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mandalhoerian · 9 months ago

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sacrosanct | leon kennedy x reader | 1

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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: 14K (i am so sorry)

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

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

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

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

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

🌀READ ON AO3 !

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You seem troubled, Sir Leon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wants to kiss those fingers that have—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Saintess."

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

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

"Avert your eyes, Sir Leon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"As do I."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Please grant me a token of your favor."

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

What can you possibly offer him?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence follows, his breathing seems to stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was years ago.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Out here, there is no glory.

Only blood.

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

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

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

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

How did the lines blur so completely?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sword feels heavier today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But his place has never felt so wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can’t do this.

The thought slices through the haze like a knife.

I can’t.

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

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

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

Leon’s heart slams against his ribs.

The princess. The heir to the throne.

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

But the church has other orders.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The last thread of the leash holding him snaps.

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

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

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

This isn’t the will of Ethelion.

This is the will of men.

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

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

One is not born to greatness. One achieves it.

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

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

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

“You swore an oath.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s made his choice.

And now, he’ll live with it.

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

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

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

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

It all means little to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a child.

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

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

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

Hope.

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

A flower.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is time.

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

Leon’s heart stutters.

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

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

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

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

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

He hesitates.

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

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

But as you draw closer, his stomach drops.

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

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

This isn’t you.

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

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

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

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

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

Where are you?

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

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

The pressure shatters.

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

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

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

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

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

They have seen what Leon is capable of.

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

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

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

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

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

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

#leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x reader #leon x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x you #leon kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy imagine #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy

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dumdogs · 8 months ago

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SLEAZE ✶⋆.˚ MIYA OSAMU

PREVIEW: taste

SOUNDTRACK: softer, softest by hole

She’s in love with the guy that runs the onigiri shop across from her apartment, which is why she ends up sitting in at the counter every day, half-past noon, eating the same order as the day before. Kenma asked if the food is actually good enough to warrant a daily visit, and she answered yes. Which could be true, but she doesn’t really know. She can’t really taste the food when she eats it.

His name’s Miya, and she hasn’t figured out his given name. He talks to her sometimes, when the lunch rush starts to die down for a second and he has a minute between making and taking orders to wipe down empty counter spots and mingle with his regulars. He asks her how her food is and how she’s been and if there’s anything else he can get her. In her head, she likes to pretend he’s holding back a lot more questions but gets too embarrassed before he can manage to ask to buy her a drink on a Friday night.

There’s a lot of things she likes about him. She likes this soft customer service smile he puts on every time he speaks to her. How polite he is every time he opens his mouth, the low cadence of his voice. How he works in the shop that he owns alongside his employees. How his muscles flex underneath the tight fabric of his work shirt. She likes that not once has he ever asked, “Hey, aren’t you that little kid from Family Sized?”

And she knows that he knows. She once caught him searching ‘little kid from Family Sized,’ on his phone behind the counter when he thought no one could see.

From the window in her bathroom, she can see him unlock the door in the morning and close the shop up at night. She’s developed a routine of it, watching him as she hangs out of her window, smoking a menthol cigarette and fantasizing about what his arms would feel like around her waist.

She likes the relationship they’ve developed in her head. It’s sweet, and simple. It makes her feel loved, the way he theoretically could care about her. Sometimes, she thinks about writing her number down on her receipt, leaving it for him next to a carefully drawn heart and a generous tip. But, she thinks, why should she? He treats her so well in her head. She wouldn’t want to ruin what they already have.

taglist: @kameyyy @wyrcan @angee444 @lale-txt @akaashislovee @localgaytrainwreck @whorefornoodles @baylz @asrichin @miiyas @ferntv @atzixo @kr1nqu @spicana @weezerbby @chaosakademia @theepitomeofswag @qardasngan @tinnierat @gigiiiiislife @acowboykisser @wordsofelie @asnjinj @miakxn

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reasonsforhope · 11 months ago

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"For generations, the people of Erakor village in the Pacific nation of Vanuatu would pass their time swimming in the local lagoon. Ken Andrew, a local chief, remembers diving in its depths when he was a child, chasing the fish that spawned in its turquoise waters.

That was decades ago. Now 52, Andrew has noticed a more pernicious entity invading the lagoon: plastic.

“The plastic would form a small island inside the lagoon, it was so thick,” Andrew says. “We used fishing nets to pull some of the trash out, but we didn’t know how to get rid of it all. We couldn’t conquer it, there was just too much.”

While residents were struggling to empty Vanuatu’s waters of plastic, the country’s politicians were considering another solution. Could they stop the waste directly at the source?

Small island nations like Vanuatu face a series of unique challenges when it comes to plastic pollution. Many rely on imported goods to sustain their populations, and receive tonnes of plastic packaging every day as a result. Ocean currents pull plastic waste from around the world into Pacific waters, which eventually end up on the shores of its islands.

Few Pacific island governments have adequate recycling or waste management facilities on their narrow strips of land, so rubbish is often burned or left to wash up in rivers or lagoons like the one in Erakor. It is estimated that Pacific countries generate 1kg of waste per person a day, 40% higher than the global average.

In an attempt to drastically limit the amount of waste generated in Vanuatu, in 2018 the government became one of the first in the world to outlaw the sale and distribution of certain single-use plastics – including a world-first ban on plastic straws.

In the six years since, the results have been impressive. Thin, plastic shopping bags are hardly ever seen, with most shoppers carrying reusable bags at their local market or grocery store. At festivals and outdoor events, food is more often served wrapped in banana leaves instead of polystyrene takeaway boxes. Now-banned items used to make up 35% of Vanuatu’s waste, but now make up less than 2%.

Pictured: Pandanus leaves are now used instead of plastic bags at markets, but supply of the crop can be affected by storms and cyclones, vendors say.

The plastic islands that once choked Erakor lagoon are also shrinking.

“Since they started the ban, you can see the lagoon has become cleaner,” says Andrew.

It is a massive victory for a small island nation made up of just over 300,000 people across 83 islands...

In 2020, a second phase of the policy added seven more items to the list of forbidden plastics, which now covers cutlery, single-use plates and artificial flowers.

“It’s quite difficult to enforce because of the very low capacity of the department of environment,” Regenvanu says. “So we try to work with the municipal authorities and customs and other people as well.”

Compromises had to be made, though. Fishers are still allowed to use plastic to wrap and transport their produce. Plastic bottles are also permitted, even though they often litter coastlines and rivers.

Secondary industries have now developed to provide sustainable alternatives to the banned items. On the island of Pentecost, communities have started replacing plastic planter pots with biodegradable ones made from native pandanus leaves. Mama’s Laef, a social enterprise that began selling fabric sanitary napkins before the ban, has since expanded its range to reusable nappies and bags.

“We came up with these ideas to reduce the amount of plastic in Vanuatu,” says the owner Jack Kalsrap. “We’re a small island state, so we know that pollution can really overwhelm us more than in other, bigger countries.” ...

Willy Sylverio, a coordinator of the Erakor Bridge Youth Association, is trying to find ways to recycle the litter his team regularly dredges up from the lagoon.

“The majority of the plastic waste now comes from noodle packaging or rice packaging, or biscuit packets,” Sylverio says. He hopes the plastic ban will one day include all packaging that covers imported goods. “Banning all plastic is a great idea, because it blocks the main road through which our environment is polluted.”

The Vanuatu government plans to expand the plastic ban to include disposable nappies, and says it will also introduce a plastic bottle deposit scheme this year to help recycle the remaining plastic waste in the country."

-via The Guardian, June 20, 2024

#vanuatu #pacific islands #pacific islander #pacific ocean #pollution #plastic pollution #plastic waste #recycling #sustainability #waste #environment #lagoon #good news #hope

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river-selkie · 3 months ago

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Ways I want to live more like an otter!

I'm not sure I consider myself to be transspecies, but these are some things I'd like to do to actually feel more like my theriotype in my day to day life and ease my species dysphoria. 🦦🐚

Physical Focused Amendments

Wear more brown fur every day, specifically vintage and recycled fur coats.

Get permanent fangs or at least custom ones I can put on and remove at will.

Start swimming again and get better at it, especially swimming in rivers and lakes. I plan on getting a membership to an indoor pool again eventually!

Vocalize like my type more often and be expressive in more animal-like ways.

Allow my body hair to grow out more and not feel as pressured to shave constantly for others.

Eat more shellfish, cephalopods, and eat vegan substitutes for finned fish dishes. Besides just that, eating a more whole foods diet in general.

Stop chewing and picking at my nails and allow them to grow out, eventually shaping them more like claws. Might just get acrylics honestly.

Find a way to get webbed finger gloves for everyday wear, maybe sewing fabric on brown gloves. Would also like to add paws to it.

Make and wear accessories with sea bird feathers, ethically sourced shells, and sea glass. While this is more humanistic, it would be more for humans around me to recognize as ocean items.

Get a proportionally accurate, realistic otter tail eventually.

Possibly get a tattoo of the paw "beans" on my hands and feet.

Get an earthy scented perfume to use as my "scent", otters are rather pungent!

Possibly (but optionally) get top surgery or a breast reduction to get closer to an animal chest size than a human chest size.

Train my 5 senses, specifically my smell, to be stronger and pick up a bit more in my environment.

Lifestyle Focused Amendments

Get a shellfishing license and catch my own food more.

Make my bedroom more like a waterside den, adding plants, maybe recycled glass floats and netting, grasses as houseplants, and so on! Would also use my humidifier more.

Refer to myself as an otter more regularly around others, even if casual or in a joking way to get them to associate me with them.

Spend more time at the rivers and the ocean.

Collect oceanic and river items more often in a sustainable way.

Clean up the waterways and plant native plants in the areas around them.

Provide money to water focused and animal conservation efforts.

Add an aquarium to my home, even if it's just a bowl of water plants.

Develop an artistic hobby so I can make ocean themed and otter focused pieces of art.

Use my phone and social media far less. I'd eventually like to only use social media for this community and finding recipes.

Get a kayak and start kayaking the rivers and lakes, then eventually the bays.

Consider getting into scuba diving, although this would be difficult in Oregon. Same with surfing.

Play ambience in my room to feel more at home.

Get a job working in conservation or at an aquarium or zoo, even if it's an office job. I've considered working in grants in the past.

Feel less shame and embarrassment about behaving like an animal, even in my own home. Being an adult has made this a bigger hardship for me personally.

Advocate against the trapping of wild otters and support efforts that improve their lives.

Things I Already Have

My hair is currently an otter shade of brown which I really like and don't want to change.

Moved to the PNW, which got me close to the coast and surrounded by far more rivers and a lot more rain.

Have gone snorkeling a couple of times, which was very euphoric!

My fiancé is aware of me being a therian and is entirely accepting of it, which I'm extremely happy about. I wouldn't marry someone who doesn't support an intrinsic part of me.

#therian #otherkin #species transition #adult therian #otter therian #otterkin #nonhuman

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dresshistorynerd · 1 year ago

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The Real Cost of the Fashion Industry

Atacama Desert, in Alto Hospicio, Iquique, Chile. (source)

The textile industry is destroying the world. The industry is wasting massive amounts of energy and materials, and polluting the air, the ground and the water supplies. It overwhelmingly exploits it's labour and extracts wealth from colonized countries, especially in Asia. I assume we all broadly understand this, but I think it's useful to have it all laid out in front of you to see the big picture, the core issues causing this destruction and find ways how to effectively move forward.

The concerning trend behind this ever-increasing devastation are shortening of trend cycles, lowering clothing prices and massive amount of wasted products. Still in year 2000 it was common for fashion brands to have two collections per year, while now e.g. Zara produces 24 collections and H&M produces 12-16 collections per year. Clothing prices have fallen (at leas in EU) 30% from 1996 to 2018 when adjusted to inflation, which has contributed to the 40% increase in clothing consumption per person between 1996 and 2012 (in EU). (source) As the revenue made by the clothing industry keep rising - from 2017 to 2021 they doubled (source) - falling prices can only be achieved with increasing worker exploitation and decreasing quality. I think the 36% degrees times clothing are used in average during the last 15 years (source) is a clear indication on the continuing drop in quality of clothing. Clothing production doubled between 2000 and 2015, while 30% of the clothes produced per year are never sold and are often burned instead (source), presumably to prevent the returns from falling due to oversupply.

These all factors are driving people to overconsume. While people in EU keep buying more clothes, they haven't used up to 50% of the clothes in their wardrobe for over a year (source). This overconsumption is only made much worse by the new type of hyper fast fashion companies like SHEIN and Temu, which are using addictive psychological tactics developed by social media companies (source 1, source 2). They are cranking up all those concerning trends I mentioned above.

Under the cut I will go through the statistics of the most significant effects of the industry on environment and people. I will warn you it will be bleak. This is not just a fast fashion problem, basically the whole industry is engaging in destructive practices leading to this damage. Clothing is one of those things that would be actually relatively easy to make without massive environmental and human cost, so while that makes the current state of the industry even more heinous, it also means there's hope and it's possible to fix things. In the end, I will be giving some suggestions for actions we could be doing right now to unfuck this mess.

Carbon emissions

The textile industry is responsible for roughly 10% of the global CO2 emissions, more than aviation and shipping industry combined. This is due to the massive supply chains and energy intensive production methods of fabrics. Most of it can be contributed to the fashion sector since around 60% of all the textile production is clothing. Polyester, a synthetic fiber made from oil which accounts for more than half of the fibers used in the textile industry, produces double the amount of carbon emissions than cotton, accounting for very large proportions of all the emissions by the industry. (source 1, source 2)

Worker exploitation

Majority of the textiles are produced in Asia. Some of the worst working conditions are in Bangladesh, one of the most important garment producers, and Pakistan. Here's an excerpt from EU Parliament's briefing document from 2014 after the catastrophic Rana Plaza disaster:

The customers of garment producers are most often global brands looking for low prices and tight production timeframes. They also make changes to product design, product volume, and production timeframes, and place last-minute orders without accepting increased costs or adjustments to delivery dates. The stresses of such policies usually fall on factory workers.

The wage exploitation is bleak. According to the 2015 documentary The True Cost less than 2% of all garment factory workers earned a living wage (source). Hourly wages are so low and the daily quotas so high, garment workers are often forced through conditions or threats and demand to work extra hours, which regularly leads to 10-12 hour work days (source) and at worst 16 hour workdays (source), often without days off. Sometimes factories won't compensate for extra hours, breaching regulations (source).

Long working hours, repetitive work, lack of breaks and high pressure leads to increased risks of injuries and accidents. Small and even major injuries are extremely common in the industry. A study in three factories in India found that 70% of the workers suffered from musculosceletal symptoms (source). Another qualitative study of female garment workers and factory doctors in Dhaka found that long hours led to eye strain, headaches, fatigue and weight loss in addition to muscular and back pains. According to the doctors interviewed, weight loss was common because the workers work such long hours without breaks, they didn't have enough time to eat properly. (source) Another study in 8 factories in India found that minor injuries were extremely common and caused by unergonomic work stations, poor organization in the work place and lack of safety gear, guidelines and training (source). Safety precautions too are often overlooked to cut corners, which periodically leads to factory accidents, like in 2023 lack of fire exists and fire extinguishers, and goods stacked beyond capacity led to a factory fire in Pakistan which injured dozens of workers (source) or like in 2022 dangerous factory site led to one dead worker and 9 injured workers (source).

Rana Plaza collapse in 2013 is the worst industrial accident in recent history. The factory building did not have proper permits and the factory owner blatantly ignored signs of danger (other businesses abandoned the building a day before the collapse), which led to deaths of 1 134 workers and injuries to 2 500 workers. The factory had or were at the time working for orders of at least Prada, Versace, Primark, Walmart, Zara, H&M, C&A, Mango, Benetton, the Children's Place, El Corte Inglés, Joe Fresh, Carrefour, Auchan, KiK, Loblaw, Bonmarche and Matalan. None of the brands were held legally accountable for the unsafe working conditions which they profited off of. Only 9 of the brands attended a meeting to agree on compensation for the victim's families. Walmart, Carrefour, Auchan, Mango and KiK refused to sight the agreement, it was only signed by Primark, Loblaw, Bonmarche and El Corte Ingles. The compension these companies provided was laughable though. Primemark demanded DNA evidence that they are relatives of one of the victims from these struggling families who had lost their often sole breadwinner for a meager sum of 200 USD (which doesn't even count for two months of living wage in Bangladesh (source)). This obviously proved to be extremely difficult for most families even though US government agreed to donate DNA kits. This is often said to be a turning point in working conditions in the industry, at least in Bangladesh, but while there's more oversight now, as we have seen, there's clearly still massive issues. (source 1, source 2)

One last major concern of working conditions in the industry I will mention is the Xinjiang raw cotton production, which is likely produced mainly with forced labour from Uighur concentration camps, aka slave labour of a suspected genocide. 90% of China's raw cotton production comes from Xinjiang (source). China is the second largest cotton producer in the world, after India, accounting 20% of the yearly global cotton production (source).

Pollution

Synthetic dyes, which synthetic fibers require, are the main cause of water pollution caused by the textile industry, which is estimated to account for 20% of global clean water pollution (source). This water pollution by the textile industry is suspected of causing a lot of health issues like digestive issues in the short term, and allergies, dermatitis, skin inflammation, tumors and human mutations in the long term. Toxins also effect fish and aquatic bacteria. Azo dyes, one of the major pollutants, can cause detrimental effects to aquatic ecosystems by decreasing photosynthetic activity of algae. Synthetic dyes and heavy metals also cause large amounts of soil pollution. Large amounts of heavy metals in soil, which occurs around factories that don't take proper environmental procautions, can cause anaemia, kidney failure, and cortical edoem in humans. That also causes changes in soil texture, decrease in soil microbial diversity and plant health, and changes in genetic structure of organisms growing in the soil. Textile factory waste water has been used for irrigation in Turkey, where other sources of water have been lacking, causing significant damage to the soil. (source)

Rayon produced through viscose process causes significant carbon disulphide and hydrogen sulphide pollution to the environment. CS2 causes cardiovascular, psychiatric, neuropsychological, endocrinal and reproductive disorders. Abortion rates among workers and their partners exposed to CS2 are reported to be significantly higher than in control groups. Many times higher amounts of sick days are reported for workers in spinning rooms of viscose fiber factories. China and India are largest producers of CS2 pollution, accounting respectively 65.74% and 11,11% of the global pollution, since they are also the major viscose producers. Emission of CS2 has increased significantly in India from 26.8 Gg in 2001 to 78.32 Gg in 2020. (source)

Waste

The textile industry is estimated to produce around 92 million tons of textile waste per year. As said before around 30% of the production is never sold and with shortening lifespans used the amount of used clothing that goes to waster is only increasing. This waste is large burned or thrown into landfills in poor countries. (source) H&M was accused in 2017 by investigative journalists of burning up to 12 tonnes of clothes per year themselves, including usable clothing, which they denied claiming they donated clothing they couldn't sell to charity instead (source). Most of the clothing donated to charity though is burned or dumbed to landfills (source).

Most of the waste clothing from rich countries like European countries, US, Australia and Canada are shipped to Chile (source) or African countries, mostly Ghana, but also Burkina Faso and Côte d'Ivoire (source). There's major second-hand fashion industries in these places, but most of the charity clothing is dumbed to landfills, because they are in such bad condition or the quality is too poor. Burning and filling landfills with synthetic fabrics with synthetic dyes causes major air, water and soil pollution. The second-hand clothing industry also suppresses any local clothing production as donated clothing is inherently more competitive than anything else, making these places economically reliant on dumbed clothing, which is destroying their environment and health, and prevents them from creating a more sustainable economy that would befit them more locally. This is not an accident, but required part of the clothing industry. Overproduction let's these companies tap on every new trend quickly, while not letting clothing the prices in rich countries drop so low it would hurt their profits. Production is cheaper than missing a trend.

Micro- and nanoplastics

There is massive amounts of micro- and nanoplastics in all of our environment. It's in our food, drinking water, even sea salt (source). Washing synthetic textiles accounts for roughly 35% of all microplastics released to the environment. It's estimated that it has caused 14 million tonnes of microplastics to accumulate into the bottom of the ocean. (source)

Microplastics build up into the intestines of animals (including humans), and have shown to probably cause cause DNA damage and altered organism behavior in aquatic fauna. Microplastics also contain a lot of the usual pollutants from textile industry like synthetic dyes and heavy metals, which absorb in higher quantities to tissues of animals through microplastics in the intestines. Studies have shown that the adverse effect are higher the longer the microplastics stay in the organism. The effects cause major risks to aquatic biodiversity. (source) The health effects of microplastics to humans are not well known, but studies have shown that they could have adverse effects on digestive, respiratory, endocrine, reproductive and immune systems. (source)

Microplastics degrade in the environment even further to nanoplastics. Nanoplastic being even smaller are found to enter blood circulation, get inside cells and cross the blood-brain barrier. In fishes they have been found to cause neurological damage. Nanoplastics are also in the air, and humans frequently breath them in. Study in office buildings found higher concentration of nanoplastics in indoor air than outdoor air. Inside the nanoplastics are likely caused mostly by synthetic household textiles, and outdoors mostly by car tires. (source) An association between nanoplastics and mitochondrial damage in human respiratory cells was found in a recent study. (source)

Micro and nano plastics are also extremely hard to remove from the environment, making it even more important that we reduce the amount of microplastics we produce as fast as possible.

What can we do?

This is a question that deserves it's own essays and articles written about it, but I will leave you with some action points. Reading about these very bleak realities can easily lead to overwhelming apathy, but we need to channel these horrors into actions. Whatever you do, do not fall into apathy. We don't have the luxury for that, we need to act. These are industry wide problems, that simply cannot be fixed by consumerism. Do not trust any clothing companies, even those who market themselves as ethical and responsible, always assume they are lying. Most of them are, even the so called "good ones". We need legislation. We cannot allow the industry to regulate itself, they will always take the easy way out and lie to their graves. I will for sure write more in dept about what we can do, but for now here's some actions to take, both political and individual ones.

Political actions

Let's start with political actions, since they will be the much more important ones. While we are trying to dismantle capitalism and neocolonialism (the roots of these issues), here's some things that we could do right now. These will be policies that we should be doing everywhere in the world, but especially rich countries, where most of the clothing consumption is taking place. Vote, speak to others, write to your representative, write opinion pieces to your local papers, engage with democracy.

Higher requirements of transparency. Right now product transparency in clothing is laughably low. In EU only the material make up and the origin country of the final product are required to be disclosed. Everything else is up to the company. Mandatory transparency is the only way we can force any positive changes in the production. The minimum of transparency should be: origin countries of the fibers and textiles in the product itself; mandatory reports of the lifecycle emissions; mandatory reports of whole chain of production. Right now the clothing companies make their chain of production intentionally complex, so they have plausible deniability when inevitably they are caught violating environmental or worker protection laws (source). They intentionally don't want to be able to track down their production chain. Forcing them to do so anyway would make it very expensive for them to keep up this unnecessarily complex production chain. These laws are most effective when put in place in large economies like EU or US.

Restrictions on the use of synthetic fibers. Honestly I think they should be banned entirely, since the amount of microplastics in our environment is already extremely distressing and the other environmental effects of synthetic fibers are also massive, but I know there are functions for which they are not easily replaced (though I think they can be replaces in those too, but that's a subject of another post), so we should start with restrictions. I'm not sure how they should be specifically made, I'm not a law expert, but they shouldn't be used in everyday textiles, where there are very easy and obvious other options.

Banning viscose. There are much better options for viscose method that don't cause massive health issues and environmental destruction where ever it's made, like Lyocell. There is absolutely no reason why viscose should be allowed to be sold anywhere.

Governmental support for local production by local businesses. Most of the issues could be much more easily solved and monitored if most clothing were not produced by massive global conglomerations, but rather by local businesses that produce locally. All clothing are made by hand, so centralizing production doesn't even give it advantage in effectiveness (only more profits for the few). Producing locally would make it much more easier to enforce regulations and it would reduce production chains, making production more effective, leaving more profits into the hands of the workers and reducing emissions from transportation. When the production is done by local businesses, the profits would stay in the producing country and they could be taxed and utilized to help the local communities. This would be helpful to do in both exploited and exploiter countries. When done in rich countries who exploit poorer ones, it would reduce the demand for exploitation. In poor countries this is not as easily done, since poor means they don't have money to give around, but maybe this could be a good cause to put some reparations from colonizers and global corporations, which they should pay.

Preventing strategic accounting between subsidiaries and parent companies. Corporate law is obviously not my area of expertise, but I know that allowing corporations to move around the accounting of profits and losses between subsidiaries and parent companies in roughly 1980s, was a major factor in creating this modern global capitalist system, where corporations can very easily manipulate their accounting to utilize tax heavens and avoid taxes where they actually operate, which is how they are upholding this terrible system and extracting the profits from the production countries. How specifically this would be done I can't tell because again I know shit about corporate law, so experts of that field should plan the specifics. Overall this would help deal with a lot of other problems than just the fashion industry. Again for it to be effective a large economic area like EU or US should do this.

Holding companies accountable for their whole chain of production. These companies should be dragged to court and made to answer for the crimes they are profiting of off. We should put fear back into them. This is possible. Victims of child slavery are already doing this for chocolate companies. If it's already not how law works everywhere, the laws should be changed so that the companies are responsible even if they didn't know, because it's their responsibility to find out and make sure they know. They should have been held accountable for the Rana Plaza disaster. Maybe they still could be. Sue the mother fuckers. They should be afraid of us.

Individual actions

I will stress that the previous section is much more important and that there's no need to feel guilty for individual actions. This is not the fault of the average consumer. Still we do need to change our relationship to fashion and consumption. While it's not our fault, one of the ways this system is perpetuated, is by the consumerist propaganda by fashion industry. And it is easier to change our own habits than to change the industry, even if our own habits have little impact. So these are quite easy things we all could do as we are trying to do bigger change to gain some sense of control and keep us from falling to apathy.

Consume less. Better consumption will not save us, since consumption itself is the problem. We consume too much clothing. Don't make impulse purchases. Consider carefully weather you actually need something or if you really really want it. Even only buying second-hand still fuels the industry, so while it's better than buying new, it's still better to not buy.

Take proper care of your clothing. Learn how to properly wash your clothing. There's a lot of internet resources for that. Never wash your wool textiles in washing machine, even if the textile's official instructions allow it. Instead air them regularly, rinse them in cool water if they still smell after airing and wash stains with water or small amount of (wool) detergent. Never use fabric softener! It damages the fabrics, prevents them from properly getting clean and is environmentally damaging. Instead use laundry vinegar for making textiles softer or removing bad smells. (You can easily make laundry vinegar yourself too from white vinegar and water (and essential oils, if you want to add a scent to it) which is much cheaper.) Learn how to take care of your leather products. Most leather can be kept in very good condition for a very long time by occasional waxing with beeswax.

Use the services of dressmakers and shoemakers. Take your broken clothing or clothing which doesn't fit anymore to your local dressmaker and ask them if they can do something about it. Take your broken and worn leather products to your local shoemaker too. Usually it doesn't cost much to get something fixed or refitted and these expert usually have ways to fix things you couldn't even think of. So even if the situation with your clothing or accessory seems desperate, still show it to the dressmaker or shoemaker.

If it's extremely cheap, don't buy it. Remember that every clothing is handmade. Only a small fraction of the cost of the clothing will be paying the wages of the person who made it with their hands. If a shirt costs 5 euros (c. 5,39 USD), it's sewer was only payed mere cents for sewing it. I'm not a quick sewer and it takes me roughly 1-2 hours to cut, prepare and sew a simple shirt, so I'm guessing it would take around half an hour to do all that for a factory worker on a crunch, at the very least 15 minutes. So the hourly pay would still be ridiculously low. However, as I said before, the fact that the workers in clothing factories get criminally low pay is not the fault of the consumer, so if you need a clothing item, and you don't have money to buy anything else than something very cheep, don't feel guilty. And anyway expensive clothing in no way necessarily means reasonable pay or ethical working conditions, cheep clothing just guarantee them.

Learn to recognize higher quality. In addition to exploitation, low price also means low quality, but again high price doesn't guarantee high quality. High quality allows you to buy less, so even if it's not as cheep as low quality, if you can afford it, when you need it, it will be cheaper in long run, and allows you to consume less. Check the materials. Natural fibers are your friends. Do not buy plastic, if it's possible to avoid. Avoid household textiles from synthetic fibers. Avoid textiles with small amounts of spandex to give it stretch, it will shorten the lifespan of the clothing significantly as the spandex quickly wears down and the clothing looses it's shape. Also avoid clothing with rubber bands. They also loose their elasticity very quickly. In some types of clothing (sport wear, underwear) these are basically impossible to avoid, but in many other cases it's entirely possible.

Buy from artisans and local producers, if you can. As said better consumption won't fix this, but supporting artisans and your local producers could help keep them afloat, which in small ways helps create an alternative to the exploitative global corporations. With artisans especially you know the money goes to the one who did the labour and buying locally means less middlemen to take their cut. More generally buy rather from businesses that are located to the same country where the production is, even if it's not local to you. A local business doesn't necessarily produce locally.

Develop your own taste. If you care about fashion and style, it's easy to fall victim to the fashion industry's marketing and trend cycles. That's why I think it's important to develop your personal sense of style and preferences. Pay attention at what type of clothes are comfortable to you. Go through your wardrobe and track for a while which clothing you use most and which least. Understanding your own preferences helps you avoid impulse buying.

Consider learning basics of sewing. Not everyone has the time or interest for this, but if you in anyway might have a bit of both, I suggest learning some very simple and basic mending and reattaching a button.

Further reading on this blog: How to see through the greenwashing propaganda of the fashion industry - Case study 1: Shein

Bibliography

Academic sources

An overview of the contribution of the textiles sector to climate change, 2022, L. F. Walter et al., Frontiers in Environmental Science

How common are aches and pains among garment factory workers? A work-related musculoskeletal disorder assessment study in three factories of south 24 Parganas district, West Bengal, 2021, Arkaprovo Pal et al., J Family Med Prim Care

Sewing shirts with injured fingers and tears: exploring the experience of female garment workers health problems in Bangladesh, 2019, Akhter, S., Rutherford, S. & Chu, C., BMC Int Health Hum Rights

Occupation Related Accidents in Selected Garment Industries in Bangalore City, 2006, Calvin, Sam & Joseph, Bobby, Indian Journal of Community Medicine

A Review on Textile and Clothing Industry Impacts on The Environment, 2022, Nur Farzanah Binti Norarmi et al., International Journal of Academic Research in Business and Social Sciences

Carbon disulphide and hydrogen sulphide emissions from viscose fibre manufacturing industry: A case study in India, 2022, Deepanjan Majumdar et al., Atmospheric Environment: X

Microplastics Pollution: A Brief Review of Its Source and Abundance in Different Aquatic Ecosystems, 2023, Asifa Ashrafy et al., Journal of Hazardous Materials Advances

Health Effects of Microplastic Exposures: Current Issues and Perspectives in South Korea, 2023, Yongjin Lee et al., Yonsei Medical Journal

Nanoplastics and Human Health: Hazard Identification and Biointerface, 2022, Hanpeng Lai, Xing Liu, and Man Qu, Nanomaterials

Other sources

The impact of textile production and waste on the environment (infographics), 2020, EU

Chile’s desert dumping ground for fast fashion leftovers, 2021, AlJazeera

Fashion - Worldwide, 2022 (updated 2024), Statista

Fashion Industry Waste Statistics & Facts 2023, James Evans, Sustainable Ninja (magazine)

Everything You Need to Know About Waste in the Fashion Industry, 2024, Solene Rauturier, Good on You (magazine)

Textiles and the environment, 2022, Nikolina Šajn, European Parliamentary Research Service

Help! I'm addicted to secondhand shopping apps, 2023, Alice Crossley, Cosmopolitan

Addictive, absurdly cheap and controversial: the rise of China’s Temu app, 2023, Helen Davidson, Guardian

Workers' conditions in the textile and clothing sector: just an Asian affair? - Issues at stake after the Rana Plaza tragedy, 2014, Enrico D'Ambrogio, European Parliamentary Research Service

State of The Industry: Lowest Wages to Living Wages, The Lowest Wage Challenge (Industry affiliated campaign)

Fast Fashion Getting Faster: A Look at the Unethical Labor Practices Sustaining a Growing Industry, 2021, Emma Ross, International Law and Policy Brief (George Washington University Law School)

Dozens injured in Pakistan garment factory collapse and fire, 2023, Hannah Abdulla, Just Style (news media)

India: Multiple factory accidents raise concerns over health & safety in the garment industry, campaigners call for freedom of association in factories to ‘stave off’ accidents, 2022, Jasmin Malik Chua, Business & Human Rights Resource Center

Minimum Wage Level for Garment Workers in the World, 2020, Sheng Lu, FASH455 Global Apparel & Textile Trade and Sourcing (University of Delaware)

Rana Plaza collapse, Wikipedia

Buyers’ compensation for Rana Plaza victims far from reality, 2013, Ibrahim Hossain Ovi, Dhaka Tribune (news media)

World cotton production statistics, updated 2024, The World Counts

Dead white man’s clothes, 2021, Linton Besser, ABC News

#fashion #fashion industry #sustainability #sustainable fashion #sustainable clothing #environment #climate change #i will be continuing the series of how to see through fashion industry propaganda at some point #i just felt compelled to write this because i feel like people so often miss the forest for the trees in this conversation

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pdriesta · 2 months ago

Text

BEHIND THE LENS II

pairing — trentxblack!lfc-social media manager

summary — working at the liverpool, willow finds herself falling for one of the players, someone she never expected to develop feelings for. but as trent, an everyday nuisance, takes it upon himself to help her win her crush’s heart, his teasing becomes more than just friendly banter. he pushes her closer to the man she admires, all while battling his own growing feelings. despite knowing it’s his teammate she fell for, trent can’t help but wonder if he’s the one for her.

word count — 10k

an — the wait is finally over

masterlist

trent had texted her earlier that morning asking where they were going and if he needed anything, but willow had been infuriatingly vague

willow: wear gym clothes. like, real athletic stuff. trust me.

so, when he pulled up to her place around ten, dressed in black shorts and a snug compression shirt that outlined every muscle in his torso, he leaned against the side of his car, arms folded, waiting. the english morning was bright and brisk, the kind that made everything look a little more vivid. he glanced up when he heard the sound of her door opening, and whatever he was expecting to see—it wasn’t that.

willow peeked through her window first—just a glance.

and then immediately pulled back like she’d seen something she wasn’t supposed to.

“oh my god,” she mumbled under her breath, pressing a hand to her chest. “i knew i shouldn't have said atheltic wear"

he looked good. way too good. the shirt clung to him like it was custom-made, every line of his abs and chest clear even from a distance. and the shorts—unfair. like gravity only worked harder when it came to him. she had the nerve to feel hot and flustered in her own doorway, suddenly reconsidering her whole plan.

she exhaled sharply, fanned herself once for dramatic effect, then composed her face into something neutral before stepping outside. but her walk slowed as she got closer, her eyes betraying her as they dropped to his torso again.

“damn,” she muttered, barely audible.

he glanced up as soon as he heard the door, and whatever he was expecting to see—it wasn’t that.

she walked out slowly, the soft stretch of baby blue hugging every inch of her frame. a sports bra and high-waisted leggings that clung to her hips and thighs like they were made for her, the fabric catching the sunlight just right. a cropped bolero wrapped over her shoulders, just enough to add to the ensemble without hiding anything.

she was glowing. like, actually glowing. her skin looked golden, warm under the soft morning sun, and she had that effortless, slightly smug smile on her face that made his chest tighten a little.

his eyebrows raised. “wow.”

“what?” she said innocently, adjusting her top as she approached.

“nah, you planned this.”

“planned what?” she said, her lips twitching like she was fighting a smile.

“this whole outfit. you said ‘wear gym clothes,’ not ‘pull up looking like a fitness influencer about to ruin my life.’”

“you’re being dramatic.”

he scoffed, running a hand over his mouth. “this was your grand plan, wasn’t it? get me out here in the sun, in tight clothes, and objectify me while looking like that.”

she laughed, eyes rolling as she brushed past him to the car. “oh, shut up.”

“you were staring, willow.”

“i was not.”

“you literally paused mid-step when you saw me,” he said, trailing behind her. “don’t think i didn’t see it.”

“get in the car, trent.”

he stepped ahead and opened the passenger door for her instead. “ladies first. especially the lying ones.”

she climbed in, still laughing under her breath as he rounded the car and got into the driver’s seat.

“so, you gonna tell me where we’re headed?” trent asked, glancing over as he started the engine.

“nope.”

he narrowed his eyes at her. “you really like being mysterious, don’t you?”

“it’s not mysterious. it’s fun,” she said, leaning back in the seat. “a little trust exercise.”

“how do i know you’re not taking me to one of those ‘build-a-bear-for-grownups’ places or something?”

“now that’s an idea,” she murmured. “but no. a friend of mine just opened a new studio. i told her i’d stop by.”

he tilted his head. “studio… like what? a musical studio?”

“not quite,” she said, smile curling at the corner of her lips. “yoga.”

he blinked. “i've literally never been.”

“perfect.”

“you’re evil.”

they pulled up to a sleek building tucked in a quiet street, the kind of place with floor-to-ceiling windows and neutral wood panels. soft lo-fi music drifted out from the open doors, and the air smelled faintly of eucalyptus.

trent looked around as they stepped inside. “this is… suspiciously calm.”

“good,” willow said, scanning the room for her friend. she spotted her at the front desk and waved.

her friend looked up and immediately lit up. “hey, hey! is this the friend?”

“yeah, this is trent,” willow smiled, stepping aside so they could shake hands.

“nice to meet you,” trent said, ever polite.

“so,” her friend began with a gleam in her eye, “the session starts in a few minutes. i'll let you guys get a spot.”

"welcome, everyone," the instructor said with a bright voice. "today's a partner yoga session. everything’s better in pairs, right?”

willow stiffened slightly. trent looked over at her, blinking.

“partner?” he said under his breath.

“i didn’t know,” she muttered quickly, eyes wide. “i swear—i just told her i was bringing someone.”

he raised a brow. “and she just so happened to pick couples class?”

“it’s not that deep—”

“sure it’s not.”

she sighed. “we can leave—”

“nah,” he said smoothly, eyes dropping to her mouth before catching himself. “this is a date, right?”

her throat bobbed. “technically.”

“then technically,” he stepped closer, smirking, “we’re a couple. just for the next hour. you good with that?”

she hesitated, then nodded slowly. “...yeah. i’m good.”

the studio was dimly lit with warm sunlight slanting through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the kind of place that tried to disguise pain as peace. too clean. too quiet.

“this your idea of a good time?” trent asked, glancing around the sleek space as he followed willow inside. his voice echoed low, almost amused. almost suspicious.

“you said you wanted something different,” she replied, toeing off her sneakers and stretching her arms over her head. her sports bra lifted just slightly with the motion, and trent had to drag his eyes back up to her face.

“this is very different.”

“you’ll live.”

she turned her back to him, setting her towel down on the mat. he exhaled. lord have mercy. the baby blue of her leggings fit like a second skin, hugging the curve of her hips and thighs like they were sculpted for him to look at. the matching sports bra didn’t help. neither did the way her skin glowed under the morning light. and she knew it.

he reached for his water bottle, trying to pretend like he wasn’t seconds away from praying

they sat across from each other for the first pose, knees bent, feet together, hands laced. the heat from his palms bled into hers instantly. her grip was firm, but there was something else under it—something unspoken and restless.

"lean forward toward your partner. keep your back straight," the instructor called out.

they leaned in, and it felt like slow motion—her breath brushing against his, their knees nearly touching, palms locked between them like some fragile, electric thread.

trent’s eyes dropped—first to her cheeks, flushed from exertion, then to her mouth. the softness of it. the way her lips were slightly parted, glossy, tempting.

“this feels illegal,” he muttered, voice low, husky from more than just the workout.

“behave,” she whispered, eyes narrowing with a warning she didn’t really mean.

“make me.”

she clenched his hands tighter, jaw ticking. “trent.”

“yeah?”

“stop looking at my mouth.”

“can’t,” he said, gaze still trained on it. “too distracting.”

her breath faltered. something tightened in the space between them. just a breath, just a shift—if she moved forward even an inch, their lips would meet.

and he looked like he might.

but the instructor's voice sliced through the tension like a cold slap. “and now, bridge pose! one partner lies down, the other stands behind the head to offer support.”

willow let go quickly, a little too quickly, and laid back on the mat with a sharp exhale, like she needed to physically escape whatever was about to happen. trent moved slowly, stepping over her, standing behind her head with a casualness that didn’t reach his eyes. his stance was wide, dominant. when she looked up at him—upside down, eyes meeting his—it was dizzying.

“you ready?” she asked, her voice softer now, more careful.

“for you?” he murmured as he crouched low, placing his hands deliberately on her waist. “always.”

the pads of his fingers brushed bare skin where her top had ridden up. it was subtle, but he didn’t move them. didn’t even pretend to.

her hips lifted into the bridge, and he held her steady, letting his thumbs trace slow, grounding circles just above her hip bones. his touch was firm, but... indulgent.

“your hands are... warm,” she said, her breath catching.

“that a complaint?”

she swallowed. “no.”

he leaned in closer, mouth near her temple now. his voice was a breath. “you’re shaking.”

“from you, apparently.”

he didn’t smile this time. just stared at her, jaw locked, lips parted like he wanted to say something more—wanted to do something more.

“and down!” the instructor called.

she lowered herself carefully, and he helped her ease back, but didn’t pull away. his hands stayed on her hips, thumbs still pressed gently against skin. for a moment, neither moved. the air felt too heavy, too warm.

then—

“next—partner plank! face each other, shoulders aligned, and hold.”

they moved, slowly, almost dazed. trent positioned himself across from her on his elbows, forearms parallel, body taut. her face was barely a foot from his. chest to chest. breath to breath. and god, she smelled like vanilla and heat.

“i swear to god, if you look at my boobs—” she began.

“i’m not,” he said immediately, the smirk already playing on his lips. “i’m being respectful.”

“you’re thinking about it.”

“i’m trying not to.”

she bit her lip, the motion so subtle and yet so loud to him.

“you’re failing.”

“miserably,” he whispered.

his eyes swept across her face again. slower this time. sweat beaded at her temple and trailed down her jaw, and he watched it fall like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

“you gonna break first?” she breathed.

“never,” he said. “ladies first.”

“chivalry is dead.”

he let out a low, unsteady laugh. “you’re killing me softly right now.”

their bodies trembled, arms shaking—not just from strain, but the sheer tension pushing them to the edge. their noses almost touched. his knee brushed hers beneath them.

“you’re really not gonna look away?” she asked, lips still parted.

“i would but-" he started, " i think i might kiss you,” he murmured, voice so low it made her stomach turn inside out.

she blinked. hard. “this your strategy to distract me?”

“maybe,” he whispered. “maybe i’m serious.”

she looked at his mouth then. really looked. her heart beat somewhere in her throat. they were close—too close—and she wasn’t moving away.

“and rest!” the instructor announced cheerily.

trent collapsed onto his back like he’d just survived war. willow followed, exhaling a deep breath as she covered her face with one hand, trying to suppress the grin that threatened to break.

“this class is actual torture,” he groaned.

“you’re just mad you got turned on during yoga.”

he turned his head toward her, eyes dark and unreadable. “that an admission?”

she looked away fast. “don’t flatter yourself.”

but she couldn’t hide her smile. and he couldn’t stop watching it.

the smoothie place was just around the corner—one of those cozy little hidden gems with wood-paneled walls and plants hanging from the ceiling like they belonged in a greenhouse. it was calm and warm inside, sun streaming through the big front windows and catching the soft sheen of sweat still clinging to willow’s collarbone.

they ordered—her usual mango-pineapple blend and his more basic strawberry-banana—and settled at a the two seats in the corner.

“so…” she said, dragging the straw slowly through her smoothie with a smirk. “turned on during pilates, huh?”

he froze mid-sip. lowered the straw. eyes narrowing.

“you’re not gonna let that go, are you?”

“absolutely not.” she grinned. “you admitted it.”

“i was under duress,” he muttered, frowning like a child denied dessert.

“mm. sure. poor baby.” she leaned back in her chair, smug, arms crossing under her chest. his eyes dropped there, then jerked back up too fast. caught. again.

“look, i’m a man with needs,” he sulked, dragging his straw between his teeth. “you wore that, and made me do freakin’ couple yoga.”

“how was i suppose to know it was couple yoga.”

“it felt like it. we were practically mouth to mouth.” he continued.

“your point?”

he stared at her, then suddenly—casually, intentionally—hooked his foot around the leg of her chair and tugged.

she yelped, half-laughed as her chair slid closer across the tile, until her knees brushed his. until she was practically between his legs, the table the only barrier. “trent—”

his palm found her hip under the table, resting there like it belonged. just enough pressure to make her pulse skip. his thumb moved in slow circles against the fabric of her leggings.

“you did it on purpose,” he murmured.

she blinked. “did what?”

“all of it.” his voice was low, hot. “you wore this—” his hand flexed slightly on her hip—“and dragged me to stupid couple yoga so i’d lose my mind.”

her breath stuttered. “you think i planned your... hormonal meltdown?”

he tilted his head, the corner of his mouth lifting. “i think you like seeing me squirm.”

her pulse thudded loud in her ears. she could still feel his breath from earlier—could hear his voice, that near-whisper: i think i might kiss you.

she stared at his lips now, unconsciously. they were soft, parted slightly, the bottom one plush and glistening with smoothie. tempting.

he saw it.

he always saw it.

his voice dipped even lower. “don’t worry, wils,” he murmured, mouth barely moving. “i won’t kiss you…”

her breath caught.

“…unless you beg me to.”

her stomach twisted. something dark and dizzy bloomed in her chest.

then she shoved him—palm flat against his shoulder—and he burst into laughter, nearly choking on his drink as he leaned back with a wicked grin, straw bobbing between his fingers.

“you’re such an ass,” she muttered, trying to mask her flustered state by focusing too hard on her cup.

“and yet…” he leaned in again, brushing his knee against hers under the table. “you still brought me to pilates.”

she glanced up, meeting his eyes. they were dark. teasing. hungry.

“don’t flatter yourself,” she mumbled, but it lacked bite.

he grinned, victorious. “too late.”

the studio buzzed with the usual chatter of the social media team as they gathered for their weekly brainstorming session. today, however, the atmosphere felt lighter, charged with a playful energy.

“so,” the head of social media, lydia began, clapping their hands together. “we’ve had a lot of requests for more fun, interactive content—something with the players and us. the fans want to see some competition between the social media team and the squad.”

groans rippled through the group, with a few scattered chuckles. willow, seated quietly at the back, raised a brow. her job was usually behind the camera, and she liked it that way.

“so, here’s the plan,” the manager continued, ignoring the collective reluctance. “each team will consist of one player and one social media member. there’ll be trivia, challenges, and a few surprises along the way.”

trent, lounging in his chair, perked up immediately. “i call dibs on willow,” he said, sitting up straighter and shooting her a teasing grin.

willow’s eyes widened, her cheeks heating up as everyone turned to look at her. “wait, what? no. absolutely not,” she stammered, shaking her head. “i’m better behind the lens. someone else can do it.”

trent, undeterred, leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “if willow’s not in, i’m not doing it.”

“trent,” she started, her voice edged with exasperation, “don’t be ridiculous—”

“not ridiculous,” he interrupted, grinning. “strategic. i want to win, and you’re my good luck charm.”

the manager raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “well, willow? looks like you’re in high demand.”

she groaned, sinking further into her chair. “fine. but I’m not doing anything crazy.”

trent’s grin widened, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “don’t worry, i’ll carry us. you just look pretty and cheer me on.”

“you’re insufferable,” she muttered under her breath, though a small smile tugged at her lips.

as the competition began, trent was in his element, cracking jokes, throwing mock glares at cody and curtis, and—most notably—sticking close to willow.

“we’re winning this,” he told her as the first round of trivia began, his tone confident. “you just stay close to me.”

“like i have a choice,” she shot back, rolling her eyes.

the trivia questions flew by, with trent answering most of them with surprising speed. whenever he wasn’t sure, he’d nudge willow, whispering, “back me up here,” even if she had no idea.

when they got one wrong, cody couldn’t resist rubbing it in. “looks like mr. confident doesn’t know everything.”

trent threw his arm over willow’s shoulders, pulling her close in an exaggerated show of camaraderie. “we’re just warming up, right, partner?”

willow laughed, trying to push him off. “you’re ridiculous.”

the physical challenges were where trent really came alive, his competitive side shining through. during a football-stacking challenge, he crouched beside her, his hands guiding hers as they balanced the balls.

“steady,” he whispered, his breath warm against her ear. “you’re doing great.”

her heart fluttered unexpectedly at the proximity, but she focused on the task, determined not to let his energy distract her. when their pyramid stayed upright longer than anyone else’s, trent jumped to his feet, celebrating like they’d just won a trophy.

“that’s my teammate!” he shouted, lifting willow’s hand in victory.

“you’re so over the top,” she said, laughing despite herself.

“and you love it,” he shot back, his grin wide and smug.

as the competition continued, trent’s teasing didn’t let up. whether it was nudging her when she answered correctly or celebrating their victories with an arm slung around her shoulders, he made sure everyone—especially cody—knew they were the team to beat.

but it wasn’t just the teasing. there were quieter moments, too, where his tone softened, his words meant just for her. like when he leaned in close after they won another round, his voice barely above a whisper.

“i always notice you, y’know,” he said, his eyes meeting hers. “even when you’re behind the lens.”

willow froze for a moment, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. her cheeks warmed, and she quickly looked away, pretending to focus on the next challenge.

but his words lingered, wrapping around her like a secret she didn’t know what to do with.

by the end of the shoot, trent was practically glowing with pride as their team was declared the overall winner. he threw his arms around willow in a celebratory hug, spinning her once before setting her down.

“told you we’d win,” he said, his grin infectious.

“yeah, yeah,” she replied, trying to hide her smile. “you’re lucky i didn’t mess it up.”

“lucky to have you,” he corrected, his tone teasing but his eyes saying something else entirely.

and as they walked off set together, willow couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, there was more to trent’s antics than just friendly competition.

the week after their tense yoga session passed in a blur, but trent noticed every little thing. it started with cody hanging around her desk more than usual, leaning in too close under the excuse of sharing edits or giving feedback. trent told himself it was none of his business, that it didn’t mean anything—but something about the way cody made her laugh, or how willow leaned back in her chair to look up at him, irritated him more than it should have.

on tuesday morning, she came in with a box of pastries and casually said cody had told her about a bakery he liked near his flat. she smiled as she handed one to trent, her fingers brushing his for a second, and he thanked her with a quiet “cheers,” even though his stomach turned as she walked back toward cody without hesitation. he ended up throwing the pastry out untouched after she left the room, annoyed with himself for how bothered he felt.

he kept it cool on the surface—joking around, showing up to shoots early, hovering more than he should. he offered to help her carry equipment, asked her how her weekend had gone, texted her memes late at night just to keep the conversation alive. sometimes she responded quickly, teasing him the way she always did, and sometimes she left him on read for hours. but it wasn’t the replies that got to him—it was that he’d started to need them.

mid-week, he caught her and cody reviewing footage together, both hunched over her screen, her smile softer, more reserved than usual. it hit him then, how different she looked when she let someone in. not the playful banter she always had with trent, not the tug-of-war of teasing and rolled eyes—just quiet familiarity. trent realized he missed that kind of quiet from her. not just the jokes or competition, but the real, unguarded willow. the version she only let certain people see.

he couldn’t blame cody. willow was easy to fall for, and cody clearly wasn’t immune. neither was trent. the only difference was, cody was doing something about it.

by friday, trent had run out of excuses to hover. he found her packing up equipment after a shoot and offered to walk her back in. she hesitated for a second, then nodded, and they strolled side by side across the training grounds.

“you’ve been quiet this week,” she said casually, glancing up at him.

trent looked ahead, then down at her. “have i?”

“yeah. you usually talk so much i have to put my headphones in to get anything done.”

he laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “maybe i’ve been giving you space.”

“that doesn’t sound like you.”

he paused. “maybe i’ve just been watching. trying to figure you out again.”

she gave him a strange look, like she wanted to ask more, but didn’t. instead, she just smiled and bumped her shoulder against his lightly. “you’re always dramatic.”

“nah,” he said, quietly now, eyes fixed ahead. “just honest.”

she didn’t reply, and he didn’t push it. but as they walked back, the air between them felt heavier than it had before. he couldn’t shake the thought that someone else might be learning the parts of her he hadn’t yet, and it gnawed at something in him.

he’d never been the type to chase. not really. but with her, he was starting to wonder if maybe he should’ve run sooner.

trent was going to do it. he’d made up his mind, and this time he wasn’t going to back down.

he’d practiced the words in his head, rehearsed different versions of them like he was prepping for a press conference. none of them came out right, not when it mattered. but he couldn’t hold it anymore—not when he saw her every day and had to pretend he didn’t want her in every way a man could want someone.

it wasn’t just the way she looked when she laughed or the way she rolled her eyes when he teased her. it was the way she’d lean into him during their one piece marathons, fully committed to every ridiculous plot twist, always answering his questions even when he already knew the answer. she didn’t gatekeep her joy—she shared it with him. and that did something to him.

or how she always saved him the last piece of candy when they shared a bag, like it was instinct. like she just knew he had a sweet tooth and would never ask for it himself.

and then there was that night she invited him over for dinner. she made grilled salmon with quinoa and greens because she “googled what footballers were supposed to eat,” and when he said it tasted like cardboard, she flicked water at him from the sink and made him wash the dishes. but the whole time, he couldn’t stop watching her. she was soft in a way most people wouldn’t notice. thoughtful in the small things. he wanted that kind of softness in his life. for the rest of his life, actually.

he was gonna tell her today. just walk into her office and tell her he was done pretending this was just banter and competition. he wanted her. full stop.

he turned the corner, heart hammering stupidly in his chest, his palms weirdly damp. and then she appeared—sprinting down the hall toward him, that soft cardigan of hers billowing behind her like she was in a film.

“trent!” she called out, her voice breathless and bright.

and then she was in his arms, colliding into him with such force that his body reacted before his mind did. his arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her clean off the ground. he held her there, stunned, her scent clinging to his shirt, her laugh vibrating against his chest.

he chuckled, a little dazed. “looks like someone’s happy to see me.”

but her face tucked into his neck, warm and flushed, and suddenly she went quiet. he kept his arms around her, couldn’t bring himself to let go just yet. her lips brushed the shell of his ear as she whispered, voice soft and close enough to bruise him.

“cody asked me out.”

he had no right to be angry, he told himself that, over and over again. cody was his teammate, a genuinely good guy, easy to get along with, polite to everyone, the type of man who never needed to speak loud to be heard. if it had been anyone else, maybe he could’ve made an excuse. but not with cody. not when the smile on her face was that real. not when her eyes had that gleam of something new, something hopeful.

he should’ve been happy for her. this was what he told himself. she deserved someone good. someone kind. someone who saw her and wanted to treat her right.

but deep down, it burned. not with rage—no, that would’ve been easier. it burned slow, steady, like something was slipping through his fingers, something he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding onto until it was already gone. and it made him feel foolish, standing there with all his reasons for loving her, with all the words he had planned to say… all useless now.

so he smiled. he forced it. he tucked everything back where no one could see it and played the part of the supportive friend, the good guy who stepped aside gracefully.

because if there was one thing he was good at—it was hiding what hurt.

his grip loosened slightly, only so she could slide back down to the ground, and he blinked like he didn’t understand the words.

“what?”

she pulled back, eyes wide, like she regretted saying it that way. but her cheeks were glowing and her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, and he knew. he knew that look. it was hope. nervous, excited, innocent hope.

“wait—how did that even happen?” he asked, voice quiet, strained around the edges. “when?”

she gave a small, sheepish laugh, her fingers now twisting at her rings. “monday. after we wrapped filming that challenge video. he caught me in the hallway and just… asked. said he’s wanted to for a while but didn’t think i’d say yes.”

“and you did,” trent said, more a statement than a question.

she nodded, a bit shy. “yeah… i mean, i've liked him for a long time, you know?”

his mind short-circuited. everything he was going to say? gone. every reason he had to tell her how he felt? crushed under the weight of timing.

cody. his teammate. a good guy. kind, funny, polite to everyone. no ego. how could he be mad? how could he not?

but the ache in his chest didn’t care for reason. it screamed. it begged. it clawed at the insides of his ribs like maybe, if he hurt enough, he could kill the part of himself that wanted her.

he cleared his throat, stepping back with the kind of smile that was too smooth, too controlled. “well, then. looks like my job here is done.”

“what?” she asked, brows furrowed.

“told you,” he said with a crooked grin. “i make a great wingman.”

her mouth opened to say something, maybe to argue, but he clapped her gently on the shoulder before she could speak.

“he’s a lucky guy,” he added, voice quiet. sincere. bleeding.

he walked away before she could see through him, before she could see how his jaw clenched and his fists curled in his pockets. and as he turned the corner, all he could think was—

god, why didn’t i tell her sooner?

he tried not to watch.

he really did.

but it was like some part of him couldn’t help it. every time cody walked into the room and her face lit up like it was second nature, his chest caved in just a little more. every time cody leaned in to whisper something and she giggled—that soft, breathy sound trent used to look forward to when he was the one making her laugh—he felt his jaw tighten.

it wasn’t just jealousy. it was grief. quiet, suffocating grief for something he never even had.

he noticed things now. how she saved a seat for cody at meetings. how she picked the sour candies out of the mix because she knew cody liked them most. how she leaned into him a little more every day, like she was finally allowing herself to fall.

and it wasn’t like cody wasn’t good to her. he was attentive. sweet. always there with a smile or a dumb inside joke. he wasn’t pretending. he liked her. and she looked happy.

it made everything worse.

trent started avoiding her—not dramatically, but just enough to protect whatever was left of himself. he said no when she asked if he wanted to come over and watch one piece.

“you always come,” she said, confused, her voice dipping in that way that made him want to cave. “you love this arc.”

“i’ve got plans,” he lied. “maybe another time.”

she frowned, but didn’t push. she never did. that’s what made it harder. she gave him space, even when he didn’t ask for it.

but one day, halfway through the week, she found him in the hallway near the physio room. just the two of them. it had been days since they’d actually talked, and she looked like she’d been working up the courage for this one.

“are you mad at me?” she asked, voice soft.

trent looked up from his phone, caught off guard. “what?”

“i don’t know,” she said, arms crossed loosely over her chest, brows knitting together. “you’ve been… distant. since the weekend.”

his stomach twisted. he tried to keep his voice even. “course not. why would you think that?”

she blinked, clearly hurt. “you tell me. you’ve barely looked at me. said no to one piece. i didn’t even know you were allowed to say no to that.”

he almost smiled. almost.

but instead he shrugged, eyes darting anywhere but hers. “just been busy.”

“trent.”

her voice, quiet but certain. she was looking at him the way she used to—gently, like she actually cared what was behind the mask.

and for a second, he wanted to tell her. everything. wanted to confess that he thought about her all the damn time, that he still remembered the way she saved him the last piece of candy like it meant something, that she made him want things he’d never let himself want before. that it wasn’t just a crush.

it was the future. it was her.

but instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets and said, “you’re with cody now. i’m just giving you space.”

she blinked. “i didn’t ask for space.”

he bit the inside of his cheek. “yeah, well. figured you’d need it anyway.”

there was silence, thick and aching.

finally, she said, “i miss," you. she almost blurted out."talking to you.”

that was the worst part. because he missed her too. god, he missed her. but she wasn’t his to miss.

so he nodded, offered her a small, hollow smile.

“you’ve got cody now,” he repeated, gently. “you don’t need me.”

and then he walked off before she could say his name again, before the guilt could win.

the next time she found him, it was after training, both of them lingering in the quieter hallway near the back exit. his bag was slung over one shoulder, hoodie damp from the workout, and he didn’t even hear her approach until she called his name.

“trent.”

he turned, blinking as she stepped closer, her brows furrowed like she’d been turning something over in her head for a while.

“can i ask you something?”

he nodded cautiously, already bracing himself.

“is this… about the date?”

he stilled. breath caught. "what?"

“you acting weird,” she added, chewing on the inside of her cheek, “pulling away, avoiding me—it started after i told you about cody. so i just thought…”

her voice was careful, apologetic even. “i get that it might be strange. us being friends and me dating your teammate. i don’t wanna make you uncomfortable.”

trent stared at her, stunned into silence.

not because she was wrong.

because she wasn’t even close to being right.

she thought this was about logistics. about friendship lines and team dynamics. she thought this was him being mature and polite and protective.

not him breaking. not him biting down on the ache in his chest like it wouldn’t scream loud enough to echo in his throat.

he let out a breath—half relief, half despair.

“it’s not that,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “it’s not that at all.”

she looked at him, confused. “then what is it?”

he swallowed, eyes dropping to the floor. his fingers tightened around the strap of his gym bag. the words clawed at the back of his throat.

because it kills me.

because it was supposed to be me.

because i had a whole damn speech ready about how you’re the best thing in my life and i blinked and missed my chance.

but he didn’t say any of that. he couldn’t.

so he just shrugged, expression neutral. “just tired. training’s been long. don’t overthink it.”

she tilted her head slightly. “but i do. i am. i just don’t want this to mess things up with us.”

his heart ached at the way she looked at him—genuine, worried, still so her.

god, she had no idea.

he forced a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “you’re not messing anything up. promise.”

she gave a hesitant nod, but the concern lingered in her gaze. still, she stepped closer, bumped her shoulder gently against his.

“just… don’t disappear on me, okay?”

he exhaled through his nose, nodding once. “okay.”

but as she walked off, her braid swinging, her voice soft as she called out, “text me when you’re home,” he felt like the biggest coward in the world.

because he was still disappearing.

and she didn’t even know it.

it was the night of willow’s date with cody, and trent stood outside her apartment, his heart pounding harder than he could remember. his hand gripped the doorknob as he hesitated for a moment, his nerves threatening to overwhelm him. he had promised himself he wouldn’t do this, that he wouldn’t show up unannounced and risk ruining everything. but he couldn’t ignore the way his chest tightened every time willow’s smile flashed in his mind—especially now, knowing she was about to walk out that door with cody.

with a deep breath, he knocked softly, knowing she’d be ready for her night out. the silence in the hall was deafening, and before he could second-guess himself, the door opened, revealing willow standing there, her eyes wide with surprise. she wore a stunning dress, one he hadn’t seen before, and his breath caught in his throat.

“hey,” willow said, her voice a little cautious but still warm. “what’s up, trent? you okay?”

he couldn’t help but stare at her, his thoughts momentarily lost. beautiful. that was the word that came to mind when he saw her, standing there so effortlessly radiant. it was a stark reminder of how out of his league she was, but more than that, it was a reminder that his feelings for her were anything but casual.

“you look…” his voice trailed off, struggling to form the words. “you look amazing.”

willow smiled, a blush creeping onto her cheeks. “thanks, trent. you’re sweet.”

he wanted to say more, wanted to tell her how much he had cared for her, how every moment spent with her had made him realize just how much she meant to him. but the words got stuck in his throat, and all he could do was stand there, fighting back the wave of emotion threatening to drown him.

willow tilted her head, her eyes filled with curiosity. “trent, is something wrong?”

he felt the weight of the moment bearing down on him, and he finally opened his mouth, the words rushing out before he could stop them.

“don’t go,” he said, his voice hoarse.

willow blinked, her expression confused. “what?”

“don’t go out with him,” trent repeated, his heart beating erratically in his chest. “please.”

she took a step back, uncertainty clouding her gaze. “trent, I—”

he cut her off before she could finish. “I can’t stand the thought of you with him,” he confessed, his words raw and vulnerable. “I don’t want you to go on that date. I don’t want to see you with anyone else. I can’t pretend like this is just some casual friendship anymore.”

willow’s breath caught in her throat, and she shook her head, a sad smile playing at the corners of her lips. “trent…”

he stepped forward, desperate to make her understand. “you mean more to me than I’ve ever said. more than I ever thought I could feel. I’ve been fighting it for so long, trying to pretend that I could just be your friend, but I can’t. I want more than that. I want you. I don’t care about anything else but you, willow.”

his heart felt like it was going to explode as he looked at her, waiting for her response, praying that she felt the same way. but instead, she took a deep breath, her eyes clouded with hesitation.

“trent…” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “I think I like cody. I’ve been spending time with him, and I feel like… maybe this is what I need right now.”

his chest tightened at her words, a sharp pang of pain settling in his gut. it was like a punch to the stomach, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. this was it. he had finally admitted everything to her, put his heart on the line, only to hear that she was already interested in someone else.

he swallowed hard, his throat dry. “so… you don’t feel the same?”

willow shook her head slowly, her expression soft but firm. “I’m sorry, trent. I really am. I didn’t expect this, but I think I like cody. I’m not sure what this is, but… I think it’s worth exploring.”

his world shattered in that moment, and all he could do was nod, trying to mask the pain he felt. “I get it,” he said, his voice tight. “I just… I needed to tell you how I felt. I guess I thought maybe you’d feel the same.”

willow reached out, her hand gently resting on his arm. “you’ve been a great friend, trent. and I don’t want to lose that. I care about you, I really do. but I think cody and I have something.”

trent stood frozen as willow’s words hung in the air between them, sharp and final. his chest tightened, but he barely registered the ache, the devastation, as his thoughts spiraled. cody. cody. it felt like the world was slipping from beneath him, and he didn’t know how to fight back against it. he had finally gathered the courage to tell her how he felt, and now, all of it was slipping away.

willow’s voice broke the heavy silence, and her words were a fragile apology, as if trying to fix something that couldn’t be fixed.

“trent, I—” she started, but then faltered, her voice trembling just slightly. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know you felt that way. I thought… I thought we were just friends. But now, hearing you say this, it all makes sense, and I feel like such an idiot.”

she paused, biting her lip as she searched his face, her eyes wide with regret. “i never wanted to hurt you. i never meant for this to happen, trent. and i’m sorry. i didn’t realize what this was until now. until i heard you say it.” her hands fidgeted nervously by her sides, and she took a hesitant step toward him. “i’m sorry for not seeing it sooner. for not realizing how much it meant to you.”

trent swallowed, trying to force the words past the lump in his throat, but willow was already speaking again, her voice soft but urgent.

“but trent, this is my chance with cody. this is what i’ve been waiting for. i’ve spent so long watching things pass me by, letting opportunities slip through my fingers, and now—now that he’s asked me out, it feels like everything is finally falling into place.”

her voice cracked as she continued, “i didn’t know how to feel about this… about us… until now. but you deserve to know, to understand that this is a chance I’ve been hoping for. and i… i think i owe it to myself to see where it goes. i never wanted to hurt you.”

her eyes shone with a mix of guilt and sincerity, and trent could see how torn she was. the way she was trying to make it right, to make him understand why she had to choose this, choose cody, even if it broke him. he could see the conflict within her, how much she cared, but also how much she longed for this moment, this chance with cody.

trent felt the sting of her words, felt the way her confession punched him in the chest, but he couldn’t bring himself to show her how deeply it hurt. instead, he forced a smile, a hollow thing that didn’t reach his eyes.

“yeah,” he said, his voice tight. “I get it. you’ve waited for this.”

willow stepped closer, her hands reaching out to touch his arm gently, her touch almost apologetic. “trent… please don’t hate me. i never wanted to hurt you. i just… i had to say yes to him. i couldn’t let this pass me by.”

the words hung in the air, and he realized just how hard it was for her, how much she truly didn’t want to hurt him, but how much she also wanted to take this leap with cody. he looked down at her, at the soft vulnerability in her eyes, and for a moment, all he could do was nod.

“i won’t hate you,” he replied, his voice quieter now, barely audible. “you deserve this. you deserve to be happy, willow. i just thought… i thought maybe we could be something more.” he smiled again, though it felt like his heart was breaking with each passing second. “but i get it. it’s okay. i’ll be alright.”

willow’s expression softened, and she gave him a small, almost reluctant smile. “i really am sorry, trent. i wish things were different. i just… i didn’t realize how much you meant to me until now.”

“yeah,” trent whispered, turning to walk away. “me too.”

as he left, the door shutting softly behind him, he couldn’t shake the image of her standing there, her apologetic eyes watching him as if she wanted to say something more but couldn’t. he was too late. and there was nothing more painful than realizing he’d been too late to tell her how he really felt.

and deep down, he knew that was something he’d never truly be okay with

the night had started off well enough. the restaurant was warm and softly lit, the gentle hum of conversation and clinking glasses creating the illusion of romance. cody sat across from her, all dimples and warm eyes, and in every way, he was the perfect date.

he was everything willow could’ve wanted—gentle, kind, considerate. his easy smile and the way he listened attentively made her feel at ease. he asked about her day, remembered the tiniest details of conversations they’d had weeks ago. he was the kind of man who made you feel seen. but no matter how hard she tried to focus, her thoughts kept drifting.

“don’t go.”

trent’s voice echoed in her head, low and raw and full of something he usually hid too well. it had caught her off guard—just as much as the look in his eyes when he said it, like it physically hurt him to let her walk away.

she hadn’t picked him.

why hadn’t she?

as cody cut into his steak, willow found herself sinking into the memory of trent’s quiet confidence. the way he’d lean into her during late-night editing sessions at the club, wrapping his arm casually around the back of her chair, so close she could feel his breath when he teased her.

"you know, you never focus when i’m this close,” he’d once whispered, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.

back then, she’d rolled her eyes and laughed it off. she hadn’t let herself think too hard about it. not about the way his eyes always seemed to find hers first, or the quiet care in how he checked in with her after long days, or how he always made sure she had her favorite candy tucked in his bag. just in case.

"i’m glad i asked you out," cody’s voice cut through her haze, bringing her back to the present. willow blinked, her gaze returning to him. he looked so genuine, smiling across the table at her with a softness that tugged at her heart.

"me too," she replied, her lips curving, but the warmth didn’t quite reach her eyes.

cody tilted his head. "but if i’m being honest…" he hesitated, sipping his water before continuing, "i would’ve done it sooner. but i thought you and trent were a thing."

willow stiffened. her breath hitched. trent and i?

she stared down at her plate, the words echoing in her head. she hadn’t expected him to bring up trent—not here, not like this. her thoughts scattered, memories flashing too quickly to hold.

"oh," she said, her voice small. "trent and i… no. we’re not—"

"it’s okay, willow" cody’s voice was calm, comforting. he reached across the table, his hand resting gently over hers. not possessive. not expectant. just… kind. "i’m not upset. i just wanted to say it. i’ve been waiting for the right time, but if you’re not ready, that’s fine. i’m here for you, whatever you need."

willow let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. the weight lifted from her chest, replaced by something that felt a little like gratitude.

"cody," she began softly, her fingers tightening around his, "you’ve always been so patient with me. i didn’t even realize you felt like this because you never made me feel pressured. you just let me… figure things out."

he smiled at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "the first day i met you, i didn’t know anyone at the club except virgil. i was anxious and trying to keep my head down. and then i saw this little social media intern—so shy, always tucked behind a camera or your laptop. but you smiled at me, and i swear, that smile made my whole day."

willow laughed gently, blushing a little. "i was so nervous back then. i had no idea what i was doing."

"you were brilliant," cody said simply. but then his voice softened. "but when i left the netherlands, i left someone behind. a woman i loved very much. and… it wouldn’t be fair to you to pursue this when i’m still in love with her."

silence fell for a moment, gentle but profound. willow nodded slowly, her chest full of emotion. "thank you for being honest. and… for being you."

cody gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "you deserve someone who’s all in. someone who doesn’t hesitate."

willow bit her lip, her voice trembling with truth. "i think… i have someone like that. or at least, someone who insists he is." she gave a short laugh, trying to cover the ache in her chest. "he’s my best friend. insists on being the best at everything, even that. he says he can’t take second place, not even to my own thoughts."

cody chuckled knowingly. "sounds like someone we both know."

willow groaned, laughing under her breath. "he’s such a baby when he loses."

"so competitive," cody added, grinning. "especially when it comes to you."

"he gets this pout when he’s not winning. like full-on sulk mode. you’d think the world ended if i don’t text him back fast enough."

"trent," cody said, shaking his head with amusement. "it’s always been him, hasn’t it?"

willow paused, her eyes soft. "maybe i was too scared to see it before. maybe i wasn’t ready. but he… he never gave up on me. not really."

"then i hope he gets the girl," cody said, raising his glass.

"i think he already has," she whispered, clinking her glass with his.

the rest of the dinner flowed more easily after that. they laughed, shared stories, talked about football and movies and the stupid things trent had done that week. there was no pressure, no lingering what-ifs. just two people who respected each other, sitting in mutual peace and understanding.

she didn’t expect to feel this restless after dinner.

cody had been sweet. calm. understanding, even. they’d talked, really talked, and both come to the quiet realization that whatever they’d once tried to be had long slipped away. it ended gently. kindly. but still—her chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with him.

no, it ached for someone else.

which was why, after saying goodbye, after hugging cody one last time beneath the glow of city lights, she didn’t go home. not even close. she drove across town, heart in her throat, heels still clicking against the concrete as she climbed the familiar steps to trent’s place.

every breath felt like a dare.

and when he opened the door, hair tousled and damp like he’d just come from a shower, wearing a hoodie that hung low on his frame and grey sweats that sat too perfectly on his hips—she forgot how to breathe entirely.

“willow?”

his voice was low. surprised. guarded.

she smiled, folding her arms to hold herself steady. “what? you’re the only one allowed to show up out of nowhere?”

he blinked. “…weren’t you with cody?”

“i was.”

trent stepped back slightly, but didn’t move aside to let her in. just stood there, a shadow in the doorway, eyes scanning hers like he didn’t know what version of her he was getting tonight. “so why are you here?”

she bit her lip. “because i couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

he didn’t say anything. just watched. waiting.

so she stepped forward, carefully, like if she moved too fast it might all shatter. “i’ve been spinning in circles lately. trying to pretend that i didn’t care. that i could keep you close but still keep you out. but i can’t.”

he exhaled, voice rough. “willow, don’t.”

“no. let me talk.”

she looked up at him, voice shaking with how much it held. “you’ve been everything to me. even when i was confused. even when i was trying to want someone else. you were still the one i called. the one i trusted. the one who made me feel like myself when the rest of the world wouldn’t let me.”

he blinked, jaw clenched.

“i tried to push it down. to tell myself it was just timing. or comfort. or convenience. but it’s not. it’s you. and i’m tired of pretending that it’s not.”

she stepped closer again, until her perfume reached him and her voice dipped into a whisper.

“i don’t want cody, trent. i want you. i’ve always wanted you.”

he inhaled sharply, like the words knocked the breath from him. “willow…”

“don’t say i deserve someone else. don’t tell me what’s proper or safe or easy. because i’ve done all that. i’ve been all that. and none of it ever made me feel the way you do.”

her hand brushed his chest, fingers curling gently into the fabric of his hoodie. “you’re loud and dramatic and so annoying sometimes—”

he huffed. “wow, okay—”

“—but you’re also thoughtful. loyal. and when you love someone, you do it with your whole damn heart. i see that now. i feel it every time you look at me like i’m something sacred.”

his expression twisted, eyes burning now. “so you’re saying this is real?”

“yes,” she whispered. “i’m saying i’m all in.”

and just like that, something inside him snapped.

with a quiet curse, he reached for her—hands suddenly on her waist, dragging her into him with no hesitation. he pulled her inside and kicked the door shut behind them in one smooth motion. and then—

he wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her off the floor, pressing her back against the door like he was anchoring her there. like he couldn’t let her go now even if he wanted to.

she gasped, arms flying around his shoulders. “trent—!”

his face was inches from hers, his hands warm and possessive where they held her thighs. “don’t say his name again,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “not when you’re mine.”

her smile curled slow and cheeky, breath catching. “is this the part where i’m supposed to beg?”

trent let out a low, almost sinful sound in his throat, shaking his head as he pressed his forehead against hers. “i could never make you beg, baby.”

his lips ghosted over her jaw, warm breath fanning against her skin as he pressed soft, teasing kisses along her cheek. he hovered just beside her mouth, his lips brushing against the corner of her lips in a way that made her body tremble. “could never,” he repeated, the words low and rough.

before she could even form a response, his lips captured hers—suddenly, urgently, as if he'd been holding himself back for far too long. the kiss was messy and raw, a collision of desire and emotions that neither of them could control. his lips moved against hers with feverish intensity, swallowing every breath she took as his hands slid down to her waist, pulling her closer, if that was even possible.

the kiss deepened, his tongue sliding against her bottom lip, asking for more. she moaned softly in response, her fingers finding the curls at the back of his neck, tugging him even closer. the world outside seemed to disappear, leaving only the heat of his lips and the thrum of her pulse as he kissed her like she was the air he breathed.

his grip tightened around her, his body pressing her into the door, and she melted into him, responding eagerly, matching the fire he ignited within her. every brush of his lips felt like it was setting something inside her ablaze, leaving no room for hesitation or doubt. it was raw, it was passionate—so much more than a kiss. it was everything they’d held back, now released in the softness and intensity of that one moment.

and then—he pulled back just enough to look at her, his breath ragged, his forehead resting against hers. his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, lips swollen from the kiss, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. they just stood there, inches apart, the weight of everything unspoken hanging between them.

she swallowed, her chest rising and falling with each breath. "trent..."

his voice was barely a whisper, his thumb grazing her cheek gently. "i’m not letting you go," he murmured, his voice thick with something deeper now. "not ever."

and in that moment, she knew—she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

“you’re sure?” he whispered. “because if we do this, i’m not letting you go again. i’m not pretending anymore.”

her voice was steady. sure.

“i don’t want you to.”

he kissed her again, gentler this time. reverent. like she was something holy.

and there, in the quiet of his apartment, with her legs still wrapped around his waist and their foreheads pressed together, it hit her all at once— this was it.

he wasn’t the safe choice. or the easy one. he was the choice.

and she’d never been more certain in her life.

EPILOGUE

it was their one-year anniversary, and willow couldn't stop teasing trent. she couldn't help it—she'd learned long ago how to push his buttons, especially when it came to something as important as getting a cat.

they’d been talking about it for weeks—back and forth, on and off—but never getting anywhere. trent was skeptical, didn’t want the added responsibility, didn't think he could handle another living thing in the apartment. willow, on the other hand, had been begging him for weeks, talking about how she'd always wanted a cat, how it would make their home feel complete. she’d even resorted to bringing it up at work, whispering about it when no one was looking, just to drive him insane.

today, she was being extra bold, though. it was the anniversary, after all.

"trent," she purred, walking up to him as he stood by the coffee machine, his back turned, fingers brushing against the mug. "i’m just saying... a cat would really make this place feel more like home."

he turned, eyebrows raised, that ever-present smirk tugging at his lips. "oh, really?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "and you think i’m just gonna cave because it’s our anniversary?"

"well," she leaned in, brushing her lips against his ear, "it wouldn’t hurt, would it?"

he stiffened, but only slightly, his pulse quickening despite himself. "willow," he groaned, "you’re not doing this to me, not today. you know we’re not getting a cat."

but willow didn’t back down. instead, she placed her hand on his chest, inching closer. "but think of how cute it would be... me, you, and a little cat to curl up with." she whispered it with a teasing glint in her eyes, her voice low and sultry. "we could have a little family."

his eyes flashed with a mix of amusement and frustration, and he exhaled a shaky breath. "you’re not gonna make me change my mind by looking at me like that."

she tilted her head, grinning. "wanna bet?"

"willow," he warned, stepping away from her slightly, but there was an unmistakable flicker of hesitation in his gaze.

"just think about it," she added, pressing herself closer to him, her body brushing against his. "and maybe tonight, I’ll... let you choose what we do after dinner."

trent tried to act unaffected, but he could feel the heat creeping up his neck. willow knew exactly what she was doing, and he couldn’t help the small part of him that was intrigued. "stop trying to bribe me."

"i’m not trying to bribe you," she said, her lips barely an inch from his. "but... if i were? it would be a good bribe."

trent groaned, frustrated. "you’re impossible."

"i’ll take that as a compliment," she whispered, leaning in for a kiss. she lingered just long enough for him to feel the warmth of her lips, just enough to make his heart skip a beat.

later that day, they were supposed to be working.

supposed to be doing, well, anything productive—but trent was leaning against the doorway of the office with his arms crossed, watching willow work at her desk, reorganizing soome of her pens while humming under her breath. she’d barely acknowledged him when he walked in, which he immediately clocked as her being dramatic. it was the silent treatment—but the fake kind. she was trying to be cute.

he smirked. “you’re mad at me, huh?”

she didn’t even look up. “i’m not mad.”

“you’re not mad,” he repeated, stepping closer. “then why haven’t you looked at me once since i walked in?”

“maybe i’m busy.”

“maybe you’re pouting,” he teased, ducking low enough to nudge her shoulder with his. “all because i said no again to the cat.”

willow let out a little sigh, turning her head so slowly that the look she gave him made him laugh. “i’m not pouting,” she said. “i’m strategizing.”

“strategizing?”

“mmhm.” she stood up, wiping her hands on her joggers and stepping into his space, her voice dropping low and sweet. “you don’t even know how cute i could make this cat. we could dress him up. a little collar. he could have a bowtie.”

“a bowtie,” trent repeated flatly. “now you’re just making things up to tempt me.”

“i’m not. you’re weak for aesthetics. admit it.”

he laughed again, tilting his head like she’d caught him in a trap. “you’re ridiculous.”

“you’re ridiculous for saying no this long. it’s been a year. we live together now. we need something soft and fluffy and judgmental. something that naps in the sun.”

“i already have you.”

“and you love it,” she said smugly.

just then, footsteps echoed in the hallway. mo peeked his head into the room, squinting suspiciously. “i knew you two were hiding in here.”

“we’re not hiding,” trent said at the same time willow said, “i’m convincing him to let me get a cat.”

mo raised a brow, strolling in with a bottle of water in hand. “a cat? trent, you’re not even allergic. what’s the excuse now?”

trent groaned. “don’t start.”

“nah, mate, i’m genuinely curious. you scared of the cat jumping on your chest in the middle of the night or something?”

willow giggled and leaned into trent’s side, her hand resting right on his stomach. “that’s what i said. he’s afraid the cat’s gonna punk him in his own house.”

“stop,” trent grumbled, tugging at the bottom of his training shirt and glancing away.

mo grinned. “you are scared.”

“i’m not scared,” trent muttered, clearly lying.

“he’s scared,” willow whispered with a fake pout. “he thinks it’s gonna scratch his sneakers or something.”

“nah, he’s scared of commitment. man won’t even commit to a pet.”

trent pointed a finger at mo like he was on trial. “i committed to her, didn’t i?”

“you live together,” mo said, deadpan. “you think that’s enough to keep her from adopting a whole animal when you’re out for away games? bro, if you don’t agree now, you’ll come home and find the cat wearing your chain.”

willow snorted. “don’t tempt me.” she said before walking away.

the morning of their anniversary passed in a blur of stolen moments and shared glances, and as the day stretched on, the debate about the cat still hung over them like a cloud.

by the time they reached home, willow was still hopeful. they had spent their anniversary dinner talking about everything—about their first year together, their highs, their lows, the little moments they cherished—and yet, the subject of the cat remained unaddressed. she was confident, though—she could feel it. tonight, she was going to make it happen.

trent was already acting strange as they walked into their apartment. he was quieter than usual, his steps deliberate as he set down his bag.

"you okay?" willow asked, watching him closely.

he turned to her, a smirk on his face, but his eyes were guarded. "yeah, just… thinking."

"about what?" she pressed, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "still on the cat thing?"

trent looked at her, the slightest bit of doubt in his gaze. "maybe."

she raised an eyebrow. "maybe? what does that mean?"

he crossed the room to her slowly, his eyes not leaving hers. "maybe I’ve been thinking about how hard you’ve been pushing for this... how much you really want it. and how maybe... just maybe... I could be convinced."

willow’s heart fluttered. "wait, you—" her voice caught in her throat. "are you serious?"

but before he could say anything, the sound of a soft meow echoed through the apartment.

willow froze, eyes widening. "did you—?"

trent grinned, taking her hand and leading her toward the living room, where a small, fluffy kitten was sitting in the corner of the room, looking up at her with big, curious eyes.

"no way," she gasped, her voice shaking. "you actually—"

"meet zoro," trent said, his voice soft but full of pride. "he’s yours, babe. happy anniversary."

willow was speechless. her eyes filled with tears as she dropped to her knees beside the little cat, her hands reaching out to pet its soft fur. it purred in response, rubbing up against her hand as she scooped it up gently, cradling it to her chest.

"he’s perfect," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion.

trent watched her with a smile on his face, his heart swelling. "i knew you’d love him. and yeah… I know, I’ve been stubborn about it, but I’m glad I finally gave in. seeing you like this… it makes it all worth it."

willow laughed, her fingers brushing over the kitten’s tiny ears. "I’m so happy right now, trent. you have no idea."

"yeah, I do," he said, kneeling down beside her, wrapping an arm around her waist. "I’m glad I could make you happy."

she looked up at him, her eyes full of love. "I love you, you know that?"

"I know," he said softly, leaning in to kiss her gently. "happy anniversary, willow."

she smiled against his lips, kissing him back with all the love she had in her heart. "happy anniversary, trent. and thank you... for everything."

they sat together, the sound of zoro purring softly between them as they held each other close, the warmth of the moment wrapping around them like a blanket. it had been a year, and yet, it felt like only the beginning.

#pdriesta writes #trent alexander arnold #liverpool fc #trent alexander arnold imagines #trent alexander arnold imagine #trent alexander x reader #football blurb #football imagine #football smut #football fanfic #trent alexander arnold smut #trent alexander imagines #taa66 #trent aa #trent alexander arnold angst #trent alexander arnold fanfic #alexander arnold x reader #trent alexander arnold x oc #footballer x oc

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oddlydescriptive · 3 months ago

Text

Reset, Chapter 2

Series Masterlist

Full A/N below- please read previous A/N if you're just getting acquainted with the story! A bit of development for this slow burn, but I will be posting several chapters today that will bring us all the way up to things getting exciting!

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August 22, 2022- Findel, Luxembourg

The wheels hit the tarmac with a heavy thunk, the sudden shift in gravity making you instinctively press back into your seat as the plane slows down, rolling toward the gate. Your muscles are stiff, sore from the awful angles you contorted yourself into for the past twelve hours, but there’s no time to dwell on it. You barely hear the pilot’s announcement, barely register the sound of seatbelts clicking open around you, the shuffle of passengers stretching, retrieving bags, making groggy conversation.

You just breathe, long and steady, pressing your palm into your thigh to ground yourself.

It’s real now.

The last twelve hours have been a blur of data, race footage, and mind-numbing technical documents. You’d thrown yourself into studying, devouring every detail about Spa, about the AlphaTauri AT03, about anything that might give you a sliver of an advantage. At some point, exhaustion had forced you under, and you’d managed to sleep- not well, and not for long, but enough to keep yourself from completely burning out before you even landed. You don’t know if it’s enough, but it doesn’t matter. The only thing that does is the fact that you’re here.

You pull your duffel from the overhead compartment, the strap biting into your shoulder as you shuffle down the narrow aisle, down the jet bridge, through the airport corridors. The Luxembourg terminal is sleek, modern- glass walls, clean lines, an unbothered hush to the early-morning crowd. It’s almost enough to make you feel like this is just another trip, another airport, another connection to some middle-of-nowhere racetrack.

Almost.

You exhale slowly, shoulders still tight from the flight, standing just a little too upright at baggage claim as the conveyor belt lurches to life with a mechanical groan. Around you, the other passengers shuffle forward in loose, disjointed clusters- bleary-eyed and half-present, tugging their carry-ons behind them, faces lit by the glow of phone screens. You barely notice them. Your focus is locked on the mouth of the belt, waiting for the first bag to appear.

The seconds stretch, and you can feel the flicker of unease curling in your stomach, the kind of unease that only comes when you’ve placed your entire fate in the hands of an airline’s baggage system. It would be inconvenient- spectacularly inconvenient- if your gear didn’t make it. Not just your clothes or your toiletries, but your helmet, your gloves, your boots- everything. The tools you need to do the only thing that matters this weekend.

You can handle a lot- jet lag, exhaustion, even the gnawing anxiety clawing at the edges of your composure- but showing up to the most important race of your life with nothing? That’s not a setback you have time to recover from.

Then, finally- there.

Your race bag drops onto the belt with a dull thud, and it’s impossible to miss. It’s enormous, practically the size of a small coffin, its navy fabric scuffed and faded from being tossed in and out of transporters, cargo holds, and garages across America. You muscle it off the belt, the weight familiar, grounding.

You sling your duffel over your shoulder, grip the handle of your race bag, and start toward the exit. No hesitation, no adjusting straps or rolling out sore shoulders- not yet. Every second counts. Every person standing around re-packing their duty-free bags or stretching out the stiffness from the flight is another body you can get in front of in the customs line. You can adjust in line.

The weight of your bags pulls at your arms as you weave through the terminal, stepping around half-asleep travelers and families trying to wrangle children, past the slow-moving group of businessmen already back on their phones as if they never left the ground. The overhead announcements blur together, voices in multiple languages calling out baggage claim numbers, security reminders, gate changes. None of it matters. The only thing that matters is putting one foot in front of the other, getting through this final checkpoint between you and some fresh-fucking-air.

Customs.

You slip into line, shifting your duffel to your other shoulder, adjusting your grip on your race bag. It’s moving, at least- steady, slow, but moving. You take the opportunity to pull out your passport, flipping it open, rolling your shoulders back as you force yourself to breathe.

The line inches forward. A woman ahead of you fumbles with her boarding pass, patting down her coat for something lost in a pocket. A man argues softly with an officer over the contents of his declaration form. The customs agents work through their endless queue of travelers with the same disinterested efficiency you’d expect.

When it’s your turn, you step forward, placing your passport on the counter. The officer barely glances at you at first, flipping it open, running his eyes over the photo page before thumbing through for an empty page. He’s got plenty of options- there aren’t many stamps. A handful from trips to Mexico, a couple from the occasional race in Canada. But there- right near the middle of the booklet, pressed between the folds of your life before now- is Japan.

The ink is slightly faded, but the memory is sharp.

A feeder series race under Puerta Performance. One of the biggest, most competitive wins of your junior career. A stream of races where everything clicked, where you’d finally felt like you belonged in the conversation. You had flown in alone, carried your own damn bags, worked on your own damn car- elbow to elbow with the one real mechanic the team had, and then, somehow, you had won.

It had been your first real, international win. And it had done nothing for you.

The officer glances up, his face still unreadable. "Business or pleasure?"

"Business," you answer automatically.

He nods, flipping back to the front, glancing from your photo to your face, making sure they match.

"And how long will your visit be?"

You hesitate- because you don’t actually know. "A week," you say, because it’s less likely to have you corralled in a plexiglass room than saying as long as they’ll let me stay.

The officer hums, pressing the stamp to the page with a firm thunk, sliding your passport back toward you. "Welcome to the EU."

You don’t waste another second.

Snatching the passport off the counter, you tuck it away and haul your bags back into motion. You’ll check the taxi company on your way- just move. Get outside, get in the car, point your feet somewhere closer to the track and figure out the rest as you go.

The wheels of your race bag clatter against the sleek tile floor as you push forward, dodging clusters of travelers, sidestepping a family stopped dead in the middle of the walkway, their kids wrestling over a stuffed animal. Someone’s wheeling a cart stacked with oversized luggage ahead of you, moving at a crawl, and you veer around them, your steps sharp, determined, relentless.

You're not rushed, not in the way that people sprinting to catch a flight are, but you're moving, too fast for someone who technically doesn't even have anywhere to be yet. But you do. The track. The garage. The sim. Work.

Your mind is running just as fast as your feet, the hum of the airport, the PA announcements, the scattered conversations in a dozen different languages all blurring together into static behind the sheer force of what comes next.

Four days.

Four days until FP1.

Four days to go from a long shot to something real.

Four days until you’re sitting in a Formula 1 car, in an actual race weekend, on one of the most legendary circuits in the world.

Your brain jumps tracks, recalibrating, running through everything you’ve learned, everything you still need to absorb. The AT03’s handling characteristics- where it struggles, where it thrives. The high-degradation nature of Spa’s tarmac. The elevation changes. The brutal forces through Eau Rouge and Raidillon. The moments in Yuki and Pierre’s footage where the car fought them, where the rear stepped out just enough to need a correction, where the chassis didn’t quite stick the way a Red Bull would- where it wouldn’t tolerate the lines of a more aggressive driver.

The air outside is going to be crisp, maybe damp, but you barely register the thought. You’re too busy calculating, adjusting, trying to fit yourself into the space you haven’t even stepped into yet. The exit is just ahead. You can see the doors, the hazy gray of the early morning sky beyond them, the promise of movement, of getting out.

Then-

"Miss LeChriste?"

The voice cuts through the fog of your thoughts, smooth, precise. Not quite questioning, not quite commanding. It’s the tone of someone who already knows they have the right person. You blink, your mind needing an extra half-second to pull itself out of the high-speed loop it’s been running. You turn toward the sound. A man stands on the curb closest to the exit, holding a sign with your name on it.

Oh.

Your momentum stutters, feet slowing as your brain processes what you’re looking at.

You’d expected a taxi. Maybe some impersonal email from a logistics coordinator telling you to grab a rental from the airport desk, something with a budget cap and a manual transmission.

That’s what you’re used to- IndyCar, where teams cut costs at every possible turn, where travel arrangements were a patchwork of last-minute flights, hotel points, and the cheapest rental car they could justify expensing. Or, if you were really lucky, maybe one of the mechanics would swing by and pick you up in their own car, some beat-up old diesel with empty energy drink cans rattling around in the backseat, the heater stuck on max, a roll of duct tape on the dashboard because you never know.You’d piled into the passenger seat of sun-bleached hatchbacks, squeezed between spare parts and duffel bags, making small talk while rolling toward whatever motel your team had justified that weekend.

But this?

This man is wearing a suit. A pressed, properly fitted chauffeur’s suit, complete with a hat, standing in front of a sleek black car that definitely isn’t some bottom-tier economy rental.

"Uh, yeah. That’s me."

The driver nods once, crisp and efficient. "Right this way, Miss."

Miss.

You almost snort. Nobody calls you Miss anything. You barely get your name half the time.

You hesitate for the briefest second before stepping forward, gripping your race bag a little tighter. It’s ridiculous, but you feel out of place already, being ushered toward a private driver like you’re someone important.

There’s something about the way he says it that reminds you- this is Formula 1. This isn’t Indy, where you might be scrounging for a last-minute rental, squeezing into whatever compact car they gave you at the desk, hoping the hotel is decent enough to have a working coffee machine in the morning.

No.

This is Red Bull money. This is the first, quiet luxury of an operation that is so far beyond where you’ve been that you barely know how to process it. The kind of money where they send a driver- a chauffeur- to meet you at the airport before you’ve even turned a wheel for them.

The part that you’re really stuck on? This isn’t the top of Formula 1. This isn’t a private jet, a five-star concierge service, the kind of excess reserved for world champions. This is the bottom of the rung treatment. This is standard. This is what they do for anyone under their umbrella. This is expected.

The thought buzzes through you as you follow him toward the car, your feet moving before your brain has even finished catching up. The air outside is crisp, damp from last night’s rain, and the sky is the washed-out gray of early morning. The exhaustion is there, creeping at the edges of your mind, but it doesn’t matter. You’re still running on adrenaline, on the sheer force of need, but none of that really registers because-

What the fuck is this?

This isn’t your world.

The driver reaches for your race bag, and for a moment, your immediate instinct is to pull it back, to haul it into the car yourself, because that’s what you’ve always done. You carry your own gear. You load your own luggage. You do it yourself, because no one else is going to do it for you.

But his hands are already on it, lifting it into the trunk with the ease of someone who expects to be doing this. Like it’s normal. Like it’s his job.

You exhale through your nose, shaking off the instinct to tell him you’ve got it. Instead, you climb into the backseat, sinking into the plush leather, the scent of clean upholstery hitting you as the door shuts with a quiet thunk.

Outside, the sky is gray, a thick European morning pressing against the glass as the driver pulls away from the curb, the urban sprawl of Luxemborg slipping into something quieter, something greener. You know, logically, that the scenery outside is incredible- lush countryside rolling into the Ardennes, sweeping hills, dense forests- but you don’t spare it a second glance. You don’t have the time for it.

You haven’t looked out the window once.

Instead, your mind is still on the flight, still running through every second of the last twelve hours, every bit of information you devoured somewhere over the Atlantic.

Spa.

You’d watched every inch of Spa.

Every braking point, every apex, every trick of the circuit that separated the competent from the champions. The Red Bull driver portal had given you access to all the film you could ask for- every onboard lap, every telemetry breakdown, every millisecond of data available. You’d watched the best of it, the ones who had conquered this place.

Max, Checo- their onboard film from this very track last year. The big boys. The cleanest, fastest lines that Spa had to offer. The best-case scenario. The way Max bullied his way through the wet, the way Sergio managed his tires on a track that could go from soaked to bone-dry in minutes. They were aggressive, clinical, perfect.

Yuki and Pierre’s onboards- this season, especially. A different perspective. Your perspective. The same car you’d be driving. The AT03 wasn’t the RB18, not by a long shot. It lacked the raw dominance, the brutal efficiency, but it was the best AlphaTauri had managed in years. You studied how it moved, where it suffered, where it thrived. The way Pierre fought understeer through S-turns. The way Yuki handled the tricky mid-sector when the tires started to go. The places where they struggled, where you might struggle.

You absorbed it all.

You should be intimidated. You should be honored, overwhelmed by the fact that in just four days, you’ll be on the same track as the real legends, racing on one of the most historic circuits in the world.

But you don’t have time for intimidation.

You don’t have time to sit here and marvel at the fact that you’re about to put a Formula 1 car through Eau Rouge, that you’re about to barrel down the Kemmel Straight at 300 kilometers an hour.

You have four days. Four days to be good enough to make someone, anyone, just… notice.

You shift in the backseat, adjusting your posture, rolling your shoulders back to shake out the stiffness. You’d finally shucked off your race suit after landing, stripping out of it in an airport bathroom, standing at the sink and taking a long, long look at yourself in the mirror before forcing yourself into something that wouldn’t get you laughed out of the boardroom when you arrived at the track. A fitted jacket, dark jeans, your best attempt at looking like you belonged.

The racesuit had been a reminder, a necessary weight of shame on the flight. But now? Now, you needed to look like someone they’d take seriously. There’s no room for shame, no room for weakness where you’re going.

You take a breath, steadying yourself as you glance down at your phone, skimming through the notes you made mid-flight.

Tire degradation. DRS zones. Elevation change data. Sector time comparisons.

The car isn’t even close to the track yet, and still, your brain is there.

The driver barely says a word, but you can feel his occasional glances in the rearview mirror, maybe wondering what exactly he’s transporting. Maybe wondering if the girl sitting stiffly in his backseat, scrolling through race data at seven in the morning, is actually human.

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August 22, 2022- Spa-Francorchamps Circuit, Belgium

The paddock is in pieces when you arrive, barely recognizable as the polished, high-functioning heart of a Grand Prix weekend. Temporary flooring is being laid down. Trucks are still reversing into position. Forklifts beep relentlessly as they maneuver crates full of equipment and spare parts into the skeletons of hospitality units. Crew members are swarming everywhere, setting up gantries, rigging screens, connecting endless tangles of cables that will power the broadcast feeds and telemetry systems by the time Friday rolls around.

You weave through it all, your race bag rattling behind you on uneven asphalt, escorted by an AlphaTauri staffer who barely introduces himself -Ignacio?- before setting off at a brisk pace. You don’t mind. The chaos feels oddly comforting- this kind of frantic, half-formed scene is something you know well. Setup days at Indy weren’t so different, at least in terms of sheer logistical madness.

What’s different is the scale.

Even in its unfinished state, this place radiates money. The equipment, the infrastructure, the sheer size of it all- everything is dialed up to a level you’ve never touched before. You pass Red Bull’s hospitality build, where scaffolding and tarps still cover half the façade, and for a split second, you think maybe that’s where you’re headed.

It’s not.

You’re led into the actual racetrack offices instead- concrete hallways and plain glass doors, a far cry from the polished luxury the public sees when the paddock is camera-ready. This is the backstage, the practical side of the circus, where decisions happen before anyone ever hears an engine fire up.

Your escort leaves you at the door of a conference room, gesturing for you to go in. You smooth your jacket, square your shoulders, and step inside.

They’re all waiting. You register them, of course, briefly as they all look up.. A set of suits that look like they may have slept even less than you in the last twenty-four hours, two bright eyed, pleasant looking professionals decked out in team kits. But they’re not who earn your attention first. It’s not Mattia Spini that gets it, either. It’s not even Franz Tost- to most, you’d be crazy not to defer to him first- he is the man that this entire opportunity rides on, after all.

But that’s not the truth. Not entirely. Because the Godfather is here.

Helmut Marko.

He’s not seated at the table with the others. Instead, he stands off to the side, leaning against the windowsill like he’s still trying to decide if this meeting is even worth the energy of taking a proper seat. His arms are crossed, head tilted slightly, expression settled somewhere between bored and mildly inconvenienced. He looks at you the way a banker looks at a loan applicant with no credit history- no malice, no warmth, just a quiet, clinical assessment of risk versus reward. It’s not dismissive, but it’s not encouraging, either. It’s the exact amount of respect you’ve earned from him so far, which is to say- none. Not yet.

It’s not a surprise. If anything, you’d expected worse.

Helmut Marko isn’t just some team advisor who drops in for the important meetings. He’s the architect of the entire Red Bull driver development program- the gatekeeper of every seat that exists within this brand. Every junior driver with a Red Bull patch on their chest lives under his thumb, or the thumb of someone who does. He decides who gets opportunities, who gets second chances, and who gets left to rot in feeder series obscurity.

And if you’re not his, if you didn’t come up through his system- if you weren’t plucked from karting at age 12 and molded in the image of what Helmut Marko believes a Red Bull driver should be- you’re already starting with a strike against you.

You’re twenty-two. By Helmut’s standards, that’s practically geriatric for a driver who still needs to prove themselves. Most of his prospects would have either succeeded or washed out entirely by your age. They would have either earned a seat, or been shuffled off to sports cars, endurance racing, somewhere that didn’t matter to him anymore.

But you’re here.

And that’s the part that matters.

Because Helmut Marko doesn’t suffer charity cases. He doesn’t tolerate time-wasters. The fact that you’re standing in this room at all means that, somewhere along the line, something about you caught his attention. Maybe it was your handful of substitute drives this season and last. Maybe it was something Christian Horner said. Maybe it was sheer desperation on AlphaTauri’s part to find anyone who could possibly hold the line in Yuki’s absence.

It doesn’t matter why.

All that matters is that Helmut Marko allowed this meeting to happen. He doesn’t have to like you. He doesn’t have to be impressed. He just has to leave the door open exactly this much. It’s your job to kick it the rest of the way in.

You move like you belong here. Like this is normal- being thrown into a meeting with a room full of people who hold your future in their hands. Like you weren’t on the other side of the world less than twenty-four hours ago, driving a shitbox for a team that treated you like nothing.

The first few minutes are pure formalities. Introductions, pleasantries, nods exchanged. You shake hands with everyone, making sure your grip is firm, your eye contact direct. You sit where they gesture, hands folded in front of you, posture perfect. Professional, measured. No jokes, no awkwardness, no nerves.

Franz Tost sits at the head of the table, his posture composed but his expression unreadable. Franz starts with the basics- introductions, a brief overview of what they’re hoping to achieve this weekend. You keep your tone perfectly professional, measured, micromanaging every aspect of yourself to project exactly what they need to see. Capable. Likable. Smart enough to understand the stakes. Hungry enough to take whatever they give you. You ask exactly the right questions at exactly the right moments- about the car, about expectations, about media requirements, about everything that will determine whether or not you make it to the weekend.

To his left is Mattia Spini, the man who will be your race engineer this weekend- if you earn the car. He’s quiet, thumbing through the small stack RedBull’s assembled that you can assume is all your career -your life’s work- mounts to, on paper.

The legal team- the two suits- sit with carefully neutral expressions. When they slide over a stack of documents that might as well be a brick, and you pick up the pen without hesitation, signing where they point, asking the occasional smart, concise question to show you’re paying attention.

Media relations is here too- the kitted-out pair you had noted before. You nod along to their every ask, perfectly agreeable. You’ll do every interview they want, every promo shot, every press availability. You don’t care. You’ll stand in front of cameras all day if that’s what it takes to earn the seat.

"I’m happy to do whatever the team needs."

It’s not a lie. It’s not even an exaggeration. You will do anything.

And then, it’s your turn. You pull your own packet from your bag- a meticulously prepared file containing every piece of critical data they could possibly need about you. The Holy Bible. This is your life’s work- not the measly six or seven pages they had scraped together and set in front of each seat before you arrived. Mattia takes the folder without much thought at first, flipping it open with the kind of casual disinterest of someone who has sat through way too many meetings just like this one. But the second his eyes land on the first page, the shift is almost imperceptible- almost.

You see it, though.

It’s in the way his fingers slow against the edge of the paper, in the way his posture changes just slightly. His gaze sharpens, scanning the structured layout, taking in the color-coded tabs along the side, the neatly labeled sections that break everything down into digestible, categorized data points.

His brow creases just slightly, his fingers smoothing over the paper as he scans the biometric data. Stress tests, reaction times, endurance tracking. He turns another page, and another. Height, weight, exact body measurements for suit fittings, seating position requirements. Flip. Car history, setup preferences, personal notes on what has worked for you and what hasn’t. Flip. On-track strengths, biggest flaws, areas you’ve personally identified as weaknesses and your own methods of mitigating them.

You keep your expression even, but you know exactly what’s happening here.

Mattia is a data guy. That’s how he got this job in the first place. Numbers, telemetry, analysis- it’s what he does. He’s used to drivers walking in with an opinion on how a car should feel, sure, but not with this.

Because this? This is what he does. This is his job. Synthesize the data, break it down, make it digestible, work on it with the driver. Not the other way around. And that’s interesting.

Tost glances at him briefly, but Mattia doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge the way the room has subtly shifted. He keeps flipping through, fingers moving slightly faster now, like he’s searching for something, like he needs to confirm that this is actually what he thinks it is.

“Did Dale Coyne’s engineers put this together for you?” Mattia’s voice is casual, but the surprise isn’t hidden. It bleeds through the edges, slipping into the slight lift of his brow, the way his fingers hesitate for half a second before flipping to the next page.

You almost laugh- almost. Because the idea of those half-competent, half-bored bastards at Dale Coyne assembling something this polished, this comprehensive? It’s ridiculous. Those men wouldn’t waste the paper to print you a fucking data readout, much less do you the courtesy of organizing your career data into something usable. And if they had? It wouldn’t look like this. It wouldn’t be color-coded within an inch of its life, wouldn’t have cross-references or a table of contents, wouldn’t read like a military dossier written by someone who knows exactly how much weight every ounce of detail could carry.

“No,” you say smoothly, keeping your face as neutral as your tone. “I keep all my data myself.”

There’s a reaction. A small one, but you catch it- Mattia’s head tips just slightly, the folder resting heavier in his hands now, no longer just a pile of papers but a point of interest. His fingers tighten against the edge, not out of irritation but out of concentration. It’s the look of a man who’s just found something unexpected in a sea of the predictable.

You know this moment. You know it.

Because your mother, Marissa LeChriste, made sure you could recognize this kind of moment before you could even spell leverage.

Marissa is a masterclass in influence- not the shallow kind you see on social media, but the real thing. The art of making herself seem indispensable to a room full of men who hadn’t planned on respecting her, let alone considering her. She can read a person like a teleprompter, knows exactly how to shift her tone, adjust her posture, time her smiles. Knows the exact point where charm turns into control, when friendliness becomes power.

You grew up watching her do it- absorbing every glance, every pause, every moment where she turned skepticism into loyalty. Your first major sponsorship? It wasn’t talent alone that landed you that. It was Marissa, walking into meeting after meeting armed with laminated proposals, strategic data points, and a smile so warm it was damn near a weapon.

And God help the poor bastards who said no- because Marissa never walked out of a room without leaving at least one person regretting it.

So when Mattia’s posture shifts- when his fingers curl just a little tighter around the folder- you see it for exactly what it is.

This isn’t a foot in the door. You’re not stupid enough to believe that. You’re a long way from safe, a long way from in. But this? This is a crack. The smallest sliver of daylight peeking through a door that should have stayed sealed shut. And if there’s one thing Marissa LeChriste taught you, it’s that a crack is more than enough.

Because a crack can become a gap. A gap can become a doorway. And a doorway, with enough pressure, with enough carefully applied force, can be shoved wide open until the whole goddamn wall collapses.

You can work with a crack.

It’s quiet- the way the room adjusts around you, your bible, your life laid out on the table. A glance exchanged between Franz and Mattia, a note scribbled down by one of the legal guys, a slight shift in how the media reps hold themselves, sitting forward like maybe- just maybe- you could be someone worth building a campaign around, if even just for a weekend. They’re not sold, not yet. But they’re considering it. You can feel the air change, like the whole meeting tilts half a degree in your favor.

Helmut doesn’t react.

He hasn’t so much as blinked in your direction, not since you sat down. But you can feel him watching, the same way a snake watches something small and scurrying across the ground, waiting to decide if it’s prey or just scenery.

That’s fine.

That’s good enough for now.

Because here’s the truth: the business side of this? It’s not hard for you. It never has been. You know how to smile at the right people, how to dress the right way, how to be charming without being threatening, how to crack a joke that makes people want to root for you instead of against you. It’s all manipulation, but not the ugly kind - it’s survival. And you are fucking excellent at survival.

But none of that - none of the paperwork you just signed, none of the polite nods from Franz, none of the cautious optimism radiating off Mattia - none of it matters unless you can back it up where it counts.

On the track.

You can dazzle them in the boardroom all you want, but this sport isn’t won in a goddamn boardroom. It’s won with lap times. With split-second reactions. With the brutal, intimate understanding of what a car needs, what it can take, what it’s asking for through every bump and twitch of the wheel. If you can’t master that, everything else - the marketing, the PR games, the networking - it’s all just performance art. A nice, neat obituary for a career that never got off the ground.

You won’t be that driver. So you ask for one thing. Not money. Not special treatment. Not even extra setup time with the car - because you know that will get you about as far as asking for a unicorn. You ask for the only thing that will actually make a difference.

“A dedicated sim rig,” you say, voice level, hands folded on the table like you’re asking for something as ordinary as a cup of coffee. “Set to car specs. Six hours of uninterrupted drive time every day until Friday.”

Mattia blinks, caught slightly off guard by how quickly you’ve shifted from polite first impressions to cold, practical demands.

You keep going. “I don’t care when. Middle of the night, middle of the day. I’ll work around the press obligations, the strategy meetings, the media work - all of it. But I need six hours. Preferably eight, if you can swing it.”

The room goes quiet.

Not hostile, not disapproving - just quiet.

Because you know what they’re thinking. They’ve had rookies before, juniors promoted too soon, kids drunk on their own hype. They’ve seen the swagger, the bravado, the ones who show up convinced that talent is enough, that instinct will save them.

But that’s not you.

You don’t believe in talent like it’s some divine gift. You believe in work. In attrition. In being the last one standing when everyone else has burned themselves out. You believe in cramming yourself so full of knowledge that instinct becomes irrelevant- you won’t need instinct, because you’ll already know.

You don’t have the luxury of leaning back on raw talent. You never did. You came up scrapping for every seat, scraping every inch of track time you could get, making your own damn data because no one else was willing to care enough to collect it for you. And now?

Now you’re at war.

Not with Mattia, not with Franz, not with Liam or Pierre or even Max-fucking-Verstappen.

You’re at war with yourself.

With the version of you that lived in the Dale Coyne pit, who ate shit and smiled politely and took every ounce of disrespect because you thought it was the only way to keep your career breathing. With the part of you that still remembers your parents taking out a mortgage on a paid off house just to buy you a seat at that team. With the younger version of you that believed you could make it in this sport if you were just good enough.

There is no "good enough" here. There’s only ruthless.

And if it means you work yourself into the fucking ground for the next four days, so be it. If it means you sleep three hours a night and run on caffeine and adrenaline, fine. If it means you fake your way through every press conference, smiling so wide your cheeks cramp, then collapse in a heap of exhaustion afterward, you’ll do it. Because there’s no going back. You will burn yourself to the ground before you let this opportunity slip.

Mattia glances toward Franz, some unspoken communication passing between them, and then he nods. “Done.” You’re certain it’s not a concession. You’re certain it’s not a favor. You’re certain it’s a test.

You’re certain they want to see if you’ll actually do it. If you’ll show up to that sim rig at some ungodly hour and run laps until your eyes blur, until the seat bruises your back, until the muscle memory starts to override the fear gnawing at the edges of your composure.

They want to see how badly you want this.

They have no idea. They have no idea that you will work every single person sitting here under the table. They have no idea you won’t stop until you’ve outworked every strategist, engineer, pit crew member practicing tracking the tire with his gun. That you’ll outwork the race marshalls, the officials, the fucking janitor sweeping the crusty, smushed french fries from the grandstand floorboards come Sunday night.

“Thank you,” you say. They have no fucking idea.

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Hey guys! Happy season kickoff! Apologies for being gone for so long, I've spent the last few weeks editing and re-writing like a madman as I wanted to be able to bulk publish at least to where the story starts to get more involved with Max, which meant I had to hold back the earlier chapters. So, enjoy the next few posts, we will settle into a more regular updating schedule soon. I promise we are getting to the meat soon- but I want to really nail this exposition, fully flesh out the characters and their relationships with others because it makes everything hit SO much harder when we get to where we're going. Just lean into the ride, it will be fun :).

Working on getting a series master list up for easy navigation. As always, your response and interaction are a huge part of how I stay motivated to do what I do, thank you to everyone who followed, reblogged, or commented on the introductory chapter! I read every single one and so appreciated!

#f1 #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #f1 x reader #formula one #f1 fanfic #max verstappen x y/n #max verstappen x you #mv1 fic #mv1 x reader #mv33 x reader #mv33 fic

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