#last gritty one for now I think

[karlkapri]

*slams fist on table* MORE GRITTY

— The Last of the Wine, Mary Renault

[suguann]

✎. you've been on the run for a while. you knew someone would come eventually—but not him.

tags. fem!reader, old west era, bounty hunter simon, size difference, size kink, implied the reader's husband is a terrible human, accidental voyeurism, period-typical sexism, masturbation [18+ only]

masterlist

You’ve been running for months, first from your husband (the phantom grip of his hand still sending an ache through your wrist) and now as a wanted conwoman for stealing the clothes from an unsuspecting cowpoke who thought he was getting lucky. You can only imagine what Mama would say about trading your ruffled skirts for grass-stained trousers and boiled-leather suspenders.

(It’s unbecoming of a respectable woman, dear. Uncouth.)

She’d probably have a lot to say if she knew everything you’ve done to survive.

You hop from one place to the next only by the mere chance someone was willing to let a helpless woman accompany them on their travels. Nearly a month has passed since being stranded in a dusty old mining town after a man and his wife dump you off and leave you behind. Washoe’s a little gritty and not welcoming unless there’s money to spend.

It’s not exactly safe, not unsafe, either, but nobody asks questions as long as you keep your head down and play the part of a mourning widow just passing through.

You know you’ve overextended your stay when you can’t leave your room during the day without worrying about a noose and the open end of a barrel meeting you outside. 

(That your husband or that gun-waving cowpoke finally found you.)

Sleep practically clings to you like a second skin, but you don’t dare close your eyes—you can’t.

This is how you end up sitting in the corner of the saloon, using the last of whatever you have in your change purse to order something strong, something your husband kept locked away, and anything else he thought women shouldn’t have a part in. 

You don’t even realize that your eyelids begin to feel heavy, steadily blurring out the flickering lantern on the wall while you wait for your drink. 

You catch yourself once or twice before your head can hit the table, rapidly blinking away the exhaustion before your eyes slide to the swinging doors.

You should stay awake. 

You need to stay awake just a little bit longer—

Your luck runs out that day. 

It’s one thing to know it’d happen eventually, and something else to realize that you make it easy for him—the man with an infamous name and a faded black bandana covering half his face—how he walked into the saloon and scooped you up (all unladylike sleepy dead weight) out of the weathered booth without a fight.

When you’d woken up to find yourself trussed up and thrown over the back of his horse, you cursed him out with every word you could think of that would make Mama clutch her skirts. Your captor ignored you, only talking to you whenever he warned you he was about to set up camp. 

“Did my husband send you?” Acknowledging him after all this time tasted like pennies on your tongue.

The man, Simon Riley, had leaned back against his bedroll and tipped the brim of his hat over his eyes. “Go the fuck to sleep.”

That was several weeks ago. 

Now, you find yourself stranded in another state that’s more green and vibrant than anything you’re familiar with, stuck with a man who refuses to answer the questions you throw at him. He doesn’t talk outside a few cursory words you greedily latch onto. Anything’s better than silence and the sound of hooves hitting earth. 

The pace he keeps you at is exhausting. You complain about it enough until he moves you in front of him, tying your hands to the saddle's horn.

“I would strongly advise you to shut that mouth for the rest of the ride unless you want me to do something about that, too.” The low growl of his voice in your ear makes the fine hairs on the back of your neck stand up, muddling your brain.

You’re distantly aware you had something to say to that, but you don’t. 

And that is really saying something.

It’s because there’s someone he needs to meet in town—an errand that lawbreakers who run their mouths aren’t allowed to go on.

This is how you end up sitting in camp alone, twirling around a knife he gave you solely for emergencies. 

(Surprise, sharp and quick through your middle, when he tosses his pocket knife into the grass beside you. “What’s to stop me from leaving?”

You could’ve sworn he rolled his eyes. “Will you?”

It doesn’t seem worth dignifying with a reply. You don’t want to travel alone, and there’s a high possibility of getting lost, finding yourself saddled up with worse company than the one you’re stuck with.

Until he evidently catches you again.)

He’s a lot nicer than you first gave him credit for—if only by a fraction—not that you know much about Simon other than what you overheard from gossip circles before you became Mrs. Thornton. Afternoons spent sipping tea laden with honey and lounging around a table full of cakes in the sun parlor while wealthy women talked behind their lace-covered hands to hide secret smiles you were too naive to understand. 

Trying not to stare at the bulge of his arms with thin pink scars—unlike the men you’re used to who got through life with a silver spoon hanging from their mouth—as he places his saddle back on his horse, you think you finally know what they smiled about.

You learn those scars also litter his torso from the time you accidentally walked upon him mid-way through putting his trousers on after washing in the river. It’d been too dark for you to see much else, and you quickly returned to camp before he could say something that would embarrass you both. 

Then, of course, tucked away into your bedroll, you can’t help wondering what the rest of him would have looked like if you had stayed a second longer. 

If his jaw is sharp or soft behind that mask he insists on wearing—that’s if he’d let you see at all. 

Simon’s always so serious that it’s often hard to determine whether he’s merely tolerating your existence until he can get rid of you or if he’s unused to traveling accompanied for so long. It’s not as if he goes out of his way to make pleasant conversation with you for you to assume otherwise.

You look off in the direction where he disappeared into the dense line of trees hours ago, wondering if you should go out looking for him (mainly because you’re hot and sticky from the humidity) despite his order to stay put. 

But after four hours turns into five, you head off, searching for something to help cool you off.

Luckily, unlike the heavily eroded lands you’re used to, there isn’t any water shortage in a place that sees rain three times a day, so it doesn’t take long to find a lake. You set your knife down on the stone-covered beach, followed by your boots, until you’re left in nothing but your undergarments. 

The water is icy cold and laps gently at your feet when you step in. You can’t find it in you to complain as the heat from the day slowly washes away the further you walk in and find a wide ledge to sit on. 

Your thoughts drift back to Simon, incessant and intruding even though you shouldn’t be thinking about him while wet and naked. And suddenly, you can picture it: his hands replacing yours as they trace along your neck. You have a feeling they’re probably rough and scarred from years of living hard and gunslinging, extracting the readily available knowledge that they’re big enough to encase your waist.

He could maneuver you around however he wants (you know this), and you feel dizzy just thinking about it.

Sighing, you sink deeper into the water while your hands smooth over the tips of your breasts and down your stomach. 

You wish you could see him without violating whatever personal preservations hide him from the rest of the world. Instead, you’re left with your imagination—the benefits of being a married woman and the little experience you have in the bedroom finally coming into play. 

Closing your eyes, you picture what he might look like under those sun-weathered leathers, knowing that the broadness of his shoulders isn’t only due to his vest and holsters but also from how his job has shaped him.

Your hands travel lower, fingers brushing through the creamy, soft wetness between your legs, evidence of what Simon does to you even when he’s not around. A moan, too high and breathy, slips past your lips as you use your middle finger to circle your clit in slow, clumsy swirls from lack of practice and patience that spreads warmth through your middle despite the cold water. 

It’s good, your fingers discovering places your husband always ignored—too many nights spent with your hand under your nightgown long after he’d tucked his cock away and gone to sleep—but probably don’t compare to the ones you’ve caught yourself staring at far too many times. 

They don’t fill you nearly enough, unlike how you know Simon’s would—thick and unrelenting. Rough and long, reaching deep enough to make you breathless.

Your breath hitches from pinching the tight, sensitive peak of your nipple until you feel a slight sting, and then it slips out, a tiny thing that’s only audible to your ears—Simon—a secret you now share with the lightning bugs and crickets.

“Dirty, no good rotten—” he’d tell you for thinking such lewd thoughts about him, for sinning so easily. Maybe you are, for getting so worked up over a man who isn’t your husband (no matter how terrible a husband he may be).

A man who’s so big that he makes you feel small, the type that gives before he takes. It’s enough to make you work your hand faster—your body vibrating from the chill of the water and the ache between your trembling thighs.  

Fantasies aren’t enough to sate the deep longing in your chest. Yet you’re slipping over the edge of ecstasy before taking your next breath—all of it builds up and gradually crests inside you like the lake rippling against the shore.

Afterward, it leaves you feeling soft and blurred around the edges, a watercolor painting drying under the sun while you wait for your rapid heartbeat to slow.

You don’t realize your eyes have fallen shut until they flutter open, and you’re startled to find Simon standing at the shoreline, his chest heaving as if he ran here. 

(Though he probably did to see if you took the opportunity to leave.)

You’re glued to your spot on the rock, suddenly struck with the mortifying realization that he’d seen you come—that he possibly heard you cry out his name so intimately.

You watch him remove his hat and hang it on a branch with wide eyes. Followed by his undershirt, guns, and—

He keeps removing clothes until he’s completely naked on the shore—aside from his face that stays hidden—scars marred his chest, spreading to his collarbones and below the water as he steps into the lake and sits on another ledge across from you.

His mask makes him look more menacing, erasing any trace of softness there. And you wonder if he’s angry at you for wandering off.

"Come here." His voice is low and deep, rumbling in his chest.

You don't think he'd hurt you. If he wanted to, he would have done it by now.

At least, that’s what you’re going with to settle the nervous fluttering in your middle.

Water laps at your arms as you wade through the water, each shaky step bringing you closer until you stop before him.

"In my lap."

Your breath sticks in your throat as you do as he says, settling down onto his sturdy thighs, palms falling flat against his broad chest. That same breath comes out in one large exhale as his fingers slide along your jaw, to the nape of your neck, curling into your hair, wet and falling around your shoulders.

“Like this?” you ask, trying to ignore how breathy you sound.

He grunts, apparently in confirmation.

You don’t think you’ve ever felt so conflicted in your life—fear and arousal turning into a messy cocktail in your veins.

“Why do I always have to use a heavy hand to make you listen?”

Your lips part. Breath growing short. “I’m sorry.”

And then—

Simon pulls your head back sharply, exposing your throat.

Your body goes slack against his. Mind blissfully blank.

“No,” he says, tone flat. “But you will be.”

[ceilidho]

fear of god

prompt: There's someone outside the spacecraft. You don't remember them being part of the crew. Part 4 masterlist

-

At the quantum level, an electron can behave as both a wave and a particle. It is the act of observing it that confines it to a single form. The electron that once could’ve passed through multiple openings at once is forced to choose a single path when observed. 

Because what the eye sees becomes—

“—real,” you whisper, staring up at the face hovering in the window beside your bed. His smile doesn’t waver. “You can’t be real.”

“Sorry about the other day,” he says, instead of answering. “I got a bit lost after you left.”

Again, you pinch the soft skin of your thigh to wake yourself up and twitch when the pain sets in. The reassurance that you’re still awake doesn’t go a long way towards reassuring you. 

“This isn’t real,” you repeat to yourself, squeezing your eyes shut and breathing heavily out through your mouth. “This isn’t real.”

Your words are met with a silence so profound that it almost feels as though you’ve plugged your ears, until you open your eyes and he’s still there, waiting right outside the window.

The blue lights around the inside of the window glow soft against his dark skin. You can make out the finer details of his face up close—the smoothness of his skin; the faint scar on his cheek; the fine grooves in his plush bottom lip. Too beautiful to have spent the last several days without food or water or sleep or fresh oxygen. You, with access to all of those resources, feel grimy; gritty. Skin tight against the bone, and hollowed.

“Was that you? Before?” you ask, thinking of the astronaut you saw drifting out in the distance, so lifeless and limp that you imagined the body within it long expired. 

He nods. The motion is slow, deliberate; still that sluggishness analogous with zero gravity. 

You wait for him to volunteer more information, but he just smiles wordlessly at you. It’s difficult to know where to begin. You’ve always been the kind to break a problem down into smaller, more manageable parts, but with this you don’t even know where to start. Its bigness is all you can focus on. The enormity of it. 

“Where did you go?” you ask instead. “You weren’t—…you were gone when I came back. We couldn’t find you.”

He blinks. “Elsewhere.”

“You can…move around out there?” 

“I can.”

His deliberate evasiveness frustrates you. Ostensibly one-dimensional with his glib charm and easy smile, but with an unplumbed depth. His response provokes more questions than it answers, and you can tell that it’s intentional. 

But again you’re prescribing an internal locus of control to an apparition that has been proven to exist only in your head. It can only supply you with information that you already have. 

And that’s the real quandary, isn’t it? The thing that has you whispering softly to yourself oh no oh no oh no oh no in the quiet of your room. Your body knows that the front door of your mind lies on its side, ripped from the hinges, dirt mounds blackening the entryway. And now outside stands a man, waiting to be let in. 

“How am I able to hear you?”

He smiles. “You must just want to listen.”

You huff out a breath through your nose. There it is again. 

“Who are you?” you ask, and you know that his answer won't matter. It won't matter because it won't be real. Because it's just you in your head and the words are too loud and whatever sickness is in your mind has crystallized in the body of a man that stares at you with a gaze too intense, too penetrating for what he is.

“You can call me Gaz,” he says simply, teeth peeking out from behind his lips when he enunciates the name. Glinting sharp like bone in the blue light. 

His answer makes you blink. It doesn’t seem like a name that you would come up with, but the mind works in mysterious ways. You didn’t think it could conjure up a person either, and now look at what’s happening to you. And it is happening to you, of that you’re sure. 

“Are you going to let me in?” he asks before you can open your mouth again.

He presses his gloved hand to the window. The folds in the fabric spread with his fingers, the pads of his fingers flecked with dust and grime, worn from years of use. 

You give a curt shake of your head. 

“Love…” Gaz says warningly. 

In the few days since he first appeared in the window, you’ve never heard him use that tone. You’re not too proud to say it frightens you. Whether he’s real or just in your head, so far Gaz has been perfectly affable, and you’re not sure you’re willing to face the implication that he might not always be that way. 

“I need to sleep,” you plead. “T-tomorrow—I’ll…I’ll think about it tomorrow.”

You press a button on the wall that drops a panel over the window with a quiet shunk, blocking Gaz from view.

When he knocks again, a shiver ripples down your spine. Guilt twists your insides up in knots. All you can do is pull the comforter over your head and block your ears. 

By morning, the temperature in your room has dropped a degree. You bundle up in a thicker sweatshirt and boots before going for your morning cup of coffee, but for the first time since takeoff all those months ago, you head for your work station instead of sipping your coffee in the cockpit. 

You start to hear him no matter where you are on the ship, a window no longer necessary. Always it comes after two solid raps against the hull of the ship, the sound jolting your heart into a frantic beat, pulse fluttering wildly under your skin. And then his voice, muffled through the layers of aluminum and titanium alloys, but intelligible despite the impossibility of it all. 

Sometimes, you respond. Just a few words to acknowledge his existence, even when the wall separating the two of you is impermeable, only his voice accessible to you. 

That makes it worse somehow though. Displaces his voice from his body, forcing you to reckon with his presence like a symptom of a bicameral mind, your own thoughts projected from you into the world. What difference is there between his voice and an audio hallucination? You should know better than to indulge in it. 

You’re beginning to understand the real root of the problem. The crux of it all. There’s a box in your mind labeled psychosis, and in the months of prolonged isolation and discomfort, you’ve inadvertently unshelved it, pulled it out of its storage space and peeled the lid open, all of its contents now released into the world. 

The thought is terrifying. You wonder if you can even trust your own mind, if everything is now compromised. Can you even trust what you see in front of you, or have you made it up as well? The thought is so disturbing that it paralyzes you in your bed at night. 

You’ve taken to sleeping in the medbay because it’s one of the few rooms without access to any exterior walls. Several other crew quarters separate it from the hull, while the main corridor runs along the other side. It’s the only place where you’re able to get a decent night’s sleep, though the lights stay on, fluorescent white at all times, programmed to stay at full brightness in case of an emergency. 

Even the sight of your own reflection makes you flinch until you realize it’s just you. 

One twenty-four hour period cycles into the next, pulling you into its embrace like crossing over an event horizon, your future self already distended out in front of you. 

In an effort to finally put you to good use (you try not to resent the implication when it’s framed like that), Farah tasks you with conducting pressure checks on the fuel tanks and lines around the ship while she continues to focus on the issue with the cruise control. You’re tasked with attaching a pressure gauge to the tank and increasing the pressure while keeping an eye out for any leaks or drops in pressure. A task simple enough that even the uninitiated could perform it. Busywork. 

You shut down the part of you that beats on your chest and demands that you leave. That this isn’t your job; you were brought aboard for a particular purpose and this isn’t it. You could be conducting your own research instead in the comfort of your lab, ensconced in data on antimicrobial resistance in space or microgravity-induced orthostatic intolerance. Not checking fuel tank pressure.

Someone raps their knuckles against the wall nearest you from the outside of the ship, startling you. 

“Shit,” you curse, the pressure gauge slipping out of your hand and clattering to the floor. You sigh when you bend down to pick it up and wince when you notice a crack in the glass where it hit the floor. 

“Love? Is that you?” Gaz asks from the other side of the wall, voice muffled.

Ignoring his voice doesn’t keep your heart from beating harder. You try to focus instead on the task at hand, pressuring the tank to fifteen hundred psi and waiting for the needle to stabilize on the gauge. Nothing abnormal. You jot it down and move on to the next tank, removing the gauge and starting the process anew. 

Another thump against the hull, the sound sending a jolt through your body. 

“I know you’re there.” He sounds amused. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

How could you avoid someone in your head? You almost say as much but then catch yourself on the verge of opening your mouth. You turn back your task, scrolling down the checklist on your tablet. 

There’s an edge to his voice the next time he speaks. “This is starting to annoy me, love.”

“I’m not avoiding you,” you whisper, finally breaking, the stylus nearly slipping from your clammy hands. Brows scrunched, eyes shut tight. Another breath out to stabilize yourself. 

“Ah, there you are,” Gaz hums. “Thought you didn’t want to talk to me anymore.”

Just ignore it, you think, breathing in and out again. 

“You’d rather talk to Farah than me,” he says when you don’t respond, almost accusatory, and you nearly brush it off until you register what he said.  

“How do you know her name?” you hiss under your breath, turning your head to stare at the panel that his voice emanates from behind. 

“I thought I was just in your head,” he says, amused again. Voice lighter than a moment prior. Easygoing as ever.

You worry at your lower lip until the skin threatens to break. “Yes, but—”

“Who are you talking to?”

Your head whips around at the sound of Farah’s voice. You hadn’t heard the cargo hold doors open, but she stands in the doorway, staring at you with an unreadable expression, shoulders squared and hands on her hips. 

Your instinct is to ask her how long she’s been standing there, but that won’t serve you in the long run. You almost want to ask if she heard his voice too, but you don’t think you could handle her confirming to your face that Gaz’s voice is all in your head. 

“…No one.”

Her face hardens and you wonder if you made the wrong call choosing to lie to her. But what else should you have said? The wall behind you remains conspicuously silent.

The next few seconds under her gaze feel endless. Eventually though, Farah pivots on her heel without another word and leaves the way she came, the doors sliding shut behind her. 

The room bellows its cold ire. Only the sound of your own breathing reaches your ears. 

An hour passes. Possibly longer. The stress eats away at your insides. Though you don’t cross paths with Farah for the rest of the day, you can’t help the way every sound makes you flinch and glance towards its source. Jumpy; paranoid. 

You make yourself dinner when the galley is still empty and eat in the medbay instead of with the rest of the crew. The peppery aftertaste is more prominent than usual while you eat; you almost have to choke your food down. Almost metallic, like antiseptic. 

It happens again on your way back to your quarters. The lights cycle with the night and dim in the hallway, a soft pale glow like a low-hanging moon illuminating the floor in front of you. 

You catch him in the corner of your eye this time, no knock to signal his presence. Just an astronaut hovering outside the window, nearly translucent with the absence of light. The fear that overcomes you is almost animalistic until it settles into the folds of your skin like an ointment rubbed in, and you turn to face him. 

It’s the same but different. You know what he wants. What he’s waiting for. 

“I don’t think I can let you in,” you whisper, looking away from the window to the other side of the hall. His gaze seers into the side of your head.

“Why not?” It’s the first time Gaz’s voice has sounded cold to your ears. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end. 

“I’m worried you’re not real. That maybe you’re just in my head. And I can’t—” You bite your lip, swallowing the warble in your voice. “—I can’t let them know I’m crazy.”

Let them know. As if it were a foregone conclusion. As if you’ve already passed the point of no return. But what other conclusion could you draw from your observations as of late? The constant disappearances and reappearances, his voice in your head only when you’re alone. His voice in general, somehow audible despite there being no medium for it to pass through. You’ve been ignoring his anomalous properties because you’ve been desperate to believe that your mind hasn’t been compromised. That you aren’t a danger to the people around you—a voice in your head telling you to open the airlock when there’s nothing out there in space. 

When you turn your head, he’s still there, eyes stony behind the visor of his spacesuit. He tilts his head and the visor glints black for a second, suddenly opaque, obscuring his face.

He looms like a figure straight out of death, imposing even from the outside of the ship. Your arms hang limp at your sides, locked in place under his gaze. Even the thought of moving fills you with dread. 

But he isn’t real; he’s just in your head.

When Gaz lifts his head again, his visor clears and his smile is pleasant again, back to what it once was.

“I’ll prove that I’m real. Wait for me, love.”

And then he’s gone, the view beyond the window night sky black. Gone between one blink and the next; faster than light.

[batbabydamian]

The Boy Wonder #1 by Juni Ba rambling about why every time i open this book, i stare in wonder...HAHA and ofc!! how cute Damian is!!

Juni Ba’s style is so absurdly effective in telling a fairy tale for the ages. It’s a stunning blend of simplicity and complexity I'M GRIPPING THE PAGES AGAINST MY EYES…

Before getting into the interiors, THE COVER!! It associates autumn leaves to Damian's Robin title through the iconic cape shape/color; and on top of that, for a Robin going through a big transition in his life...a season of change one might say...Juni Ba your brain...

Damian and the leaves being the only colored parts of this cover is nice in focusing on those elements, but i also like to think by not coloring the background it prepares you to expect impressive inkwork in this book.

On that note, the interiors!! Starting off with Ba's backgrounds of Gotham as it establishes the strange new world that our young hero has been thrust into:

We get a neat tracking shot following a champagne glass that gives us a glimpse of Gotham from the upper echelons to the downtrodden in "Underwell"

This opening sequence quickly lays out the environment Damian will be traveling through in this series! It also sets the tone for some silliness with the cute zoom on the champagne glass before it BOKs the robber lol. Along with Ba's inks, O'Halloran's colors makes every part of Gotham pop - especially love the golds of the higher society shifting into the blues of the underbelly!!

Besides Damian’s personal conflict, Gotham feels like its own entity that he has to contend with. The dialogue speaks for itself, but within the art as well!!

"This city of ours swallows and crushes everything it can" -> a gargoyle's beak over Damian, crowds of people, and walls of advertising

"You've seen it too...the way it coils around one's mind from below." -> bridges and a passing train on a rail viaduct towering over a civilian

"A dark voice calling as if to say..." -> literally, "FEED ME"

LOVELY SHOT OF MOVEMENT... and i love how Damian's venture into Gotham opens with him passing a tree - its branches and leaves are the most organic element on the page before getting into the gritty details of the city! Some yammering because the inks are. so cool: the delicate lines of the leaves in the tree to the thicker/bigger lined ones closer to the camera on the right; the background inks allowing space around Damian's form + the fine line of his grapple!! More O'Halloran praise - PRETTY, and love his coloring over Ba's bg lines, particularly here, keeping the leaves darker on the right.

It's not only a pretty page it's just a really clean layout!! Ba exhibits this throughout the book but i really enjoy it here - from Damian nyooming, we head into these last 3 panels. his cute lil "Robin" shape easily draws the eye to the tops of the panels as we take in Gotham's liveliness alongside the lettering/narration

and the "Robin" shape?? SO CUTE. it's instantly familiar to us as Robin!! bold outline and filled with yellow...it's a Robin in movement!!...AN AUTUMN LEAF IN THE WIND... yeah, still not over that 😭

Damian's inciting incident is introduced in the former panel with a gorgeous backdrop of Gotham in the distance (plus itty bitty Trinity cameo haha). The shot parallels!! beautifully!! in the final page!! Damian is now in the depths of Gotham, his objective out of reach. The colors are of note too, where the familiar yellows of Gotham are suddenly a startling green after the demon makes its appearance. The Gotham land looks even more unfamiliar, which prompts Damian to seek help.

Some speculation, but the green could also be associated with the more mythical side of demons and such (like the ghost?? of the thief), but it could even imply there's a connection to the Al Ghuls themselves as it's the only other time green is so prominently used.

Now that the land of Gotham is established, popping in other fav bgs!

More lovely mix of Ba's inks and O'Halloran's colors!! especially allowing some of the brush/marker strokes to show faintly as part of the twinkling sky...STUNNING!! 😭 i love this whole page but this panel gets me weepy, SMALL DAMIAN IN THE VAST UNIVERSE COMBINED WITH THIS LINE "He knew he could be great. How unfair of the world to make him feel so small." KICKS MY ASS... i need to lie down

YAPPING AT MORE WONDERFUL INKING: the suggestion of windows offscreen from the frames casting these thick lines over the walls and stairwell; the minute shadow details over the railing; the hatching on the suits in the portrait; the framed portrait being its own panel!! cute hooded Damian in the gutter space looking in on the portrait/panel!! CUTE HOODED DAMIANS!!

SPEAKING OF PANELS, along with general effectiveness and efficiency, there's more whimsy in others!! like this kickass page of Nightwing whipping his escrima from first panel -> afterimage lines going POWPOWPOW hitting demons from a distance to ones closer to the camera -> and back into his hand!! IT'S SO GOOD AND SO FUN!!

Ba's action employs more diagonal panels, and characters are less restrained within boxes - there's more energy and freedom across the page!

not necessarily focusing on the action for this one, but THE WHIMSY!! the border itself is goop!! Also gotta point out that looming hammer shape!!

Nightwing's critical hit spans the entire page!! from silhouettes of a flip -> flashy stomping pose/Clayface -> to a distant shot of Dick landing

and a smooth finisher page!! love the motion lines on Dick's arms and waist + his head and arc effects popping outside of the borders; then the smaller panels for quick activity, and the final WOOB WOOB WOOB LOL i can hear this sound effect just as much as i can see it

Along with O'Halloran on colors, Aditya Bidikar on lettering works seamlessly with Ba's vision!! The text boxes for the fairy tale narration are like strips of yellowing pages from an old storybook!! Had to look up the term for this lol, but also reminiscent of those storybooks, there's even a use of "drop caps" - the big fancy capital letter!

Smaller things of note, but the bit of "Weakness" text from Ra's has a kind of. grandiose feel to it. Then the cute B< Damian behind the window!! Love how the bubble and text are faded behind the glass too! The end of the bubble tail is a nice touch as it matches well with Ba's bg inking :0

Otherwise, it seems Ba has done a majority of the lettering - dropping a couple of my favs below!!

also just this whole page: the very loud AAAH! text draws both Damian's and the reader's attention to the panel below!! it's a cool transition to a new shot where you can see Damian's silhouette on the building! The final panel is cartoony violence off-page through the bold POW BOOM SLAM haha + DAMIAN'S LIL FIST!!🥺 and the guy's tooth RIP

Pure speculation - Juni Ba's concept art included Carrie Kelley, so i'm wondering if the hostage in the beginning could be her and we'll be returning to this moment in time by the end. The worn Robin colors are similar to the design + their head is conveniently covered.

In terms of story, I'm obviously heavily biased, but the initial read got me rolling in emotions with how it has you caring for Damian. Damian as a character is so fantastical in essence - it’s part of his individual charm in the batfam cast! an heir of two kingdoms, born and raised with great expectations suddenly thrust into an unfamiliar land. he has a sword. he has a dragon bat for a companion. he is haunted by the sins he has committed. he is two apples tall. he's truly fairytale material!!

LIKE...past the panels of only his silhouettes, this is our introductory appearances of Damian. It's laid out clearly in the narration, but this parallel is SO GOOD: from the powerful and ornate visuals of Damian and the Al Ghuls -> to a simple panel of Batman's shadow behind a boy littered in scars, stripped of his home and status

Damian is out of his element and proves himself in the way he knows how!!

just kick me down a flight of stairs why don't you. i don't know which messes me up more, the top 3 or bottom 3 panels. His facial expressions!! his expectations for approval dashed!! Damian's hand reaching for his father!! only to be left alone with the body. The page after this is the final nail in the coffin in feeling just how lost he is in the world before he acts on it. And you root for him the entire way!!😭

Despite Damian's fanciful background there's so much heart to be shown in his struggles and discoveries - and this classic form of a fairy tale lays it out so brilliantly!! It's shaping up to be an amazing balance of heavier elements and whimsy based on this first issue, and it leaves you wanting more!!

Besides being a thoroughly enjoyable read, it's inspiring work!! i've ordered Juni Ba's other books to consume more of his storytelling, and here's the ones i've found so far if you're interested in checking them out as well!!

Mobilis: My Life with Captain Nemo

Monkey Meat

Djeliya: A West African Fantasy Epic

The Unlikely Story of Felix and Macabber

okay shockingly, i didn't blab about how cute Damian is as much as i thought i would, but i think the collage at the top speaks for itself lol

this is all you need to know how cute Damian is in this!! his cheeks are so pinchable, it was done on page!! 🥺 these panels obliterate me

[seresinhangmanjake]

What Comes at Night

Feyd-Rautha x Atreides!Reader

Summary: Your heart broke the day your brother stabbed Feyd. You spent weeks believing he was dead. And even though it turned out that he survived and the two of you are now together again, nightmares of the day you thought you lost the man you love haunt you. Feeling him is the only thing that provides any comfort.

Notes: Feyd is soft…again. I just like it, idk. Same Feyd x reader from The Harkonnen’s Sweet Thing and The Harkonnen’s Claim. *Can be read alone. 

Warnings: some smut, so 18+

Words: 1000

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist

You can hear it—the splitting of his flesh from the knife penetrating his ribs. You can hear the drop of his blood that drips off of your brother’s blade onto the floor. You can hear his breaths getting thinner after he collapses. 

Foreign hands are everywhere; Fremen men holding you back from reaching him. Their fingernails are cutting into your skin, drawing lines of red down your arms and legs as you struggle to free yourself. 

Then suddenly, the floor dissolves beneath you and your legs sink into the sand of Arrakis’ dunes. The men disappear, your brother disappears, the emperor and his daughter disappear, and now it’s only you and him trapped in the dunes that begin to move up and down, ebbing and flowing like the stormy seas of Caladan. And like the sea, the waves are carrying him away, stealing him from you, and you can’t even attempt to save him because the sand has swallowed you to your waist. 

You can barely see him. Only hints of his black armor show. He's being pulled under, drowning in golden grains, and a couple of his fingers twitching is the last you see of him before he disappears completely. 

He cannot hear your hoarse voice calling for him. You can barely hear your hoarse voice calling for him. Sand is seeping into your ear canals. It brushes your lips and crusts the edges of your nostrils, sticking to the snot brought on by uncontrollable tears. You try to take in some oxygen, just a little, but then you wonder why because you’ve already lost him and you’re about to lose yourself. 

With a blink, the sun has set, and the underlayers of the dunes turn numbingly cold. You don't think of freeing yourself, you think that maybe surrendering is the only way you can be together. A kick flutters within your belly but you don’t care. You’re done. You’re weak and you’ve lost. You can’t save anyone, so you let go. 

Hands are on your face. You detect a voice, but the thick fogginess clogging your ears keeps it far away. “Wake up!”—Is that what it’s saying? Your shoulders are shaking, head bobbing back and forth from a loose neck. “Wake up!” Yes, that's it. It’s cutting through the fog, pulling you to the surface, but then you realize you aren't breathing quite right. You're still choking on gritty sand as tears stream down your cheeks. 

“I’m here. I’m here, ok?” the deep voice says. “My love, look at me,” it says, but you can’t, won’t. It’s a trick. A lie. If you open your eyes, it’ll break your heart because he’s not here. He’s with the dunes. 

The hands tip your head forward and a soft pressure meets your forehead. “I’m with you,” you hear. 

You fight the grip around your wrist. Fingers pry open your hand so that it is no longer clenched in a fist but flat and pressed against heated flesh. A thump pounds under your palm. Once, twice, and once more. 

“Feel me,” the voice demands. There’s another thump. Another. You gasp and your eyes open to find blue irises searing into yours. “I'm here,” Feyd says. 

A sob leaves your throat. “More,” you whimper.

“Ok,” he quickly nods. “Ok. More.”

He carefully pushes you onto your back and eases on top of you. One of your thighs is nudged wide, and then the other. His hand pumps under the thin sheet covering your bodies. He hardens. The tip peels apart your folds, and then you’re full. So full. 

You wrap your legs around his hips and secure your arms around his neck, squeezing every bit of him to keep him close. Then he kisses you because you need to taste him and he knows that. He knows that it’s the final piece to start bringing you back to yourself.

“Move,” you mutter into his lips. So he does. Dragging out and then thrusting back in, allowing you to feel each inch, each vein of the column. His hand slides down your body, from breast to waist to hip and he cups your bottom, holding you more firmly against him.

His motions continue at the perfect pace. A well-practiced pace. The exact pace you need. Little electric shots spark in your brain and the coil tightens in your belly. He moans as you bite into his shoulder and you love that sound because it throws you right over the edge. 

You taste blood as you come. And then he comes. And then lips are dotting around your face and jawline. 

He doesn’t pull out. There’s no pulling out—not in these moments—because pulling out means emptiness. Pulling out means a void of space where he’s missing and you’re left wanting, and you don’t do that here. Here, you don’t want for anything because he gives you everything. 

He lets the heavy breaths between you settle before he rolls onto his back, taking you with him so he can remain snuggly inside of you. Your head rests on his chest as he runs his fingers down your spine. 

“Same one?” he asks and you nod. “They’ll stop; I promise. Just give yourself time, my love.”

“I’m trying.”

“I know you are,” he tells you, and you believe him. You believe him because he had nightmares of his own during the weeks you were separated. Servants told you he would go on a rampage after waking and seeing that you weren't in his bed. Nothing was spared, from furniture to slaves, and you weren't surprised. Fear does many things to the heart and mind. It makes one feel powerless, and Feyd does not handle that feeling very well. So, in some ways, you suppose you're lucky. At least when you wake, he's beside you. He's here to calm you down. But his presence has yet to soothe your unconscious. 

“I love you,” he whispers against your hairline. “You know that.”

It's a statement not a question, but still, you answer, “I do.”

---

A/N: @midnight-serendipity thank you for requesting this <3

[reaper2187]

Kathryn hahn x female reader

The "Hot Ones" set was bustling with quiet excitement, a controlled chaos typical of pre-show preparation. Camera crew checked equipment, producers murmured among themselves, and a makeup artist made last-minute adjustments on Kathryn Hahn. Y/N sat across from her, observing the scene with a familiar calm. They had just finished working on a movie together, and now here they were, about to test their spice tolerance while answering questions that would dig deep into their lives and careers.

“Ready for this?” Kathryn asked, her wide grin flashing toward Y/N as she adjusted the lapel of her shirt.

Y/N smirked. “Born ready.” At 23, Y/N had already made a name for herself in horror, playing twisted killers that haunted the nightmares of many, but her recent turn as Knightmare in the Marvel universe was opening new doors. Her character, the daughter of the Seven Deadly Sins, was dark, complex, and thrilling to portray—just the kind of role Y/N loved.

Kathryn, on the other hand, was an actress with a range as wide as her laugh. The two had worked together on a thriller, a gritty, emotionally charged film, and the chemistry between them on screen had been palpable. Off-screen, that chemistry had turned into a solid friendship. And now, under the glow of studio lights, about to dive into an increasingly spicy array of wings, that camaraderie was about to be tested.

The host, Sean Evans, strolled in with his signature warm smile, taking a seat across from the two actresses. “You ready for this?” he asked, echoing Kathryn’s earlier question.

Kathryn gave a mock-terrified look, glancing at Y/N. “I thought I was until I remembered how much Y/N enjoys hot sauce.”

Y/N chuckled, her deep voice soft but edged with amusement. “I have a pretty high spice tolerance, so you’re in trouble, Hahn.”

Sean laughed. “We’ll see about that. Kathryn, Y/N, welcome to Hot Ones—the show with hot questions and even hotter wings. Let’s get started.”

The first wing was harmless, a simple kick of flavor without too much heat. They both handled it with ease, bantering back and forth about their experiences filming the movie. Sean jumped in with his first question for Y/N.

“Y/N, you’ve been known to dominate in the horror genre, playing some truly terrifying killers. What’s it like to play someone so evil, especially being so young?”

Y/N wiped her fingers with a napkin, thinking about her answer. “You know, it’s funny because I don’t think of them as evil when I’m playing them. I try to understand what makes them tick, why they do what they do. It’s more about understanding the character’s pain or trauma that leads them to those dark places. I’ve always been fascinated by the psychology of horror.” She glanced at Kathryn, who nodded in agreement. “And honestly, it’s pretty fun to play the bad guy. You get to let out all that chaos you’d never allow in real life.”

Sean nodded, intrigued. “And how does that translate into playing Knightmare in Marvel? She’s still dark, but she’s got that anti-hero edge.”

“Oh, definitely,” Y/N replied, leaning back in her chair. “Knightmare is all about redemption, but she’s also struggling with her nature. She’s the daughter of the Seven Deadly Sins, so she’s constantly fighting against her darker impulses. There’s something relatable about that—fighting your inner demons, you know?”

Kathryn cut in, laughing. “It’s wild because Y/N, in real life, is the least threatening person ever. You wouldn’t guess she plays these intense, terrifying characters by the way she’s so laid-back.”

Y/N gave her a playful nudge. “What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”

They moved on to the next wing, which had a noticeable increase in heat. Kathryn started to feel the burn, her eyes widening slightly, while Y/N stayed cool, eating the wing like it was nothing.

“Okay, Kathryn, this one’s for you,” Sean said, holding back a laugh at her reaction to the spice. “You’ve had such a versatile career, from comedy to drama, and now this thriller with Y/N. What’s it been like switching between genres?”

Kathryn blew out a breath, fanning her face. “Whew, that’s hot. Uh, yeah, it’s been a wild ride. I love that I get to explore so many different kinds of roles. Comedy will always be my first love, but I also love getting into the grittier stuff, like our movie. There’s something so cathartic about diving into those deeper emotions.”

She turned to Y/N, her eyes bright. “Working with Y/N was a dream. She’s got this quiet intensity on set, and it just pulls you in. You can’t help but feed off of it.”

Y/N chuckled, shaking her head. “You make me sound like some brooding method actor.”

Kathryn raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”

Y/N grinned. “Maybe a little.”

The third wing brought the heat up a notch, and while Kathryn squirmed in her seat, Y/N remained as calm as ever. The difference between their reactions was obvious, and it made the dynamic all the more entertaining for Sean and the audience.

“You’re not even breaking a sweat, Y/N,” Sean said, half amazed. “What’s your secret?”

Y/N shrugged casually. “I just like spicy food. Grew up eating it. Plus, after playing a serial killer in all these horror movies, I guess my pain threshold’s pretty high.”

Kathryn laughed through the heat building in her mouth. “You say that so casually, like, ‘Oh, just another day at the office, murdering people and eating fire.’”

Y/N gave her a sly smile. “Pretty much.”

The fourth wing hit hard, a noticeable jump in spice, and Kathryn visibly winced, reaching for her water. Y/N, however, still appeared unfazed, though she did take a sip of her water just to stay hydrated.

“You’ve worked on some pretty intense scenes together in your latest movie,” Sean said, wiping his own brow. “Was there a moment during filming where the tension on set was almost too real?”

Kathryn let out a deep breath, eyes still wide from the spice. “Oh, man, there was this one scene where Y/N’s character is supposed to be chasing mine down this dark alley. It was late at night, cold, and Y/N is just in full killer mode. She’s got this look in her eyes, and even though I know it’s all acting, for a split second, I thought, ‘Oh my God, I’m going to die.’”

Y/N laughed softly. “I do remember that. You gave me this look after we cut, like, ‘Please don’t ever look at me like that again.’”

Kathryn nodded emphatically. “Exactly! You scared the hell out of me, but it made the scene so much better. That’s what I love about working with you. You’re so committed, and you push everyone around you to be better.”

Y/N glanced down, almost shy for a moment, her masculine energy softening under Kathryn’s praise. “I just want to make sure we all bring our best, you know?”

They reached the fifth wing, and by now, Kathryn was struggling. Her face was flushed, and she took frequent sips of milk between bites, while Y/N continued to soldier on, a subtle sheen of sweat on her brow the only sign that the heat was affecting her at all.

Sean jumped in with another question, this time focusing on their personal dynamics. “You two clearly have great chemistry, both on screen and off. Was there a moment when you realized you clicked as friends?”

Kathryn looked at Y/N, a smile curving her lips despite the heat. “I think it was during one of our rehearsal breaks. We were both exhausted, and Y/N just pulls out this deck of cards and starts doing magic tricks. I lost it. I didn’t expect that from her at all.”

Y/N chuckled. “Yeah, I was just trying to lighten the mood. Rehearsals can get intense, and I figured a little distraction wouldn’t hurt.”

Sean raised an eyebrow. “Magic tricks? Really?”

Y/N nodded. “It’s just a hobby, something I picked up when I was younger. Helps with the hand-eye coordination too, which is useful when you’re playing someone who’s good with knives.”

Kathryn shook her head, laughing. “See what I mean? Full of surprises.”

The sixth wing, known as "Da Bomb," was infamous for its brutal heat. Kathryn braced herself, biting into it hesitantly, and immediately regretted it. Her face contorted in agony as she reached for her milk, gasping slightly.

“Oh my God,” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. “This is insane.”

Y/N took a bite, her expression neutral for a moment before she nodded slowly. “Okay, yeah, this one’s got some kick.”

Sean, looking slightly devilish, leaned in. “Y/N, you’ve got a high spice tolerance, but even you seem to be feeling this one. Has anything ever rattled you on set the way this wing is?”

Y/N considered the question, her voice steady despite the heat. “Honestly, the only time I get rattled is when the stakes are high for the scene, like an emotional climax. I can handle gore and action all day, but the scenes where you have to really tap into something vulnerable—that’s the

stuff that gets me.”

Kathryn, tears in her eyes from the heat, managed to nod. “Yeah, those are the hardest. You get so wrapped up in it, it’s like you’re baring a part of yourself.”

Y/N reached over, patting Kathryn on the shoulder. “You’re doing great, Hahn. Almost there.”

They finally reached the last wing, the infamous "Last Dab." Kathryn looked at it with dread, while Y/N calmly added an extra dab of sauce to hers, a cocky smile playing on her lips.

“You’re insane,” Kathryn muttered, though her voice held admiration.

Y/N winked. “Gotta go out with a bang, right?”

They both took their bites, and Kathryn immediately regretted it, her face turning red as she reached for more water and milk, anything to dull the fire. Y/N winced slightly, but powered through, still in control.

Sean laughed, amazed. “Y/N, you’ve officially survived the hot seat! Kathryn, you too—barely.”

Kathryn, still recovering, gave a shaky thumbs-up. “I don’t know how I’m still alive, but I made it!”

As the interview wrapped, Y/N leaned back in her chair, her calm demeanor intact, while Kathryn fanned herself, still feeling the burn. Despite the spice, the bond between them was undeniable, strengthened by their shared experience on set and in life. And as they exited the stage, laughing and teasing each other, it was clear that their friendship—like their careers—was built to last.

This is the second one as a little sorry for not posting

[hihimissamericanbi]

FAVE HP SMUT CREATORS

Ever since I got that lovely anon asking for the best smut I've ever read, it got me thinking about some of my favorite smut creators in general.

So here is a very non-exhaustive list of fan-fucking-tastic smut writers and artists I've come across in the HP fandom that weren't mentioned (shamefully) in my last batch. Feel free to add to the list! We must keep the people fed.

xoxo go take a sip of cold water girl

WRITERS

@spookymoonie

Lord Espooky came into this fandom guns a-blazing with their kink headcanon a day for Wolfstar and it has spiraled from there. They GET IT. He has a super well-organized masterlist pinned to his tumblr ft tons of different kinks, fic lengths, scenes, etc. Go. Now.

@fiveht

The definition of IYKYK. Daddy kink isn't super my thing, but Five makes me enjoy it. If you vibe with age gap daddy Remus and pretty boy Sirius, their Adore series is a must-read. They also have a stellar A/B/O Wolfstar fic plus podfic and write some Marvel too!

@greenvlvetcouch

An absolute legend in this fandom. Wolfstar, Jeggy, Rosekiller. Gritty, chewy, embodied sex.

@emeryhall

Emery writes sex the way some people breathe. Like it's just part of the narrative. It's SO punchy. And also she is the queen of Crack Smut.

@kaaaaaaarf

Patron saint of Wolfstar hatefucks. mic drop.

@cancerravenclaw

We snagged MK over to Wolfstar from the clutches of Dramione. Her series "mk's kink exposé" could also be called "celine's kink exposé." I'll just leave that there.

@wolfpants

Everything they create is magic, but they are especially known for rare pairs and Dronarry.

WRITERS AND ARTISTS

@aspiring-artist-em

The queen of Lesbian Wolfstar. Both art and fic. Also queen of humiliation and pain kink and Walburga psychological trauma. ye be warned.

@upthehillnsfw / @upthehillart

I am afraid no one is ready for this art. Truly. Tons of different ships, positions, acts. I gasp every time. And their Pansmione fic is epic (which I have talked about before).

ARTISTS

@industrations

I highly recommend getting on Indi's Patreon so you can enjoy their NSFW drawings, mostly Wolfstar and Jegulus, occasional Rosekiller. Too many iconic moments to count.

@waxingrunes

The officially-sponsored artist of Five's Adore series. Look, their work is nothing short of indulgent. Shhhh don't worry about the physics just let it happen. And by It I mean Remus' big dick hands.

@basiatlu

By beloved. The one. The only. Bosh's drawings are so ALIVE. They leap off the screen. Her Drarry is nothing less than iconic. She also dabbles in other characters/ships like Wolfstar and Blackcest. Siriusly, you can't go wrong.

DRARRY SMUT

OKAY, Drarry people. There are so so many excellent Drarry smut writers it is impossible to name them all. Here are but a tiny handful I have pulled from my bookmarks. I'm happy to rec specific fics if asked :)

@cavendishbutterfly, @bixgirl1, @l0vegl0wsinthedark, @shiftylinguini, @kbrick, @fluxweeed, @academicdisasterfic

MORE

I'm tagging those other creators from older asks because I can't put this list out there without them on it <3

@crushofdoves @we-are-swearwolves @tenthousandyearsx @theresthesnitch @lqtraintracks Quietlemonhush @cuddlebugsirius

[sea-lanterns]

BE MY MUSE

synopsis: "paint me like one of your fontaine girls..."

featuring: navia, clorinde, furina, lynette

rating: 18+ smut (men and minors dni)

warnings: artist! reader, sub! afab fem reader (navia, clorinde, furina), dom! afab fem reader (lynette), voyeurism, mast.urbation, not full on smut but it is heavily implied, cunnilingus (reader giving), fing.ering, degradation (furina), praise, teasing, sensual touching, might be ooc.

art credits: blue period

NAVIA

Navia chuckles to herself as the last piece of clothing is discarded on the floor. Her slim, feminine, body perched elegantly against the satin sheets of the cushion, basking effortlessly in the dayglow of Fontaine’s sun like the Goddess she seemed to be. You swallowed your mouth dry. Taken aback with how ethereal she looked in the moment as her golden locks framed her face like a portrait hung in your gallery.

Navia purses her lips together, a curious, yet amused smirk causing a heart to form at her mouth. She chuckled, a prick of heat burning at your insides. 

“Never seen a woman naked before?” She smiles, nude body all on display with no shame whatsoever. She was the one who had asked you to paint her, after all, of course she wouldn’t be embarrassed. It was her request…

“I have.” You quickly retorted back, gripping the stem of your brush with a tighter hand. “…Just not as exquisite as you.” 

Her cheeks pinkened at your honesty, before she quickly covered it up with a smile. 

“You flatter me, Artist,” she giggles, leaning back in her seat to leave all her assets on display. “Tell me then, does my request to paint me nude, make you nervous?”

She hugs herself to squish her breasts together, a sight that has you clearing your throat and looking away nervously. “Of course not, I’ve done commissions of all bodies. Clothed, and nude.”

Navia smirks at this. 

“Then…is it normal for the Artist to get so flustered over her muse?” 

There’s an essence of mischief in her tone. It has you clutching your paintbrush with strength similar to that of a stress ball. “I am not…flustered.” You say in a gritty tone, avoiding her bright blue eyes as you start to mark out the lines of her figure. “Let’s just move on with the painting. Please, get in a position that pleases you, my lady.”

Another smirk. That didn’t seem good. 

“Like this?” Navia taunts with pleasure, lying back against her seat and leaving everything out for you to witness. You swallowed again, eyes wandering over her smooth, supple, chest. Areolas a pretty, puffy, pink color that stiffened the more she exposed them to the drafty air. 

“Ah…that’s good.” You say with a stiff mumble. “Are you alright with staying like that for an hour or so?”

“Hm, perhaps not.” Navia tuts with fake afterthought. “I think I’ll choose a different position.” 

She suddenly spreads her legs a bit wider, a gasp catching in the back of your throat as your eyes landed on the flower that sat between Navia’s legs. It was cleanly shaven —not waxed, but you could tell she had shaved before your appointment— and soft from the way she pressed against one of the folds. She flashed you a suggestive grin, before giggling at the sight of you all enamored by her pussy.

“Are you going to start painting soon?” Navia asks in a delighted tone. “Before you begin, let me just…” She suddenly dips one of her fingers into her cunt and sighs, a breathy moan leaving her lips. “There, all done…”

If you were blushing before, you were a lava cake by now. Navia could practically see the steam coming out from your face, and she chuckles before circling her clit with her thumb. “I guess a woman has never toyed with herself in front of you, hm?” She groans, slowly rubbing circles around her clit until she’s wet enough to appear glistening. “Are you embarrassed?”

You shook your head no. Clearly enamored by the sight of the Spina di arousal president masturbating in front of you. “Was this your goal the whole time? To…taunt me with your body?” 

Navia laughs at this and shakes her head no, “Of course not, mon amour.” She uses two fingers to spread her two walls apart. “I want you to touch me.”

Almost like a song, you were drawn to where she was seated, dropping your brush to the ground and forgetting about the painting entirely. Navia smiles tenderly at the way you follow her command, pushing you down until you are kneeled by her feet like a priestess worshiping her divinity. “I was thinking the portrait could be from a different point of view,” She mutters under her breath. “It’s important for the Artist to commit it to memory…”

Combing her fingers through your hair, she slowly pushes your face into her folds and gasps, head tilted back in ecstasy, while your tongue begins to taste what heaven feels like.

“Ah…”

CLORINDE

The intimidating, Champion Duelist of Fontaine was currently lying sprawled out against your couch with her muscular body out on display. Amongst the obvious parts of her body that caught your attention, her muscles were what drew you in, as the Champion Duelist had rough, toned scars lining her chest from years of dangerous battle. 

As an Artist, you were infatuated. Using the tip of your brush to stroke each line on her abs and highlight every curve of her legs. Which, mind you, we’re chiseled to perfection under the lamp side lighting of your room. 

“…Thank you for taking the time to…paint me.” Clorinde whispers under a husky breath. “Especially considering the…circumstances…”

She blushes slightly at her position. Rough, calloused body proving a beautiful muse for you to work on as you’ve had the honor of painting Clorinde’s body nude. (Courtesy of her request)

“It’s no problem, Captain Clorinde.” You say in a professional tone, trying to ignore the ache between your legs when you see her thigh flex its toned structure. “I have done this countless times. You are in the hands of an expert.” 

The Duelist smiles softly at your reassurance, deciding to sit up from the sofa.

“Miss Clorinde, I’m not done yet—”

“Could you come over for a moment?” She speaks in a low tone, catching you off guard with how smooth she was being. “Just for a moment. I want to see your hands.” 

“…My hands?” You chewed your lip for a moment before getting up from your seat and walking over to the couch. Clorinde leaning back and letting all her muscles move with precision. “Yes, your hands,” she murmurs ever so huskily, reaching over to cup your wrist. “I want to look at them…”

You felt the rough, battle-worn calluses of her fingertips wrap around your hand and pull you closer. An intimate, quiet moment falling between you two, as Clorinde bites her lip and examines the calluses of your own battles.

“Such soft hands, yet they hold their own roughness from your artwork,” the Captain murmurs, almost as if she were enamored by just the sight of you. (She was) 

“Captain Clorinde, please…” you laugh shyly. “You speak of me like I’m the art. I’m merely just the artist.” 

She growls a little at that statement and shakes her head no. “I may be your muse at the moment, but I can’t help but wish to see you nude in my place.”

In that moment, you find yourself seated on the lap of the very naked Champion Duelist, who has helped herself with teasing you under the leggings of your clothes. You can’t help but agree to every little thing she does, as she begins nibbling against your neck to leave her own works of art.

“I’d like to try a hand at painting myself,” she murmurs hotly into your ear, “Care to be my canvas, Artist?”

You can’t find it in yourself to say no. Shakily nodding your head as she begins to rub circles against your clit with her strong, calloused, fingers.

“That’s a good girl.”

FURINA

Furina chuckles amusingly at the sight of Fontaine’s world renown artist currently hiding behind her easel. The archon herself was used to people kneeling before her, but she found entertainment in the way the cute, bashful artist she hired to commission was too nervous to look her in the eye. “What’s wrong, young artist…” Furina chuckles wickedly, “Are you really that shocked at your archon’s pure beauty?”

She crosses one leg over the other, her nude figure perched confidently by a table as she takes a sip of tea like usual. The way she was acting around you made you think she was doing this on purpose.

“I…you are beautiful indeed, my archon,” you respond to her nervously. “I just didn’t expect for you to disrobe so quickly.”

Furina sneers at the way you fidget so anxiously, tipping her teacup down to the point you worried it might spill. “Aren’t you an artist?” She chuckles behind her hand, “An artist who specializes in nude paintings as well. Tell me, does the sight of your beloved archon all skimmed down to her nudity really bother you that much?” 

“No, of course not!” You quickly retort defensively. “It’s just quite a shocker to have your archon disrobe in front of you so…quickly.” 

You bite your lip and look away. “You got out of your clothes quicker than I could get out my paints…”

Furina laughs hysterically at your quiet little stammer before running a hand over the smoothness of her thighs. “Oh…you’re just too cute…” she sputters under her laughs. “I definitely made the right choice in choosing you…”

She leans back against the chair and bites one of her manicured nails. That stuck up, haughty smile prickling you with annoyance as your archon seemed to treat this as a game. “You should be grateful I even asked you to paint me at all,” she snickers before uncrossing her legs. “You have the blessing of seeing Focalors’ body in the flesh.”

Your throat tightened at the sight of her legs now spread wide for you to see just how wet she was beneath her clothes. According to what you saw, she had been dripping for a while, but hid it well due to how she crossed her legs while seated right in front of you.

“M-Miss Furina…I…” your cheeks burned and you couldn’t look away. 

“I…I…what?” She smirked mockingly at your stutter and teases you even more by pinching one of her nipples. The sight alone causes a burning ache between your legs, and you couldn’t help but stare entranced at the way she squeezed her own breast. “Go on, spit it out. If you say the right thing, I might just let you touch me yourself.”

“Pardon!?” 

“Oh, don’t be so modest,” she snaps her finger and beckons you over. “You think I don’t notice the way you look at me so hungrily? What a pervert you are, dear Artist…”

The way she wags her finger at you almost has you on your hands and knees, crawling towards her like you were being pulled on a leash. Furina is delighted at the sight, looking joyous as she gives you a proper show of spreading her pussy lips even wider. Her slick, dripping essence cascading down the milky white thighs of your archon, and looking like the perfect muse for you to commit to memory.

“I want to see just how lithe an Artist’s fingers are,” Furina tuts, degradingly tapping your nose before propping you up to become face to face with her cunt. “Impress me, then perhaps I can give you an extra tip for a job well done.”

“But Miss Furina, your painting…”

“Silence.” She pulls you up by the hair and sneers. “This is a much better use for your hands, hm?” 

LYNETTE

Lynette was definitely on the shyer side when she asked to become your muse. She had always admired your artwork, silently wishing that one day, she could take the place of one of your nude paintings, basking in an ethereal afterglow of your brushstrokes, as she wanted to be the center of your attention. (And only your attention)

You were surprised, needless to say, when the quiet magician’s assistant asked you after her show to become your muse. Even more surprised when she silently requested for it to be a nude drawing. Though you masked your surprise quite well, a small part of you was curious to see the beautiful body of the mysterious magician’s assistant, as she was very secretive with her personal life to the point not a lot of people knew about her.

You took up the commission, currently setting up your easel and waiting for Lynette to disrobe from her clothing. A comfortable silence falling between you two, before the sound of fabric hitting the floor caught your attention.

“…I’m ready.” Lynette spoke quietly, causing you to peek out from behind your canvas. 

The cat woman was currently perched atop your couch in her full, nude, glory. Chest perky from the way the cold air hit her nipples, along with the smooth, supple skin of her back arched beautiful against the satin cushions. Her ears flattened in slight embarrassment from being in such a provocative situation, yet you couldn’t take her eyes off her as she was just so breathtakingly beautiful.  

“Oh, how sweet…” you murmur with a smile, caught in awe with how stunning Lynette is. “Get in a comfortable position for me, will you? You’ll have to stay like that for an hour or two.”

Her ears flattened even more and she nodded, stiffly moving so that her body was sitting upright in a rather erect position. She looked quite firm and…not relaxed at all, placing her hands on her knees and sitting as if she were waiting for her appointment at the doctor’s office.

“…Oh dear,” you chuckled a bit at the way she was sitting. “That position is a bit too stiff for my liking. Here, let me help you.”

Setting your paint sets down, you walked over closer to where Lynette sat and saw her visibly tense up. You frowned a little at her discomfort and raised your hands in the air. “Don’t worry, I won’t touch you anywhere you don’t want me to. I’m just going to lightly guide your body to a more comfortable position.”

You smiled warmly at her and saw her ears twitch with acceptance. Slowly, she lets you guide her body down to lie on the couch, your eyes locked on hers and causing a small blush to adorn the cat woman’s pale cheeks. 

“…Thank you,” Lynette whispers, her voice soft as she gazes up at you with longing. “I am a bit…embarrassed, however.”

“There is no need to be embarrassed,” you chuckle comfortingly, patting her head like you would with a cat. “The human body is beautiful, and yours is just as exquisite as any of the other muses I’ve had the pleasure of painting.”

She blushes softly at the way you call her body beautiful, and Lynette lets out a soft little purr of pleasure under your pets. “Can you…help me relax a little?” She asks in a quieter voice, almost embarrassed with her request. “My body is too tense. I need my muscles to…relax…”

You smile softly at the way she paws at your hand and slowly drags it downwards. Your fingers lightly stroking down her neck, her chest, her stomach, before finally reaching the twitching ache of her walls beneath you.

“Here?” You ask with a certain tenderness, lightly pushing against her clit like a button.

“Yes…!” Lynette whimpers, grasping onto your back with her nails. “Right there…”

[arachine]

*slides a big fat twenty your way* uh how about a part two of that non traditional family dynamics with gojo

dinner and a disaster . . .

synopsis :: when your oldest daughter is at that age where boys are starting to become the focal point of her universe, you bring out the big guns — which in this case, unfortunately happens to be her father (who is not exactly the best when it comes to disciplining his little girls).

or, in other words, you and gojo play good cop bad cop.

genre :: fluff

contents :: co-parent!gojo, mentions of alcohol, heavy dialogue, time skip (the girls are 14 and 12 respectively), gojo is in distress !!!!

note :: link to part 1 + link to part 3

it's 10 pm when you text gojo about the latest happenings going on in your household.

it's also 10:01 pm when you answer his incoming face time call.

he's wrapped up in a fuzzy blanket, laying down on his bed with a pillow under his chin and a hand propped up to support his head—he's comfortable, to say the least, and 100% tuned in to hear about whatever it is that you just texted him.

"is this what you've been doing all day?" you query with a laugh. there's a brief look of confusion etched onto his face before he picks up on what you were implying. rolling his eyes, he scoffs.

"it was my day off," he pouts, "can't a man relax in his fuzzy blanket?"

you squint teasingly at the screen, then nod slowly before mouthing an 'uh-huh'.

"i didn't call you to get berated about my choice of blanket!"

"okay, okay! i'm sorry," you grab a napkin from your nightstand, waving it like a white flag of surrender. "such a baby..."

"says the one who could never take...you know what, i won't finish that."

"smart man," you smile. "i want to be mad at you sometimes but it's almost kinda impressive how easily you can change the atmosphere...i mean, wow! it's record-breaking, truly."

"ha...ha. alright. i overstepped my bounds, i get it. can we just...can we just get back to our daughter? i'm starting to regret calling you on my day off—which, by the way, was going so great."

"great, love that we're on the same page," you give him a thumbs up through the screen. before you can get into the nitty-gritty of the situation, you take a brief pause to prepare yourself for the dramatics about to ensue—because if you know anything about gojo satoru, you know he's definitely one for the dramatics.

"when i tell you this...i want you to stay calm, keep a level head, and most importantly, i want you not to scream," you say, opening your mouth again to emphasize the last part, "and it's important that you especially won't scream, okay?"

gojo mulls it over before committing, "i don't know...it depends on what you're gonna tell m-"

"just—just promise, gojo," you interrupt, clearly agitated.

"alright, i promise."

"okay, so there's a boy..."

you're mid-sentence when gojo's eye starts to twitch.

"and she's expressed to me that she wants to go on a date with him." when you finish, you're half expecting him to yell, and half expecting him to end the call. but he doesn't.

in fact, he's so still, you're almost convinced he's frozen, but then he begins to smile. slow at first, and then all at once. it's creepy, you think, something straight out of a horror film.

"i know this was a lot of information to process, are you...okay?"

"pfttt, what? of course, why wouldn't i be?"

"well, you look scary. maybe i shouldn't have told yo-"

"SHE WANTS TO WHAT?"

and there it is. gojo satoru, king of dramatics.

"my little girl, my baby, my princess. she's only 10!-"

"she's 14."

"same thing, how could you let this happen?!"

"what happened to not yelling?! you promised!"

"oh be serious, i made a vow to you 14 years ago and look where we are now," he whisper-yells, trying (and failing) to contain his voice.

"dammit, you're right...well, at least we're on the same page! we both don't want this date to happen." when you take another glance at the screen, gojo's no longer laying down on his bed, but up and pacing around his room like a mad man.

you watch him for awhile, and when he doesn't seem to be coming back any time you soon, you call his name, "satoru."

"what?!" he turns to the phone. glaring at him, you wait for him to check his tone. "sorry, what?"

"i was thinking tomorrow you could come over for dinner? it'd give us a chance to talk to her about it...so that it's not just me telling her no."

"so, what i'm hearing is that you want her to hate me too?"

"no, i'm saying i want us to be a team. so, can you come over tomorrow? can you do that?" you ask, raising a brow.

"yeah, i'll be there."

at the same time the oven alarm goes off, gojo arrives. you can see his car pull into the drive way from where you are in the kitchen, and you mentally curse yourself for not getting ready sooner.

"fuck, uh okay," you throw your oven mitts, "hon, can you get the door for your dad? i need to go upstairs and get changed."

the youngest gets up from her place on the couch, "sure, wait...dad's staying for dinner? what's the occasion?"

you're halfway up the stairs before you stop, "enough questions, please. just open the door, thank youuuu."

ambling from the living room to the foyer, she opens the front door. gojo smiles, and immediately lifts her up into a bone-crushing hug that only a dad could give.

"hey bug, missed you," he squeezes her, much to her behest.

"ugh, dadddd, put me down," she drawls, pawing at his chest. gojo frowns and puts her down, putting a hand over his heart as if he were shot.

"you used to love that, you know."

"yeah, when i was like five."

"are you not?" he teases, but she's not amused. he nudges her arm annoyingly until she begins to smile. "there we go, punk. now can i have a real hug? you're hurting my feelings."

like a true pre-teen, she rolls her eyes and reluctantly trudges over to him, then opens her arms up for a hug. at this stage, you've noticed that hugs are okay, but only when it's on their own terms—and you especially can't initiate them when their friends are around (you learned that the hard way).

when they pull away, gojo takes his shoes off and wanders through the house. "where's the other brat at?"

"upstairs."

gojo nods, "uh-huh...where's your mom at?"

"right here." gojo hears you before he sees you, and then he lifts his head up to see you at the top of the stairs standing behind the banister. before you make your way downstairs, you waltz over to your daughter's room and knock on the door.

"hey, dinner's ready. come on downstairs. somebody's here to see you." as you begin turning around, the door flies open and out comes your moody teenage daughter.

"who is it?" she queries, following behind you like a duckling.

from where he stands at the bottom of the staircase, gojo raises a hand and waves.

"hey, scrub."

"dad? what are you doing here?" your oldest questions, but still goes in for a hug.

"your mom invited me over for dinner, that cool with you?"

she nods, then turns to her sister. they exchange a knowing look that, if translated, would be: something's definitely up. they wait for you and gojo to head to the kitchen before having a quick debrief.

"you definitely did something," the youngest side eyes.

"wha-why would you think i did something? you're the one failing a class," she rebuttals.

"ok well...this isn't about me! they only get together when one of us does something. don't you see? they're teaming up...this is an intervention."

the oldest pinches the space between her brows, "i can see why you're failing english now, because the way you just jumped to conclusions like that is actually insane."

dinner goes by without a hitch. for majority of it, you spend the time talking about work, school (which seems like a sensitive subject because the youngest wouldn't look either of you in the eye), and the plot of this hbo show with adult kids who're trying to take over their father's company.

gojo brings it up, of course, and jokingly says that the show was written with him in mind. he asks the girls if they'll fight over who'll inherit the company when he dies, and it turns into a i'm the better daughter debate.

when it gets a little too rowdy, you have to remind them that this is all hypothetical and that their father is a menace who likes to cause chaos whenever possible. gojo pouts and says you're no fun, but quickly fixes his face when he sees your pointed glare.

"come help me with the dishes," you say, and then disappear into the kitchen.

the two of you fall back into old habits. you wash the dishes, he dries and sets them on the rack. it feels like it did in the beginning, only this time, he'll be leaving when the two of you set out to do what you originally intended.

"dinner was nice," he says after about 10 minutes of comfortable silence. he doesn't look up, doesn't even make a joke about your cooking (which, you were totally expecting him to do). instead, he just continues drying the plate you handed to him.

"you know, you're welcomed to come again. you don't always have to be away in that apartment all by yourself," you start, choosing your words carefully, gently. "the girls like eating with their dad."

"i like eating with them too. i guess i'll start coming by more often then."

you almost miss it but there's a smile on his face, and it's genuine. instead of pointing it out, you savor the moment.

your reasoning for his coming here was to talk to your daughter, but it was also to get him out of the apartment. see, you were sneaky like him too, and what he didn't know wouldn't kill him. to you, this was just hitting two birds with one stone.

when you finish up, the two of you discuss the plan over for what seems like the 100th time.

"so, we're gonna go in there and be cool about it, okay? we won't hound her. we're just gonna tell her like it is, and then let her down gently. got it?"

"got it."

"after you," gojo extends his arm.

"wha-ugh, fine."

as you lead the way, gojo has to keep a hand on your back to keep you from turning back around. so far, you've attempted to retreat five times—you're two feet away from the kitchen entrance.

"will you just go?" there's irritation laced in his tone.

"okay, just stop pushing me."

"no promises, keep walking."

you sigh, but heed his request. with a hand still on your back, he guides you all the way to the living room. the girls are watching tv but quickly avert their focus when they notice you standing next to the couch with a freakish smile plastered on your face. gojo whispers in your ear to be cool and you immediately gather your wits.

"mom...your face...dad what's wrong with her face she's scaring me," the youngest pauses the tv.

"sweetie, will you go upstairs for a minute? your dad and i have to talk to your sister."

seeming to be catching on, she gets up from the couch and says a 'told you' to her sister before running upstairs. you and gojo share a look.

"what's up?" she asks, still weirded out.

"you see, well...we've been talking and..." you start, "your father has something he wants to tell you!"

gojo snaps his head towards you, gasping in the same motion. "hey, what the hell happened to being cool?"

"no promises, remember?"

"oh, you litt-"

"dad."

"sorry, uh, shit. i wasn't prepared for this. this wasn't the plan," he begins, "so, i heard there's a boy...and...you're at that age where boys are cute..."

she looks at the two of you in abhor and groans. gojo pauses briefly, but you encourage him to continue.

"and i've come to understand that you're interested in one and want to go on a date?"

"yeah."

"oh...okay well, i—we just don't think that's a good idea. you're 14, in school, and honey, you're so young...you have your whole life to be interested in boys."

"wait, what do you mean 'we'?"

"your mom and i talked about it and-"

"mom said she was fine with it."

gojo smiles in shock and then blinks, once, twice, three times.

"we'll be back," he announces, pulling you by the arm to the kitchen.

when you get to the kitchen, he releases your arm and pinches the skin between his brows. it takes all of about five seconds before he erupts.

"'we're a team, satoru', 'we're in this together', bullshit! you wanted me to be the bad cop, didn't you?"

"not initial-"

"didn't you!"

"okay, sorry! i may have...gave in when she asked, but i figured you'd be able to tell her no!"

"why would you think that!? she's my little girl!"

"she's my little girl too!"

gojo walks over to the cabinet and pulls out a glass. "i can't right now, i need a drink. what do you have?"

opening another cabinet, you pull out a bottle of pink whitney. gojo sucks his teeth. it was such a girl drink, but it was all you had so beggars couldn't be choosers. shrugging, he raises his glass for you to pour the drink into.

grabbing another glass, you sit down and join him.

"we've been had, huh?"

"how is that?"

"because we both can't say no to her."

gojo raises his glass to his lips and swallows it all down in a few gulps.

your daughter goes on a date the following week, and gojo starts looking into trackers.

© arachine 2023

[victoria-grimesss]

tear you apart - part III

Part one: here    Part two: here 

masterlist

-> Pairing: König x fem!reader

-> Words: 4.1k

-> Warning: MDNI!, the mask stays ON, unprotected sex, semi-rough sex, König is a giver and a worshiper, some jealousy, mushy feelings, fluff, things are getting cute!!

-> A/N: thank you 100 followers yippee!! masterlist is in the works, let me know if you like the direction this is going and I'm open for any storyline suggestions :) 

You were standing in the courtyard, skipping breakfast today since you just weren’t feeling it.

The ice on the ground had recently been salted so you didn’t slip this time around. The mountain-scape to the north of the base was picturesque and you enjoyed coming out to this area for seclusion and clean air. 

You slipped on a thick black scarf today to conceal the evidence of last night and to help with the fact the heating unit in your dorm section went out overnight so you made sure to bundle up extra. It would have been easier to warm up if König was in bed with you but alas he wasn't. 

It was the morning after your rendezvous with König and to say you were sore was an understatement. The marks he left were scorched on your skin. It pained you to drag yourself to the shower after that night, washing away the smell of him on you. You examined yourself afterward and he was not delicate with his placement. Dark purple marks dotted your jawline and down your neck. Teeth marks are evident too. Purple painted your hips in the same shape of his fingers and if you concentrated hard enough you could still feel his grasp on you. You thought deeply of that night as you took in a deep breath of cold air, butterflies danced in your stomach and the embers of that night flickered within you. 

“Hey Y/N!! Funny seeing you here!” Bennet, one of the new recruits you befriended recently, was walking toward you while warming his hands. He was alright looking, he would be handsome if your brain wasn't already preoccupied replaying the unholy things König had done to you the previous night and thinking of the other things he could do to you.

“It’s quite cold out here, you actually like it?” He has that picturesque crest bright white smile and he's clean shaven, his eyes stay locked on your lips for a bit too long and you shuffle your feet bringing the scarf up to your mouth to breath heat into it.

“I don’t mind it, it's refreshing out here. Easy to relax, gets a bit much inside sometimes.”

He laughs, it’s light and he's everything opposite of konig. He's soft where König is hard, and light where he is deep. 

“Not used to such close quarters? It’s not all that bad right? Pretty girls like you make it much easier.” 

Oh.

He's flirting. 

You assumed he wasn't out here for friendly conversation after all, I guess he didn't hear word of the noises coming from the colonel's office the other night and that someone had seen you exit.

“Look Bennet-”

“Enjoying the weather?” His voice booms as the door slams open, his shoulders are back and his head held high. You’ve become conditioned into becoming tense with anticipation just at the sound of his voice.

He walks over, you wonder how long he was watching before he busted out of the door, did he see Bennet flash his hollywood smile at you like a bird flashes his feather during courting season? He seems wound up, tense and his eyes are dark.

Bennet straightens his back, greeting his superior, not knowing of the connection the two of you have. Your eyes bounce between the two. 

“Colonel sir, I was just speaking to my friend Y/N-”

“Were you now? I could swear you had-” he moves his arm, his sleeve slipping from his watch and he brings the watch to his face. “-Bathroom and laundry duty at about this hour, soldier? Or am I mistaken?” König stands at his full height, towering over Bennet and bringing both arms to cross his chest.

“No, sir you’re not I was just-”

“You will do your job and do as you're told, you'd be best to stick to it yea?” He’s mean and gritty but you like it. He asserts his authority without forgiveness and you assume that's why he has the rank and position he does. His gaze never leaves Bennet, the other man shrinking under his spotlight.

“Yes, of course sir.” Bennet shuffles off, your gaze is on the door he left in and the courtyard is silent. There's a long pause and it feels like time has frozen.

You hear König take a deep inhale and slowly release the exhale.

Then he turns his body so it faces you completely.

He’s equipped himself with all his gear today and he looks massive as usual.

“Mein süßes Mädchen you look lovely today.” 

“König, that was quite crass how you treated Bennet, he's a friend of mine.”

His eyes visibly roll,

“I know you come out here to clear your heads and for that you need solitude my love.” 

“Well you’re out here so I can't clear my head now can I?”

“I thought my company would be enriching for your experience.” His eyes crinkle and you meet them, admiring how the black paint around his eyes makes his blue eyes brighter.

“Your company is always very enriching.” You mean this in more than one way of course. If the others at base knew that you talked so casually with the colonel they would be shocked, yes he can be intimidating when needed but sometimes he is sweet.

“You certainly seemed to enjoy your visit to my office, I hope the grand tour met your standards.”

“They most definitely did, and then some.” You blush, bringing the scarf to your mouth again to warm yourself.

He tilts his head at your action.

“You hide the marks I gave to you?” 

“Well, I’m not sure you wanted the others to know that we’re ya know… sleeping together.”

He scoffs,

“I would love everyone to see them, it is a visible mark of my admiration to you, my loyalty to you. If others have problems with it they can take it up with me yea?”

His hand makes its way to your cheek and he cups it in his palm, your eyes close and admire the way you can easily sink into his touch so easily.

He moves his hand from your cheek to the scarf, unraveling it and he takes a deep breath when he reveals the many marks he scattered on you. The scarf stays in his grasp and he takes your chin in his grasp with his forefinger and thumb turning your heads up to him. His eyes are dark again as he looks upon you.

“You are beautiful, I will only be upset for a moment when these marks vanish because it gives me a reason to scatter you with even more next time.” 

His romantic words never fail to erupt butterflies within you and you are still astonished at how he can be such different men, a violent soldier, a soft romantic, and a starved lover.  

He clears his throat, hands moving from your chin to your shoulder and down your arm until he gathers your hand in his. He moves your hand under his mask and kisses your fingers gently, his eyes never leaving yours and you get a feel for his lips on your skin and you shiver but not from the cold this time.

“It pains me to leave you Schatz but I will see you later, don't go messing around with other boys alright? They’re no good for you.” 

“I wouldn't dream of it.” You smile and part ways, this day could not go any slower.

—

Never had you had a hard time concentrating before, you’re a trained soldier and damn good at your job, you’ve taken out squads of men with no alarm raised or suspicion drawn but the only thing on your mind as you’re in the gym is König. König, König, König. He’s like a parasite, digging and infesting in your brain, ruining all other men and options for you. It's only him now.

You try to avoid the stares in the gym, the workout top you wear hides very little of the bruises and lingering teeth marks and you just try to tune out the side eyes and lingering looks. 

As your workout ends you make your way to the locker-room and Bennet once again invades your vision.

“Hey Y/N- oh shit, someone really did a number on you! Didn't know a girl like you was into all that.” He winks and his eyes are only on the marks not looking you in the eyes.

“Oh these, yea well ya know how it is, girls got needs.” You give a halfhearted laugh just wanting to shower.

“Oh I know very well, if you ever need help with those needs I can definitely help you with those.” He's smirking and you grow sour at these unwanted words, about to tell him off when a hand slams onto his shoulder.

“I appreciate your concern, but her needs are well taken care of in my hands, right Schatz.” He always comes to you right when you need him and his eyes are so dark and his grip on Bennet’s shoulder is so tight the clothes are heavily wrinkled under his hand. Bennet’s eyes are wide as they race from you to König.

“I-um I didn't know you were with him.”

“It’s an honest mistake, she’s a very pretty girl and a wonderful lover. I am extremely lucky to have her. But I’ll let you know if you ever speak to her in this manner again I won't hesitate to crush you alright?”

Bennet's face has gone pale and he scurries off once König releases him, holding his shoulder as he leaves.

“König.”

“Come with me.”

He gives no room for argument. He grabs your hands and whisks you away out of the gym. You have to walk at double speed to keep up with his pace.

“König, I need to shower.” You try to protest but he keeps walking.

“I will have you as you are, you think a little sweat will deter me?” His voice is deep and you know seeing another man pester you twice in the same day has sparked some kind of primal urge within him. You have no complaints either way.

“Where are we going?” The twists and turns of the base make you dizzy and he moves with such speed you've gone into a trace following him blindly just watching the way he knows this place like the back of his hand. 

“Quiet, you'll know soon enough.”

People sure have a staring problem around here because they stare you down as he leads you down the halls.

You finally reach the door and he opens it and ushers you in quickly closing it and slamming you against the door. 

Your heart is racing again as it does when he's around and his hands can't seem to be still upon you; they trace the lengths of your hips to your waist, bringing you closer to him each time.

“Meine Taube forgive me but I must have you, you understand right? All of them stare, they wish to be in my position but I know none of them could touch you as I do, feel you as I do.” 

You stare through your lashes up at him and he discards his helmet leaving his mask and the rest of his gear on.

“I would never have anyone as how I have you, how I let you have me.” 

He groans, leaning over you and his head rests on your shoulder before he lifts his mask just above the peak of his nose, exposing his jaw and lips to you. You’re left silenced and before you can think to utter a sound his lips crash to yours and he consumes your moans and whines as if he's starved.

His hands become crazed and he holds your hips and lifts you so you wrap your legs around his hips and your arms around his neck. 

He groans as he grinds his hips into yours, your back pressed against the door and your hand wanders under his mask from behind and you grip his hair tugging it forcefully. He pulls back from your lips at that moment and you get a good look at his lips. They're parted and kiss swollen, he's panting and the stubble on his jawline sends another wave of heat downwards.

He smirks and you can see the sharpness of his canine teeth, you can practically feel them already.

“See something you like?” You meet his eyes and your face darkens.

“I see a lot of things I like.”

His mouth crashes back onto yours and he continues his assault until he locks his lips onto your neck once again biting, licking, and sucking with no abandonment. You throw your head back, hitting the door but you feel no pain or really anything besides him and the heat radiating from between your legs.

“Lets get the prinzessin somewhere more comfortable yea?” He carries you the distance to his bed and in the short walk you see he has a much bigger bed than provided to the rest of the troops, makes sense, you doubt he can even fit into the regular sized ones. His bedding looks comfortable, the bed made neatly and everything in his room is neat and pristine. Up to code.

He lays you down onto the bed and you sink into it, you nearly moan at how comfortable it is.

“Not fair you get such a comfortable mattress and I’m subjected to a damn near plywood board.”

He laughs in between kisses as he unbuttons your shirt.

“Liebling you will never see your bed again, I must implore you spend your nights in mine.”

He sucks and kisses down your chest reaching behind you and undoing your bra clasp with one hand and throwing it far across the room.

“I-I would have a much better time sleeping here. I wouldn't mind that.”

“We wouldn't do much sleeping.”

Oh. So bold.

You throw your head back as he cups one breast and latches his mouth to the other.

“I’m sorry my love, I didn't get to indulge you in this last time.” He kisses again. “But I swear no where will be left untouched on you, I’ll have to be killed to be parted from you.”

You hands grasp anywhere they can as he continues his ministrations and you grasp his shirt.

“Take this off, now.”

He leans back on his knees and stares down at you, eyes heavy with lust.

“Your wish is my command.” He strips himself of the chest gear and shirt in record time and his chest is heaving as he leans atop of you again. His dog tags dangling over you, catching the spare light in the room. His mouth kisses down your stomach, the cool metal of the tags freezing after his searing lips, and unbuttons your pants sliding the zipper down with his teeth. You feel his hot breath on the front of your panties and the sight of him is ponographic.

“Oh god König I’m going to fucking explode if you dont hurry it the fuck up.” You groan and twist your hips to get him to do something, anything.

“Schatz you are too hasty, you are like artwork. I need to admire you as you are and appreciate what lies before me. Be patient and you will be heavily rewarded.” He strips your pants off maintaining eye contact the whole time and kisses from the band of your panties all the way back to your lips and he kisses sweetly this time touching the now exposed thighs and places his whole hand on your heat cupping it in his hand and he groans once more. 

“You make my self control crumble you know that?” He traces his fingers up and down your core sliding your panties to the side to continue the motion.

“I cannot help myself when I’m around you, you could say the most awful things to me and I would still kiss the ground you walk on.”

“I would never say anything mean to you König, never.” He kisses your lips and you bite his lower lip as he leans back.

“I know you wouldn't, that's why I keep you all to myself.”

He slips a finger in and you clench around him, growing hotter and panting heavier. You move a hand down his broad expansive chest, scars littering it as proof of the man he is, of the hard work he's done. You cup him as well, stroke him over his pants and he sucks in a breath his movements of his fingers stutter.

“Liebling, Scheiße”

You look at him innocently as you unbutton and unzip his pants, releasing him from his boxers and taking him in your hand.

“What? I’m not doing anything.” You smile and stroke him lightly, his hips thrust into your hand and his eyes lock onto yours like you're treading thin ice.

Your thumb circles the tip collecting the leak that sprouts from him and he shudders again.

His fingers work on you faster and your hand gets uncoordinated on him and your vision starts to go hazy.

He hums, clearly pleased with his work on you.

“What wrong soldier, having trouble concentrating?” He laughs and you don't hear him anymore as you reach your peak, your hand that's not gripping him carving nail marks into his shoulder.

He draws two more orgasms from you with his fingers alone, you can imagine his fingers are pruned now with how soaked he's managed to make you. Your mind has been melted, remolded and melted again. You had let go of your grasp on him to hold tightly to his shoulder but he didn't seem to care, his mind was only on preparing you for the main event. His tip was leaking and had made a sizable puddle on your midsection.

“You think you’re ready for me now mein liebling?” He holds himself in his hand tracing the tip across your core and you scoot yourself closer to him trying to inch him in, he holds you hip in place.

“You heard me? You ready my dear?”

“Yes König, just get on with it, I can't wait any longer.” 

“Of course my love.” He leans down to capture your lips and at the same time your tongues meet he enters you and it's the most lovely feeling you've ever felt. A tear slips down your cheek and if the sun exploded right now you would have no care in the world.

He sinks fully and brushes hair from your face, kissing your cheek and moves his hips out then back in to start a good rhythm. You both groan at the initial feeling and your hands move under his mask that has now dropped back down over his face to cup his jawline. He moves his head in your hand and kisses your palm, his eyes heavy on you, eyelids droopy and pupils dilated so wide his eye color would be perceived as black and not their original blue color. 

You moan softly and the hand that was braced holding himself has moved to your hip and you look between the two of you and observe the way you connect. You can feel the coil in your stomach start to tighten up once again. König is insatiable, he dives into your heat with no sign of stopping, each breath whine and moan that escapes your lips only adds to his stamina and pleasure. He starts to speed his thrusts and the metal bars of the bed start a rhythmic banging against the wall, if you weren't so drunk off of him right now you would feel back for the neighbor but you don't care right now and can only think of König as he fills your vision. The new marks on your body sting and the way he grips your hip has you dripping on him and you can hear the evidence and you know he can too.

“You are a goddess incarnate, you know that. Like a siren I am drawn back to you each time I leave you. You pull me back into you so deliciously I cannot ever leave, I could spend all eternity inside you and never grow bored.”

His words tighten the coil within you even more and you throw your head back, drawing more and more like into his back and he growls.

“Yes Liebling, use me to express your pleasure, take it out on me and I shall give it back to you a thousand times. I can feel you getting closer, do not hold back on me.”

He's harsh now with his movements and he's getting closer too, he's moved your legs to his shoulder and he's delved even deeper into you and you nearly, no you do scream his name, and it's loud.

“König, I'm close, don't stop.” He continues his abuse and his thrusts grow unrhythmic. He bends over you, your head is thrashing side to side as you near your limit and he holds your head steady in his large grip making you look straight at him. His dog tags sway in front of your vision like a metronome keeping you in this trance-like state of euphoria.

“Look at me. Good girl, go ahead and make a mess.” He fucks you through your orgasm and he follows right behind you, thrusting deep and you both are locked in a gaze. 

Your eyes roll to the back of your head and you take a deep breath in and let it out, deflating under his gaze and your brain feels mushy.

König shifts, “My love, darling.”

He snaps his fingers in front of your face. His eyes crinkled again and if his eyes could be heart shaped they definitely would be right about now.

“There she is.” He places your legs back on the bed and removes himself carefully kissing you hard on the lips and again on the cheek before he gets up and once again cleans you up, he's topless but in the heat of the moment he never did take off his boots or pants. 

“Thank you.” You say, your voice horse as he's cleaning you up and providing you with clean panties and one of his shirts to wear.

“You don't need to thank me darling, I enjoy taking care of you. You truly deserve it.”

You get up and change into his shirt, it pools on you but it smells of him.

“Beautiful, you should wear my clothes more often.” He watches you like a hawk as you stumble to the bathroom, legs feeling like jelly.

“If shirts 5x my size were part of the military dress code I would take your words into consideration.” 

You hear him laugh as you close the bathroom door and relieve yourself, looking in the mirror you look utterly destroyed, you smooth over your hair and splash your face with water, taking the time to brush your teeth as well.

His bathroom is pristine and smells like citrus, another green flag, he knows how to keep clean.

“I used your toothbrush if that’s alright.” You stop in your tracks, he's striped down to only his boxers and mask. He’s built like a greek god but he’s got some thickness along with his muscle you assume at his age he's just grown more sturdy.

“You’re going to catch flies if you keep your mouth open like that, lay with me. Relax.” He’s laid back on a pillow, only the light of his bedside lamp illuminates the room and he's made a small nest of pillows on your side.

You nestle yourself in the crook of his arm and he wraps his arm around you kissing the top of your head and humming softly a song you don't know.

“Did you mean those things you said, it wasn't just your brain turned to sex mode right?” You beat yourself a bit for plaguing him with the job of reassuring you of his feelings but you want to know his feelings are true.

His hold on you gets a bit tighter.

“I have never felt more sure about something in my life, you have come into my life so suddenly and I will move mountains to keep you in it. I told you I will worship the ground you walk on so let me show you.” He kisses your face in multiple places and all your worries melt away with his touch.

His words glaze over your brain like honey and butterflies erupt from it in droves, you have never even seen this man's full face yet you are so sure you would devote yourself fully to him as he says he will do for you. You fall asleep to the sound of him humming and have never felt more at peace.

[mandalhoerian]

sacrosanct | leon kennedy x reader | 2

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pairing: leon kennedy x f!reader

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

The god he abandoned has other plans for him.

word count: 13K

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

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

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

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

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

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

🌀 READ ON AO3 !

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

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

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

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

"You're doing it wrong again."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Like this?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why would he do such a thing?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The manor feels like a gilded cage.

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

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

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

"My Lord."

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not marrying her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From the temple to the palace. Still a pawn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He can’t stay here. Not now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Necessary. The word is poison, burning through him.

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

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

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

He can't accept this. He refuses to.

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

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

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

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

A scent.

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

Lilies.

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

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

It’s your scent.

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

But his soul screams.

He knows it’s you.

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

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

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

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

Gone.

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

But you’re gone.

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

No, you’re here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm afraid I don't—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods, his jaw clenched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Over becoming king one day?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you’re not the Saintess anymore.

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

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

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

"Hey, you okay?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're housing the former Saintess."

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

"You heard me."

"Where did you hear that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.

Leon didn't think about that at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shouldn't.

He really...

"You've changed."

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

"No—"

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

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

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

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

"How did you—"

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

He holds his tongue, waiting for you to finish.

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

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

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

Why.

Now that was a loaded question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The way you say it…

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Leon, what..?"

"Please marry me."

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

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

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

"Wh...Why?"

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

"But why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But you serve. You still serve."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[myzticbean]

Sex pollen made me do it

When I saw the Misty Invasion card about the protocores (and how they can seduce you into feeling...other things), I was immediately inspired. The sex pollen trope makes me chuckle, and I thought if anyone would take advantage of it, it would be our cutie Xavier.

If you'd like to read my fic on A03, you can find Part 1 here. I always appreciate feedback! Update: Part 2 live now!

Title: On The Job Work Hazards | Part 1

Pairing: Shen Xinghui | Xavier/You (fem! reader) Tags: Mildly dubious consent, blow jobs, semi-public sex, sex pollen

It wasn’t a hard battle, but the constant dodging was definitely wearing down my stamina as Xavier and I fought to break through the Wanderers’ shields. This one looked like a giant flower, with purple petals glimmering in the strange twilight of the protofield. If one could ignore the giant gaping maw of sharp teeth, and the violent spray of pollen puffing around its body, it would almost look beautiful.

Finally nearing the end, I briefly glanced down at my hunter watch interface to gauge its remaining health. In that split second, it charged at me, shaking its stems as the razored edge of the petals slashed forward. Xavier dashed in front of me, the slice of his blade light throwing the Wanderer into sharp relief as it fell backwards away from them.

“Xavier!” I cried out, watching as he stumbled, a haze of yellow pollen coating his face and chest. I reached out to grab him, cradling him in my arms. His blue eyes appeared dazed and dreamy - not unusual during his downtime, but he had never appeared anything less than laser focused during our missions together.

“Let’s do it now,” he gasped, choking as he inhaled more of the powder. I coughed as well, the yellow dust sticking to my lips. When I swallowed, there was a strangely sweet though gritty taste in my mouth.

Holstering my gun and removing my sword, we both raced forward, striking with expert precision. The Wanderer’s garbled cry faded as it soon disintegrated into a puff of black and blue matter. 

Xavier immediately slumped to the ground, groaning. I rushed over, falling to my knees beside him. 

“Xavier? What’s wrong? Where are you hurt?” I patted his shoulders and arms as gently as I could, looking for broken bones or blood. I moved down his chest to his legs, squinting as I shifted closer. The navy uniform was good at disguising bloodstains. 

“Not. Hurt.” He panted, mouth open as he tilted his head back. He leaned back on his palms, his legs quivering under my touch. 

“I don’t believe you,” I answered bluntly, hands moving more swiftly. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

This time his groan sounded more like a moan, his hips giving an aborted thrust when I stroked my hands once more down his thighs. I paused, looking down to see his arousal tenting the slim, tight fit of his pants. 

He watched me, his eyes hooded and hazy, desire turning his eyes into a dark, watery blue. I felt like I was being sucked into a whirlpool.

“Xavier?” I asked hesitantly. “Is…is it what I think it is?”

Watching his face flush, whether it was desire or embarrassment, I couldn’t tell, but I felt my own cheeks turning red. That sweet and salty flavor once again assaulted my senses.

“Was it the pollen?” I asked worriedly, and he shrugged. His head bobs as if he’s drunk. My hands have stopped their wandering, and he whines a little at the loss.

“Touch me,” he gasps, his breathing turning labored. “I need you.”

It felt like a punch to the gut, and desire seemed to melt through my bloodstream at his words. It wasn’t like we hadn’t danced around each other for the last few months working together. After grandma and Caleb…Xavier was just there, working the same long hours I had. It wasn’t quite so lonely in my almost devastating grief. 

My hands hovered unconsciously above his lap, but I didn’t press down.

“You’re not in any condition to give me consent, Xavier,” I said quietly. “Do you want me to take you to a hospital?”

He was starting to sweat, small beads at his hairline, and he roughly opened the neck clasp of his jacket. A glimmer of his skin peeked through the unbuttoned collar. I pressed my thighs together, trying not to notice my own uncomfortably warm reaction. While I hadn’t been exposed to nearly the same level of pollen that Xavier had, I could feel my own body starting to heat up. 

He caught the hint of my movement, licking his bottom lip in pleasure. He reached for me, pulling me closer and into his lap. I gasped softly, feeling the hot, hard length of him pressed against my backside. I unconsciously rocked back before abruptly stilling the movement, even as he tried to press me down even more firmly against him.

“Honey, please” he pleaded, a term of endearment I had never heard him use before today. Usually he called me by my name (or my full name when he was very irritated). 

“Xav, don’t,” I whispered, my hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders, a little desperate now. “I can’t do this while you’re not in your right mind.”

“No,” he said abruptly, his glassy eyes staring straight into mine. “I know what I want, I know what’ll make us both feel better.” He cupped his hand over my pussy, and I whimpered at the heated press of his palm even through my pants. 

He lowered his eyes to watch his hand rubbing slowly against me. I shuddered in pleasure, giving into a small rocking motion against him. With his hot, hard cock now pressing eagerly in the crease of my butt, and his hand expertly fondling me, I wouldn’t need much encouragement to come right then and there. 

“I’m…I’m already…” I was a little dazed by how quickly I could feel myself starting to lose myself in the sensation of his hand and warm body pressed under me. 

“You wanna come?” he asked roughly, his thumb now pressing with expert accuracy against the seam of my pants right over my clit. I shuddered and moaned, pressing my face into his neck.

“Oh, gods,” I whispered, trying not to grind too hard into him, but I could hardly stop the movement. I took a deep, panting breath. His natural scent and the sweet, powdery wisps of the pollen hit me hard. I wondered how damp my panties and trousers had become, and from his swallowed curse, I was guessing it was undeniable now. 

He held me even tighter against him, removing one arm around me to brace behind him. Using the leverage, he thrust up more firmly against me. Even now, I could feel the sweet ache building, and he wasn’t even inside of me. I hadn’t dry humped with a boyfriend since I was in highschool. I chuckled a little breathlessly at the thought, before groaning against the sensitive skin of his neck.

He muttered something unintelligible, I couldn’t hear it over the rushing of blood and the sizzle on my skin. I lifted up, shifting around as I lowered my hand between our bodies, rubbing a little roughly over his cock still trapped in his pants, and it was like a spark of electricity went off between us.

I could feel him, pulsing quickly under my hand, and I knew it wouldn’t take much to send him over the edge. His strokes, previously methodical, were now erratic against my pussy. It helped clear my head, just a little, enough so I could back off his legs a bit.

“No, don’t,” he said desperately, his hands once again reaching for me, but this time I moved determinedly away from him.

“Shh,” I whispered, glancing at him beneath lowered lashes. “Let me take care of you first. Just to take off the edge.” I took another look around, but we were in a deserted no-entry zone with no other nearby teams. I would need to call into headquarters soon, though - we shouldn’t be quiet on the coms too long.

He hissed quietly when my hands went to the myriad of belt buckles across his jacket and finally around his waist, loosening just enough I could gingerly tug the zipper down. He was so hard, he strained against the barrier, and I didn’t watch to catch any skin. He sucked in a breath, watching my hands at work. Xavier braced one arm back to support his weight, while he lifted his other hand to play with strands of my hair. 

“Lift up a little, sweetheart,” I said, tugging a little at his waistband, but I missed the dark flare in his eyes at the unconscious endearment. I wanted to pull down his briefs enough to free him without the band sliding back up. He shifted and without much effort, I watched as he pulled his cock free, his normally pale skin now flushed.

The soft skin over his belly, with sparse blonde hairs trailing down to his cock, was pink with his arousal. The tip flushed an angry red, quivering between us. A small bead of clear fluid seeped from the tip, and without any teasing, I took him into my hand.

I gave a slow, easy pump, and I thought he was going to tumble to the ground, the sound of his pleasure rumbling in his chest. I didn’t have much time to linger. I flicked my gaze upwards, my hand still steadily moving. He covered my hand with his own, hot and a little damp, his gaze dark and wild as he watched our fingers moving up and down together.

“It feels so good,” he murmured, his face lax and sex-drunk. He tipped his head back, eyes closing, lost in the feeling of our hands on his taut, warm flesh. 

“What can I do to make you feel better?” I ask, low and sweet, my hand getting damp and a little sticky from his precum. I leaned over, not really thinking, and opened my mouth, letting a little dribble of spit wet his cock.

He gasped, clenching his hand tightly around mine. “Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart,” I cautioned, seeing how the red - almost purple - head of his cock swelled. He caught his breath on another gasp, moving my hand a little faster, up and down, twisting a little over the tip before circling down back to the root. 

“What do you want?” I asked again. I knew he was getting close already. I lowered one of my hands between my legs, rubbing lightly over the seam of my pants. I could feel how damp I was even through the thick fabric.

“Yeah, touch yourself,” he begged, his eyes now locked on my hands. “Or let me do it.”

“Just focus on yourself,” I ordered. “Is it okay if I use my mouth?”

I didn’t pause my movements, guided by his hands, but there was a stutter as his hips thrust into our grip, another bead of precum leaking down over our fingertips. 

“Yes,” Xavier hissed, his tousled blonde hair falling forward over his eyes as he curled forward. “Please, please.”

I didn’t draw it out, crouching down over his lap, my knees digging uncomfortably into the rocky dirt. I lapped at the tip, the slightly bitter, salty taste spreading over my tongue as I gently swiped up the moisture. 

“Fuck, yes,” he whispered, finally falling back and laying flat on the ground underneath me. His hips gave an aborted buck before stilling as he tried to catch his breath. Powdery streaks of pollen dotted his uniform, the gritty texture dusting his cheeks. 

Without teasing him further, I swallowed down as our hands pumped down on his shaft, opening my mouth wide to take him in slowly. I tried to pool a little saliva in my mouth, letting it wet his dick as I inched down his length. I tucked my lips closer and twitched my tongue as I tried to widen around him, avoiding pressure with my teeth.

“Take it, yeah, just like that,” he murmured, his eyes locked on me. With his free hand, he cupped the back of my head, tugging me closer. I inhaled through my nose, trying to breathe normally while I swallowed a little around his cock, taking it in further until it bumped the back of my throat.

I swallowed again against the pool of saliva flooding my mouth, trying not to gag. He didn’t press me any further, letting me adjust, the warmth of my mouth sending little quivers of pleasure through him. I could feel his thighs tremble slightly under me.

After a moment to adjust, I slowly bobbed my head, my hand pumping up to follow my mouth as I sucked on him, dragging my tongue in a slow wave against the sensitive underside of the head. His sucked in breath told me he liked it, so I rubbed my tongue there again before swallowing him back down. 

He moaned, his fingers tightening their grip as he cradled my head in his hand. I made little bobs, suckling as I settled into a smooth rhythm. My fingers massaged his cock as my mouth wetted it with each languid slide up and down, my tongue fluttering over the head with each pass.

“Honey, please,” he whispered, voice strained. I liked the pet name, liked the tiny shiver of excitement that shot through me when I heard his voice wrecked with pleasure.

I sucked more strongly, beginning to pump a little faster and bobbing my head into a shorter, faster dip. While I didn’t bottom out quite as much, I could feel him beginning to pulse and flex in my hands.

His hips started to thrust in time to meet my mouth, pressing a little deeper when I sucked down, my nose brushing the soft, sparse blonde hairs at the base of his cock. I moaned, the vibration sending a jolt of pleasure rippling through him. I could hear his fast, breathless pants, his hand fisting in my ponytail as he guided me a little more roughly.

I choked, my throat tightening and spasming around him, and he grunted. “Yeah, baby, let me, just like that.” 

His voice wasn’t soft and sweet anymore, a low growl humming underneath the usually breathless quality of his voice. I shuddered, feeling caught in his grip, trying to breath as he thrust a little more deeply, bumping the back of my throat. I whimpered and swallowed, releasing his cock with my hand so I could brace myself on his thighs. He took over, fisting his cock as he pressed forward between my lips.

I could feel saliva draining, my mouth gleaming, the corners of my mouth leaking down and pooling down on his flesh. The wet fap of his hand and my mouth made me blush furiously, embarrassed and aroused in equal measure. 

I was so turned on even as I remained untouched. My nails dug into the rough, thick fabric of his pants, scritching a little at the stretch and burn in my lips and jaw. I mewed just a little, trying to keep a steady rhythm.

“Don’t stop, I’m close,” he warned, his voice tight. I could feel his balls tighten when my chin brushed them, my lips dragging as I bobbed my head, throat working on each swallow. His precum spread over the roof of my mouth, coating my tongue, and the scent of his arousal blocked out everything else.

His thrusts became deeper, more powerful as he let go of some of that tight control he always had, his cock fucking my mouth as he threw his head back, his guttural moans like dark music in the deserted space. Finally, his entire body tightened, taut like a bowstring as he arched, his muffled “fuck” echoing as he spurted into my mouth.

He thrust a few times, erratic now, as a hot, warm gush of his come flooded my mouth, bitter and salty and thick on my tongue. I wanted desperately to pull away and spit it out, but he held my head tight in his hand, still pushing me down a little on his cock as he gave a few final jerks into my mouth.

“Yeah, honey, so good, you did so good,” he murmured, finally releasing my hair and letting me pull back, releasing his cock with a small pop . “Can you swallow for me?"

I grimaced but did as he asked, swallowing down his release before sighing, and settled back on my heels next to him.

“Are you okay?” I asked tentatively as his breathing finally calmed, and he slipped his pants back over his hips though left the belt unbuckled. He looked a little lazy, his eyes hazy with pleasure and a slight sheen of sweat dampening his neckline. He looked tousled and ruffled, and I wanted to jump on top of him and pin him down to the ground. 

When he looked at me and met my gaze, I wondered just how much I had revealed, because his lip curled in amusement as he watched the expressions flit across my face. 

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he answered slowly, his voice back the usual soft, breathy puff. But his heavy-lidded eyes were dark, passion-filled, and I wondered just what he was thinking.

I felt a little awkward, not sure what I should be doing now that the initial burst of desire had passed. I quickly swiped my hands over my face, blushing at the damp saliva and traces of his come still dotting my chin and cheeks, swallowing the taste of him in my mouth. He watched my hands, and I could see he was semi-hard through the tight fit of his slacks. 

I shifted backwards, getting ready to stand, but he grabbed me and lifted me onto his lap. I squealed a little as he settled me down, bending his knees a little to cuddle me closer, his arms looping around me.

Xavier leaned forward a little, pressing his face into the bend between my neck and shoulder, breathing deeply. He nosed my collar out of the way, a soft kiss lightly fluttering over the sensitive skin. 

“Xa…vier…” I whispered, trembling a little in his arms. I was a little confused, and a little unsure of what to do. He could swing hot or cold depending on the day and our mutual stress level and workload. We had never been this intimate before, always dancing on the edge of something more but neither willing to commit to it.

“Come home with me,” he murmured, lips peppering kisses up my neck, cheek, my chin, before sweeping over my lips in a gentle caress. “I want to make you feel good.”

I lifted a hand, cupping his cheek. “Is this from the pollen?” I asked warily. “To be honest, I don’t know if it’s a good idea.”

He opened his mouth, getting ready to speak, when a sudden beep from my hunter watch interrupted us. I answered, pressing the interface button. “Hunter, we detected some anomalies in your area. Have you completed your mission?”

“Yes, we defeated the wanderer and closed the protofield. However, we were both sprayed with an unidentified powder, and will be initializing Decontamination Protocol 3.”

“Understood. Report back after decontamination protocol has been completed. HQ out.”

“Hunter out.”

I turned off the watch as Xavier stared back at me, cradling me in his arms. He didn’t clutch me tightly, but soothingly rubbed up and down my spine, which I could feel despite the thick leather vest I wore. It felt surprisingly natural. I wondered if the pollen was also affecting me, especially when I leaned forward in his arms and brushed my lips over his cheek. I drifted across his soft skin, nibbling at his earlobe. It flushed red beneath my lips and tongue, and his breath caught in a light gasp before he spoke. 

“Will you come home with me?” he asked, his voice quiet and subdued. He knew there was a chance I’d say no, and that he couldn’t argue with me. 

“I…” I hesitated, before sighing and saying, “yes. I want to. But it really might not be a good idea.”

He cupped my chin, silently requesting that I raise my eyes to his. I glanced up, a little shy, and unconsciously lifted my hands to cover my mouth.

He pulled the hand away, kissing me deeply. There was no way he couldn’t taste himself on my lips and tongue. He hungrily sipped at my mouth, slicking open my lips so that our tongues could playfully curl together. He rubbed the roof of my mouth before retracting his tongue and gently pulling away. 

He rested his forehead against mine, and I could feel his slowly hardening arousal pressed between us. I unconsciously rocked forward in his lap, enjoying the slow released huff of his breath. 

“You feel so good,” he said, voice a little rough. He swallowed hard. “I’ll do whatever you want. Even if you just want me to take you home. To your home,” he clarified. 

“I want you,” I answered softly. I felt a little embarrassed, but made myself meet his eyes. “I want a shower, and I want you…to…” I gulped. “I want you to fuck me. And then make love to me.”

He groaned, peppering little kisses on her face. “Yes,” he said, his voice quiet and a desperate tinge to the agreement. “Wrap your legs around me.”

I did as he asked, sliding my arms over his shoulders, and he boosted himself to his feet, holding me steady with one palm cupping my butt. I heard the clank of his belt rustling as he held me up against his belly.

“Hold on tight,” he murmured. And with a dazzling flash of light, we were swept away.

[devils-dares]

hi lovely can i get a carmy x college reader where she comes to his for dinner when the dining hall food is bad 🥹🫶🏻

YES YOU CAN

he's grumbling, pouring over his notebook with a cigarette dangling from his lips. he can't get this one recipe right and it's pissing him the fuck off. he's so pissed, in fact, that he doesn't even hear the door unlock. he ends up throwing the notebook across the room, burying the heels of his palms in his eyesockets. suddenly, you feel really bad about coming here to bother him, trying to sneak back out.

"what're you doin' here, sugar?" he asks.

"was just leaving, i didn't wanna bother you." he sighs deeply, standing up from the floor. he walks over to you, taking your hands in his.

"what's going on?" you blink a few times, thinking about how stupid your disruption really is.

"the dining hall food is bad and i haven't really been eating much. came over here cause i was hungry and-"

"you wanted me to cook for ya, sugar?"

"yeah," you frown, "but you don't have to. you're stressed."

"and my girlfriend's hungry," he says, kissing your forehead. he squeezes your hands gently before pulling you into a hug, "what can i make for you?" as you think, he scoops you up and plops you on the counter, standing between your legs. he brushes your hair out of your face, smiling at you. the stress lines seem to melt away from his face the longer he looks at you.

“make me whatever you feel like making,” you say, smiling at him, “long as it’s warm, i don’t care, it’ll be yummy.”

“bear secret menu item?” you giggle at his words.

“you’re just saying that so you don’t have to admit to stealing syd’s ideas.”

“syd can butt the fuck out of my relationship.” he starts taking some ingredients out.

“nothing too elaborate, carm, just messy and warm.”

“are you hungry now or can you wait?”

“i can wait. i brought my bag, i’ve got some reading to do.” he nods. you slip off of the counter, grabbing your book and notes out of your bag while he starts to cook. the smells enter your nose while you study, and your stomach grumbles loudly.

“when was the last time you ate?”

“good food?” he laughs.

“any food, sugar.”

“i had… a cereal bar this morning.”

“that’s all?” you nod. he sighs.

“how about i make you dinner, and then get some stuff ready for leftovers?”

“please?” he laughs softly.

“‘course, princess.” he starts to chop up some veggies as you pull out your books and laptop. immediately, the stress of school comes back, and you find yourself rubbing at your forehead already. as you;’re getting into the nitty gritty of your notes from your lecture earlier today, you see a glass of wine get dropped off at the table.

“gotta relax more, sugar. all that stress is gonna take a toll on you.” you smile up at him, swirling the wine in your glass before taking a sip.

“you don’t like this one.” you say as he takes a sip as well, “you hate pinot.” he shrugs.

“pairs well with the food.”

“no it doesn’t.”

“no it doesn’t.” he nods, repeating what you said and agreeing. you smile as he turns around, taking a sip of his wine. you can see the sides of his neck tense up, and you imagine the scrunched up look on his face from the taste of the wine.

“carmy-”

“it’s good, yummy.” he says, taking another sip and fighting the sour look on his face.

“i love you.” you laugh. he grumbles and goes back to the kitchen to cook.

soon enough, you’ve got a steaming hot plate of food in front of you, and your laptop gets whisked away.

“eat, and then study if you need to, but you’re not touching this until your stomach is brimming with food. i’ve got seconds.”

“won’t you come eat with me?” you ask, a pout on your face. he tuts.

“yeah yeah.” he refills the wine glasses, his wine looking much darker than yours this go around.

“cab sauv? not the best pairing.”

“better than fucking pinot.”

[obaex]

four - hockey player!ex!rafe cameron (pt. 2)

summary: with the stakes of your relationship on the line, can rafe pull off the impossible to win you back?

word count: 6k 🫣

a/n: i love you all for the love on this lil' series!! ♡ toxic hockey rafe has me in a chokehold, so i promise this will not be the last you see of him!! apologies in advance, you will basically be attending a full hockey game here, i tried my best to explain all the lingo!

(part one)

The arena was packed even though you were there early, arriving alone because the other girlfriends and wives were always late, which simply wasn't in your DNA.

Your dad was a coach growing up, so you spent countless hours in empty rinks, arenas and stands; his rule for games was that you were in your seat early enough to see the starting lineup and the national anthem, no exceptions. Truth be told you liked being there when the lights went down, when the music amped up, you loved the anticipation of a new game.

You didn't mind sitting in the cold seat, hands wrapped around a cup of hot chocolate that you got from the same concession stand every time. Hockey players were notoriously superstitious and by extension now you were too; just like they had their pregame rituals, so did you: same parking spot in the VIP lot, same hot chocolate from the same concession stand, same seat in section 106. You were in the lower bowl of the arena, a few rows back from the ice, facing the bench, nearly eye-level with the team.

You let your mind wander and tried not to think about Rafe but it was impossible, this place was Rafe to you; from the feeling of the cold air on your cheeks and fingers, to the damp and crisp smell of the ice and the sounds of the fans and ambient pregame music, all of it was a part of your love story, all of it was him. Surprisingly, it didn't hurt like you thought it would, rather it felt like coming home after a semester at college, foreign but familiar.

You swiped at your phone, a nervous tick, even though you knew there wouldn't be anything there, which was a good thing, Rafe needed to be focused on the game, so you slid your phone into the cupholder next to you and resorted to tapping your heeled foot nervously.

The seats around you filled quickly and sure enough the other girlfriends and wives arrived just as the lights were dimming, offering cheek kisses and sympathetic hugs, well aware of your situation. Your best friend Morgan slid in next to you, pulling you into her side.

"It's selfish, but I'm glad you're here" she said, loud enough to be heard over the music and the announcer as her brown eyes traced your face sympathetically.

"I'm fine" you lied with a forced smile. Totally fine you thought. Not the love of my life who broke my heart then skated over it trying to win me back in the middle of the semifinals.

You decided to keep all of that to yourself, because truthfully it was ridiculous. It was juvenile. And it was never going to happen. And you didn't want it to happen anyway, you reassured yourself. Right?

You shook your head as you turned your attention to the starting lineup as Rafe's name boomed over the loudspeaker, the cheering noticeably louder from the crowd. He was a fan favorite, beloved for his fast and aggressive style of play. He wasn't afraid to two-hand someone when the referee wasn't looking, to stand up for his team, to battle for the puck. He was chippy, gritty, and he's on the first line tonight you thought to yourself, a spot reserved for the very best players, putting them in the best scoring position. But surely that's not in any way related to our deal... you mused.

You stood on your tiptoes to see him over the crowd in front of you. He was standing at center ice under the spotlight, his helmet tucked under his arm as he shuffled side to side on his skates, face unsmiling, focused as he looked between his feet and the empty ice in front of him. Your heart leapt uncontrollably at the sight of him; God he's beautiful you thought as your body hummed in recognition and longing, completely betraying you.

The tension and animosity in the arena were thick. You had faced the opposing team a few times in the regular season and it did not end well.

As in, you'd lost every time.

As in, Rafe left the last game with a five-minute major penalty and a black eye after an all-out brawl.

Now the fans were itching for a rematch and you were simply hoping for everyone to leave in one piece. That was the difference between being a fan and being someone who cared deeply for the boys on the ice, it wasn't a spectacle to you anymore. You watched as Rafe's wingers Nick and Andrew stood beside him, followed by two defensemen and your goalie as the national anthem wrapped up.

Everyone took their seats as the lights came back on and the music came on again too, urging the fans around you to cheer, and for you to resume the incessant tapping of your foot as you leaned forward in your seat, laser focused on the guys lining up for the faceoff.

"Girl, you good?" Morgan asked, taking in your nervous energy.

"Hmm?" you responded distractedly, barely glancing at her. "Yeah, yeah m'fine" you said.

You were always more into the game than the other girls, but that didn't account for the clear tension and anxiety rolling off of you in waves, nor the way you were immaculately dressed, which didn't go unnoticed either.

Rafe skated to center ice, equally sized with the opponent at faceoff as the referee dropped the puck. It had barely clattered to the ice before Rafe had gained possession, shouldering his opponent out of the way and barreling towards the offensive zone with a burst of energy like a gunshot that had the crowd almost immediately back on their feet, pulling you along with them.

"OK, I'm sorry, what is happening here?" Morgan said as she watched him.

He was a man possessed, head down, focused, ignoring his teammates as they called for the puck to set up a play, like he was trying to do it all himself. Like he was trying to score. He flipped the puck towards the goalie, who blocked it and possession shifted as he skated backwards on defense, your heart settling in your chest.

Rafe always played with intensity, but with the way he was playing now, he wouldn't make it through the first period. You thought there would be a reprieve on defense, but he was diving for the puck, playing to steal rather than defending his zone. He looked like a maniac.

Until it worked.

The crowd was back on their feet as he and Nick had a breakaway two-on-one, both of them racing towards the net together with only one defender standing between them and the goalie, the rest of their teammates striding to catch up with them. Nick called for the puck, slapping his stick on the ice, but Rafe deked the defender, faking him out before approaching the goalie and tipping the puck into the small pocket over his shoulder, swishing it effortlessly into the net.

The arena erupted as the goal horn blared and you found yourself jumping up and down, overcome with excitement and emotion. You could physically feel your heart beating. This is totally normal you thought. It's totally fine to score a goal in the first two minutes of the game, on his first shift, against the toughest team in the league.

You watched players pile on him in celebration before they all skated back to the bench, bumping fists with their team before taking a seat on the bench. Your eyes were glued to him, and his were on the jumbotron above center ice, watching his own replay before the coach approached him, grasping his shoulder angrily, and you could imagine why. He had been reckless, he had been lucky. Rafe nodded, but ultimately shook him off and refocused on the resumed play. Players zoomed in front of you and your eyes zipped to follow them before you glanced ever so briefly back at Rafe, who was unmistakably looking at you and smiling.

You swallowed to hide the emotions on your face, not giving him a single inch as you focused on the play.

You loved watching hockey, but it felt different when Rafe was on the ice, like he was a magnet, the only thing you could focus on, and his next shift was no different. He was playing like a madman and within seconds you could hear the coach shouting. Rafe turned up emptyhanded this time and the coach was visibly angry as Rafe skated to the bench, going so far as to yell back at him, which had you holding your breath; you had never seen him do that before.

Nick reached for Rafe's shoulder to calm him down and then they started bickering back and forth. Your attention was now split between the two of them and the action on the ice when you saw Nick physically rear back at something Rafe had said, the motion grabbing your full focus. Nick covered his face with his gloved hands, looking back at Rafe and then repeating the motion before he glanced up at the stands, at you, and shook his head, resigned. Were they talking about you!?! you thought. Had Rafe just told him what's going on?

You were so caught up that you missed the play as the other team scored. The game was tied 1-1. The arena echoed with boos as their bench erupted in cheers. You looked up at the clock: 2 minutes left in the first period.

Rafe and Nick got onto the ice for their last shift and the second the puck dropped, they were off as a duo, Nick's intensity now matching Rafe's own; they were bodying guys, tag-teaming as they raced into the offensive zone. Nick had the puck and passed to Rafe, and almost immediately Rafe was cornered by two extremely large defensemen who pinned him to the boards as they tried to steal the puck. But he wouldn't relent, throwing his elbows and trying to wiggle free, desperate and angry as the buzzer sounded for the end of the period.

And yet they didn't let him go. The crowd started shouting and everyone was on their feet as Rafe dropped his stick, turned and grabbed them both by the front of their jerseys, shoving them as the benches emptied and other players joined in, piling on top of one another until you lost sight of Rafe in a mess of limbs, equipment and jerseys. You were craning to see over the ecstatic fans, egging on the fight as the referees raced to break it up, pulling bodies off of one another until they reached Rafe.

His helmet had come off and as the referees skated him towards the locker room, he was shouting at the opposing team who skated after him, riling each other up before he yanked himself out of the ref's grasp and marched off the ice through the tunnel.

Period 1: Game Tied. 1-1.

You let out a deep sigh before collapsing back in your seat. You took a shaky inhale before exhaling and you felt a set of eyes on you.

You turned to see Morgan looking at you with an eyebrow arched.

"You're really going to sit here and act like you don't know what's going on? I know that boy texts you his every thought."

You opened your mouth, an excuse, a lie ready before she interrupted you.

"-- And I KNOW you didn't block him like you said you were going to, so don't try me. What the hell is going on?"

You bit your lip at that, glancing between her and the ice where the zamboni was running clean lines across the cold surface.

You gave a halfhearted shrug, "You know how much he wants to win, how much this means to him."

She doubled down her glare.

You sighed, avoiding her gaze before looking back to her.

"I made a deal with him" you nearly whispered.

A few of the other girls snuck by you both, causing you to shift in your seats as she leaned in and whisper-shouted at you:

"I'm sorry what!"

"If he scores four goals tonight, I said I'd get back together with him."

"You're joking" she said flatly. "Please tell me you're joking."

You pursed your lips with a small shake of your head.

"The two of you" she said as she let out an exasperated laugh. "Unbelievable. You can't stay away from each other and yet you’re willing to bet the stakes of your relationship on a game. I can't" she said, throwing her hands up in defeat.

She paused, getting serious for a moment.

"Are you sure you even want to get back with him, is that really such a good idea hun?"

"Morgan, he's never going to score four goals, it's like, impossible."

"Are you watching the same game I am?" she said emphatically. "Cause your mans sure is gonna try and you better ask yourself what you're going to do if he does."

There was a whisper of truth to what she was saying. It was probably impossible, but not completely out of reach. And what would you do? Your heart trilled. You would be ecstatic the devil on your shoulder said. You would be screwed said the angel.

Your phone buzzed in the cupholder next to you and swiped it open.

You grasped at your phone. Rafe never had his phone between periods, none of the players did, it was basically sacrilegious. They had just enough time to get treatment, catch their breath, hydrate and listen to their coach and he was on his phone!? You put yours down and tried to rearrange the smile creeping onto your face as you saw the teams rejoining the ice for the second period.

Just like before, Rafe was off like a rocket, but the other team was on to him this time, doubling his defensive coverage, making it nearly impossible for him to skate, let alone make a play. He had put a target on his back with the fight at the end of the first period, so even when he didn't have the puck, you could see the other players go after him, a stick in his skates, a slash at his side, heads turning to chirp at him as they lined up for faceoffs. But he didn't slow down for a moment, battling twice as hard now, coming back to the bench after each shift uncharacteristically exhausted, heaving with his elbows on his knees.

You watched him and felt overcome with emotions as the realization hit you: Rafe wasn't good at expressing himself, he wasn't a 'feelings' person, he didn't always know what to say, which is why sometimes words came better to him over texts when he had more time to think about it. But hockey? Hockey was his language. He couldn't tell you how sorry he was, how much he wanted to fight for this, but he could show you. He could play for you, he was playing for you, putting his body on the line, trying his all-out hardest, not a single person in the arena could deny that as they watched him tonight. He wanted this. Badly. Which meant he wanted you, badly. You felt a flush of warmth in your cheeks that had nothing to do with your lukewarm hot chocolate as you watched him slide up the bench for his next shift.

You looked up at the jumbotron. There were only 12 minutes left in the second period, and the game was still tied at 1-1.

What were you going to do if he scored four goals?

What were you going to do if he didn't? felt like the more pressing question. He was running out of time. If something didn't happen now, he would have one period left to score 3 goals, and that was simply not going to happen. I shouldn't have made the number so high you thought guiltily.

Your eyes glanced back to the ice as he clambered over the boards in the midst of a shift change. He was skating methodically, not slower, but maybe more strategically and you were sure his energy was waning even if it didn't look like it.

Suddenly, Nick picked the puck off an opponent and Rafe raced to skate with him, crossing into the offensive zone with several of their teammates. Nick had a wide open shot, and he brought his stick back for a slapshot before turning at the very last moment and passing to Rafe who had positioned himself near the goalie. The puck banked off his stick and ricocheted into the goal.

You were on your feet again, jumping up and down in Morgan's arms as the boys piled onto each other. The crowd was alive again as the team took a 2-1 lead, 5 minutes left now in the second period.

Morgan looked at you, shaking her head before shouting something you couldn't hear over the crowd. You shook your head back before she leaned in closer.

"Is Nick in on this shit?" she yelled.

You looked at her, confused.

"Why else wouldn't he take that shot? It was wide open."

The idea of Rafe recruiting his best friend and linemate into this made you lightheaded and giddy. As you looked back at the bench, the two of them were shoulder to shoulder, looking right at you and Nick waved, a goofy little smile on his face for the briefest of seconds before his attention returned to the game.

Period 2: Eagles winning. 2-1.

The period ended and you spent the last intermission glued to your seat as everyone around you got up to get food and drinks, your mind spinning.

One period. Twenty minutes left for Rafe to score 2 goals. It was still nearly impossible, but didn't feel as insurmountable as before and you still weren't sure what you wanted the outcome to be. You were staring into middle space, questioning your entire relationship when your phone buzzed again in your cupholder. You swiped it open.

Two hearts.

Two goals.

You smiled widely, rolling your eyes before giggling like a little girl. You wanted to respond, and your fingers lingered over your screen, but he still had no business being on his phone, and what could you possibly say anyway?? "Nevermind!! Let's get back together despite all the shit you put me through!"

Ugh.

The third period was simultaneously the slowest and quickest 20 minutes of your life.

Rafe was battling, and the other team battled back, getting chippier and chippier as the teams exchanged penalties and breakaways, but the score stayed the same. You could feel the crowd's excitement at the prospect of scraping through this game with a one-goal lead; a good enough result to make them happy, but you couldn't deny the disappointment you felt as you were playing an entirely different game.

As time whittled down you felt yourself getting emotional as the odds were stacked against Rafe, stacked against both of you. Ten minutes. Eight. Five. Three. You could feel the familiar burn of tears behind your eyes as your foot continued to tap, eyes glancing anxiously between Rafe, the bench, the players and the jumbotron that counted down the time unceasingly.

Morgan reached for you, winding her arm around yours and grabbing your hand, a sad smile on her lips. You both knew this wasn't going to happen. There was just no way. You could sense that Rafe could feel it too, he was getting more and more desperate, scrambling after the puck, making sloppy mistakes that made you feel guilty, the most so when the other team scored… tying the game.

And then what felt like the final twist of the knife: with less than 1 minute left, they scored again, capitalizing on the dashed morale of the Eagles to take the lead 3-2. It was like someone sucked the air out of the arena. Rafe was on the ice, on his knees and all of the players looked so defeated.

Fuck fuck fuck was all you could think as they regrouped with their coach to come up with their last play, their last chance to tie the game. You leaned forward, desperately trying to read lips as if you could somehow decipher the plan. The ref blew the whistle and the coach sent guys on the ice, leaving Rafe behind, and your stomach dropped: he wasn't even going to get a chance.

Rafe argued and you could see him yelling and gesturing wildly as the coach yelled back. The ref blew the whistle again and you knew they were dangerously close to getting a delay of game penalty. A ripple of confusion went through the crowd as they watched the argument unfold and you wished you could sink into your seat and disappear.

The coach shouted something that seemed final before Rafe took one look at him, ignored him and skated onto the ice, swapping with Nick who slid onto the bench, head bowed, ashamed, as the coach berated him.

At this point, Rafe had been on the ice way longer than he should have, he was making mistakes, and now he was putting his career, his contract on the line as he stepped up to take the faceoff.

The puck dropped and the battle ensued as the teams fought back and forth. Their team took a shot on goal that had you holding your breath as the time ticked down.

There were less than 20 seconds left as the puck rebounded towards Rafe and he guided it with his stick, taking off down the ice faster than you'd ever seen him skate; in just three strides he had nearly covered the length of the rink, leaving all of the other players trailing behind him as he squared off with the goalie.

"Ten! Nine! Eight!" the crowd shouted.

You were on your feet, grasping Morgan's arm for dear life, certain you were leaving a mark as you continued to hold your breath.

Rafe shot the puck and it hit the goalie's leg pad, but bounded right back to him.

"Three! Two!"

He shot again and the goalie fell forward, but the crowd behind the goalie erupted and the official lit the lamp behind the goal - he had scored.

The puck had slid between the goalie's legs and Rafe exploded with energy, ripping down the ice and jumping into the glass in front of you as his team piled on top of him and the crowd went ballistic as fans threw their hats onto the ice to celebrate his hat trick - three goals scored.

You were jumping and screaming with the other girls, a few tears escaping your eyes in relief and excitement, overwhelmed at the entire situation.

Three goals.

He'd scored three damn goals, a new career record for him. And now they were in overtime.

Period 3: Game tied 3-3. End of regulation play.

"Wait! Wait! What the hell happens now!?" Morgan asked breathless, looking to you as the only girl that knew a thing about the rules.

"Overtime" you huffed, trying to calm yourself. "Another 20 minutes, first team to score wins."

"Was that part of the deal?" she asked.

"It wasn't not part of the deal?" you said. "We didn't really get into specifics" you laughed, rolling your eyes.

You glanced at the bench as both teams hydrated and listened to the coaches. Rafe's teammates were still all over him, smacking his helmet, arms slung around him. The coach said something to him and he put his hands up in surrender as he sat on the bench and his teammates took the ice.

Your eyes were glued to Rafe but unlike before his didn't meet yours and for a second, you didn't know how to take that. You craved that acknowledgement from him, but you also recognized the look on his face; he was totally 100% focused, eyes fixed on the action on the ice. He wants to win you thought. Or maybe his focus was for something else.

Within a few minutes, his line was up and they jumped on the ice. He was playing smart now, conservative, concentrated and gathered, a stark difference from before. He was strong on defense, backing his team up as they played perfectly off of each other, which paid off when Nick stole the puck and shouted as he passed the puck up the boards to Rafe who sprinted after it, just a stride in front of a defender.

"Oh my god" you heard Morgan mutter as everyone stood to their feet and even though the roar of the crowd was deafening, you swore you could hear every scrape of Rafe's skate against the ice, the clatter of the puck as the play moved in slow motion to the beat of your heart.

Another stride and Rafe was alone in the offensive zone, the defender just a hair behind him.

Was this really happening? Was he about to end the game, to score a fourth goal?

Another stride and he was eyeing the goalie, lining up his shot.

He maneuvered his stick and just as he was about to shoot, the defender dove, thrusting his stick in Rafe's path, causing them both to tumble onto the ice and into the goalie, the puck sliding away, abandoned as the refs blew their whistles. No goal.

Rafe was down for only a second before he stood up, grabbed his stick and swung it with full force, snapping it in half over the boards in front of him in rage and frustration, causing the fans behind the glass to jump and spill their beer on each other.

Two of the refs were frantically skating towards him, waving their arms and blowing their whistles, but your eyes drifted to the head referee who was standing next to the officials box, watching a small computer screen, a replay. Almost immediately he nodded, handed back the screen and raised his fisted hands over his head and crossed them and you let out an uncontrollable shout of excitement as you grabbed for Morgan.

"What! Oh my god! What is going on!!?" she shouted back, and all you could do was laugh and shout as you jumped up and down and pointed to the referee.

"You are the ONLY ONE HERE who knows what that means!" she shouted. "What does it mean!!!?"

"A PENALTY SHOT!" you shouted back.

Your eyes shot back to Rafe who had clocked the same thing and was skating back to the bench. The equipment manager handed him a new stick and now the arena was abuzz with the same information as the announcer explained that Rafe would have the chance to score one on one against the goalie, with all of the other players off the ice. A golden opportunity.

The fans were ballistic. You could barely hear yourself think, could barely process your emotions as you struggled onto your tiptoes again to see over the raised hands and jumping fans as Rafe skated methodically to center ice, alone.

He skated back and forth, side to side with crisp turns like a predatory shark before he stopped at center ice, hands on his stick on his knees, eyeing the goalie before his head turned slowly and he looked right at you. Even amidst the chaos, you could see his signature smirk before he refocused and gathered the puck in his stick.

He was going to score.

You just knew it. You knew by the look on his face, by the stride of his skates, by the confidence in his gait.

"He's going to score" you said out loud, quietly, to yourself, a revelation before you turned to Morgan who was solely focused on the scene unfolding on the ice. You tugged on her sleeve, desperate for her to understand the weight of what you had just said.

"He's going to score, Morgan" you said, louder, matter-of-factly.

"Well SHIT I hope so!!!!" she shouted back without looking at you, now completely wrapped up in the game.

She didn't understand.

He was going to score.

And that meant he was going to be yours again.

Your eyes found the ice and you watched as he approached the goalie, goading him out of the goal, faking him out before wrapping the puck around his leg and tipping it upward.

The goalie dove backwards at the last minute and 15,000 fans held their breath as his gloved hand extended, brushing the edge of the puck, causing it to wobble, but without enough force to change the course of fate as the puck swooshed into the net.

The goal lamp lit up.

The goal horn sounded.

And if you thought the arena was loud before, it reached a new level as fans screamed, shouted, jumped up and down and embraced each other.

You felt realization ripple over you, your gaze stuck on the ice. Stuck on the image of the goalie flat on his back, defeated. Stuck to Rafe who had ripped his helmet off, discarded as he let out a roar of victory before getting bombarded by his teammates who piled on him in celebration.

End of OT. Eagles win 4-3.

Morgan yanked you into her by your shoulders, hugging you and jumping up and down, but an unexplainable calm had settled over you, gluing your feet to the ground.

You should be excited, you were, but instead you felt like you were having an out-of-body experience. What the hell had just happened? Rafe had scored four goals, had led his team to the finals. Had he done it for himself? Of course. But wasn't a part of it for you too?

You turned and looked back at the ice, desperate to catch his eye, to talk to him, to figure this out as chaos rained around you. The players skated to center ice with their sticks raised to salute the fans before skating away, Rafe leading them quickly into the tunnel without so much as a look at you. Not even a cheeky smile or a blown kiss, which you used to get after every game. What the fuck.

Morgan shook your shoulder.

"Babes, now what?!" she asked, excited, curious, anxious.

You looked at her, lost. You had no idea. Did you text him? Were you just back together again? How did this work?

The lights dimmed as the announcer drew the crowd back in to introduce the three stars of the game - recognizing the three standout players of the night. The third star was your goalie, who stopped an unimaginable number of shots and you cheered for him as he skated solo onto the ice in a spotlight, taking a spin around the ice before tossing a t-shirt into the crowd to an excited fan.

Your heart was hammering in your chest, your mind incapable of thinking of anything but Rafe. You grabbed your phone. No new texts. The players were all in the locker room by now. Sure, they were partying and celebrating, but if he had time to text you in the middle of the game, couldn't he text you now??

Nick was the second star of the game and you glanced up from your phone to see him doing the familiar skate around the ice, waving to Morgan who blew him a kiss back, but you glanced back at your phone, willing a text to appear, opening and closing your texts, refreshing the app, messing with your wifi. Surely it was the internet connection you thought, now desperate to hear from him.

"Come on Cameron" you murmured to yourself.

"Okay, what is he doing?" you heard Morgan laugh and you looked down to the ice to see Nick still circling around, backwards, forwards, pumping up the crowd who roared around him as he gathered a t-shirt to throw. You were thrilled for him, really, but you resumed your focus on your phone. Should I turn it off and turn it back on again? you thought.

The lights dimmed further and the deep voice of the announcer reverberated, "Ladies and gentlemen, your first star of the game, with an unprecedented four goals, including your game winner--"

"Uhhh YN" you heard Morgan say.

But you were too distracted, too afraid to look away from your phone in case you missed a text coming through.

"--Rafe Cameron!!!" the announcer said, the spotlight shining on the tunnel, and your eyes shot up at the sound of his name, only to find the ice empty.

You felt Morgan tug harshly on your sleeve and when you finally looked back to her your stomach barrel-rolled and your heart shot into your throat.

Standing unmistakably next to her in the aisle was Rafe, still fully suited in his gear and pads, towering over everyone like a giant, his skates traded for his training shoes. Pieces of his hair were clinging to his forehead and his face was rosy with exertion, sweat dripping down his temple in rivulets.

He was smiling confidently at you, and unlike the last time you had seen him in your car, his eyes were unwavering and transfixed on yours, even when the fans around you turned around and noticed he was there, even when phones were whipped out and shouts and cheers went up, he ignored them; he only had eyes for you.

"How--" you started to say, your phone completely forgotten as he started to nudge his way past the people at the end of your row to walk fully into the seats next to you.

"Ohmygod, ohymgod" Morgan was saying as she clambered out of the way of his bulky frame and suddenly he was towering in front of you.

He was breathing heavily; with how quickly he made it up here it was no wonder he had been sprinting off the ice and into the tunnel. His face searched yours, eyes twinkling, flitting over your lips, searching for a sign, a signal, a hint of how you were feeling. And you weren't sure you could have expressed it even if you could form words.

He leaned down next to your ear and you could feel the sweat and the heat radiating off of him.

"That was four" he said, breathless and husky before pulling back, but not as far as before, his nose brushing yours.

The spotlight was sweeping the empty ice, looking for him as the announcer tried awkwardly to fill the air time, wondering where he was.

All you could do was meet his gaze, staring into his crystal blue eyes.

And all you could see was your Rafe.

Sure, he had his issues, but you knew he was sincere, you knew he was trying and you acknowledged that despite everything he was probably the love of your life.

"We didn't agree on overtime goals" you said loudly back at him to be heard over the crowd.

For a moment you could see fear, panic and a hint of hurt cross his face; if you didn't know him as well as you did you wouldn't have seen it, it was nearly indetectable. But he took one look at your sly smile, your blushing cheeks, your eyes rimmed with tears.

"C'mere" he said roughly, ignoring you as his warm and sweaty hands that smelled unmistakably like his gloves grabbed your face and pulled you towards him as his lips enveloped yours, engulfing you, bold, brazen and completely unabashed as he full on made out with you, chaotically, his tongue slipping into your mouth, even when you tried to wiggle away, more out of a sense of decorum than anything as a feeling seeped through every inch of you like he was mending every wound in your body.

He was sweating all over you at this point, but you didn't care. You could feel it dripping on you. You could taste it in his kiss, mixed with the tang of yellow gatorade and your fingers grasped for purchase on his jersey as you tried to balance yourself against the force of him pressing into you.

The crowd around you erupted, as the flash of pictures being taken lit the two of you. He was unrelenting and you could feel yourself flushing as much from his attention as from the heat radiating off of him. It definitely went on longer than it should have, longer than any right-minded couple would have made out in front of thousands of fans before he paused just long enough, his lips still hovering on yours and said through a growl, "You're mine, baby."

taglist: @gillybear17, @palmwinemami, @moremaybank, @one-sweet-gubler, @m-indkiller, @ihe4rttwd, @diary-of-jj, @crlsummer, @jjsbank444, @rafescurtainbangz, @romiiq, @dkjndfnmdfmdmnd, @warriorblu, @ietss, @tiaamberxx, @zyafics, @maybankslover, @saintchxx4, @akirkland, @cameronspecial, @f4ll-for-you, @diduzzula, @user123453226780536, @zizuras, @imabigback, @rowans-posts, @mymultiveres, @drewsphswife, @fangirlwithlou

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

agegap!reader x bruce is all I can think about

Just go through the motions.

Sitcoms are easy on kid's tv. Especially after you do a movie where you play the ghost of a murder victim. It's the last season. So it's surreal.

You suppose it's like the last few weeks of high school. With year books and stuff. You wouldn't know. And you don't think you're going to miss it really. Not most of it. For a lot of the kids it's their first job and they don't know what they'll do next. They have big dreams.

You're in talks for another movie. A rom-com now that you're going to be 18. And you don't know why you don't want to do it. It's just another movie- but something feels off. Your parents were a little vague on the details.

But. All you have to do is go through the motions.

______________________________

Bruce watches you on the soundstage. Watching another take of something he can tell that's emotionally draining for you. It's an argument between you and a character that plays your mother.

You're playing a 19 year old girl. Gritty drama. Poverty. It's Oscar bait. The type of movie he knows you don't like doing but you're doing it as a favor. And he wonders how close it is to what your life might have been if you hadn't "made it". If you hadn't had just the right look at just the right time.

He's not sure how many times you've done it today. But he's transfixed. Every word. Every gesture. He KNOWS there's marks that you're hitting and that you have lines. It's movie magic. But- When your voice cracks and the tears spill. When your hand slams down on the table and breaks a glass unexpectedly- a punctuation that wasn't in the script- prompting the director to yell cut; he can feel the collective exhale.

"I don't have to do that again do I?" you ask wiping your face on your sleeve.

"I don't think you could do it better if you tried," your co-star, a woman Bruce vaguely recalled was named Lynette said, standing up and walking with you off the soundstage.

"Maybe one more-" the director tried.

"Don't fuck with perfection, John," Lynette said, cheerfully. "10 damn takes is enough."

[icyg4l]

PAC: Who Wants to Match Your Freak? (18+)

Inspired by the infamous ‘Nasty’ by Tinashe, this pick a pile is on the X-rated side (my first time doing this btw). We’re getting into the nitty gritty! But before we do, just know that it is important to use protection, no matter what your gender identity is! Now… let’s find out who wants to get nasty nasty nasty 🫦🫦🫦

Without further ado, please select your Tinashe still!

Pile 1-4: (Top Left-to-Bottom Right)

Pile One: This person is definitely into roleplay. They would like to teach you some things and learn some things from you inside of the bedroom. I feel like this is someone you wouldn’t see as a “freak”. This gives me the energy of Jhene Aiko. To you, they are very innocent but you have not seen that side of them yet. They wanna show you that they can hold their own. They want to meet you halfway. What I am getting here is the energy of a secret rendezvous. This may start off as something that is lowkey but ultimately, you could end up in a couple with this person due to their skills! You’ll want them all to yourself, Pile One. Now for the good stuff, lol. This person will definitely be into nibbling and sweet whisperings. If you are a woman that is into women, this person will definitely be on top. They like to be the star of the show. They could get a little greedy. I feel like the person who wants to match your freak does not want to rush the act with you. They want to take it slow; they may be into edging. They will be into stripteases and lapdances. They don’t really like to take risks in the bedroom, unless you’d be the one doing it. 

Cards Used: The High Priestess, 7 of Swords, The Star, 2 of Discs, 2 of Cups.

Pile Two: Ooo, this feels like a reminiscent energy. I feel like this is the energy of someone from the past. It could be an ex. It could be an old friend. It could be a former sexual partner. This partner is in love with you, lmao. I feel like this person could have drunk texted you recently or they have a history of doing so. They might do it again, lol. They want to spin the block really badly. They’d like to get you all alone after having a long conversation about the things that went down between you two. This person could have a really thick accent that you’re attracted to. This person is very suave, I can tell. For some of you, this person may be thinking of making you their third. This person could also be into watching you play with yourself. They are into your… fluids lol. This feels like a makeup session. This person misses you very badly and they would like to show you with their actions (and their tongue). It’s really up to you whether or not they will come back. 

Cards Used: 3 of Swords, Princess of Cups, The Magician, 3 of Cups, Ace of Cups.

Pile Three: I heard the word “impressive”. I think that this person is known for their bedroom skills. This could be a former sexual partner, but it doesn’t have to be. I will say that this person’s physical appearance is very attractive to all genders. They are universally attractive. This person is someone that feels like you have unfinished business with them. Maybe you’ve shared a kiss with them, but it didn’t go anywhere past that. Maybe you two have done nothing but text and chat on the phone. You may have even fallen off with this person. However, this person wants to know where the hell you’ve been. In the bedroom, they are into BDSM. They could also like to do things while under the influence, but it’s not necessary. They like to put their weight on their lovers. They are definitely dominant in the bedroom. Don’t be afraid to step in the bedroom with them. They can also last for a long time, so you will be depleted of all your energy once y’all are finished. They don’t bite, unless you want them to.

Cards Used: 6 of Cups, The Moon, 10 of Swords, 4 of Pentacles, Wheel of Fortune.

Pile Four: I feel like this is for my people who currently attend college. I feel like this is a classmate you’ve been eyeing. They have a nice style. They could be inspired by the mid 2000s Southern fashion trends. I think that this person has a breeding kink, tbh. They think you’re someone that they can take home to their mother. They are very into courting. They try to put on an image of appearing “good” or “neutral” to the public. Their reputation is very important to them. I feel like this person is well off. You are very tempting to this person. Honestly, this person might have a worship/praise kink as well. They may be slow to initiate the act. For some of you, this is a pillow princess. The vibe is similar to Pile One but the difference with this pile is that it’s all an act. This person could appear to be “boujee” or “aloof” but don’t knock it until you try it. There isn’t anything wrong with keeping it undercover. 

Cards Used: 10 of Cups, 6 of Discs, 4 of Swords, 9 of Discs, 10 of Discs, Knight of Discs.