost to him. Even the farewell, padded as it is in stroking hands and cold lips, hushing him away to an oblivion without sight or tears, melts into ether.

When the blood begins to flow, he does not have to see the turning of the wild white mane into a fall of iron.

[healer-pop]

U know what I been thinking abt.....an aphrodisiac fic. I've got it all written out in my head, reader and Sloane are out camping. They are having a good day, set up camp and while gathering wood reader gets poofed in the face by a flower (sporess ooo). Sloane laughs their ass off, and reader is a little peeved getting spores all over themself.

Fast forward, dinner is being cooked and reader starts to feel weird. Hot, high, and really bothered!! They go into the tent to hide, and Sloane knocks on it saying dinners ready. Reader never comes out tho and Sloane goes in to see them sweating, hot and almost sick looking. Sloane tries to tend to them, a wet rag and asking what's wrong are they sick?? The second Sloane touches reader tho...they mewl. Almost a whine that creeps out of the back of their throat. Super sexy sounding. Sloane chooses to ignore it because they think reader is sick... it's just them being sick.. yes obviously.

Maybe Sloane helps them sit up to drink some water and the touch has reader grasping onto their leg HARD. Readers panting like a dog and got them bedroom eyes...

Was toying with the idea of Sloane and reader being best friends everrr with some huge unresolved romantic feelings. This is just the dam that breaks it all open. Obv all consent is given and gotten, and I think it was actually well talked out. Reader reassures Sloane they've wanted this for so long, but if they said no that they could forget it ever happened. I'm crazy insane I'm shaking the bars of my cage.

Googling, “can I sue the anon that wrote the hottest, absolutely most well thought out, mentally damaging fic in my inbox for emotional reparation?”

LIKE HOW DO U DROP THIS AND NOT EXPECT ME TO FROTH AT THE MOUTH???? Anon, I don’t know how you knew that sex pollen fics have always been my favorite but I do blame you for the fact that this kept me up last night!!!! mainly because this is so spot on and also why I don’t really get together fix with Venture, especially with my flowery writing, lengthy ass. That shit would be like 20K before you guys even touched. To me, Sloane is not the one to make a first move. And if you aren’t either, it’s just never gonna happen. Once you’ve actually gotten established, they’re super touchy and able to respect your boundaries, but before? They are wayyyyy too nervous, their biggest one being that they’re just overthinking your interactions with them and they don’t want to mess anything up. Unless you directly say, “I like you and want to date you,” it’s gonna go over their head.

And that would work perfectly for this fic, it would be such a desperate, hot sloppy mess for the both of you: With Sloane, trying to preserve your friendship and not mess this up despite their desire for you, how much this is actually you and how much of this is just the pollen and desperation. And you pleading with them, trying to get across that no, you have wanted this for so damn long and it sucks that it took some stupid horny flower to make you say it, but please, for the love of AURORA, Sloane, TOUCH ME. God I could imagine how red their face would be. They would keep checking in with you to make sure they’re doing it right for you, whether they’re sliding their fingers in your cunt or sucking on your tits!!! You’re almost tempted to go and grab that damn flower and shove it in their face so they can loosen up, but… the way they take care of you, trying every single position to quell your burning arousal…. so loving and tender… it’s honestly what you crave more. They have you on your knees, thrusting back onto their fingers as they encourage you, their beaded bracelets click with every motion, their hand on the small of your back, kneading your ass. On their sleeping bag, legs wrapped around their shoulders, eating you out like you’re as yummy as those s’mores they had earlier, telling you to wet their sleeping bag, they’ll just cuddle naked with you in yours while you put that one out to dry. And yes…. you CAN fall asleep with their strap in you, if it feels good. You can wake up at any time and fuck yourself on it. Sloane will be awake in an instant, helping you roll your hips back, digging into them because god, this has only been a dream. Feeling your flesh in their hands, being able to touch and hold and clench. Might keep a mental track of how many times you’ve cum. You know. For posterity.

And after you’ve been fucked through it? When you wake up with the worst bed head you’ve ever had, covered in sweat and bruises, naked and pressed against Sloane in your sleeping bag? Sloane will kiss your lips shut, guide you back down, and show you the most loving, intimate sex, you’ve ever had. You’ll feel like you have never connected with a partner more than you have right now. Whispers of love from Sloane, complementing how pretty you are, how perfect, how you were made for them, how good you are to them, how they want to see you every day of their life. Completely overwhelming, yet so needed, especially how you were held so helpless to your own lust. They make sure you know that they aren’t leaving. They’ll be here by your side through anything.

[pynkgothicka]

Request: can you write where OC who is in the police force/ a detective and trying to catch the world notorious mafia king (no one knows what he looks like). OC found an injured jimin and helped him. Jimin became madly obsessed with oc, stalked oc and kidnapped oc and made oc his

Ｗｉｃｋｅｄ Ｇａｍｅｓ ＰＪＭ

Synopsis - Your a new detective who gets put on a rough case to solve a string of cocaine over doses.

Pairing - Yandere! Jimin x Fem! Reader

Featuring - Toni Braxton, Jackson Wang (Begrudgingly.)

Tags and Warnings - Drug mentions, Kidnapping, Manipulation, Jimin being a little bit mean, sexual tones towards the end

Authors Note - I need to write more mob boss fics. Tis was fun.

A friendly reminder that all my works are dark fanfiction! Please if you do not like that do not read them! These depictions don't pertain to reality. This is your final warning before hitting the keep reading button!!

Your office was blistering cold as you stared at a huge file on your desk.

You were tasked with connecting and solving a string of cocaine related deaths. Your boss, the police chief Toni, had gave you the case hoping to give you experience with a big case rather than a little one for your first case under the detective title.

But the scenes you saw with this case haunted you. Slacked jaws and frothing mouths. All while the environments around them showed their hopeless situation. You felt bad for the men, probably all dealing with addiction.

You were shaken from your thoughts as the door opened, Toni handing in a weeks worth of lab data. “The lab work for the coke came back. All of the various samples provided were all of the same, and get this, were all stronger and more concentrated.”

“That would make sense, all these men who died we're big named in the crime world.” You added standing up, grabbing both badge and gun. “That would make all the deaths planned! I'm going out, doing one last swoop of some of the crime scenes. I think I'm looking past a bigger picture.”

“Well who do you think it is?"

“I don't know. But I think it's a power play thing. I just need to do investigate more! got this!” You said rushing out of your office, leaving a stunned Toni.

She began to look at your board, seeing towards the end of your board a blank face with the name Jimin written in red ink. He had no connection to the case, but you were considering him.

Toni took a deep breath before shaking her head. “This can't be good...God please protect her…”

🔍

As you drove down to the first crime scene, you tried to clarify any leads as who it could possibly be. This has been your focus for the last week, and you had to prove your worth to Toni. It was a personal goal, but hopefully a goal that would be in good favor.

When you pulled into the first crime scene, the place was obviously a party house. The yard and peeking inside, were both messy. Jackson Wang's body was found here, a known crime boss and partier. This was probably one of his go to rental spaces for parties.

You walked past the yellow tape and glanced at the main room. It reeked of booze and death. The table that sat right in front of Jackson's deathbed was still messy as the night of his death. What's a better place to start looking again rather than here?

The table had split drinks, which were now sticky, all over it. But what caught your eye was a brown paper bag. Upon a closer examination, there was a small “P” written on the top. You rose a brow at that. Then you picked it up, looking inside to see more coke.

What drug dealer would mark their works at a and then leave it there once the area became a crime scene? Wouldn't they want to get rid of any connection to the death? More so why hadn't the police picked it up during their first sweep through? Toni was initially over this case, and she didn't seem to be the type to leave crucial evidence behind.

You slipped on a glove and picked up the brown paper bag, putting it into a small zip lock bag you'd brought. Maybe this would be the key to figuring out the cases? You’d just have to visit the other spots and see if the bag was there as well.

Upon your way out you heard a loud gutteral yell. You followed the sound seeing a dark haired man holding his abdomen. He hissed as he slid down the wall. His assailant hurried off, but you didn't have time to chase him up on close inspection of the injured man. Blood began to seep through his shirt.

“Holy shit! Sir, I…I'm going to bring you to the nearest hospital. Just hold onto me while I bring you to my car.” He gave you a small nod, almost as if he had a choice in the matter. You refused to let this man die.

You got down to his side, grabbing his arm to lift him up. You carried his body to the back seat of your car. He kept hissing and groaning, but you settled him down with a cold water bottle you had. “Keep this on or near the wound. It will slow down your blood flow so you don't lose as much.” You then quickly got in and cranked the engine, setting the car to drive.

🔍

Jimin laid in the hospital bed, eyes trained to his right, watching as you slept. The amount of love he held for you, reached no boundaries. Jimin knew he was obsessed, but it's not like he could do anything about it.

Once Jimin saw something he wanted, he had to have it.

Jimin had everything planned out.

The police station was already deep in his grasp majority of them being corrupt and self serving. Especially Toni.

Police Chief Toni Braxton was one of his ex’s. It was a relationship that ended months ago and something he didn't miss. However he knew for a fact she missed him.

All it took was hint the possibility of getting back together. And with that Toni almost immediately to fell into her place for his plan.

“Jimin, I still love you. I know I shouldn't but I do.” Toni told him. He knew if he visited her apartment, she would be all over him again. Which was correct, as she was already on his lap, and he hadn't been there not even 30 minutes.

“Oh baby, I'm willing to bring back what we had. I missed all this.” Jimins hand grasped at her ass hard, knowing she'd bruise. Toni let out a small gasp as Jimin continued. “I just need you to do a small favor for me.”

“Anything for you. You know that.”

“You know that new detective you promoted baby? I want her on my case.” Jimin said leaning into Toni's neck, leaving small hickies.

“Why?” She gasped out. Her hand went to his face, pushing his eyes to meet hers. She placed her forehead on his own, lips almost about to connect.

“You know I don't wanna get caught now? She won't be able to catch me, catch us. Just do it until I get things together, then we can have that life we always talked about.” And with that Jimin connected her lips, sealing his ask with a small hot and heavy makeout.

That marked down Toni, next he needed to play hurt. But he knew he couldn't just fake being seriously hurt. He'd already contacted the hospital about his plan, in hope that they'd receive a small extra shipment of what he has to offer.

So he got one of his guys to stab him in the alley by that dickhead Jackson's place. He knew you'd have to revisit as he made sure to leave some things missing from the initial crime scene. Once Jimin saw you, he waited a few minutes before whispering a small now for his man to stab him.

And it hurt.

It fucking felt like he'd been shot, but ten times worse. The stab wasn't deep but still.

But he was relieved as he saw your worried expression come into view.

All of that hard work led to now, him watching your slumbering face. You'd refused to leave his side upon arrival and he couldn't be more grateful for it. You had such a sweet heart. More so you couldn't see the game he was playing.

He was so rudely pulled from his gaze as Toni walked in, brown locs pulled into a pony tail. She took off her uniform seemingly to present herself to him. Her white button down had a few unbuttoned near the top and her pants hugged her curves just right.

It left such a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Jimin! I heard you were hurt.” She turned around looking at your passed out form in the chair. “She's still here?”

“Yeah. Why are you here Toni? The hospital doesn't play with visitors. They're allowing her to stay as mine right now.” He rambled on.

A lie.

But just maybe he could piss her off enough to where she could go on her own accord. But Toni only came closer hands resting on his shoulder.

“I know, I just worry about you. Shes begun to piece things together.” Toni kissed at his temple. “I just hope she doesn't end up getting hurt. I can't have you go to jail for murder now.”

Jimin shrugged Toni away. “Just not right now. I'm actually fucking hurting and all you can think about is her. Obsessed much?”

Hypocrite.

Toni took a step back before letting out a huff. “Fine. I'll text you later whenever your not being a asshole. Make sure my detective gets back safe.”

Jimin knew damn well he was going to do the exact opposite. In fact she was never going to see him nor you ever again. As soon as Toni walked through the door, she just about secured his and your future together.

“Don't worry baby, I got some men coming get us. It's going to be so nice. I'm happy your played along with all this. I love you.”