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p0orbaby · 3 months ago

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The Lion in the Jungle Shows No Shame

summary: you go into labour

warnings: some minor mention of contractions but that’s it

a/n: rich!reader is me; not the rich part, but the so over everyone part

word count: 1.7k

The boardroom at the training ground is frigid, an oppressive sort of sterile, painted in a corporate beige so calculatedly devoid of warmth it borders on offensive. The colour has clearly been chosen by a committee, signed off by no less than five department heads, all with the express goal of sapping any ounce of levity from the room. The walls bear only the club’s logo in gleaming gold, catching the light like a freshly polished trophy, austere and daunting. You’re seated at the head of the table in a chair meant to look sleek and modern but which you’ve always thought resembles a throne, albeit a minimalist, joyless one. You take pride in this spot, preferring the vantage point of a monarch observing her court, where each word, each glance can be read as an unspoken directive. A panel of finance officers sits to your left, expressionless and obedient, while the marketing strategists and department heads to your right wait, perched on the edge of their seats, eager to impress, or perhaps, not be dismissed. You’ve made your mind up on all of their fates already, but they don’t need to know that.

You sit back, legs crossed, and let your gaze drift to the person currently holding court—a sponsorship officer droning on about a potential partnership with an energy drink. The whole affair is tedious, but you feign interest, allowing only a flicker of annoyance to register as you twist the cap of your Montblanc in slow, deliberate turns, a small, repetitive comfort amidst the boredom. The sponsorship officer is yammering on about margins and high-profile market share. You nod, keeping your expression intentionally neutral, a carefully cultivated mask of polite detachment.

Nine months pregnant isn’t ideal, but that doesn’t mean anyone gets a pass. If you’re still here, they have no excuse for underperforming. You’ve kept every meeting, every review, every grueling evaluation on schedule, so there’s no room for them to slip up. Your presence is a reminder that leadership doesn’t come with compromises or concessions—not even now. Alexia might have opinions about it, but she knows better than to question your commitment. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

Then, there’s a twinge—a faint prickling in your lower back. You tell yourself it’s nothing, just the sort of trivial discomfort you’ve brushed off for weeks now. You shift slightly, adjusting in your seat. Subtle, hardly noticeable. But someone—some unfortunate junior in marketing, possibly fresh out of his MBA programme and clearly untrained in discretion—glances over. He catches it, the flicker of discomfort. There’s the faintest suggestion of concern on his face, a furrowed brow, a hesitant question half-formed before he thinks better of it.

Good.

You meet his gaze and reward him with a smile—half genuine, mostly a warning. He gulps, as if he’s swallowed something sharp, and turns his attention back to his notes.

Then the pain intensifies, sharper this time. It tightens low and fierce, radiating like an overstretched muscle, and you have to will your expression to remain steady, blank, entirely unaffected. Your eyes fixate on the PowerPoint slide, as if by staring hard enough you can dissolve the discomfort into the soulless white glow of the projector. But no, it’s there, settling in like an uninvited guest who intends to stay.

The marketing intern glances up again. This time, he actually manages a look of pity. He’s hardly subtle about it. You almost laugh—almost—except the contraction twists hard enough to force you to hold your breath, and your fingers press a touch too hard against the table.

The finance officer drones on, oblivious, his voice a steady monotone against the quiet hum of the air conditioning. Someone in the corner clears their throat. The sound cuts through the room like a scalpel.

“Ma’am,” he says, hesitant, looking anywhere but at you. “If you’d like to take a break—”

You wave him off with a flick of your wrist. “I’m perfectly fine. Let’s keep this moving, please.” Your words are clipped, precise, the kind that leave no room for doubt. You feel the weight of the room’s collective discomfort settle around you, like fog gathering, thick and stifling. The intern looks at you again, wide-eyed, uncertain, and you catch his gaze with a look so cold he almost recoils.

“Of course,” he mumbles, fumbling with his laptop, frantically tapping keys as if the sheer speed of his typing will save him from your wrath.

The next contraction slams into you with a ferocity that makes your breath hitch. A sharper, hotter pain spirals down your spine, and you grip the edge of the table, harder this time. The finance officer is rambling about revenue share and high-growth potential, but his words are disintegrating, merging into the mechanical hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, until they’re nothing but a dull, meaningless drone.

“Ma’am?” The intern speaks again, tentatively. “Are you sure you’re… alright?”

You turn to him with a look that could shatter glass. “Do I look unwell to you?”

His face drains of colour. “No, of course not,” he stammers. “Just… checking”

There it is again, that shift. It’s slight but palpable, a crack in the air. Power slipping. The assistant to your left, normally so silent and obedient, dares to glance your way with what might be concern. Another staffer coughs, hiding his expression in a notebook, though you can see his eyes darting nervously across the table. They’re all shifting now, uncomfortable, glancing at each other in a silent exchange, a web of tension growing thicker with each stolen glance.

You grit your teeth, willing the pain to dissipate, willing them all to get back to their work and stop—just stop looking at you like you’re some fragile artefact about to shatter.

Then, your assistant, Julian, a man so dependable you’d have trusted him with your life savings, makes the first move. He stands, smoothing his tie, clearing his throat in a way that’s maddeningly self-assured. “I think we need to get someone,” he says, his voice gentle but insistent, like a fatherly reprimand. “Just… in case”

Your eyes narrow into slits. “Sit down,” you say, your voice a low, dangerous murmur. “Now”

He hesitates, and the silence stretches, taut as a wire. Then, inexplicably, he defies you. “I’m calling Alexia,” he says. His voice is barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the silence like a blade.

The shock is visceral, immediate. You can feel it rippling through the room, see it in the furtive glances darting across the table. You, the unassailable chief, suddenly vulnerable, and worse, defied. You hear murmurs, soft but unmissable, as if they’re collectively holding their breath, waiting for you to explode.

Alexia. Coming here. The idea sends a fresh wave of mortification rolling through you, sharper and hotter than any contraction. Alexia, with her bluntness, her inability to mince words. She’ll walk in here, she’ll see you, and she’ll say exactly what she’s thinking, in front of everyone.

The finance officer clears his throat again, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “Maybe we should… reconvene another time?” He avoids your gaze, wisely. His voice is tentative, as though he’s testing the air for danger.

“Absolutely not,” you bite out, voice like ice. “We’re finishing this meeting. Right now”

But it’s too late. The tension is too thick, the unease in the room too palpable to ignore. You can feel their eyes on you, hesitant, searching, a quiet mutiny blooming under their skin, as though you’re something fragile, a rare beast they don’t quite know how to handle. You grip the edge of the table again, willing the pain to subside, to vanish, anything to regain control of the situation.

Then, the door swings open, and there she is: Alexia, in her training kit, her hair damp with sweat, her eyes blazing with a fury so palpable it sends a ripple of shock through the room. She locks eyes with you, her expression a lethal blend of exasperation and concern. The silence deepens, everyone watching with barely concealed curiosity.

“You’re still here,” she says, each word clipped and loaded, a statement more than a question. It lands like a slap.

You force a smile, though it’s tight and strained. “I’m fine”

She sweeps a gaze across the room, her eyes taking in the faces of your subordinates, each one frozen in various states of unease and fascination. When she looks back at you, her expression is a mix of incredulity and… pity. She almost smirks, as if to say, Look at you now.

“You’re in labour,” she says, loud enough for everyone to hear, her voice filled with a quiet, unmistakable fury. “And you’re… what? Leading a meeting?”

You can feel the weight of their stares, the barely-concealed smirks, the disbelief. You, their fearless leader, brought low, bossed around by your own spouse in front of them. You can already hear the whispers, the knowing chuckles that will ripple through the ranks for weeks, the stories that will morph and grow.

“I really don’t think this is necessary,” you manage, but your voice is weak, a mere shadow of its usual authority.

“Necessary?” Alexia repeats, crossing her arms. “You think it’s not necessary to go to the hospital when you’re about to give birth?”

Someone stifles a laugh—an intern, no less. You shoot him a look that promises retribution, but it’s lost amidst the pain that surges again, more intense, unrelenting. Then, Alexia’s arm is around you, firm yet gentle, steering you toward the door with a resolve that’s unyielding.

You give one last, desperate protest. “There’s no need to make a fuss. Really, I—”

“Enough,” she says, and her voice is a balm, a force, something that both steadies and infuriates you. Her arm around you is warm, grounding, and for a moment, your frustration melts, replaced by something softer, something you won’t allow yourself to name.

As Alexia guides you out, you catch a final glimpse of the boardroom, your staff looking back at you with expressions ranging from bemused pity to unspoken amusement. You know, with chilling certainty, that this will be the story of the month, if not the year. But with Alexia’s arm wrapped around you, her presence beside you, that irritation begins to fade.

The door closes, sealing you from their whispers, from their smirks. Just this once, you let it go.

#alexia putellas #alexia putellas x reader #fcb femeni #fcb femeni x reader #espwnt #espwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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hiddenincommand · 2 months ago

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The Precision of Gloves: Tools of Power, Symbols of Authority

Gloves are not mere accessories; they are the ultimate extension of control. Sleek, commanding, and unyielding, they embody the precision, discipline, and authority of a true Alpha male. From their historical use as symbols of status and refinement to their practical role in exerting dominance, gloves have long represented a unique blend of elegance and power.

In the hands of an Alpha, gloves transcend their practical purpose, becoming instruments of control, punishment, and psychological conditioning. This essay explores the history, symbolism, and applications of gloves as tools of command and tools of submission.

Gloves as Historical Symbols of Authority

The wearing of gloves has long been associated with power and prestige. In medieval Europe, gloves were gifts bestowed upon knights and lords, symbolizing trust and the authority to lead. Monarchs wore gloves to signify their divine right to rule, their hands shielded not just from the elements, but from the imperfections of the mortal world.

In aristocratic circles, gloves represented refinement. White gloves, in particular, signified purity, discipline, and status, often worn during ceremonies or formal gatherings. For the military, leather gloves became an essential part of the uniform, protecting hands while emphasizing precision and control.

Throughout history, the donning of gloves has been more than an act of utility—it has been a deliberate declaration of authority. To wear gloves is to separate oneself from the common and to wield power with precision.

The Physical Power of Gloves

Gloves, especially leather ones, amplify the physical presence of the Alpha. They cover the hand in strength and finesse, allowing for calculated actions that command attention and enforce discipline. The sound of leather tightening over knuckles or snapping against the wrist is itself an assertion of dominance.

Uses in Dominance:

• Punishment: A gloved hand delivers a sharper, more defined impact, whether in a slap across the face or a blow to the body. The glove enhances the sensation of control and leaves an impression of authority.

• Humiliation: Forcing a submissive to kiss, clean, or hold a gloved hand is an act of degradation, a reminder of their place beneath the Alpha.

• Precision: Gloves allow for calculated movements, whether directing a riding crop, delivering commands, or guiding the submissive’s actions.

Gloves as Psychological Weapons

The presence of gloves is a constant reminder of control. The gleam of polished leather or the pristine white of formal gloves evokes discipline, perfection, and unyielding authority. Submissives learn to associate gloves with the Alpha’s touch—both the pain it inflicts and the command it enforces.

The act of donning gloves itself is a ritual of dominance. The slow pull of leather over fingers, the deliberate adjustment of fit, and the sharp snap of the cuff signal readiness. For the submissive, it is a moment of anticipation—an unspoken warning that control is about to be asserted.

Psychological Impact:

• The sight of gloves evokes feelings of fear, awe, or reverence, depending on the dynamic.

• The Alpha’s gloved hand becomes a symbol of unreachable perfection, emphasizing the submissive’s inferiority.

• Even the absence of gloves, after being removed with deliberate care, can heighten a submissive’s awareness of the Alpha’s power.

The Sadistic Potential of Gloves

In the hands of an Alpha, gloves become tools of sadistic refinement. Their strength enhances every act of dominance, turning gestures into statements of power. Whether through their weight, their texture, or their deliberate application, gloves leave both physical and psychological marks.

Applications in Sadistic Dominance:

• Impact Play: A gloved hand creates a sharper, more focused sting during slaps or strikes, delivering both pain and precision.

• Degradation: The submissive may be made to lick or polish the gloves, an act that reinforces their submission and the Alpha’s superiority.

• Marking Territory: The imprint of a gloved hand on skin—whether through pressure or impact—becomes a signature of ownership, a mark of the Alpha’s control.

The Alpha’s Signature: Gloves as an Extension of His Will

For the true Alpha, gloves are not just an accessory—they are an extension of his will. Every movement becomes deliberate, every gesture calculated. The gloves represent discipline, perfection, and the unrelenting pursuit of control.

When an Alpha removes his gloves, it is a statement in itself: an intentional shift from precision to raw power. To wear gloves is to embody authority; to remove them is to remind all that the Alpha’s dominance transcends even the symbols he wields.

Sir Cedric’s Reflection

Gloves, to me, are the embodiment of precision and command. When I slide my hands into a pair of fine leather gloves, I feel an immediate sense of control. They are not merely a covering—they are an extension of my authority, a tool that amplifies my power in every interaction.

Each motion of a gloved hand is deliberate. The sound of leather against leather as I adjust my grip, the weight of my hand as it strikes, the firm pressure of a gloved palm against submissive skin—all of these are reminders of who holds dominion.

#power #authority #command #discipline #leadership #mastery #alpha confidence #alpha mindset #alpha master #leather master #leather gear #alpha supremacy #alpha control #alpha dominance #absolute submission #absolute dominance #absolute discipline #absolute domination

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a-mythologynerd · 9 months ago

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The thing about Darlington is at first glance he seems so much more tame and straight laced in comparison to Alex, and, like he is to an extent, but its all about the packaging. (And isn't that the thing between these two anyways from the very start?) I just always get reminded how many of his character traits aren't some dignified or morally superior dichotomy to Alex and her ruthlessness. The thing is, Darlington is just as ruthless and ambitious, he just didn't have to confront it until Hell. The desperate, starving, consumption motif is so clear from Alex's very first chapter but it's not til later that you realize Darlington is the exact same way, just about things other than the extreme level of survival Alex had to endure. Instead, Darlington was able to scrap by and keep the legacy going, serving something and keep the roof over his head. It makes it less obvious then that he is also a survivor and has that same drive.

You can especially see it in the way he tries to prep himself (the exercises, the learning, the training) for the long awaited "grand adventure," the way he treats his study of the arcane (I mean seriously, you cannot paint that boy as the lawful good archetype if he decided to devote himself into brewing a mythic possibly fake archaic drink that might MIGHT let him see the great beyond just because he had to believe there was more to this life, he had nothing left to lose, and he just had to find out and couldn't be satisfied with only some instead of all), and even more clearly, the dream vision he is granted in Hell. Dawes gets a dream of academic success, Turner professional success, Darlington has a dream where his house is never empty and there is always more people, knowledge, and he finally knows the secrets of every mystery in the world. He just hides all this better. He has the polish, the East Coast rich vs LA rich, and the austere Puritanical upbringing that makes him seem as Alex puts it, "expensive." But the reason these two work (and the reason I am insane about it) is because of this shared character trait of never being satisfied and always wanting more (what's really interesting is Alex seems to want more comfort and security and Darlington wants more risk and adventure and that's what drives the conflict). I'm drawn to the parallel someone on here once said about how Darlington is a sword and Alex is a cannonball. Same effect just different methods. Different packaging. Add in the questions of who is the rabid dog, who is the soldier, the servant, the monarch, Dante, Virigil, Beatrice, Orpheus, and Eurydice? I just love how these two characters seem SO diametrically opposed at first glance but are actually so alike in childhood, character, and ambition.

#alex stern #darlingstern #ninth house #hell bent #darlington #rambling about media #Hozier's new album made me insane about them Francesa is Alex's song during Hell Bent #To Someone From a Warmer Climate is Darlingstern #Talk is Darlington (not the new album but literally its him ill make a post about this eventually been meaning to for months #okay thats it for my ramblings... for now... byyyyyeeee #myth.txt

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faetima · 10 months ago

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𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐫 . .

. . maybe you and alhaitham were just never meant to be.

// tws ; blood ! possible alluding to reader’s death? ; gn reader ; modern & high school au, hanahaki au

a/n: stan twice

unrequited.

you knew your love was of that nature, yet you couldn’t help but yearn for it.

for the delicate and feathery touch of the scribe’s love.

pining after him was no use, you knew. but, alas, what could you do?

he was the prestigious scribe, whilst you were a nobody, too meek to speak up to others, always uttering a small, “yes” to everything asked of you.

too shy to talk to people — terrified that you would embarrass yourself or leave a bad impression, or that you would wind up being the center of attention.

but, if you were so scared, why did you crave his attention?

every time you glanced around the classroom, fleeting gaze eventually landing on his soft grey and teal tufts of hair, and his turquoise eyes, flecked with specks of orange, you couldn’t help but wish as you stared at him, a stoic and indifferent expression plastered onto his stupidly pretty face —

wish that he could love you.

wish that he could hold you.

wish that he could look at you.

wish that he could know you.

but luck was never on your side, was it? for, you wholeheartedly expected your wishes not to be heard (and they weren’t), but lady luck had decided to make your life miserable — making the decision that having an obviously unreciprocated wasn’t enough.

and so she gave you hanahaki.

every day, as your gaze landed unconsciously on him, the vines curled around your lungs, gripping them.

flowers — fuchsia azaleas — tickled the back of your throat, being lodged there, making you cough a little.

and, alhaitham’s head turned towards the noise of coughing.

you froze, quickly collecting the petals in your hand, stuffing them into your pocket. your gaze instantly shot downwards, glued onto your notebook as your hand rapidly scribbled something down, pretending to be taking notes or writing or just doing something.

and, as you wrote, you felt monarchs fluttering in your stomach, heat rising up to your neck and face.

who knew that agony could be a little fun?

—

but, as the days grew, your heart made it clear that it did not desire “fun”.

oh, no.

the only thing it wanted was alhaitham.

and that was made evident by the way you were now crouched on the bathroom floor, on your hands and knees, coughing out bouts of the hot pink flowers to remove the giant lump in your throat and the tickling of petals in the back of it.

the azaleas hit the previously porcelain white and neatly polished floor with a disgustingly wet noise, and, as you opened your eyes the tiniest bit, you laid your eyes on the flower.

a seemingly freshly bloomed azalea, coated with your own blood, slick with your own mucus. it laid there, some of the burgundy blood dripping down and pooling around it, coloring the dove-white floor with a splash of red.

you sat there, blankly staring at the barbie azaleas flopped on the floor. they were still covered in blood for your throat. they’re the hundredth flowers you’d coughed up today, and you had a strange mixture of apathy and horror coursing through you.

the lump in your throat felt like a knife, and the petals tickle and tickle, causing you to cough and wheeze. it was getting harder and harder to breathe. you were exhausted — from both coughing up the flowers and also from feeling this fucking unreciprocated love. but, of course, the hanahaki wouldn’t let you stop suffering until your love is returned.

if only alhaitham would look at you, talk to you, acknowledge your existence in any way.

if only you would talk to him.

but, god, if it wasn’t hard to build up the courage.

he wouldn’t just come up and talk with you. why would you even wish that? why were you so stupid?

you hated yourself for it, wishing he would talk to you whilst not even interacting with him.

the truth was that the scribe intimidated you quite a bit, being stoic and indifferent, curt and formal to nearly anybody.

you tried to take a deep breath, but it hurt.

it hurt so, so much.

the fuchsia azaleas covered the piece of floor in front of you almost entirely, a horrific reminder of the disease that's destroying you from the inside.

while you had been thinking, the stupidly pleasant smell of the azaleas — a dainty and delicate blend of floral honeysuckle notes— mixed with the tinged irony odor of blood, wafted upwards toward you, giving you a whiff of a smell that made you want to wretch.

you should’ve gotten the surgery when you could — now it was far too late, you were going to die for sure.

you were beyond the point of saving.

—

you stared blankly at the sheet of paper which sat before you, trying to concentrate on the lecture your teacher was giving, but your mind kept drifting off.

you kept glancing upwards, and every time you did so you saw the lightest shade of grey there could be, like a thrush’s delicate feathers, mixed with sage green, perfectly complementing the scribes clothes.

yeah, maybe you should keep your eyes on the paper. looking at him made you watch to rip your throat out and cough your lungs out.

—

you sat in your bed, curled in a small ball, fluffy white blanket bunched up around you.

the bright screen of your computer, extremely so, illuminated your face.

you didn’t particularly want to write this essay, and what would be the point? the stupid azaleas would choke you to death eitehr way, using you as a human flower pot.

you closed the screen with a harsh thud!, drowning yourself in complete and utter darkness as the abnormally bright light emitted from the computer was sucked away.

you hastily put the computer away, curling into a tight ball on your bed.

you awaited death, hot pink azaleas tickling your throat and dreaming about the scribe, his perfectness almost alien, like the condition deteriorating you from the inside out, like a withering flower.

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leonw4nter · 1 year ago

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The Lady And Her Gentleman

Husband!RE6!Leon x F!Reader

Soft fingers curled around the brown leather of the sword’s grip, lifting it from its velvet box. Golden light beaming in from the cathedral windows hit the polished blade of the weapon, creating a momentary flash of white-gold. The sword felt cumbersome and stocky in your untrained hand yet you held it with great pride as you descended down the colored marble stairs of the altar. Each step was electrifying, anticipation weighing heavily on everyone inside. You stop in front of the kneeling knight, his head downcast and his hands placed in prayer position in front of him; his armor shone bright, not a single scratch or dent in sight but not nearly as bright as your eyes, ablaze with admiration for the gallant knight in his knees. You raise the sword before tapping the flat of the blade against his shoulders, reciting your speech as you do the act.

“I dub thee, Sir Leon. Receive now your spurs, your right to suitable arms, and take this, my sword to your side to serve and defend me well. Arise, Sir Knight,” ending it with the customary gentle tap of the blade to his cheek before handing him the sword, your palms in direct contact with the cold steel. Leon takes the sword from your palms and sheaths it in the scabbard that hung on his hip. He gives you the first curtsy he takes as the newly knighted captain of the guards, barely restrained smiles on both your lips before you give your curtsy to him. When you meet his gaze again you practically tackle him with a hug, silk-clad arms wrapped around his neck.

“I’m so proud of you,” you tenderly whisper. “So proud.”

You can hear gasps of surprise and others in slight shock. It’s not customary for the queen to practically fling herself towards her knight but then again, he’s not just any knight; he’s also your husband. You shut your eyes in immense contentment as you feel his hands close in around the small of your back and pull you closer, his head buried in the nook of your neck; you can feel him press a feather-like kiss to your skin, his lips still curled skyward. You pull away, lovingly gazing at him with glassy eyes and a lovelorn grin on your face. He brings a calloused palm to your cheek, his thumb stroking your pliant skin before he pulls you in for a delicate kiss, the eruption of celebratory cheers and clapping echoing throughout the walls of the gothic cathedral.

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“My love, I’m afraid you must stay awake for this play,” Leon softly urges you. Despite him being your husband and the masses approving of your relationship, you two still had to keep up with the queen-knight appearance which meant that despite his status as the spouse of the seated monarch, he would still be somehow below her, which he didn’t mind as long as he stayed close to you. He stood behind your seat, placing a hand on your shoulder and giving you a gentle squeeze.

“I wish to head back home,” you quietly groan before hiding your yawn behind an ivory handkerchief. “I am falling drowsy.”

He lets himself grin when he sees the handkerchief you brought along; it was the handkerchief that he embroidered, dainty stitches of small yellow flowers adorning the corner of the cloth. He isn’t that great at threading needles or creating a perfect french knot but for you he tries his best, consulting books and your guidance. You are a lot better than he is at this but he still decides to do it like the good husband he is for his queen.

“Honey, it won’t take much longer. Keep those pretty lids open for a little longer and then we can head back,” he reassures you. Though you don’t exactly sound very happy to be doing that, you still try to stay awake and look pleased until the end.

You fall deeply asleep on the carriage ride back home, your head resting on Leon’s strong shoulder. He tries to keep himself from swaying along with the movements of the carriage so your temple doesn’t bump against him or disturb your beauty rest, seeing how you’ve been fighting it off since earlier. He takes your hand and twines your fingers with his, admiring the golden band wrapped around your ring finger. Slightly parting the silk curtain, he keeps his gaze trained outside on the ride home.

As soon as you arrive home, he wakes you up and tries to get you to your chambers immediately to be able to have you fall back asleep again. He helps you out of your jewelry and dresses before getting into the bath, preparing your nightgowns before he sets your side of the bed up for the night. After a quick bath and change of clothing, you slide back in bed and promptly fall asleep while Leon watches on. He isn’t that drowsy yet so he decides to practice his embroidery, practicing on one of your socks this time.

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────

The day is lazy, almost everyone spending it idly by either reading or taking a walk in one of the gardens. Leon is still engrossed in his embroidery, proud of the first perfect chain stitch he made of a tree branch and is bent on making some more for you. He finished working on your socks from last night and moved on to another one of your handkerchiefs but now he’s working on your satin opera gloves, particularly the hem of the gloves. He’s maximizing the free time he has since he has to go on a patrol around the castle before moving on to managing the protection at kingdom borders, which might take him all night.

“You’re doing a lot of practicing, honey,” you comment with a cheeky grin.

“It seems a lot more soothing than I initially thought,” he responds while still having his attention glued to his work.

“Well, you will be embroidering more things in the nearer future so I highly suggest perfecting this craft.”

“What do you mean by that?”

You giggle, just shrugging your shoulders before turning your attention back to the book you were reading, a giddy smile crossing your lips. Leon gets up from his chair and sets his work down, walking over to you and wrapping you in his arms whilst pressing tickly kisses on your neck. His stubble gently scratches against your neck, making you even more tickly when he nuzzles into your neck and breathes in your scent deeply.

“What do you mean by that, honey? Are you trying to tell me something?”

“Maybe.”

He presses even more tickly kisses, his fingers gently prodding at spots that are most ticklish which causes you to thrash under him and shoot up, trying to run away while giggling.

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────

You decide to have a nice walk with Leon, frolicking in a beautiful field of pinks and purples. He decided to bring his steed along instead of another carriage, since he wanted this to be more intimate and private. You excitedly jump down from the horse, not even waiting for Leon to help you down when you finally get there; his heart swells a little when he sees you running towards the ocean of pinks and purples, underneath a canvas of blue and orange. Your hair is not tied up into a bun or pinned back and you look a lot more jovial, especially without the powders and tints on your face. He joins you and you two run around amidst the flowers, giggling and squealing without a care in the world. Eventually, you two get tired and resort to laying in a bed of greens to admire the beautiful open scene beside each other. Leon somehow still has the energy to move around, gathering some flowers before sitting right beside you and weaving the flowers together while engaging in idle conversation with you. You didn’t exactly pay attention to his actions so you were caught off guard when he gently crowns you with a flower crown. He smiles brightly, adjusting it to your head and making sure that the best-looking flowers were displayed at the front.

“You look very pretty with this,” he mumbles to himself. “I should make some more.”

“Yeah, you definitely should make some more,” you softly tell him.

“On it.”

He gets up again and gathers more flowers, ready to weave another flower crown. He comes back with more flowers but he takes a daisy and places it behind your ear before giving you a kiss to the cheek, proceeding to make the next crown.

“Make that one much smaller than mine,” you suggest. “A lot like this,” you add as you make a circle with both your hands.

“A matching bracelet?” He asks and you nod, giggling.

After a few moments, he’s finally done making the second flower crown.

“Give me your wrist, my love.”

You give him your wrist and let him slide the crown in. It looks good on you, complimenting your skin color but it’s best worn for another way.

“It’s actually not a bracelet, my dear.”

He looks a little confused, laying back and resting his weight on his shoulders.

“What do you mean by that?”

“It’s for our baby. I’m expecting.”

He stays silent for a bit before turning to you, briskly sitting up and his eyes going wide, his lips following suit. He nears you, taking your hands in his as he looks at you with a piercing intensity.

“Is this real, my love?” He asks in a hushed voice.

You nod. “Yes. Yes, it is very much real. We’ll be parents.”

He pulls you up and into a crushing hug, practically lifting you up and spinning you around. The world turns into a beautiful blur of the different shades of pinks and oranges as the sun closes a beautiful day. Leon finally sets you down and presses a passionate kiss to your lips, setting a promise to protect his wife and his future child in stone.

NOTE - This fic is a little shorter than my usual fics because I put off writing this and planned on making it a drabble instead but because for some reason I insisted on writing a fic instead of a drabble, we ended up with this fic that is just a buncha ideas thrown in 😭 Also one of my guy classmates is like... subtly making backhanded comments about me and my RE hyperfixation which is... it's interesting and a little funny so let's see where this leads 😭😭 Also my kitten shat inside my house and now it absolutely STANKS and my other cat jumped on me and now I've got scratches all over 😭😭😭 I also took a math quiz that I did not review for and NEARLY failed a quiz in science that I thought I'd do good at 💀 Anyways, that's it and TYSMM for reading my fics!!!!!!!! I <3 UUUUU!!!!!!!

The floral dividers are from @saradika , the images are made by me (sourced from Pinterest).

#leon kennedy #resident evil #leon kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy x reader #fluff #leon scott kennedy #leon kennedy fluff #leon s kennedy #leon s kennedy fluff #biohazard #leon kennedy x you #leon x reader #resident evil x reader #resident evil 6 #re6 #rebhfun

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