#i feel healed yet very raw

[smol-soop-spoon]

i just watched "the boy, the mole, the fox and the horse" and I'm violently sobbing now holy shit that felt so viscerally comforting

[mondaymelon]

₊˚ෆ 𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇 !! | sagau xiao, childe, zhongli x gn!reader

ˋ°•*⁀➷ cw: uhm. obsessiveness? yandere if you blink a couple times? cult themes... the usual deal with this au

⤷ [ you, the benevolent and kind overseer and creator of teyvat, has descended upon this world in mortal flesh, with a presence that is overpowering, omniscient, and so impossibly pure. ෆ yet, one day, you come into the cathedral with a gash on your arm, dripping with shimmering golden ichor that spilled from your veins. there will always be those who are too foolish to see the light you bring. ]

— sagau!xiao noticed you immediately. it would be hard not to. since the beginning, he had always heard it.

your sound. a beautiful one, a heavenly one. a chord struck him, somewhere in his chest, and he found himself panting on the ground, clutching at the fabric of his shirt.

like a electric charge - one that leaves you startled, tentative, with the tips of your fingers still tingling from what happened moments prior. a buzz in your veins that thrums along with your heartbeat.

he didn't deserve to see you. not with what sins he had committed. but xiao was selfish. he wanted to, with his tainted body, he wanted to praise you, scrape his throat raw with his voice.

and so he did.

his face brightens as you step into the cathedral, dressed in ceremonial robes as per usual. you look ethereal, why would you not? your eyes are warm as they fixate on him, and he can feel his heart skip a beat and words die in his throat. he kneels before you orderly, readying to lift his head when something catches his attention - that is, the coppery scent of blood.

blood?

a droplet splatters onto the dustless floor. melted gold.

xiao's already stood up before he realizes it. his eyes are blown wide, his shrunken pupils sharp, like a cat's. "who. who did this to you?" those words take all the willpower in him to speak. his mind is swirling, racing, thinking up of every single possibility, vision scattered and blurry as unbridled fury teems within him.

"it's nothing. some civilians have begun rioting in the city, saying that i'm an imposter. all i did was show them a little bit of my blood and they all started singing praises, so the issue has been resolved." you shake your head with a soft smile, like this matter isn't anything to concern himself over.

it is.

he hates it. how he feels so fucking powerless, how he couldn't even stop this simple event from occurring in the first place. it's his fault. it's his and everyone else who dared not believe your words. your word is the truth. it is the undeniable laws of the world, what maps the stars and what lays the land.

he'll have time to ingrain that within everyone's minds. even if it means time away from you. but that's not the issue at the moment. he turns to search for bandages, but sees the already-healing wound slowly closing up as your skin mends together.

there's a knife at your side, coated in something that shimmers in the rays of light coming from the high, color-tainted windows.

something in his heart decides, seeing your reserved smile.

there will always be those who are too foolish to see the light you bring.

very well.

then he'll just have to eradicate every last one of them. ₊˚ෆ

— sagau!childe had, to be honest, never cared all that much. why would he, to the person who had abandoned him into the cold, dark, abyss? yet, the smile on your face. it's bright. so bright it burns him. was there a day where he could smile like that?

no, no. he couldn't. that's an expression only reserved for someone as beautiful as you. as pure as you, like a blank, unblemished canvas, with the world as its paint. it's a level of resplendency that no one on this cursed universe could ever hope to accomplish.

a god in flesh, living in a tainted world. a walking contradiction that he had grown to call the thing that allowed him to keep living. something that spurred irony, you who broke all forms of the logic he had made to keep himself sane. perhaps that was why the heart he'd locked away has suddenly begun aching again? is that why he feels so warm from your divine prescence?

"childe?" you call out his name into the vast, empty hallways, glancing around for the familiar sight of a tuft of ginger hair. he hears you at once, rushing to your side with a grin on his face.

"your grace??" he bows at the sight of you, unable -to contain his excitement as he quivers in place, the smile on his lips tugging upwards even more than its current extent. "yes, what's-"

he stops abruptly, his voice faltering as he catches the scent of something iron. one familiar on the battlefield, a liquid that'd paint the surroundings a beautiful red.

his heart pounds. the thrill of a battle? no, that can't be it. if that was the case, how come it felt like he was slowly suffocating on his unspoken words?

that's when he catches the sight of the poorly wrapped bandages encasing your forearms. and the shimmering ichor that's soaked through the hastily wrapped cloth.

he moves to grab your arm, but curses himself out as he quickly changes direction and tightly holds your wrist, his expression more pained than yours, despite you being the one suffering with the injury. "what... your grace, what is this?"

he hates your knowing smile. he hates it. (oh, but does he? could he hate anything that is of you?) it just reminds him how you're all too far for him to reach, a purity that he does nothing to maintain. "there was a riot in the city against the church. luckily, they all quieted down after i gave them a glimpse of..." you trail off, ending your incomplete sentence with a sheepish smile. the rest is self-explanatory, anyway.

his vision trembles as his pupils shake. "haha, you...?" fuck. fuck fuck fuck, just whose idea was it to allow you near a knife? how did you get your hands on that?? which stupid fucking bumbling idiot allowed for this to happen?

it's his fault. he should've been by your side. curse the fatui, curse them all, how could they possibly dare keep him away from your holy being? the guilt that churns within him, is that why he remains mute as you step away, gracefully walking to meet with the other retainers?

there will always be those who are too foolish to see the light you bring.

no, it's fine.

it will all be fine.

cutting off their tongues won't be enough. cutting them up until they're a dismembered, bloody mess isn't even close to what you've suffered for the sake of humanity.

yes, he'll make them realize that. they'll pay with their blood a thousand times over. ₊˚ෆ

— sagau!zhongli had his breath taken away by you before he even saw you, before the two of you had even exchanged words. your presence - it was so simply alluring, a saccharide charm that just drew him closer and closer.

sweet. yes, it was a familiar flavor upon the tongue that had long since tasted the many marvels the world had to offer. like a warm cup of tea, made from the sugary extract of flowers, how the sensation of it seemed to bloom upon your mouth.

ah, how should he put this. perhaps you had procured the blossom in his heart instead? stems, leaves, buds, a floret that'd only appear when you were in his gaze. a steady thrum that ran throughout his body with every stolen glimpse he took from your attention expertly.

perhaps, was this what he felt all those years ago?

did it matter? his soul was resolute, now, and it glowed gold, just like the blessed blood that flowed through every vein and lay in every vessel within that beautiful, beautiful you.

yes, ichor... just like the splatter of it on the ground...? a pang of fear strikes him - has something happened to you while he was away? he should've none better than to trust those good-for-nothing other cultists, who spend all their time babbling about your gloriousness yet turn a blind eye to whenever you require assistance!

no, he had to calm himself down. this wasn't the moment where he should grow frustrated. first, he must confirm the situation... he's planned this out to the every plan b, c, d, e, and so on, so how come he's still feeling so anxious?

there you are, upon your throne, busy conversing with a fellow archon, the one as free as the wind. funnily enough, you were the one that tied him down like a shackle.

"ah, zhongli. are you alright? you're breathing quite hard." you tilt your head, averting your gaze from venti's sparkling eyes and instead fixing them on the usually stoic man's jumbled expression. his shoulder's heave as he resists the urge to collapse at your feet.

"what... what are you... you're hurt?" stained bandages peek out from just below your silk sleeve, a sight that cannot possibly be missed from his attentive gilded eyes. "why didn't you tell me? i-i'll call one of the healers so they can-"

"zhongli, there's no need for that." with a hand, you gently signal venti to leave the scene, which he does, with obvious reluctance. a silence gesture that resonates with appreciation deeply within him. "this was of my own accord."

"your own accord?"

"unbelievers decided to throw a riot, and there wasn't much i could do except...well, don't they say that seeing is believing?" how come you don't look the slightest bit pain? where is your self-pity? your frustration? "anyhow, i'm not in a good state. please leave me for the time being, i don't plan on receiving any more audiences tonight."

he bows hastily, yet each movement is still finely crafted with minuscule adjustments that have taken him thousands of tries to master. he does as you say, and his strides are quick and long. it won't take a genius to see that his facade has crumpled, with the clear agitation that's spreading across his features like a wildfire that devours all in its path.

there will always be those who are too foolish to see the light you bring.

he'll change that. every thrum of the golden markings running up and down his body seem to pulse in unison with his heartbeat, which is raring like he's recently returned from the battlefield.

who would've thought he'd so quickly return.

this time, of his own will. he'd be sure that these fools of this world would learn the truth of your paragon. ₊˚ෆ

(a/n) please save me the delulu has returned and iTS NOT LETTING GO

໒꒱ || ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ (open! send an ask or a comment ♡) : @manager-of-the-pudding-bank, @iamdedinside, @ilyuu, @achlysis, @swivy123

[a-lexia11]

Healing vacation and World Cup (Meeting in Barcelona part 4)

Alexia Putellas x reader

Words count: Around 11k

Part 1,Part 2,Part 3 , part 5

Note: So I know that I said part 4 will be the last but I changed my mind, there will be another part.

The night of the “breakup” with Alexia was one of the worst experiences of my life. I couldn't sleep a wink; my mind was consumed with thoughts of her—her radiant smile, her infectious laugh, and the scent of her perfume lingering in my memory.

In my desperation, I scrolled through my phone, endlessly watching the pictures and videos we had taken over the past weeks. It felt truly pathetic; we weren't even officially dating, yet here I was, heartbroken.

The worst part was going to bed without receiving one of her goodnight texts. I had grown so accustomed to her sweet messages that the silence felt unbearable.

I still can't wrap my head around the fact that I got my heart broken in Barcelona. It's supposed to be the city of love and romance, not a place for shattered hearts.

——

The next day was Sunday, and despite having a mountain of work to prepare for the final week of school, I couldn't muster the energy to leave my bed—except for the occasional trip to the freezer for more ice cream.

I lay there, feeling utterly defeated, listening to a playlist of sad songs. The ice cream, which was supposed to be a comfort, tasted salty because my tears kept falling into the tub. This only made me cry even more, creating a vicious cycle of sadness and melted, salty ice cream.

At one point, my mom called me, asking how I was, and I completely broke down. I told her everything that had happened, every detail of my heartbreak and the overwhelming sadness I was feeling.

She and my dad tried their best to comfort me. My mom's soothing words and my dad's attempt to lighten the mood with his comment about there being plenty of other fish in the sea.

While I understood his intention, it was hard to accept because I had already chosen my fish, and now, we couldn't be together anymore.

Their efforts, though subtle, did provide a small measure of comfort, but the pain was still very raw.

After we hung up, I found myself drifting back into a state of inactivity. I couldn't muster the energy to do anything but cry. The tears flowed until I was utterly exhausted, and eventually, I fell into a deep sleep, drained from the emotional turmoil of the day.

——

I woke up startled by knocks on my door. Groggily, I got out of bed and shuffled towards the front door, wondering who could be visiting so early. As I opened the door, there stood Alba, looking uncomfortable and biting her lips.

“Hola” she said quietly, her voice almost trembling.

“Hola” I responded, trying to sound more awake and opening the door wider to silently invite her in.

She stepped inside, and I closed the door behind her. We walked over to the kitchen table and sat down. Alba seemed hesitant, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for the right words.

“¿Cómo estás?” (How are you?) she asked, giving me a small, tentative smile.

I raised my eyebrows at her, feeling my exhaustion wash over me again.

Girl, I looked like a mess—my face was all red, my eyes were so puffy I could barely open them, and my hair looked like a bird's nest.

“La más feliz que he sido en mi vida“ (The happiest I've ever been) I replied sarcastically, unable to hide my frustration.

Alba just nodded and looked down at her hands, playing with her rings.

I realized that my behavior was unkind, but the events of yesterday are still very fresh in my mind, and I can't forget how she ignored me the entire afternoon and suddenly snapped at me.

It felt like a complete disregard for my presence and feelings, which is something that really gets under my skin.

While it might appear childish to react in such a manner, I genuinely don't care because the feeling of being ignored is incredibly painful and frustrating.

It made me feel insignificant and unimportant, which is one of the worst emotions to experience. I understand that everyone has their moments, but being treated like that was really hurtful and left a lasting impact on me.

After about a minute of silence, Alba decided to speak. “Um… Lo siento mucho por lo de ayer. Estaba tan emocionada de ver a Marina de nuevo que me olvidé por completo de ti” (Um… I’m really sorry about yesterday. I was just so excited to see Marina again that I completely forgot about you) she said, still looking down, her voice tinged with regret and her shoulders slumped.

Great, Alba, that does not make it any better. “Forgetting” about me just because your friend is also here… it made it worse. The sting of being overlooked, especially by someone I considered a close friend, cut deep.

I could feel the tension between us growing, the silence becoming heavier with unspoken words and unresolved feelings. Alba’s apology, though sincere, did little to mend the hurt.

The memory of being sidelined, of feeling invisible in the presence of someone she deemed more important, was still fresh and raw. Right now, she makes everything worse.

I’m feeling really let down and upset with the Putellas sisters. They are the last people I want to see or talk to at the moment. The incident is still very fresh, and I need some time to come to terms with it.

If I continue discussing this with her right now, I might say something I’ll later regret.

It’s such a stark contrast to just a few weeks ago. I used to look forward to seeing Alexia and hanging out with Alba.

We would go out with our friends, enjoy dinners, and have movie nights where I’d cuddle with Alexia.

Those moments felt so warm and comforting. Now, the thought of seeing them fills me with dread and frustration. It’s heartbreaking how quickly things have changed.

I rose from my chair, feeling the tension in the air. “No quiero hablar contigo en este momento” (I really don’t want to talk with you right now) I said, my voice strained with a mix of frustration and exhaustion. “Creo que es mejor que te vayas” (I think it’s best if you leave)

Without waiting for a response, I turned and walked towards the front door, my footsteps echoing in the quiet room.

The distance between us grew with each step, and I felt a heavy weight lift slightly from my shoulders as I reached for the doorknob.

Alba rose from her seat and slowly made her way towards the front door. As I opened it for her, she paused right in front of me, her eyes meeting mine with a glint of unshed tears.

“I’m so, so sorry” she whispered in English, her voice barely audible yet laden with emotion. With that, she stepped out of my apartment, leaving a lingering sense of sorrow in the air.

I closed the door behind her and let out a deep sigh, resting my forehead against the cool wood.

The silence of the apartment seemed to echo the turmoil in my heart. Friendships and love are so difficult, I thought, feeling the sting of her departure.

The complexities of human connections often left me feeling both enriched and exhausted, and this moment was no different.

Settling back onto my sofa, I reached under the coffee table to grab my labtop. With a few quick clicks, I booked a flight back to New York, feeling a mix of relief and anticipation.

I really need to be with my family and friends. Spending my summer vacation in New York wasn't part of the plan—I was supposed to go to Bali with my friends but given the circumstances, that's no longer an option.

The thought of being surrounded by the familiar sights and sounds of home brought a sense of comfort. I missed my parents and friends deeply, so NYC, here I come.

Just one more week of school, and I can finally escape Barcelona. The city had been beautiful and full of life, but right now, I needed the warmth and support of my loved ones more than anything.

——

Returning to work turned out to be easier than I had anticipated. Seeing all the children again brought a sense of joy and made me feel a little better, lifting my spirits.

I couldn't avoid Alba at all since we were working in the same class, but it was clear that something had definitely changed between us.

I wasn't talking to her, avoided making eye contact, and only spoke to her when it was absolutely necessary.

I maintained a professional demeanor throughout the entire week, focusing solely on my tasks and responsibilities.

It was challenging, but I knew it was the right thing to do for my own peace of mind.

I could see that she desperately wanted to talk to me; she always looked at me with eyes that seemed to say I had kicked her puppy or something equally heartbreaking.

I'm not going to lie, it hurt me more than I want to admit. Seeing her like that tugged at my heartstrings, making it difficult to stay firm in my decision.

But right now, the best thing for us, for me, is to focus on myself and my well-being. If that means I have to ignore Alba, then that's what I'm going to do.

It's not easy, but sometimes you have to make tough choices to protect your own mental and emotional health.

“Entonces, chicas, ¿algún plan para el verano?” (So, girls, any plans for the summer?) Valeria asked as Alba and I were in her office, having a little recap of everything that had happened at work.

Today is Friday, the last day of school, and finally summer vacation.

“Um…Sí, voy a Bali con mi hermana y amigos” (Um… yeah I’m going to Bali with my sister and friends) Alba said kinda quietly like she was ashamed of saying it.

Even though I’ve never told her directly, I think it’s safe to say that we silently agreed that I’m not part of this trip anymore.

“Eso es genial, Alba. Bali es hermoso, te vas a divertir mucho” (That’s great, Alba.Bali is beautiful you’re going to have so much fun) Valeria responded more exited that Alba. “¿Y tú, Y/N?” (What about you,Y/N) she asked turning her head,looking at me.

“Voy a regresar a Nueva York, voy a pasar un tiempo con mi familia” (I’m going back to New York, I’m going to spend some time with my family) I told her with a gentle smile.

Valeria smiled excitedly at me, nodded and said “¡Espero que se diviertan! Se lo merecen. Ambos fueron increíbles, y los niños no pueden esperar para verlos de nuevo en septiembre” (I hope you guys have some fun! You deserve it. You both were incredible, and the kids can't wait to see you both again in September) Valeria told us, smiling gently at us.

We thanked her.

After 30 more minutes of talking, Valeria finally let us go with a hug and a “see you in September” Alba and I made our way out of the school.

The sun was shining brightly, and the air was filled with the sounds of children laughing and playing, celebrating the start of their summer freedom.

In the parking lot, I turned to her and managed an awkward smile. “Diviértete en Bali” (Have fun in Bali) I said, my voice betraying a hint of the sadness I felt.

I was just about to turn around and walk to my car when I felt her hand gently stop me.

I turned around and looked at her, confusion etched across my face. She let go of my hand and took a deep breath, her eyes darting nervously.

“Um… quería contarte algo” (Um… I wanted to tell you something) she began, her voice trembling slightly.

“Te lo estoy diciendo para que no te enteres por las redes sociales ni nada... pero... um... Marina viene con nosotros a BalI” (I’m telling you so you don’t find out through social media or anything… but… um… Marina is coming with us to Bali) She paused between some words, her stress clearly evident as she gauged my reaction.

Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her shirt, and I could see the worry in her eyes, reflecting the weight of the news she had just delivered.

I really don’t know what to say right now. It feels like they’ve replaced me with her. Y/N isn’t coming to Bali anymore, so let’s decide to invite Marina instead... just like that.

It’s incredibly frustrating and makes me feel really sad. Marina played a significant role in the fallout between Alexia and me, and now they’re still choosing to go on vacation with her.

Alba noticed my silence and quickly added, “Bianca es quien la invitó. Estábamos cenando juntos, hablando del viaje a Bali, y Bianca se sintió mal, así que la invitó” (Bianca is the one who invited her. We were having dinner together, discussing the Bali trip, and Bianca felt bad, so she invited her) she said, looking me directly in the eyes, as if to prove her sincerity.

Honestly, I don't have the energy to argue, so I just nodded and said, “Bueno, diviértete” (Okay, well, have fun) in a monotonous voice.

She bit her lip and replied, “Disfruta tu tiempo con tu familia” (Enjoy your time with your family.) I nodded again and turned towards my car.

I'm so over this. I really need to disconnect for a few weeks and stay away from them. It's the only way I can fully move on and heal from this.

——

On Sunday, I decided to go shopping since I’m leaving on Monday and wanted to get something special for my parents from Barcelona.

While I was browsing through necklaces for my mom, I suddenly heard someone calling my name from behind. I turned around and, to my surprise, it was Marcus.

I hadn't seen him since Bianca’s birthday, and seeing him there in the middle of the store brought back a flood of memories.

“Hey Marcus! How's it going?” I greeted him with a friendly hug, happy to see his familiar face.

“I'm good, and you?” he replied, his smile genuine and welcoming. “I'm good too, thanks” I answered, matching his friendly vibe.

“What are you up to here? Checking out the necklaces?” he asked, glancing at the jewelry selection.

“Yeah,I’m getting a gift for my mom. I’m heading back to New York tomorrow, so I wanted to grab something special for my parents” I explained, appreciating his interest.

“That's cool! I'm also heading back to New York soon. We should hang out” he suggested casually.

“For sure! That'd be awesome” I replied warmly, looking forward to catching up with a good friend.

Following our conversation and exploration together, Marcus's kindness and relaxed demeanor truly enhanced the entire experience.

We found a beautiful necklace for my mom, shared some laughs, and swapped phone numbers to plan a future meet-up in New York. Finally, we bid each other farewell.

I still needed to find something for my dad, and knowing his love for football and the Barça team, I decided to visit a Barça store.

The store was vibrant with the team's colors, and the energy was palpable, filled with fans and tourists alike.

While browsing through the aisle filled with various jerseys, I was meticulously going through each one, trying to find the perfect fit for my dad.

Suddenly, I looked up and there she was. Alexia.

In a promotional poster, wearing a Barça shirt, her blonde hair gleamed in the picture, and she had her arms crossed, looking intently into the camera.

Her presence, even in a photograph, was commanding and powerful.

Ugh, what did I expect? Not seeing her in a Barça store? When she's one of the best Barça players? It was almost inevitable.

I can't help but stare at her. The sight of her brought back a flood of memories, and I realized just how much I missed her.

Her intense gaze, even from a poster, seemed to reach out and touch a part of me that had been dormant for too long.

After a few minutes of just staring at that poster of Alexia, I finally pulled myself together and continued looking for a jersey. The store was bustling with fans, and the atmosphere was electric, filled with excitement and chatter about the latest matches and players.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I found the perfect jersey for my dad. It was a classic design with his favorite player's number on it. Feeling a sense of accomplishment, I headed to the cashier, paid for the jersey, and stepped out of the store and in the busy street of Barcelona.

——

Later that day, I found myself packing my suitcase. I put a lot in it since I’ll probably be spending the whole summer there and will come back only in September.

The thought of being away for so long made me feel a mix of excitement and nostalgia.

While rummaging through my stuff, I stumbled upon a little box with the butterfly necklace that Alexia had given me.

Memories of the day she gave it to me flooded back, and I felt a bittersweet pang in my chest. Despite the mixed emotions, I decided to take it with me.

There was something comforting about having it close, a tangible reminder of the good moments we shared, not just the bad.

Carefully, I placed the box in my suitcase, knowing that it would bring a sense of connection and warmth during my summer away.

——

The next day, I found myself at the bustling airport, ready to embark on my journey back to New York.

The excitement of returning home mixed with a tinge of sadness about leaving behind the vibrant streets of Barcelona, even if temporary.

As much as I love the city's rich culture, beautiful architecture, and warm, sunny days, I missed my hometown deeply.

The familiar skyline, the hustle and bustle of the streets,were calling me back. With a mix of emotions, I boarded the plane, looking forward to reuniting with everything and everyone I had missed so much.

——

Landing in New York, I felt a wave of relief wash over me as I finally escaped the confines of the long flight. The anticipation of seeing my family again made every step feel lighter as I navigated through the crowded airport.

I made my way to the baggage claim area, weaving through the throngs of travelers, each with their own stories and destinations.

After what felt like an eternity, my suitcase finally appeared on the carousel. With a sense of accomplishment, I retrieved it and checked my phone.

A message from my mom popped up, informing me that she and my dad were waiting for me near the airport entrance.

As I descended the escalator, my eyes scanned the crowd until they landed on my parents. My mom was holding a sign that read “Bienvenido a Nueva York,” written in bold, colorful letters, while my dad stood beside her with a bouquet of vibrant flowers.

Their dramatic gesture brought a smile to my face, reminding me just how much I love them.

The moment they spotted me, my mom called out my name, her voice filled with excitement.

She waved frantically, her enthusiasm infectious. I couldn’t help but laugh at their eagerness, feeling a warm sense of belonging as I made my way toward them.

Stepping off the escalator, I hurried towards my parents and enveloped them in a tight hug.

I had missed them so much; their familiar scents and warm embrace brought a sense of comfort that only family could provide.

As tears welled up in my mom's eyes, I could feel the depth of her emotions, her love for me shining through every tear.

On the other hand, my dad's beaming smile could have lit up the entire airport; his joy at seeing me again was palpable, filling the air with a contagious happiness that lifted my spirits.

After our emotional reunion, my parents extended an invitation to dine at a nearby restaurant. Amidst the cozy ambiance and delicious food, I poured my heart out, recounting every detail of my Barcelona adventures.

From Valeria's kindness to the lively banter with the school kids, the bond with my new friends, and the captivating tales of Alba and Alexia, I painted a vivid picture of my life in Spain.

My parents, ever the attentive listeners, hung onto my every word. When I revisited the story of Alexia and me, my dad's protective instincts flared up, his playful threat of converting to a Madridista eliciting laughter from all of us.

Meanwhile, my mom, with her gentle wisdom, offered comforting advice and reassurance, grounding me in her maternal warmth and understanding.

——

After spending a few hours at home, I finally decided it was time to unpack my suitcase, so I enlisted my mom to help me out.

We began carefully pulling out the clothes, one by one, chatting about the trip as we went. Suddenly, my mom's eyes caught something small and delicate—a little box tucked away in a corner of the suitcase.

She gently picked it up and opened it, revealing the butterfly that Alexia had given me.

“What’s this?” she asked, opening the box and seeing the butterfly. “Wow, that’s really pretty! Where did you get it?” she continued, inspecting the necklace.

“Oh, it was a gift from Alexia,” I trailed off. My mom looked at me sadly and gave me a sympathetic smile.

“Ooh, is that your initial imprinted on the wings?” she noticed, placing a hand on her heart, touched by it.

“Yeah, it is,” I answered, feeling a little sad as I looked down at my clothes and began folding them as a distraction.

“That girl seemed to really like you, dare I say maybe even in love with you,” she said, and that made me look up at her so fast I almost got whiplash.

“In love?! Don’t be ridiculous, Mom. She is not in love with me; we’ve only known each other for barely three months,” I told her, looking at her weirdly.

“And? The heart wants what it wants, right? Time doesn’t matter; it’s the connection that you have that does. Plus, I’m pretty sure that you’re in love with her,” she said, smirking at me.

That’s ridiculous. I’m not in love with Alexia, just because I think about her every day and every second, and that I love to admire pictures of her, and that I would do anything for her, and that—oh my God, I think I’m in love with her.

I looked at my mom with wide eyes. “I’m in love with Alexia… oh my God,” I told my mom. She just looked at me, nodding her head and smiling gently.

“I know you are,” she said, placing her hand on my shoulder before turning back to folding my clothes.

Now that I think about it, it all makes sense, but it's adding layers of complexity to my feelings. How am I supposed to fully move on from her when my heart feels so entangled?

And then there's the question of whether Alexia is really in love with me. A part of me desperately hopes for a definitive answer, either yes or no, because ambiguity just makes everything more complicated.

If she is, it brings a whole new set of challenges; if she isn't, it might make it easier to let go, but it still hurts.

——

I spent my first two week in NYC just soaking up the city and relaxing with my friends and family. It felt so good to reconnect with Madison and Carter; I had missed them more than I realized.

We laughed, reminisced, and created new memories together. To make the most of this precious time, I decided to disconnect from my phone completely. I deleted all my social media apps and any other distractions, focusing solely on being present with my loved ones.

One of the highlights was inviting Marcus to hang out with us. He had mentioned he was also in New York, and it seemed like the perfect opportunity to include him in our group.

Surprisingly, he fit right in, as if he had always been a part of our tight-knit circle. We explored the city, shared stories, and bonded over our shared experiences, making the week even more special.

He’s basically become part of our group now. We’re always hanging out together, even when we’re just doing nothing. I’ve gotten to know him better, and I’m not disappointed.

He really belongs with us. It’s been great to see how well he fits in with everyone. We’ve had some amazing times, whether it’s surfing in the Hamptons, grabbing a bite to eat, or just chilling at someone’s place.

He’s added a new dynamic to our group, and I can’t imagine it without him now.

This two weeks were truly amazing until I decided to go back on social media and saw Bianca’s new Instagram post.

She had posted an insta dump with pictures from Bali. There was one picture in particular that caught my eye: all of them sitting at a restaurant, smiling. Alexia and Marina were sitting next to each other, with Alexia’s arm around Marina’s shoulder.

I just stared at the both of them; they really do look like a couple. Alexia had confessed to me that at one point she felt something for Marina, and now that they are on vacation together, maybe they’ve rekindled that flame.

I made the mistake of going through the comments. Alexia’s fans were all over it, recognizing Marina as her ex and freaking out, shipping them, saying they look cute together. It was like a punch to the gut.

Huffing, I locked my phone and threw it across my bed. I fucking hate them! Well, not Alexia, but in that moment, I did hate her.

Seeing them together like that brought back so many memories and emotions. I couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy and hurt. It's like everything we had talked about, all the feelings she had shared with me, were just thrown out the window.

I felt betrayed and confused, the comments only made it worse.

I needed to get away from it all, to clear my head and figure out what I was really feeling.

I decided to take a long walk, hoping the fresh air and solitude would help me sort through my emotions. But no matter how far I walked, the image of Alexia and Marina together kept replaying in my mind.

How can my mom even think that Alexia is in love with me when she's so openly affectionate with someone else? It's confusing and hurtful, and I don't know what to believe anymore.

Feeling jealous and angry, I decided to make an Instagram dump too. I posted several pictures of food, Madison, Carter, and most importantly, Marcus.

Alexia was jealous of Marcus; she told me herself, so I thought, why not post about him?

I included a particular picture of all of us in swimsuits after we went surfing in the Hamptons.

The picture was a selfie taken by Madison. In the background, you could see Carter sitting by himself, eating. Marcus and I were in the foreground, sitting on a surfboard.

I had my arms wrapped around his stomach, and his arms were comfortably resting around my shoulders.

The sun was setting, casting a beautiful glow over the scene, and you could see the waves gently crashing behind us. The picture perfectly captured the joy and relaxation of that moment.

And I captioned it : “ Mis favoritos momentos con Mis favoritas personas” (My favorite moments with my favorite persons)

——

As I was laying on my bed at night, I received an instagram notification.

alexiaputellas liked your post.

I really hope you liked my post, Alexia. I mean, I truly hope it brought you immense joy and satisfaction…

And then I received a message from Alexia. I quickly sat up, my mind racing as I debated whether or not to read it.

The curiosity was killing me, and I couldn't shake the feeling that it might be something important. After a moment of hesitation, I decided, “Oh, screw it, I should just read it.”

La Reina👸 : Hola,Y/N how are you? I hope I’m not bothering you.I just wanted to know how you are, I saw some of you pictures that you posted,I’m really happy that you’re enjoying yourself.You deserved it.

Ugh,suddenly you want to know how I am right after I posted those pictures...

I knew it, posting that picture with Marcus definitely got to her. I mean, it was bound to happen, right?

But should I respond? I can't deny I missed talking to her. She saw that I read the message, and if I don't reply, it’ll seem rude... Plus, it's not like I want to start any drama.

So frustrating. I'll just reply casually and normally, keeping things light and friendly.

To La Reina 👸: Hey Alexia, I'm good, thanks! How about you? How was Bali?

Is it too short? Should I add more? No, it's perfect. And I send her the message, hoping for the best.

After a few minutes, her call suddenly came through. I sat up even more, almost falling out of my bed, my mind racing with questions.

Why is she calling now? Isn't texting enough? Oh no, what do I do? She knows I'm awake; I just replied to her message.

Shit! I’m panicking, I’m panicking.

Okay, calm down. Deep breaths, in and out, in and out.

With a deep breath, I finally picked up the phone.

“Hello” I greeted Alexia, trying to sound as calm and casual as possible, even though I was on the edge of a panic attack.

“Hello, Y/N,” Alexia responded softly. Hearing her voice and that familiar accent made my heart skip a beat. “How are you?” she continued.

“I’m good. And you?” I asked her genuinely, eager to hear more.

“I’m good too, thank you,” she said gently, her voice as soothing as ever.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, I decided to break the ice. “Did you have fun in Bali? Are you back in Barcelona?”

“Yes, I had a lot of fun, and yes, I am back in Barcelona,” she answered casually.

I furrowed my eyebrows. She’s back in Barcelona, and it’s like 4 a.m. there right now. Why is she awake?

“Why aren’t you sleeping? It’s late in Barcelona right now,” I told her, my concern evident in my voice.

“I couldn’t sleep. I—” she stopped in her tracks. The silence stretched for a few seconds, and then she continued, “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

I closed my eyes, feeling a mix of emotions. God, why do you say those kinds of things? And at night, I’m so much more vulnerable at this time.

“Y/N? Are you still here?” she asked, worry lacing her voice, pulling me out of my thoughts.

“Um... yes... sorry, I’m still here,” I answered, totally dumbfounded, trying to process her words and the emotions they stirred within me.

I sighed deeply, "Alexia, you can’t say things like that," I said with a hint of sadness in my voice.

"But it’s the truth," she responded sincerely, her words cutting through the silence.

I sighed again, feeling the weight of her words. "How is Alba?" I quickly changed the subject, desperately trying to steer the conversation away from our feelings.

"She is very good. She misses you, you know…" she trailed off, her voice softening.

"I miss her too," I responded truthfully, feeling a pang of longing.

I can't lie, I miss Alba a lot—her presence, her humor, her teasing. Maybe I should try and reach out to her at some point. I can't stay angry at her forever.

The thought of reconnecting with Alba brought a small smile to my face, despite the emotional turmoil I was feeling.

After that, Alexia and I talked for a while, but only about our vacations—how they went, what we did, the places we visited, and the people we met. I completely avoided talking about Marina.

The pain of that situation still lingered, and I wasn’t ready to confront it just yet.

Alexia also mentioned that in less than a week, she will be flying to New Zealand for the World Cup.

She was very excited about it and maybe also a little nervous. I mean, it’s the World Cup after all. She talked about how she’s been training hard and how much it means to her to represent her team on such a big stage.

She’s looking forward to the experience but also feels the pressure to perform well.

She also shared with me the various issues the team is currently facing with their coach.She mentioned that the disagreements are affecting their training sessions and overall team morale.

She seemed really upset about it.

“Will you come to see one of my matches?” she asked suddenly, catching me off guard.

“I don’t know, Alexia,” I replied hesitantly, unsure of how to navigate the situation.

“Lo cubriré todo: los billetes de avión, los hoteles, todo” (I’ll cover everything—plane tickets, hotels, everything) she quickly added, her desperation to convince me evident in her voice.

“Alexia, that’s not the issue,” I informed her, trying to convey the complexity of my hesitation.

“Entonces, ¿cuál es el problema?” (Then what is the problem?) she asked, her frustration starting to show.

“You know what the problem is,” I retorted knowingly, hinting at the unresolved issues between us.

“Sí, pero por favor, creo que es hora de que tengamos una conversación cara a cara, no por teléfono. No podemos seguir así. Te quiero en mi vida; significas mucho para mí” (Yes, but please, I think it’s time for us to have a conversation face to face, not over the phone. We can’t stay like this. I want you in my life; you mean so much to me) she said emotionally, her voice softening as she tried to reach me on a deeper level.

She was right; I can’t avoid this situation forever. I need to work things out with Alba and her. I work with Alba, and we need to make things comfortable with each other once we get back to work.

The tension can’t affect my professional life.

And Alexia is now also a part of my life. I need to work things out with her too. It’s the only solution to live in peace and move forward without this cloud hanging over us.

“Okay, I’ll come to see one of your matches,” I told her, finally giving in. I think I can squeeze New Zealand into my schedule, though it will be tight.

I’ll ask Marcus, Carter, and Madison if they want to come along. It might be good to have some company and support during this trip.

“Good!” she said excitedly. “I can pay for everything,” she started saying, but I cut her off.

“It’s okay, Alexia, you don’t have to pay for anything. I can cover it, really,” I informed her.

After a few minutes of back-and-forth arguing about whether she would or wouldn’t pay for my trip, she finally gave in.

“Now, I’ll need to go buy a Spain jersey” I told her jokingly, trying to keep the conversation light.

“You know I can give you one; you don’t have to buy it” she replied matter-of-factly, her tone amusing.

“Who said I wanted your jersey?” I retorted with a playful grin, letting out a little laugh at the end to show I was just teasing.

“Oh, so you don’t want to carry my name on your back?” she responded, her voice filled with mock indignation.

“No, thank you. I want a Bonmati jersey” I informed her.

“That’s a very good choice,” she said sweetly and honestly, her smile warm and genuine.

“I'm just teasing, I only want to wear your jersey, no one else's” I said softly, my tone becoming more tender as I gazed into her eyes.

Ugh, I'm starting to get emotional now... stop it, Y/N.

“Can you FaceTime me, please? I really want to see you” she asked hesitantly.

“Of course, you can FaceTime me” I replied after a brief pause.

I received the FaceTime call and accepted it right away.

She appeared on my screen, looking so relaxed. I could see she was lying on her bed with Nala in her arms.

“Hola” she greeted me with a gentle smile.

“Hola” I responded. “Can I see Nala, please?” I asked, and she chuckled softly. She moved her camera to show Nala, who was peacefully asleep.

“Oh, she's adorable” I whispered to Nala. I really missed that little dog.

Alexia brought the camera back to herself. “You got a tan; it looks great on you” I complimented her.

“Gracias” (thank you) she said “Sabes, me habría divertido más si hubieras estado aquí con nosotros” (You know, I would have had more fun if you were here with us) she added, sounding a bit sad.

I sighed deeply, feeling a bit lost on how to respond.

“Maybe one day, we'll be able to go there together again” I suggested, smiling warmly at her.

“I would love that” she replied, her smile mirroring mine.

“Um... I saw your pictures on Instagram. You and Marcus are friends now?” she asked hesitantly, trying to choose her words carefully to avoid sounding rude.

There it was. The unmistakable hint of jealousy I had been expecting.

“Yes, we ran into each other again in Barcelona. I told him I was heading back to NY, and he mentioned he was going too. So, yeah, we've been hanging out” I explained, trying to keep my tone casual.

I couldn't resist asking, “I saw Bianca's Instagram. You and Marina seem to be getting closer too” I pointed out gently, not wanting to sound accusatory.

“Sí, somos amigas” (Yes, we're friends) she said simply, and I nodded, though doubt lingered in my mind.

It's hard to fully believe her right now. Noticing my hesitation, she looked at me through the screen and said firmly, “I promise you, nothing happened with her. She's just my friend”

I nodded again, her earnestness making me think she might be telling the truth. I decided to trust her.

Alexia then yawned, clearly exhausted from our long conversation. We had been talking for at least an hour.

“Alexia, go to sleep. It's late, or rather early, for you” I gently urged her.

“Quiero seguir hablando contigo, no hemos hablado en tanto tiempo, te he extrañado más que a nada” (I want to keep talking with you, we haven’t talk in so long, I missed you more than anything) she whispered softly, her voice full of longing.

Oh, Alexia, I miss you so much too, more than anyone or anything but I decided to ignore the comment

“Let's talk tomorrow, okay? ” I told her, trying to convince her to go to sleep.

“Okay, I'll talk to you tomorrow. Good night, cariño” she said casually, her voice soft and drowsy.

I don't think she realized the pet name she used because she was half asleep. It caught me off guard but made me smile.

“Goodnight, Alexia” I said simply. She smiled gently at me through the phone, and then there was a soft click as she hung up.

Having this conversation with her was really good. I feel so much lighter now. All the anger that had been weighing me down just disappeared. It feels so good to talk, even though we didn't address the problem directly.

Just hearing her voice and knowing she's there for me made everything better.

——

Over the next few days, I reached out to Carter, Madison, and Marcus to see if they were interested in going to New Zealand for the World Cup. They all responded with enthusiasm.

We then went online to purchase Spain jerseys. I chose Alexia's jersey, while Marcus and Madison went for Aitana's jersey. Carter, like me, opted for Alexia's jersey.

I sent a message to Alexia, informing her that we would be traveling to New Zealand to watch her play. She was thrilled and thanked us for the support.

We all agreed to invite Alba to join us. I feel it's time to finally forgive her. The three weeks apart have allowed my anger to dissipate, and I've realized how much I miss her.

This trip seems like the perfect opportunity to mend our relationship and enjoy an unforgettable experience together.

So that’s why I’m calling her right now.

“Hola” she answered the phone, sounding really confused.

“Hola, Alba,” I replied warmly. “Cómo estás?” (How are you?) I continued sweetly.

“Hola, Y/N. Estoy bien, ¿y tú?” (I’m fine, and you?) she asked back, her voice carrying a hint of curiosity.

“Estoy genial, gracias” (I’m great, thank you) I answered, trying to sound as cheerful as possible. “Te estoy llamando porque quería preguntarte algo” (I’m just calling because I wanted to ask you something) I continued, feeling a bit nervous.

“Dime” (Tell me) she said, her tone encouraging.

“Quería saber si te gustaría, ya sabes, venir a Nueva Zelanda conmigo y mis amigos” (I wanted to know if you would like to, you know, come to New Zealand with me and my friends) I asked, my voice wavering slightly. “Tuve una conversación con Alexia hace poco, y vamos a ver algunos de sus partidos y también pasar un tiempo allí de vacaciones” (I had a conversation with Alexia not long ago, and we’re going to see some of her matches and spend some time there for vacation as well) I continued, rambling nervously.

There was a moment of silence that felt like an eternity before she finally answered, “¡Sí, me encantaría ir con ustedes!” (Yes, I would love to come with you guys) she said, and I could hear the genuine smile in her voice.

“¡Eso es fantástico! ¡No puedo esperar! Um, ya sabes, también nos dará la oportunidad de hablar sobre, ya sabes, lo que pasó” (That’s fantastic! I can’t wait for it! Um, you know, it will also give us the opportunity to talk about, you know, what happened) I added, my nerves showing through.

“Sí, me gustaría hablar de todo eso contigo también” (Yes, I’d like to discuss all that with you too) she said, sounding relieved and perhaps a bit emotional.

“De acuerdo, te enviaré toda la información.” (Okay, well, I will text you all the info) I informed her, feeling a sense of relief wash over me.

“Sin problema, estoy feliz de que hayas llamado“ (No problem, Y/N. I’m really happy you called) she said, her voice filled with emotion, and I returned her words before we said our goodbyes.

——

We’ve been in New Zealand for about two days now.

After an incredibly long flight, we have finally landed in New Zealand two days ago.Alba is supposed to join us today, and I’m sure her arrival will make the trip even more exciting.

I did not have the chance to see Alexia in those two days,since she does not have much days off.

The Spanish team has played three matches so far and has won two of them, which is amazing. The excitement of the matches is palpable, and I can’t wait to see more of them in action.

Besides the matches, I’m looking forward to exploring this beautiful country with you all and creating unforgettable memories.

“Where is she? We've been waiting for like 20 minutes! Send her a message” Carter complained for what seemed like the hundredth time. We are currently at the airport about to pick up Alba.

“Oh, look, there she is!” Madison pointed out Alba and greeted her excitedly, waving and calling her name with enthusiasm.

Alba turned her head and upon seeing us, her face lit up with a big smile. She quickened her pace and approached us swiftly.

When she finally arrived, she greeted us all with tight hugs and kisses on the cheeks, her joy palpable.

When she reached me, she put her hand on the back of my head and hugged me so tightly I could barely breathe, but I hugged her back just as tightly, feeling her warmth and affection.

“I've missed you so much” she said in English with a voice that was almost breaking into tears. I hugged her even tighter if that was possible and echoed her words, feeling the emotion of the reunion.

We parted with a kiss on each cheek and, with a mix of laughter and chatter, headed towards our rental car.

After returning to the hotel, Alba and I engaged in a deep and emotional conversation that lasted at least an hour , with a few tears shed here and there.

She confessed how terrible she felt about the hurtful comment she had made and how she had ignored me when Marina was around.

Her voice was filled with genuine remorse, and I could see the regret in her eyes.

Alba promised that she would never behave that way again and, in a light-hearted moment, even said I could slap her if she ever did. She went on to tell me how much she missed me and how everyone in Bali missed me too.

She mentioned that the trip would have been so much better if I had been there, and hearing that truly touched my heart. It made me realize how much I mean to them and how much they value my presence.

I forgave her wholeheartedly, understanding that time has allowed me to heal and that it’s now time to move forward. I feel that this experience has the potential to make our friendship stronger than ever.

Perhaps we needed this argument to reinforce our bond and understand each other better. With a tight hug and a playful slap on my ass, we left the hotel, ready to explore the vibrant city of Aucklan.

——

After a long day of sightseeing, we finally got back to the hotel to freshen up and prepare ourselves for the match tonight. Spain is playing against Switzerland, and the excitement was palpable. I headed to the bathroom for a quick shower, eager to get ready for the evening.

As I was getting dressed, my eyes fell upon that familiar small box with the butterfly necklace inside. I hesitated, debating whether or not to wear it. After a few minutes of contemplation, I decided to put it on, feeling a sense of comfort and connection as I clasped it around my neck.

While rummaging through my suitcase for my jersey, Alba emerged from the bathroom, her hair still damp and a playful smirk on her face. Her eyes immediately went to the necklace I was wearing.

“Lo sabía, se vería realmente hermoso en ti” (I knew it would look really beautiful on you) she said, her smile gentle. “Yo la ayudé a elegirlo, ¿sabes?” (I helped her choose it, you know.)

“¿De verdad?” (Really?) I asked, genuinely surprised.

“Sí, pero fue idea de ella añadir las iniciales. ¿Verdad que fue lindo?” (Yeah, but it was her idea to add the initials. That was cute, right?) she added smugly, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

I couldn't help but smile back at her. I had missed her teasing more than I would like to admit. It felt good to have this moment, a reminder of our deep bond and the shared memories that made our friendship so special.

I playfully rolled my eyes at her and was about to put on my jersey when Alba stopped me.

“Espera, no te lo pongas todavía, tengo algo más” (Wait, don’t put it on yet, I have something else) she said, rummaging through her suitcase with a determined look on her face.

I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion, curious about what she could possibly have. She finally pulled out another jersey of Alexia’s and handed it to me.

“Alba, es la misma camiseta que compré” (Alba, it’s the same jersey that I bought) I told her, puzzled, as I was about to give it back.

“Dale la vuelta” (Turn it around) she said, rolling her eyes with a knowing smile.

I turned the jersey around, and there, on the number 11, it was written with a sharpie, “Una camiseta especial para alguien especial” (A special jersey for my special someone.) I immediately recognized Alexia’s handwriting, and my heart skipped a beat.

My cheeks blushed at that, feeling a warm rush of emotions.

“Alexia me dijo que te la diera” (Alexia told me to give it to you) Alba said, smiling gently at me before returning to the bathroom to continue getting ready.

I put the jersey on, and it smelled exactly like Alexia, bringing a sense of comfort and closeness. She is so sweet.

Take that, Marina—I bet Alexia didn’t give you her jersey with a cute message like this.

——

We arrived at the stadium, and the energy was palpable with a crowd already gathered. We found our seats near the field, eagerly anticipating the events to unfold.

The atmosphere shifted as the Spanish team players emerged from the tunnels, greeted by enthusiastic cheers. Alexia, with her slightly faded pink hair, immediately caught my eye. She looked impeccable in her suit, AirPods in, exuding confidence and focus.

As Alexia and her teammates inspected the field, their concentration was evident. They took in every detail, preparing themselves mentally for the match ahead.

Then, Alexia turned her head, and our eyes met. A wide smile spread across her face as she waved at me. I waved back, feeling a rush of excitement. Noticing she had her phone, I gestured for her to check it.

“Thank you so much for the jersey, I love it” I messaged her. I looked up to see her reaction. She read the message, then looked up and blew me a kiss with a wink, making my heart flutter.

Alexia then spotted Alba, Marcus, Carter, and Madison. Their faces lit up with big smiles and enthusiastic greetings. Alba blew her a kiss, which Alexia caught and placed on her heart, a gesture of the deep bond and affection among friends.

After a while the players all went back to the tunnels.

——

The whistle blew, signaling the end of the match. Spain had an easy victory, dominating Switzerland with a 5-1 scoreline.

The stadium erupted with cheers, singing, and dancing as fans celebrated Spain's qualification for the quarter-finals. Alexia and her teammates were visibly elated, their faces beaming with joy and pride.

After soaking in the jubilant atmosphere for a while, we decided to leave the stadium. It was quite late, and our stomachs were rumbling, so we headed to a nearby restaurant to grab a bite to eat.

The streets were alive with fans celebrating Spain's victory, adding to the festive mood.

While we were at the restaurant, I received a message from Alexia. She told me that she would have some time off the next morning and asked if I wanted to join her for breakfast. Without hesitation, I accepted her invitation, eager to spend some quality time with her.

Later that night, as I lay in bed, I continued texting Alexia. She seemed very angry and frustrated because there were ongoing issues with the coaching staff. I did my best to comfort her, offering words of support and encouragement, but it was tough as she was clearly very upset.

I hoped that our breakfast together in the morning would lift her spirits and bring some much-needed positivity.

——

I stood in front of the hotel, my heart racing as I waited for Alexia. She had texted me moments ago, saying she’d be here in just a few minutes, but each second felt like an eternity. The anticipation was almost overwhelming—I hadn’t seen her in what felt like forever, and the thought of being near her again made my chest tighten with longing.

And then, suddenly, I saw her. She was across the street, her figure unmistakable even from a distance. Alexia was dressed in a Spain training kit, the familiar colors bringing a rush of memories flooding back.

Her pink hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, some strands gently framing her face. In her hand, she held a bouquet of flowers,more specifically roses,my favorite.

The sight of her took my breath away, and for a moment, I could do nothing but stand there, captivated.

She hadn’t noticed me yet, and I felt a sudden, urgent need to be closer to her, to close the distance that had separated us for too long.

Without thinking, I stepped off the curb, my eyes locked on her. But I was so mesmerized by the sight of her that I didn’t see the car coming.

The blare of a horn jolted me back to reality, and I snapped my head to the right, just in time to see the car screech to a halt.

My heart pounded in my chest, but I quickly raised my hand in a gesture of apology to the driver, mouthing a hurried “sorry” before practically sprinting across the street.

As I drew nearer, Alexia’s eyes finally met mine. She must have seen everything—my near miss with the car, the way I had been so lost in thoughts of her that I hadn’t even looked before crossing.

But instead of the concern I expected, her face lit up with the brightest smile, one that made my heart swell with so much emotion I thought it might burst.

She opened her arms wide, and I didn’t hesitate for a second. I rushed into her embrace, wrapping my arms around her with all the pent-up longing I had been carrying for so long.

Being in her arms again was like coming home. The familiar scent of her skin, the warmth of her body pressed against mine, the way her strong arms enveloped me—it was everything I had missed, everything I had dreamed of in the quiet moments when the distance between us had felt unbearable.

I buried my face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply, trying to memorize every detail of this moment.

Alexia’s hug was firm and reassuring, and when she lifted me off the ground, spinning me around, a laugh bubbled up from deep inside me, full of pure, unfiltered joy. I could feel her laughter too, rumbling softly against my chest as she held me.

“¿No te dije que miraras a ambos lados antes de cruzar la calle?” (Didn’t I tell you to look both ways before crossing the street?) she whispered into my ear, her voice teasing but full of affection.

Her breath was warm against my skin, and the sound of her voice sent a shiver down my spine. I couldn’t help but laugh again, the tension and anxiety that had been building up inside me all day finally melting away.

“I missed you so much,” I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper, but I knew she heard me. I could feel her smile widen against my cheek, and she squeezed me even tighter, as if she never wanted to let me go.

After what felt like both an eternity and an instant, we finally pulled back, though neither of us seemed eager to break the contact entirely. She gently lowered me back to the ground, her hands lingering on my arms, as if grounding me, keeping me close. Then, with that same tender smile, she held out the flowers she had been carrying all along.

“For you,” she said softly, her eyes full of warmth and something else—something that made my heart skip a beat.

“Thank you, Alexia,” I replied, my voice thick with emotion as I took the flowers from her. I brought it to my nose, inhaling the sweet fragrance, but all I could really smell was her.

I looked up at her, unable to keep the smile from my face, and I knew in that moment that no matter how far apart we had been, we were here now, together.

"Let's go eat; I'm hungry," she said with a smile, extending her hand toward me. I reached out and took it, her touch warm and familiar, and together we started walking.

The time I spent with Alexia felt almost surreal, as if no time had passed since we were last together. It was like slipping back into a comfortable rhythm, where everything between us just flowed naturally.

We talked about everything and nothing, our conversation as easy and effortless as it had always been. Laughter filled the air, and for a while, it felt as though the weight of the past few months had lifted.

We just catched up on those few weeks that we spend apart.

But eventually, the conversation turned to the topic we had both been quietly avoiding—my decision to end things between us. We spoke a little bit more in details about it, all the things that I could not said that night that I “broke up” with her I told them now.

I could see the sadness in her eyes as we talked, a hint of melancholy that tugged at my heart.

Yet, despite the pain, she listened carefully, nodding in understanding. She didn’t try to argue; instead, she respected my decision, something that only deepened my admiration for her.

The maturity and grace with which she handled the situation reminded me of why I had fallen for her in the first place.

At one point, her gaze dropped to the necklace I was wearing—the one she had given me. Her eyes softened as she noticed it, and I saw a flicker of surprise mixed with something like relief. I realized then that I had never properly thanked her for the gift.

So, in that quiet moment, I finally expressed my gratitude, telling her how much it meant to me and how I had kept it close, even after everything.

She smiled, a genuine and heartfelt smile that made my chest tighten with emotion.

After about an hour,Alexia walked me back to my hotel, our hands brushing against each other occasionally as we walked side by side. When we reached the entrance, she turned to me, her expression gentle and full of warmth.

Leaning in, she placed a soft kiss on my cheek, the gesture simple yet filled with affection.

“I'll text you later,” she promised, her voice soft, almost a whisper. I nodded, smiling at her, knowing that even though things were different now, there was still something strong and unspoken between us.

As I watched her walk away, I felt a mixture of emotions—gratitude, sadness, and a lingering sense of connection. It was a bittersweet reminder that while things may have changed, some bonds are too strong to ever truly break.

——

I’ve been in New Zealand for just over a week now, and it’s been such a refreshing experience. The country is absolutely stunning, with its breathtaking landscapes and peaceful atmosphere.

I’ve spent most of my time simply enjoying the beauty of the surroundings and taking some much-needed time to relax and recharge.

Marcus, Madison, and Carter all left the day after the intense quarterfinal match between Spain and the Netherlands. It was an exhilarating game, with Spain emerging victorious once again, solidifying their place as one of the top teams in the tournament.

After they departed, it was just Alba and me for a few days, which gave us some time to bond and explore the area together.

Later, Eli and Alexia’s uncle and some friends joined us minus Marina,she had to word thanks God. That added a new dynamic to the group and made things more lively.

Spain then faced Sweden in the semifinals, and it was another thrilling match. Spain pulled off another impressive win, which meant they secured their spot in the final. The excitement among everyone was undeniable. The atmosphere was electric, with celebrations all around.

Alexia, in particular, was over the moon with joy, as were her teammates. You could really feel the pride and happiness radiating from them—it was such a special moment for all of them.

When it comes to Alexia, I haven’t been able to spend as much time with her as I would have liked. Her training schedule has been intense, so she’s been focused and busy preparing for the matches.

However, I did manage to carve out some quality time with her and her family, which I really cherished.

Even when we weren’t physically together, we stayed in close contact through phone calls, FaceTime, and constant messaging. It was nice to keep that connection strong, even with everything going on.

——

Today is the big day—the World Cup final. England versus Spain. The anticipation is overwhelming, and I can’t help but feel incredibly nervous yet excited for the outcome. I’m really hoping Spain takes home the win.

They’ve worked so hard and gone through so much to get here, and they truly deserve to lift that trophy after everything they’ve endured.

The atmosphere in the stadium was absolutely electric, with the tension and excitement hanging thick in the air. Both English and Spanish fans filled the stands, their voices blending into a roaring sea of cheers and chants for their respective teams.

The energy was contagious, and you could feel the passion radiating from every corner of the stadium.

Alba, Eli, Alexia’s uncle, and all of Alexia’s friends were completely caught up in the moment, cheering at the top of their lungs. The excitement was overwhelming, and we were all proudly sporting Alexia’s jersey, a united front of support for her. We were on the edge of our seats, anxiously waiting for that breakthrough moment.

Finally, after nearly 30 minutes of nail-biting tension, Spain scored. The stadium erupted into pure chaos. Everyone around us was euphoric, jumping up and down with pure joy, screaming and hugging each other.

It was a moment of collective celebration, with emotions running high and the feeling of victory inching closer.

As the clock ticked into the 90th minute, the anticipation grew even stronger. Then, finally, Alexia stepped onto the field. The crowd’s response was immediate—cheers and applause filled the air as she joined the game.

Her presence alone seemed to elevate the energy in the stadium even more.

With 15 more minutes added, the tension was almost unbearable. Then, at last, the final whistle blew. A wave of emotion washed over the field, and every player seemed to collapse—some from sheer happiness, others from the weight of disappointment.

From where I stood, I could see Alexia lying on the pitch, surrounded by her teammates who were leaping onto her in celebration. It was a moment of pure joy, a culmination of everything they had worked for, and it was incredible to witness it all unfold.

Eli pulled all of us into a heartfelt group hug as we celebrated the incredible victory. Our cheers were filled with uncontainable joy, and the tears streaming down our faces were a testament to our deep happiness.

It was an emotional and beautiful moment, seeing Spain triumphantly win the World Cup. The sense of accomplishment and elation was palpable, and the scene was truly unforgettable—one we will always cherish as a perfect culmination of their hard-fought journey.

Once we finally managed to steady our emotions, the scene on the field was nothing short of magical. The players were awarded their well-deserved medals, and the moment Spain lifted the World Cup trophy was met with a surge of cheers and applause.

The stadium buzzed with an electrifying atmosphere as fans celebrated the culmination of a remarkable journey.

The players took their time to engage with the crowd, posing for photos and signing autographs. Their joy was evident, and they seemed genuinely thrilled to share this victory with their supporters. It was a beautiful display of gratitude and connection between the team and the fans.

As the crowd began to thin out, a few of us made our way onto the field to find Alexia. The security staff, allowed us access. When Alexia spotted her family, she didn’t just walk; she sprinted towards them with such speed and emotion that it was as if she was propelled by sheer joy.

She embraced her mother and sister tightly, tears streaming down her face, her happiness radiating in every direction.

Her interactions with her friends were equally heartfelt. She greeted each one with the same infectious enthusiasm and warmth, her smile never fading.

I stood a little to the side, giving her the space she needed to enjoy these precious moments with her family and friends, while I chatted with the families of other players who were also basking in the afterglow of the victory.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Alexia scanning the crowd, her gaze searching for someone. She turned to her mother, who pointed in my direction.

When Alexia’s eyes finally locked onto mine, a look of recognition and excitement crossed her face. She made a beeline towards me, her expression filled with joy and relief.

As we met halfway, she enveloped me in a tight, heartfelt hug, lifting me off the ground with an energy that matched the day’s celebrations.

I whispered, “You did it,” into her ear, and as she buried her face in my neck, I felt a tender kiss graze my skin—a fleeting, sweet gesture that spoke volumes.

After a few moments of this intimate embrace, we slowly pulled away, but Alexia kept me close, wrapping her arm around my shoulders.

She led me back to where her friends and family were gathered, her presence and warmth a constant source of comfort and joy amidst the ongoing celebrations.

After a while of mingling, celebrating with friends and family, and capturing memories with photos, it was just Alexia and me left on the small stage situated in the center of the field.

The revelry had started to wind down, and the festive atmosphere was beginning to settle into a more intimate moment.

We sat close together on the stage, surrounded by a sea of confetti that glittered in the fading light. I found myself idly playing with the colorful pieces scattered around us, a tangible reminder of the day’s excitement.

“I still can’t believe you’re a world champion now,” I said, my voice full of excitement. I gently touched the medal draped around her neck, admiring it’s shine and significance.

Alexia looked at me with a mix of disbelief and joy. “I can’t believe it either,” she responded, then, with a smile, she carefully removed her medal and placed it around my neck.

The gesture was both symbolic and heartfelt, and I couldn’t help but grin as I felt the weight of her achievement resting on me.

She moved even closer, wrapping her arms around my shoulders in a tender embrace. I leaned into her, feeling a deep sense of contentment as she planted a soft, affectionate kiss on my cheek.

The warmth of her touch and the intimacy of the moment made it feel even more special.

In a hushed tone, she whispered, “Estoy lista” (I’m ready.)Her words were gentle but filled with a depth of emotion that caught me off guard. I looked at her, confusion and curiosity mingling in my expression.

“I’m ready to start a relationship…with you,” she continued, her voice steady but heartfelt. “I want us to be together officially.”

[moonastro]

pac

how your future spouse will act around you

left to right(top)-> 1,2

left to right(bottom)-> 3,4

°DO NOT take this as literal, take everything with a grain of salt as this is purely and intendedly for entertainment purposes.

°Don't be afraid to give feedback and opinions about this post (as i would entirely appreciate it).

PILE 1-

i definitely see them being more them around you, like they are going to be so comfortable around you that how they act around you differs from when they are around other people. I see them literally having no restrictions around you, they will not be afraid to show their true personality and humour. i feel like this will be so important to them because they might have been judged with the way that they acted or were judged by just being themselves by previous relationships or friendships, for you, they are thankful and can actually live freely.

They will definitely also learn so many things from you, for example i see you telling them something and them not understanding so they will bring that up because they want to know what you know. or they cannot stand not knowing what you mean because they fully want to understand you. yeah, they will love to get to know you on a deeper soulmate kinda way. they will love experiencing new surprises from you by simply learning new things about you, that will excite them.

i see them being the type of person who ask 'have you eaten yet?' or 'have you taken your vitamins today?'. your health will matter so much to them, seeing you unwell will physically hurt them. if you answer no to any of the questions they will automatically act upon them. they do care about your well-being however they might not be so cutesy about it because for them it is a serious matter. so they might act very serious about situations like that. but that's only because they care so much about you.

i feel like their character will develop while being with you. i feel like they might pick up on some habits or characteristics that you have. for example, if your habit consists of biting your bottom lip when nervous, they will acknowledge that and start to do that too.

your fs will NOT be afraid to express their raw feelings towards you. they will constantly praise and compliment you so much that you might get tired from hearing it loll😭.

that is it for you PILE 1, hope you enjoyed that!!

PILE 2-

oh, they will be chaotic around you. they might tend to play fights, picking you up from the ground, teasing you etcc. however, i do think that playing around like that heals their inner child as such. they might also do questionable things that may shock you. like i see you two chilling and watching a movie and them randomly standing up and doing their skincare without mentioning anything.

they will constantly want to do everything with you, like their mindset is something like, if i have to see it you have to too, or if you go i want to go too. its mostly because they cant seem to imagine themselves being 5 minutes away from you 😂. no but for real, i honestly just feel like they find your time together precious and don't want to miss opportunities with you. they will be the type to take you on daily trips everywhere, like i mentioned before, they will love to spend time with you, especially while discovering new cute places.

i feel like same with pile 1, they will worry a lot about your health and constantly have to check up on you. like if sometimes you forget to eat breakfast or if they see a bruise that you didn't even know was there, they will freak out about it and will act like something major happened.

i see them being very honest around you, they will answer to your questions honestly and truthfully and i feel like if there are lies withing a relationship it is not sincere. i do see them being clingy though, like if they had a bad day and came back home they instantly hug and cuddle you to make them feel better. or if you are cleaning up they just come up to you and start hugging you.

that's everything for you PILE 2, hope you liked your reading!

PILE 3-

will have a stable view and way of doing things around you. will be humble and professional. i feel like they will be a very down to earth person who is quite traditional in terms of relationships. they are very loyal to your needs however, they may have a little routine that they do every morning or any other time of the day, for example may take out the trash in the early morning so you wont have to and let you sleep in or something like that. i feel like silent acts of service are their thing. they might not like to be in the spotlight and keep a rather low profile wherever they are.

might be quite nosey lol, may want to know what you are doing at what time. or may want to know what you are looking at on your phone and so on.

may express their love to you often, like you make them levitate when they look at you. but may be shy about it. like they'll only do it when they cant keep it in anymore then blush after they say it🥹. they are someone who would proudly admire you and talk sweetly about you to other people rather than directly to you.

may like to spoil you though, may take you out to dinner every week or book to go to a fancy restaurant once in a while. or whenever you show them something that you like, they remember and buy you the exact same thing without asking you about it. i feel like they would definitely tend to show their love for you by doing things for you rather than talking about it and so forth.

they might be afraid to disappoint you and are afraid to fail. but they are very good at easing tension, so whenever you feel stressed they know how to make you feel better.

yeah, i don't think they are good at communicating or may limit themselves due to the fear of letting you down. however, they might not take it lightly when you expose them on what they did wrong, they might not be into being tutored.

that is all for you PILE 3!!

PILE 4-

they tend to avoid direct confrontation. they definitely do not like conflict and will leave the situation if it gets heated. also, are very open to fix mistakes, they may ask about your opinion quite a lot and act upon your choices.

are very open to sharing their emotions and thoughts, they are not patient and may just say things that are on their mind. they may be an anxious human being and may seek help. they may like to talk about their mental health and ask your opinion of what to do about it to help. overall i think your opinion matters a lot to your fs!

they love sharing their ethic and moral beliefs to you. or they may be interested in getting to know about your beliefs. they also may be interested of your cultural background and may be eager to learn new languages and try different cultural foods. they may even like to listen to songs from other countries. they may also love to practise their traditions around you.

they may have difficulty concentrating and focusing so when they are told something they may be spaced out thinking about something else, you know?

they may also be the type of person who rejects offers easily, they may have social anxiety or anxiety in general so it may be difficult for them to leave the house. so that may start arguments between you two because you see the potential in them but they are just too afraid to persuade it and don't do anything about it.

that's it for you PILE 4!

I hope you all enjoyed this post❣️ please don't be shy to interact and share some of your thoughts on this post!!! thank you for reading💓

[zipper-neck]

Trans Rules of Engagement

By Florence Ashley

Strong communities make us all safer. As anti-trans movements gain in power and influence, holding space for each other through our flaws remains critical. Yet the very conditions that create our need for community care make it hard for us to care for each other. We are raw, wounded, traumatized, and hypervigilant. We make mistakes brought on by fear and hurt. We lash out at each other when we do wrong, often partaking in pile-ons facilitated by the synchronous nature of online interactions. Whether we realize it or not, we often exclude trans people from community when they need it most.

I have lost count of the number of trans people I have seen cast out of online trans spaces for misdeeds both major and minor—far too often with my help. I sometimes find myself wondering where they are now and whether they are still alive. Because, as Kai Cheng Thom has taught us, social death often means real death for trans people. Trans communities are life-sustaining in a world that hates us so, so much. In a world that wants us dead. We have lost too many people not to stop and think about how we can foster life among each other.

This goal I have for myself—that of fostering life—motivates the following principles and rules for engaging in online intra-community conflicts while preserving the life-sustaining spirit of our communities. Countless times have I failed to heed these principles and ignored these rules. This failure, which many of us share, is precisely why I now want to lay these principles and rules down on paper. If only as a reminder of my aspirations. The principles and rules are meant to be adopted for oneself, not imposed onto others. Their purpose is to foster productive engagement, not create even more conflict and rigidity. I hope that this will be a living document, and invite you to make your own version if you would like. Borrow what is useful, supplement with what is needed, alter what can be improved.

Some, and perhaps all, of the principles I acknowledge are false, hence the need for a living document. Each of my suggested rules have exceptions. In setting them out, I am staking a claim as to the sort of myths and half-truths that are necessary to sustain life in a world that wants us dead. We must treat them as true if we wish to foster life-sustaining communities and survive the hellscape we belabor.

Principles

1. We are all flawed, traumatized humans at the end of their rope. Many of our actions say more about the conditions we live under than who we are as people.

2. No one is disposable. No one is unsalvageable.

3. Life holds greater value than being right or comfortable. Hurt is preferable to death.

4. No one should be deprived of community.

5. Harm does not require further harm. Punishment does not equate protection or healing.

Rules

1. Do not depart from these rules, unless you have to.

2. Morgan M. Page’s Rule: Try to avoid criticizing other trans people in public. The world does it enough already.

3. Favor in person or private conversations: Addressing someone’s comments or actions in person or privately is typically more constructive and effective. It allows you to communicate more cogently and with more nuance problems in someone’s actions or words and because it is less likely to make them react defensively from a place of trauma or fear.

4. Take your time: Few things require an immediate response. Responding while caught in a surge of thoughts and feelings is often unproductive. Ask yourself how much harm was done, versus how much we are reminded of an earlier harm. Ask whether your response is rooted in misperception or potential biases towards the person due to race, disability, gender, or other marginalized identities. Consider whether their words or actions reflect a different kind of thinking or communication style, a lack of access to education, or limited access to progressive communities and norms. You can respond tomorrow, once you have collected your thoughts, talked to others, and gained perspective.

5. Don’t mob: Be aware of group dynamics. Ask yourself if you are connected to this person and in community with them. Avoid jumping into the fray when others are already criticizing the person. Do not invite others to join in and mob them. Withdraw if others join in, and kindly ask people to stay conscious of mobbing dynamics. Mobbing rapidly grows out of proportion.

6. De-escalate: Focus on de-escalating conflicts. Ask what people mean or want, and why. Ask them for clarification or elaboration if needed. Ask yourself if you know enough about the context of the situation. Distinguish the action from the person, and acknowledge that it is normal to respond defensively or aggressively to public criticism and mobbing. People are traumatized, mentally ill, and are scared of losing the little social support they have. As a result, conflict can trigger a fight-or-flight response in both those who are criticized and who criticize, which leads to escalating conflict and ends in a loss of community. Dropping the conversation to return at a later date is preferable to escalation. Often, I find it best to limit myself to three replies in conversations that aren’t constructive.

7. Respond proportionately: Responses to words and behaviours should be proportionate to their harm, and reflect a need for healing and protection rather than punishment. When we speak from a place of hurt, we can understandably but unfortunately forget the measure and impact of our response. Use language that reflects the nuances and gradations of harm rather than a coarse good and evil binary. Cutting all social support and community banishment are rarely a proportionate response, even for someone who doubles down and does not apologize. Responding proportionately is asking first and foremost what response sustains rather than dissolves life. Especially when it comes to words, it is better to under-react than to over-react.

8. Ensure support for everyone: Check in on those who are criticized and those who criticize them. Remind people that we are all in this together, and that banishment is not how we work as a community. Everyone deserves to have their needs met. Do not shun or reproach people who offer support to those who were criticized or called out. Distinguish supporting a person from enabling their behavior.

9. Hold space for people to grow: Allow space for people to be accountable, change, and move on from previous conflicts. Do not hold past behavior over people’s head, nor dig up past misdeeds to fuel present conflicts.

10. Resolve conflict and harm as a community: We must ask how our communities enable and cause hurt and harm, and find ways to transform the conditions that create them. Holding accountable, problem-solving, and conflict resolution are functions that should be taken up by the collective, not isolated and unsupported individuals.

11. Center those most hurt or harmed: Focus on supporting and empowering people who are hurt and harmed rather than on punishment. Ask what they need to be safe and integrated in our communities, while committing to support for everyone; what they need to repair their relationship to the person who hurt or harmed them. Focus your involvement on bringing people together, fostering dialogue and mutual understanding, and restoring a sense of community togetherness, rather than deciding who is right or wrong.♦

[rucow]

some placements im soft for<3

♐ sagittarius sun: my everlasting obsession. the most magnetic people ive ever met. they're insanely beautiful and enigmatic, they fascinate me. i have no sag placements myself, so idk why im so in love with this sign, but to me they're ethereal and regal in a way. they give me a heartthrob. i adore their facial features and their personality, i love their blunt honesty. these people are majestic and special to me. also very silly.

♏ scorpio mercury: this placement could tell me to jump off a bridge and i probably would. their words and tone can have full control over other people, they have so much power in their voice! even if they speak very quietly, the impact of their words is immense. singers and performers with this placement are impeccable at delivering the most raw emotion to their audience. every time they speak, i feel like i can see and feel their soul. which makes sense, because their mercury is conjunct my moon. i feel compelled to listen to these people. they put me under a spell anytime they speak (or sing). also, i love it when they go detective mode trying to solve a ~mystery~

🌠 mercury-neptune conjunctions: ethereal, mesmerising, haunting. i noticed that a lot of singers i listen to have this placement, and you can really feel it. ive always had dreams (and nightmares) about songs written and sung by people with this placement, they're absolutely haunting in such an addictive way. they're out of this world. beautifully poetic people.

♎ libra moon: some of the sweetest people ive ever met. they're so soft and sensitive, even if they don't seem like it. somewhat of a role model to me, i looked up to them so much only to find out im a libra moon myself in sidereal astrology. i have an urge to protect these people and reassure them that their feelings are valid. they have the most beautiful smiles.

♊ gemini moon: maybe it's because my own moon is in the 3rd house, but i find these people very relatable. the amount of hate and misunderstanding ive seen them receive is plain cruel. i think these are some of the most genuine people, and i appreciate it when they speak their mind. silly factor off the charts

♑ capricorn placements (any): i haven't gotten to know you too well yet, but you're always like a breath of fresh air. im intrigued by you! i feel i have so much to learn from you.

♏ scorpio sun: the kindest most understanding people ive ever met. sure, there's been a few bad apples here and there, but so many scorpios ive met have helped me heal, even if indirectly. they've had a huge huge impact on me and im always thankful for that.

♐ sagittarius mars: i adore these people's energy. my mars is in aries but at the 9° degree (a sagittarius degree), and i feel like being around these people is so fun. very very playful people with an outstanding positive energy, they are silliness personified and i love that about them.

♒ aquarius venus: i didn't care much for this placement at first, seeing as it's my own, but looking through works written by aquarius venus artists has hit something deep inside of me. there's something sad about your heart being in this saturnian, fixed sign. it's like a prison. you fully commit to people once you think you've found "the one", and break-ups can be brutal for you. you don't show it on the outside, but your suffering shows in your art, and im sorry i didn't see it sooner. your understanding of the world is very real and fascinating, and you're such a devoted friend. ive grown to understand and appreciate this placement a lot more than i did before.

though i only talk about a few specific placements here, every sign is special in their own way. ily all, take care of yourselves 💖

[lovebugism]

I positively adore steeb and shy!reader 🥹 can I please request steve comforting shy!reader after her first experience with the upside down? he just vows to take care of her?

ty for requesting!! — steve takes care of you when you won't let anyone touch you after fighting vecna (shy!fem!r, hurt/comfort, friends in love, cw for mentions of bruises/injuries, 0.9k)

Hawkins Memorial Hospital smells overwhelmingly of bleach and very faintly of copper. You think the last bit might just be you, though. The scent of metallic blood and alternate-dimension muck hasn’t quite left you — even though you’ve scrubbed yourself raw in the shower, three times over.

You sit in Max’s vacant room while she’s out for surgery. Everyone else is either sleeping off the grief or getting themselves checked out. You can’t do either — too plagued by nightmares and too frightened at what the doctors might find if they look at you too close.

Steve finds you in the dim room, lit only by natural sunlight, standing in front of the small square mirror against the wall. You get lost in the splotchy bruises on your face until he knocks gently on the cracked open door. 

“Hey…” he greets, gently to keep from startling you.

You swallow down the fleeting panic. “Oh. Hi.”

“I, uh, I brought you some ice,” he tells you and steps further into the room, waving a plastic bag of chipped ice in his hand. “I saw you flinch when you wrapped up Dustin’s ankle. I figured your shoulder was bothering you…”

He’s visibly shy, but you’re impossibly shier. The deafening quiet and the proximity of your bodies are equally suffocating. You cower beneath the weight of it, wringing your clammy, cut-up hands together. “I’m— I’m fine. Thanks…”

Steve flashes you a wavering smile, lopsided and perfectly pink. He forces a laugh through an aching chest because you haven’t talked about what happened since you got back. He figured it was normal at first — that you were still grappling with the whole fighting monsters thing, but you haven’t let anyone touch you in days. The doctors have been begging to look you over since you got here.

“I just… I wanna help,” he confesses.

A pleading look swims in the deep honey of his eyes. It becomes impossible to turn him down. You’d have an easier time fighting Vecna, you think.

You swallow hard. “It’s… It’s my back,” you shrug, then grimace when the movement makes you ache.

You’d fallen through the decrepit floor of the Creel house and landed hard in the basement. The vines slithering there broke your fall. For the most part, anyway. The damn things would have swallowed you whole if Steve hadn’t been brave enough to jump in after you. 

“Can I see?” he wonders.

You hesitate for a moment. “I haven’t really— looked at it yet,” you murmur with a pained look twisting your features. You turn around when Steve approaches you. You feel his warm fingers along your back, knuckles skimming over your skin as he lifts your shirt with a slow and gentle touch — giving you ample time to stop him if you wanted.

When you don’t, he raises the fabric to the middle of your spine. The entire canvas of your back is darkened with a hardly healing bruise. The sight of it makes him grimace. “Jeez…” he mumbles before he means to.

Your brows pinch. “Is it bad?”

“We’re gonna need a lot more ice,” he answers with a forced laugh.

You giggle at his half-joke. The pretty sound makes him smile.

“You should probably see a doctor—”

“No,” you interject with a firm shake of your head, sterner than he’s ever seen you.

“But it’s— It’s kinda gnarly—”

“I’m fine,” you insist, despite the bruises darkening your skin. You turn back around to face him and avert your gaze at the pitiful look he gives you. You cross your arms over your chest and bite back a wince. “I’m okay, Steve. There’s other people to worry about right now.”

Max, for one. And all the rest of the kids for another. And the rest of the town who lost something in the earthquakes. You got off pretty lucky, all things considered — just a couple of bruises. And a cut or two. And some pretty gnarly nightmares. But that’s it.

Steve’s lip quirks in a sympathetic smile. “Here. C’mon. Sit down.”

He urges you to the made-up hospital bed with a hand hovering over your lower back. Your perch on the side of it, one leg curled beneath you, as Steve slides in behind you. He raises the hem of your shirt and presses the icepack against your shoulder blade, where the bruises seem darkest. His touch is gentle and feather-light, almost comically so. The bag of ice just barely grazes you.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah… Thanks.”

His hand grows heavier when his touch becomes more confident. The stinging of the cold soothes the deep ache in your shoulder.

“No problem,” he says before swallowing down the nerves crawling up his throat. “I’m always here, you know? If you ever need anything.”

You exhale a sharp laugh through your nose. “I feel like you have better things to do than take care of me,” you murmur, wringing your hands into a knot in your lap.

“Well, I don’t.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“What?” he scoffs. “That I’d rather dote on you than do anything else?”

“Yeah,” you laugh and shoot him a playful look over your shoulder. You smile when you find him already grinning at you.

“Well, believe it, alright? ‘Cause you’re stuck with me now.”

“Am I?”

“Yep,” he answers, popping the p.

“We fought monsters together, and now we’re bonded for life?”

“Exactly.”

You flash him another glance, eyes glittering as you bite back a beaming grin. “Sounds miserable,” you tease.

Steve nods with a crooked smile. “Absolutely horrible.” 

[inkykeiji]

⋆₊˚⊹♡ vox + marking you

character: vox warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, marking/branding (carving something into the skin), blood, toxic relationship, extreme possessiveness, daddy kink, dacryphilia, fem!reader, minimal/no prep, dubcon if you squint, pet names, painful sex, reader doesn’t get to orgasm words: 1.8k notes: vox likes to mark what belongs to him. permanently. and, as always, that mark must be perfect.

He’s been at it for nearly half an hour now, a slow drag of his index claw downward, pressure concentrated on the very point of the talon, following the line of a perfect slant before sharply pivoting upward, velocity slowing as it works back toward your hips, tracing another slant perfectly parallel to the first. 

V. 

A split second of reprieve, a single instant where the metal leaves your skin only to find the origin of the wound and begin the process all over again. 

“V-Vox—”

“Don’t move, sweetheart,” he warns, his voice low and airy, so close and concentrated on his work that you can feel his breath wafting over the cut, cool and burning. 

Cyan pupils pulse as they expand, desperate to devour as much as they can, scouring every minute detail and honing their focus on the singular letter he’s painstakingly carving into your pubic bone.

He’s meticulous with it, of course, just as he is with everything else, every movement precise and perfect. It has to be done this way, he had told you at the start, when you had whined about the deliberately drawn-out drag of his talon. Slow and steady, so it will heal in sharp, neat lines, all raised and gorgeous. 

A permanent mark of ownership, scarred into your skin for the rest of eternity.

The tapered tip of the V is the worst part, the harsh, quick maneuver of his claw procuring a deep sting, a yelp sticking in your throat as you try to swallow against the sound, Vox’s immediate responding coo, always accompanied by the brush of his thumb over your hip in the gentlest caress, doing little to soothe the pain. 

“But it—it hurts,” you hiccup out, eyes squeezing shut tightly against the prick of tears. “How much longer?” 

“Just a few more times, baby, I promise,” he presses a chaste kiss to your inner thigh, glancing up at you. “You’re doing so well for me, lovebug, so well.”

But a few more times turns into another agonizing fifteen minutes with seemingly no end in sight, Vox lost in the repetitive actions, and the wound is starting to tingle, sticky crimson pooling in the flawlessly carved gouges, staining teal bright red. 

Tears have begun to leak from the corners of your eyes as they finally overflow, spilling past your lash line to stream down the sides of your temples in uneven little trails, vision gone blurry with a thick shield of water.

Your ribs stammer with half-stifled sobs, a soft hush distractedly falling from Vox’s lips with each minuscule jerk of your body, the hand on your hip tightening in warning. 

“Daddy’s almost done, darling,” he pacifies, a gentle threat sewn into his tone—don’t fucking move yet—we’re so close, don’t you dare mess this up. “Just a tiny bit longer, I swear.” 

“I can’t, I can’t, Daddy, it’s—it’s too much!” 

“Hey,” he looks up, a shock of sincerity slapped across his face, his voice ringing with painfully raw compassion. “I know you can handle just a few more for Daddy, can’t you? Don’t you want it to look pretty, too?”

Large eyes search your face with a rabid type of candour, hunting for validity. But your head is already nodding before he’s even finished speaking, motions becoming increasingly vigorous, an instinctual reaction, at this point—obedient as ever, desperate to please.

Of course you do—you want whatever he does, always. 

“Y-Yes,” you manage to sniffle out, the heels of your hands wiping messily at your lashes, smearing tears across your cheeks. “Yes, yes, Daddy.” 

His eyes soften, their usually bold glow dimmed with a sick sort of adoration, but his smile is barbed, stretching with something sinister. 

“There’s my good girl,” Vox purrs, pressing another tender kiss to the junction of your thigh and your hip. “Now, hold still while Daddy finishes.”

Another three traces through the routine—these last three harder and more purposeful than all those that came before them—and finally, he’s done, sitting back on his heels between your spread legs and gazing down at his masterpiece. 

Blood drips down his index finger in a thick dollop, his eyes shifting to watch with morbid fascination, the tip of his claw glazed with shimmering scarlet. Tilting it one way, then the other, he examines how it gleams in the low light of his bedroom—so pretty, he looks so pretty stained with you—then brings the talon to his lips, long tongue snaking from between his teeth to curl around it in a possessive embrace. 

He sucks it into the heat of his mouth, a low groan rumbling deep behind his sternum as his eyes slip shut, taking a moment to savour the taste of you. His lids snap back open a moment later, eyes drifting back to the freshly etched V, his free hand moving to rub at his cock, straining eagerly against his trousers. 

“F-Fuck,” he shudders out, the word soft as he stares at it, wide and unblinking, rolling the impressive bulge in his palm in lopsided little circles, then grinding the heel of his hand into it, his hips twitching up instinctively. “Daddy’s gonna fuck you now, okay, princess?” 

Your head is nodding, but you’re barely able to utter out an affirmative, because then he’s surging forward, a palm cupping your jaw as his fingers hook behind the hinge, pulling your face towards his and smashing your lips together. Bursts of copper explode on your tastebuds as he drags his tongue across yours—the slick muscle stronger, larger, wider as it shoves its way into your mouth, impelling your own tongue further into the hot, wet cavern. 

It’s sloppy and slippery and so, so sexy, his claws piercing your skin with superficial little pricks as he tries to yank you closer, your nose scrunched against his screen. Obscene squelching echoes throughout his bedroom as your lips glide and nip, copious amounts of drool, tinged pink with your blood, oozing from the corners of your conjoined mouths, leaving your chins shining with spit.

He overrides your senses, overwhelms your receptors and infuses your mind with nothing but him—his taste, smoky spice infused with metallic notes; his scent, sharp balsam and expensive cologne; his touch, still burning at the apex of your thighs, a constant reminder, an everlasting claim. 

A sharp gasp breaks the kiss as he forces his cock inside of you, forehead knocking against your own with a dark growl as his hips rock forward, burying himself in your cunt in a single, fluid motion.

Large hands curl around your hips, pinning them in place and keeping you from squirming away as he ruts into you, grinding his cockhead further into your cervix, ensuring he’s buried as deep as he possibly can be.

A singular moment, a breath shared between the two of you, oxygen sparse and dizzying as he takes time to revel in the feeling of filling you to the hilt, your sweet little hole spasming around him as it stretches and splits, eager to accommodate his girth, to gorge on his flesh.

Leaning back on his haunches, he drags your hips along with him, tailbone resting on his folded thighs, your knees thrown over either side of his hips. 

There’s no warning, no slow start or gradual build up, his cock slamming into you searing and sudden, fucking a gorgeous cry of his name from your throat. 

His chest heaves with ragged exhales as his hips pump, hard and fast and rough, voracious gaze swapping between your bouncing tits and the crisply engraved V glittering up at him on your pubic bone, still coloured with blood, drizzling past the scrupulously incised grooves with each vicious ram to stream down your skin, leaving tiny streaks of red.

The gash enchants him, pupils swollen as they soak up the sight, captivated by the way it quivers with every ruthless thrust into you, watching each drive of his cock as he sheathes himself in your cunt. The glistening arousal coating his shaft contrasts the blood so perfectly, the hands on your waist yanking downward with every jackhammer of his hips, forcing you to meet his motions. 

“Mine, mine, mine,” he’s snarling as he fucks you, the word punched from his chest with each plunging thrust. 

“Yours, Daddy,” you sob out with messy little nods, dainty fingers braceletting his wrists, nails sinking into thin skin as you cling to him. “Yours, yours!” 

“No one gets to have you like this,” he gasps out, voice gone hoarse. “No one, tell me.” 

“No one—No one gets to have me like this but you, Da-Daddy,” you nearly wail, staring up at him with such bright devotion it almost hurts, your gaze lacquered with tears. 

“Ah, fuck,” he whimpers, the curse shattering on his tongue, his eyes shutting tightly for a moment before springing back open, gaping and gluttonous. “Yeah, yeah, you’re goddamn right.”

His motions have turned downright brutal now, every pound of his cock more merciless than the last, the strike of his hips jostling your entire body up the mattress, just barely held in place by the grip of his claws, razored points puncturing your flesh and scraping, tiny trickles of blood oozing from the lacerations.

“Your mind, your cunt, your fucking soul—it all belongs to me,” digitized blood drips from the corner of his mouth, the glaring glow of his eyes so brilliant it’s hard to bear, casting a flare of red across your skin.

“Yes, yes, y-yes,” you’re babbling out, gone delirious with the heady intoxication of pain and pleasure, fingers digging into his flesh in a desperate attempt to pull him closer. “You own me, Vox.” 

“Oh, Christ—” 

The confirmation has him cumming quickly, hips pressed flush to your ass as his cock throbs violently, stuffing you full with copious amounts of thick, burning cum. His body stills, keeping his hips shoved up against you, almost as if he’s trying to plug you, to keep his seed inside of you, to claim you from the inside out. 

But it’s so much—too much—and you can feel it exuding past his shaft to dribble down your skin, leaving behind streams of pretty pearlescent strokes.  

Finally, he pulls out of you, another cracked curse falling from his lips as he watches with a sort of sordid obsession, his cock glazed with his cum and your blood, the tops of his thighs smeared with his own essence. 

“So beautiful,” he whispers to himself, claw reaching out to trace the V again, a hiss spit from between your teeth, body trembling with the effort to stay still, to resist flinching away from his stinging touch, to be good for him. “So fucking perfect.” 

Slinking down the bed, he wedges his head between your spread thighs to inspect the wound more thoroughly, teal tongue unfurling from his mouth to lave over the deep cut, mopping up excess blood as he follows the contours carefully once, twice, three times.  

“Mine,” he murmurs, planting a gentle kiss atop the wound, sealing the breathy claim into your flesh. “Mine, forever.”

“Yours,” you whisper, looking down at him as your finger outlines the V affectionately, a loving caress of what he’s gifted you. “Yours, forever.”

[katakaluptastrophy]

Alecto was the first body John ever made. And G1deon was the second, regrown from just an arm.

And if G1deon is anything to go by, John isn't very good at making bodies:

Unlike the other Lyctors, all of whom skewed hungry, soft men and women of the necromancer build, his frame carried nothing but muscle. He was sinew over bone. He was a walking tendon. He had a raw, stretched look to him like an idiot’s construct, bones that had been slippered in meaty fibrils to keep them moving. A metabolized, contracted striation, without fat, the only curve a hollow tautness from rib to stomach.

John had grown up with G1deon and knew what he looked like. He might even have been able to scrounge up a picture from somewhere. He presumably had time to think about reconstructing his body and was able to take time to do it. And yet, G1deon looks like this:

It was a man who looked like he had been stripped bloody by a wind machine and hadn’t healed up all the way; a wiry, knuckled-up tendon of a man, with the face of someone who had been starved once and burned recently.

If that's what a body he constructed with premeditation and planning and concentration looks like, how does one he made under more pressure look?

I wanted to make you the most beautiful body I could think of. He paused and said: “But I was stressed, okay? I was insane. Most of what had made me John had gone somewhere else. There were a few little thoughts left … a handful of things that made me me … a couple scraps of id. It’s not fair to judge me, right? I didn’t do this thinking … I didn’t do it like art.

John seems to think there's something to apologise for in Alecto's body.

We do get a description of Alecto, from Harrow's memories of her attempted divine murder/suicide at the age of 10:

God’s victory and death was a girl. Maybe a woman. At the time Harrowhark had not known how to tell, and the gender was only a self-interested guess. The corpse lay packed in ice, wearing a white shift, her hands clasping a frost-rimed sword, and she was beautiful. The formation of her muscles was perfect. Each limb was a carved representation of a perfect limb, each bloodless foot the lifeless and high-arched simulacrum of the perfect foot. Each black and frosted lash lay against the cheeks with perfect still blackness, and her nose—it was the pinnacle of what a nose should be. None of this would have broken Harrow’s spirit except that the mouth alone was perfectly imperfect: a little crooked, with a divot in the lower lip as though someone had softly pressed a dent into the bow with the tip of their finger.

Maybe Alecto is the perfect specimen of womanhood. Maybe Harrow was ten and had never seen anyone young and not swathed in vestments before and the bar was very low. Maybe Harrow just has very particular taste in women.

But between G1deon, John's apologies, that "high-arched simulacrum" of a foot, and Kiriona - Gideon, now with Extra Teeth - I have a feeling she doesn't just look like a regular blond lady.

[therealcocoshady]

POV : You’re Marshall Mathers’s girlfriend and he worships you

Author’s Note : Hi guys ✨. I feel like it’s been a while since I last published something on here. Enjoy this little blurb I wrote. It’s kind of random but I think it’s kind of cute still 💕.

Marshall Mathers doesn’t really enjoy being treated like a king wherever he goes. He knows people give him special treatment out of respect, because he is a huge fucking superstar, but he doesn’t really care for it. He’s just a normal dude at heart, you know ? He likes it when things are kept simple. He’s not a huge fan of the deference, of people practically bowing and curtsying to him because he is Eminem. It’s weird.

But when it comes to you ? People better treat you like the absolute monarch that you are. This man will not accept anything less for the woman he loves. You are his sun. His days start and end with you. You are a deity he worships day and night and people better put some respect on his lady’s name.

He is not giving you the princess treatment. No. This would be good enough for any peasant. If he could, this man would build altars and monuments for you. You are his religion. Your birthday and the anniversary of your first date are holidays he refuse to work on. Doesn’t matter if he’s offered hundreds of thousands of dollars for a ten minutes performance, he simply refuses to be away from you on those days. And if you so much as utter an « I need you », this man will drop absolutely everything. He’s done it in the past and he absolutely has no regrets about flying for five hours on a day off from tour to be able to surprise you at work after you mentioned it was « so hard being away » from him. He is usually mindful about climate change but for you, this man will turn into Taylor « taking my jet for a ten minutes flight » Swift. He literally doesn’t care about the world burning as long as there is a smile on your face. Marshall is not a big spender but for you, he doesn’t care about numbers. His goddess deserves the very best and, thank God for that merch money, he is able to give it to you. He’s not a diva but he demands the very best for you. He couldn’t care less about the water brought to him in his dressing room before a performance. But he makes sure it’s your favorite brand. Same for snacks. If he has to fly someone to another country to get something for you, he absolutely will. In his mind, it’s the least he can do for the woman who blesses him with her presence. He is almost offended when someone fails to greet you properly and he absolutely is when someone straight up disrespects you. If he could, he would fight duels in your honor. Somehow, you managed to turn this stoic individual in the utmost gentleman. When he’s by your side, you will never be caught walking on the wrong side of the pavement, having to hold your own bags. He’d rather die than have that. But you’ll never be caught. Because he protects you like you’re the most precious treasure there is. He’s never caught in your presence, because he doesn’t want to have you plagued by the media and harassed by fans and, yet, he manages to show you off. In private, he doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he’s head over heels with you. Your name is on his lips constantly, and the way he talks about you shows just how devoted he is. At first, people close to him got a little worried. Who were you ? What were your intentions ? It seemed like you were out of nowhere. Walked into Marshall’s life one day and, from then on, he was addicted. They had every reason to be suspicious. And then, they met you. And they understood. They got to witness the genuineness of your interactions, how your eyes mirrored Marshall’s devotion, the way he leaned into your touch so naturally and just how you seemed to heal the parts of him that had been left raw. For the first time in forever, they saw him at peace. Not merely content. Happy. They expected to hate you, because what kind of high maintenance brat has the most stoic man they ever knew act like a puppy ? Only, they couldn’t. It wasn’t quite clear how things worked out between you and Marshall and, in hindsight, it was none of their business. But they couldn’t hate you when it was clear as day that « Em » as most call him, had finally found a safe space. So you won them over as well, and they gave you the princess treatment.

[novaursa]

The Fire That Binds Us

- Summary: The aftermath of Blood and Cheese. Aegon and you find comfort in each other once more, and later, make plans with your council for attack on Rook's Rest.

- Paring: reader (twin!wife)/Aegon II

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N. Aegon has two surviving children with a reader. And the reader is bonded with a dragon called Starfyre. These events happen after The Silent Pyre and before Eternal Blaze. If you want to read all parts in chronological order you can find a list of my works on my blog. The list is pinned on the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 3 613

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The echoes of the past haunt the halls of the Red Keep, each stone a silent witness to the horrors that have unfolded within. The shadows of mourning drape over the castle like a shroud, heavier than any nightfall. Your chambers, once filled with the innocent laughter of your sons, are now cloaked in a grief that is too vast, too consuming to ever truly fade.

You sit by the window, staring out at the sky where Starfyre soared a week ago, her radiant scales shimmering like the night sky filled with stars. But even the memory of her brilliance cannot pierce the darkness that has taken root in your heart. The weight of your grief presses down on you, suffocating, as if the air itself has turned to stone. Your body feels numb, cold—almost as if you’ve become as lifeless as the small bodies that were taken from you so cruelly.

The door creaks open, but you don’t turn your head. You already know who it is. Her presence, once comforting, now brings only pain, a reminder of the tragedy that unfolded under her helpless watch.

"My sweet girl," Alicent’s voice trembles as she speaks. There is a rawness to it, a wound that has never healed. "You must eat something. You haven’t touched a morsel in days."

Her words fall flat, meaningless. How can she speak of food when your very soul feels starved, stripped of the light that your sons brought into your life? Aeron and Vaelon—they were your stars, bright and full of life. And now they are gone, snuffed out by the cruelty of war, by the hatred of your own blood.

You shake your head slowly, the movement taking more effort than it should. “I can’t, Mother. I can’t stomach anything. The thought of food…” Your voice breaks, a sob threatening to escape, but you force it down. You’ve cried too much already, and yet the tears never seem to run dry.

Alicent’s face crumples, her own sorrow breaking through the fragile mask of strength she tries to maintain. She reaches out, her hand trembling as she places it on yours, the warmth of her touch only a painful reminder of what you’ve lost. "Please, Y/N, you must take care of yourself—for Daena and Baelon. They need their mother."

Her words, though well-meaning, feel like another weight upon your chest. How can you be a mother to the children you still have when your heart is buried with the ones who are gone? The sight of Daena’s silver hair, so much like Aeron’s, and Baelon’s innocent smile, a mirror of Vaelon’s, only twist the knife deeper into your soul.

You pull your hand away, the motion sharp and cold. “And why haven't you warned anyone, Mother, when they came in to take my sons?” The bitterness in your voice surprises even you, but it’s a poison you cannot hold back. “You were there before me, in the nursery. But you didn't scream or resist, you just surrendered to them as they gagged you.”

Alicent’s breath catches, her eyes wide with shock and guilt, the guilt she has carried since that cursed night. You know it’s unfair, that she did all she could, but the rage within you needs an outlet, needs someone to blame besides the nameless killers who stole your children away.

“I tried,” Alicent whispers, her voice breaking as tears well in her eyes. “I tried to stop them, Y/N, you know it. I held Aeron in my arms with you, I tried to save him, but—” She chokes on her words, unable to continue as she’s overcome by the memory. “I felt his blood on my hands... I can still feel it, and it haunts me every night. Please, forgive me.”

But forgiveness is a luxury you cannot afford. You stand abruptly, the motion causing a wave of dizziness to crash over you, but you refuse to let it pull you down. You walk away from her, your steps unsteady, and collapse onto the edge of the bed that once held your children when they were babes, now cold and empty.

Before you can say anything more, the door opens again, and Aegon steps into the room. His presence is both a balm and a wound, for he too is a reminder of what you’ve lost—of what you both have lost.

“Leave us,” Aegon says to his mother, his voice a low command. Alicent hesitates, her eyes flickering between you and Aegon, but she knows better than to argue. With a final, sorrowful look, she exits the room, leaving you alone with your husband.

Aegon approaches you slowly, as if afraid that you might shatter into a thousand pieces at any moment. And perhaps you will. He kneels before you, his hands gently taking yours, and the warmth of his touch makes you flinch. How can anything be warm in a world so cold?

“Y/N,” he whispers, his voice thick with his own grief. “My love, my sister… please, look at me.”

Reluctantly, you lift your gaze to meet his. His eyes, so much like yours, are filled with pain, with sorrow, and with a rage that simmers just beneath the surface. The rage that has kept him going, kept him breathing, when all you want to do is stop.

“We will avenge them,” he swears, his grip on your hands tightening, as if he can tether you to life through sheer force of will. “Rhaenyra and Daemon will pay for what they’ve done. I swear it on the blood of our sons.”

His words are meant to comfort, to give you some semblance of hope, but they only deepen the chasm within you. You pull your hands from his grasp, turning your head away. “Vengeance won’t bring them back, Aegon,” you murmur, your voice hollow, devoid of the fire that once burned within you. “No matter how much blood you spill, it won’t return Aeron or Vaelon to us.”

Aegon’s face hardens at your words, the pain in his eyes turning to steel. “But it will make them pay,” he insists, his voice rising with the anger he cannot contain. “It will make them suffer as we suffer.”

You shake your head, tears finally spilling over as your resolve crumbles. “I don’t want more suffering, Aegon. I just want our boys back.” Your voice breaks into a sob, and you collapse into his arms, the weight of your grief finally pulling you under.

Aegon holds you tightly, his own tears falling silently as he presses his face into your hair. “I know,” he whispers, his voice raw. “I know, my love. And I would give anything to bring them back. But all I have left is this rage, this need for vengeance. I can’t let their deaths go unanswered. I can’t.”

You cling to him, the only solid thing in a world that has crumbled around you, and for a moment, you allow yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, his vengeance will bring you some peace. But deep down, you know that nothing will ever fill the void left by your sons. Nothing will ever make you whole again.

Aegon’s arms tighten around you as if he could shield you from all the pain in the world, as if his embrace alone could mend the shattered pieces of your heart. His breath is warm against your hair, mingling with your tears as you bury your face against his chest. For a moment, the world outside ceases to exist; there is no war, no death, no sorrow—only the two of you, clinging to each other in the darkness.

He pulls back slightly, just enough to tilt your chin up so that your eyes meet his. There’s a tenderness in his gaze that you haven’t seen in what feels like an eternity, a softness that cuts through the cold numbness within you. Slowly, as if testing the fragile connection between you, Aegon leans in and brushes his lips against yours.

The kiss is gentle at first, almost tentative, as though he’s afraid of breaking you further. But when you respond, when your lips part to welcome him, a hunger sparks between you—a need for closeness, for the comfort that only each other can provide. The kiss deepens, becoming more urgent, more desperate, as if you can fill the void left by your grief with each touch, each breath shared between you.

His hands move to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing away the lingering tears as he kisses you again, this time with a fierceness born of longing. It’s not just a kiss—it’s a plea, a silent cry for the connection that has been stolen from you both by the weight of your loss. And you answer it, pouring every ounce of your sorrow, your love, your need into him, hoping that he can feel it, that he understands.

“Aegon,” you whisper against his lips, your voice trembling with emotion. “Don’t let me go. Not tonight.”

“Never,” he breathes, his words a vow as he pulls you closer still, his hands beginning to roam, tracing the curves of your body as if reassuring himself that you are still here, still real.

The need for each other becomes overwhelming, a tidal wave that sweeps you both under, and before you know it, he’s guiding you to lay on the bed. The same bed where you’ve spent countless nights in tears, in mourning, now becomes a sanctuary, a place where you can find solace in each other.

He lays you down gently, as though you’re something precious, fragile. But there’s no haste in his movements, no rush as he leans over you, his gaze searching yours for any sign of hesitation. You reach up to touch his face, your fingers tracing the lines of his jaw, his lips, memorizing the feel of him beneath your hands.

“We’ve been lost for so long,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I need you, Aegon. I need to feel alive again.”

“And you will,” he promises, his voice rough with emotion as he begins to undress you, each piece of clothing slipping away like the layers of grief that have kept you apart. “I need you too, Y/N. You’re the only thing keeping me from falling apart.”

There’s something sacred in the way he touches you, in the way he lays you bare before him, his hands reverent as they caress your skin. You respond in kind, your fingers working to undo the ties and clasps of his own garments, your need for him growing with every second, every inch of skin revealed.

When there is nothing left between you, no barriers of cloth or grief, he pauses, his gaze sweeping over you as if committing you to memory. The weight of the world seems to lift in that moment, the sorrow and rage fading into the background as all that matters is this—this moment, this connection.

He leans down to kiss you again, his lips lingering on yours as his body presses against yours, the warmth of him chasing away the cold that has settled in your bones. The kiss deepens, growing more intense, more desperate, and you lose yourself in the sensation, in the feel of him—of Aegon, your husband, your twin, your other half.

As his hands roam your body, exploring the familiar terrain with a tenderness that borders on worship, you feel something shift within you. It’s not just about the physical act, not just about seeking comfort in each other’s touch. It’s about reclaiming something that was taken from you—your love, your bond, your life together.

When he finally joins with you, it’s like coming home. The world falls away, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you are whole. There are no words, only the sounds of your shared breaths, the gasps and sighs that fill the room as you move together, as you find solace in each other’s arms.

But as you reach the peak of your passion, as the world seems to blur around the edges, you find your voice again, whispering his name like a prayer, like a promise. “Aegon… we will survive this. We have to.”

“We will,” he replies, his voice thick with emotion, with the weight of the love and the grief you share. “As long as we have each other, we will.”

The words are a vow, a promise that despite everything, despite the darkness that surrounds you, you will endure.

And as the night fades into dawn, as the first light of morning filters through the curtains, you find a fragile peace in each other’s arms, a brief respite from the pain that has become your constant companion. It’s not a cure, it’s not an end to your sorrow, but it’s enough—enough to remind you that you are still alive, that you still have each other.

And that, for now, is enough.

The days following your shared moment with Aegon are a blur of whispered plans and unspoken grief, the fragile peace you found together now threatened by the storm brewing within the walls of the Red Keep. The small council meeting looms ahead, a gathering of minds meant to steer the course of the war, but you can already feel the tension crackling in the air like a brewing tempest.

As you and Aegon make your way to the council chambers, his hand rests lightly on the small of your back, a silent reassurance that you’re in this together. But you know him too well—there’s a fire in his eyes that betrays his intentions, a need for action that cannot be quelled by mere words.

The council chamber is already filled when you arrive, the lords and advisors gathered around the table, their faces set in various shades of concern and determination. Lord Tayland is whispering something to Grand Maester Orwyle, while Lord Jasper taps his fingers impatiently on the table. Ser Criston Cole stands by the door, his gaze sharp as he watches you and Aegon enter. Prince Aemond, your younger brother, is already seated, his one good eye burning with intensity. Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, occupies his usual place, his expression unreadable as always, but you sense the unease lurking beneath his composed exterior.

“Let us begin,” Aegon announces, his voice carrying the weight of command as he takes his seat at the head of the table. You settle beside him, your presence more than ceremonial—Aegon has insisted that you be involved in these meetings, that your counsel is valued, even if the others in the room might silently question your place here.

Aegon’s gaze sweeps over the assembled lords, his eyes narrowing as they settle on his grandfather, Otto. “We can no longer wait for whispers and rumors to guide our actions,” he declares, the impatience in his tone unmistakable. “The time has come to strike at Dragonstone directly, with our dragons. Sunfyre, Vhagar, and Starfyre will be more than enough to break Rhaenyra’s hold on the island and crush her forces before they have a chance to regroup.”

The room tenses, all eyes turning to Otto. The older man doesn’t flinch, though the slight tightening of his lips betrays his discomfort. “Your Grace,” he begins carefully, “we must be cautious. We still await word from the Free Cities and Lord Dalton Greyjoy. The alliance we are proposing is crucial. Without their fleets, we cannot break the blockade of the Gullet, and we risk being isolated if we act too rashly.”

Aegon’s expression darkens, his hand curling into a fist on the table. “We cannot afford to wait any longer, Otto. Every day we delay gives Rhaenyra and Daemon more time to gather their forces, to prepare for an attack of their own. The longer we sit idle, the weaker we appear. They will see it as a sign of our hesitation, of our weakness.”

Prince Aemond leans forward, his voice cold and sharp as steel. “The time for caution has passed. We need to strike now, decisively. Dragonstone is vulnerable, and with Vhagar and Sunfyre, we can take it within days. Let Rhaenyra know that her stronghold is not as secure as she thinks.”

Otto’s expression hardens, his voice taking on an edge as he replies, “And what of the Gullet? What of the supplies and reinforcements that will be needed once we engage Rhaenyra’s forces in earnest? Without the ships, without the support of our potential allies, we may find ourselves trapped in our own capital, besieged on all sides.”

Aegon slams his hand on the table, the sound echoing through the chamber like a thunderclap. “Enough! We cannot continue to play this game of waiting. Rhaenyra has already shown her hand—she murdered my sons, our heirs! And you ask me to sit here and wait for a letter that may never come?”

The room falls silent, the weight of Aegon’s grief and rage pressing down on everyone present. You can feel his fury radiating off him in waves, a storm that is barely contained.

Otto meets Aegon’s gaze, his eyes hard. “Your Grace, my only concern is for the stability of the realm. Rhaenyra is a threat, yes, but if we lose the support of our allies, if we spread ourselves too thin—”

“No more excuses, Otto,” Aegon cuts him off, his voice icy. “You speak of stability, yet all your cautious plans have brought us nothing but delay and indecision. I need a Hand who will act, not one who will hesitate at every turn.”

Otto’s eyes widen slightly, realizing what’s coming, but before he can speak, Aegon rises from his seat, his decision made. “You are relieved of your duties as Hand of the King. Ser Criston Cole will take your place.”

The shock ripples through the room, though no one dares to speak. Otto stands slowly, the lines of his face deepening with the weight of his dismissal. “As you command, Your Grace,” he says, his voice strained but steady. He turns to leave the chamber, his exit a silent acknowledgment of the power shift that has just occurred.

As the door closes behind him, Aegon turns back to the council, his gaze hard. “We march on Duskendale. Sunfyre, Vhagar, and Ser Criston will lead the assault. We will cut off Dragonstone from the mainland, and then we will take Rook’s Rest. I will not allow Rhaenyra another victory.”

Aemond nods in agreement, his expression grim. “You must remain in the capital for now, brother. Let us secure Duskendale first, and then you can join me at Rook’s Rest. We need to draw her out, force her hand. Rhaenyra will retaliate, and when she does, we will be ready.”

You listen to their words, the cold logic of their strategy, but all you can think of is the danger they are about to face. The thought of Aegon flying into battle, of him facing Rhaenyra’s dragons alone, sends a chill through your blood.

“I’m coming with you,” you say suddenly, your voice breaking through the tension in the room. “Starfyre and I will be at your side.”

Aegon turns to you, his expression softening for a moment, but there’s a firmness in his eyes that you recognize all too well. “No, Y/N,” he says quietly but firmly. “You must stay here, in the capital. Daena and Baelon need you. I need you to watch over them, to protect them.”

Your heart clenches at his words, but the resolve within you burns stronger. “And who will protect you, Aegon? Who will keep you safe when the battle begins?”

“Sunfyre,” he answers, stepping closer to you, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek. “I cannot risk losing you, Y/N. You are my heart, my strength. Stay here, where it’s safe.”

You want to argue, to fight him on this, but the look in his eyes, the plea behind his command, makes you pause. He’s not just ordering you—he’s begging you, in his own way, to stay, to keep the last remnants of your family safe.

But even as you nod, your mind is already made up. You will not let him face this alone. You will follow him, no matter the cost, and protect him with everything you have left. The silence between you is thick with unspoken words, the council around you forgotten as you lock eyes with Aegon.

“I understand,” you say finally, your voice soft, but there’s a fire in your heart that refuses to be extinguished. “I’ll stay.”

But the promise you make to yourself is unbreakable. You will not remain in the capital while your husband flies into danger. When the time comes, Starfyre will fly with Sunfyre, and you will be at Aegon’s side, no matter what.

The meeting concludes with final orders and plans, but you barely hear them. Your mind is already racing, thinking of the preparations you’ll need to make in secret, the steps you’ll take to ensure that when Aegon leaves, you will not be far behind.

As the council disperses, Aegon takes your hand, guiding you out of the chamber. He thinks you’ve agreed, that you’ll stay safe in the capital with your children. But he doesn’t know the resolve that has taken root in your heart.

You will protect him, even if it means defying his command. Even if it means risking everything.

As you walk together back to your chambers, the weight of your decision settles over you, but there’s no turning back. You’ve already lost too much. You will not lose Aegon too.

[redfoxwritesstuff]

A Misdemeanor Of The Heart, Chapter 13 (Human Alastor x Married Reader)

Chapter Trigger Warnings: Domestic violence Chapter warnings: Domestic violence (mild?), references to addiction.

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Alastor plagued your thoughts during the day, and you found little reprieve in the depths of slumber. The very idea of him was a ghost that danced across your mind whenever it grew still. You would close your eyes and his smile would light up the darkness behind your eyelids. The ever present idea of him promised peace. 

It was a refuge you were terrified to seek shelter in and yet in the darkness of your sleep he was still there, holding his hand out to you. The version of him in your dreams was a sweet devil, promising kindness and warmth for your soul in return. 

“You dumb bitch,” The boom of Laurence’s voice shocked you out of your thoughts. How long had he been raging? When had he started? You’d been so lost in your thoughts that you hadn’t noticed him starting in on you as you stood, a plate of toast in your hands, in the kitchen. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, not sure what you were sorry for but knowing that you certainly would be if you had just been paying attention. Pulling his arm back, he wound up and launched the apple at you in a way that looked too much like a baseball pitcher. He wasn’t a man for playing sport, but you prepared for pain, anyway. It didn’t wouldn’t take much to land a powerful hit from across the small kitchen. 

It landed with a sickening splat against the wall, saving you from a bruising blow. His poor aim wasn’t enough to save you from the splatter of slimy apple flesh. Cold apple mush dotted your arm, churning your stomach as your mind desperately tried to catch up. 

“Who the fuck lets food rot in the basket?!” Laurence loomed closer, anger blazing in his eyes.

Oh. 

That’s what had set him off and you told yourself it made sense. You told yourself it was a perfectly reasonable thing for him to be this upset over. It was a waste of food and a waste of money. It was disrespectful to your husband and his hard work to provide for you to allow waste. 

It hadn’t been an intentional act of waste, though. You had dropped the apple a few weeks ago, and it bruised. It hadn’t been your intention to neglect it. It just ended up being at the bottom of the basket. You intended to bake with it since it wouldn’t be good for raw eating any longer, but it slipped your mind. Time went by and it just hadn’t gotten used, that was all. 

A simple accident. A slipped thought from the busy brain of a housewife. 

“It was just one,” you protested, resisting the urge to wipe the cold splatter from your arm. It would only anger Laurence more. He was an angry beast, and you knew your only defense was in your stillness. “I was going to put it out with the scraps after I finished the washing up.” 

“You think I just fucking give you money to waste?!” It didn’t matter how still you kept your body when you could not still your treacherous tongue. The blow of his fist delivered to your ribs knocked the air from your lungs. He hardly put any force into the hit, not needing to in your already injured state. The still healing fractures screamed in pain, throbbing with each beat of your heart as you fell to the ground in a crumpled heap. 

You waited, eyes closed and hands clutching your side. Each slow, deep breath brought waves of nausea inducing pain. You tried to focus on the feeling of the hard tile under you while listening for any sounds of your husband advancing on you. Muscles pulled taut while you waited, unsure if this was going to be the end of the discipline he would dull out for the infraction or not. 

The pain in your side was immense, blinding, but it didn’t feel like the still healing fractures were re-broken. Laurence was shouting over you, words lost to the sea of pain your mind was floating in. With every breath you struggled to take, you took stock of how it felt like the bones in your chest were moving. Would you really know if he had shattered the fragile healing? 

While Laurence yelled, you thought about Alastor. He had wormed his way into your thoughts again while Laurence dominated your attention as best he could. You hadn’t been aware of it. First you were thinking of your ribs and then the soft touch of his hand, brushing lightly against your skin as he had wrapped them in thick bandages. 

If Alastor had a wife, he wouldn’t be the type of man to hit her. You know that. You didn’t know how you did, but somehow, deep in your heart, you knew it was true. Behind your closed eyes, you pictured Alastor with his eyes bright and hair lit up with sunlight. The smile on his face was peaceful. It was the smile he had worn when he talked of his mother. 

While Laurence’s footsteps faded through the house, you replayed the sound of Alastor’s laugh in your head. It was rich and warm, full of mirth. The front door opened and closed while you listened to Alastor call you Darling, watching the way his mouth formed the word, corners upturned as he spoke. 

As Laurence’s car roared to life out front, you thought of the warmth of Alastor’s hand resting on your lower back. It was such a sinful thing to indulge in. You had no business thinking about the way your heart beat a little faster at his too casual touches. 

It was early in the evening; the sun having only just tucked itself behind the horizon line. The band was in full swing, vibrant music infusing the patrons of the speakeasy with an energy far greater than what was typical in other settings during the still early hour. 

People danced, drank and talked. Women flung around the dancefloor, trust in their partners and the well practiced moves to keep them from crashing into each other or the tables scattered around the edge of the dancefloor. The air was alive with the reckless joy that good drink and better music brought. 

Mimzy was up on her feet, fluttering around the floor, talking to anyone and everyone. She was an under recognized master at the craft of entertainment and hospitality. It didn’t matter to her at all if they wanted to talk to her, she would ensure every one of her guests got what they wanted from their night out if it was within her power. 

Alastor didn’t mind the lack of personal attention for himself. Tonight he wanted to be alone with his thoughts, his drink, and the band. 

On the other side of the lounge, Laurence moved through the crowd. It was hard not to notice his bright blond hair or annoyingly loud voice. 

Alastor knew Laurence was aware of his eyes on him, following him as he made his greetings and flirted with women. They had locked eyes shortly after the man had arrived and since, Laurence had been deliberately avoiding locking eyes with Alastor. 

Why? 

Alastor’s smile twitched higher as he took a drink from the glass he had been absentmindedly holding, amber swirling and catching the light. The rye ran down his throat, settling warm in his abdomen. He was on his second drink of the night and doing little more than nursing it. He wanted his mind clear, just in case he needed it.

“Dear Laurence,” Alastor wondered aloud, “are you struggling to come up with funds for the first payment?”

Laurence draped his arm around a redhead’s waist, kissing her neck with the comfortable ease of a long-term familiarity. He spared no thought for those around him, patrons who may know he was wed to another. 

Alastor couldn’t help but wonder if you knew where your husband was right now? 

Clearly, he wasn’t working late, trying to earn the funds to repay the loan. Was that what he had told you he was doing? Did you smile at him and wish him a good evening when you saw him off for the day? Did you kiss him goodbye, trusting that he would be where he said he was, doing what he said he would be doing? Did you save him a plate of dinner, cooked with affection he did not deserve? 

Alastor looked forward to ruining Laurence’s life. For the bruises he had left upon you, for every shattered rib, no one deserved destruction as much as Laurence did. He would revel in watching the man crumble, losing everything he held dear. It was the least Alastor could do, considering the sins of the man, at least for now. 

How disappointing it would be if he failed to make the payment, putting an end to the game so soon. It wasn’t often Alastor got to indulge in a slow torture. Perhaps that was for the better, though. 

A quick end to Laurence’s financial and social life would lessen their entanglements. It would allow him to put distance between them. With distance and time, he could remove the stain of a man from the earth without raising suspicions. He just needed enough time for their association to fade into the background. 

You would be free then and Alastor wouldn’t have to tangle himself up in this little game he was playing with you. The idea of you wouldn’t occupy his thoughts any longer. There would be no need to follow you, stealing you away for coffee. 

Alastor’s smile twitched, corners falling for a fraction of a second. The idea of not having a reason to see you again didn’t please him as much as it should have. What a curious conundrum. He hadn’t expected a bond of… what was it? Friendship? It didn’t feel quite like the bonds that bonded him to Mimzy. Perhaps it was different. He was less a boy now. Regardless, he had expected nothing to build between him and you. 

After finishing off his glass, Alastor signaled the bartender for a refill. Just one more and then he’d be off to hunt. Staining his hands red and ending the toxic existence of a beast in man’s clothing, he would surely feel better. All he needed was to vent some steam. 

“Oh, my golly!” A woman’s voice, high and musical, accompanied an encroaching hand on Alastor’s shoulder as he turned to give her his attention. “You’re Alastor Moreau from the radio!” 

“Yes, ma’am.” Alastor moved out from under her hand as he took the glass from the bartender, tilting it toward the man in thanks.

“I love your show. A voice so divine.” She slid up to him, light reflecting off strands of beads and tinsel hanging from her frame. The sound of them rattling against eachother was almost drowned out by the band’s music. 

“Thank you,” Alastor smiled and tried to ignore how she moved closer yet. The overly floral scent of her perfume was thick, rolling off her in waves that had his nose wanting to scrunch. 

“We simply must dance,” she said, resting her hand on his chest. 

Alastor plucked it off him with his long finger and thumb, pinching and lifting, while trying to touch her as little as possible. “I simply must do nothing of the sort.” 

“I’m sorry?” Her mouth opened and closed. Alastor thought she looked rather fish like, gulping on her words. 

Alastor laughed, not finding it in him to pretend to care about what hurt feelings she may have. “Apology accepted, my dear. If you’ll excuse me, I’m not in the dancing mood tonight.” 

Alastor did not wait for whatever else she had to say as he rose from the barstool, pushing a few bills across the bar top to settle his tab. He counted on the dim lights and the bodies in the speakeasy to allow him to become one of the crowd while he made his social escape. 

Tonight wasn’t a night he felt like performing the courting dance or dealing with the mess that would inevitably follow it. It had been a while since he had last flaunted a woman on his arm, showering her in displays of affection for society to judge. He knew such performances were needed, lest people talk as Mimzy insisted on reminding him, but it could wait a while longer still. 

Alastor detested the show it required him to put on. He hated the way the woman he picked would hang off of him, hands over him. They were always so eager to have their lips on him, clinging to his body and his space as they sucked the air from around him. 

While he sipped at the drink in his hand, Alastor’s thoughts turned back to you as he caught sight of your husband with the red-headed flapper sitting on his lap. How were you passing your night while your husband’s hand climbed higher on another woman’s thigh?

You sat at the small workstation in the kitchen, dim gas light shining down over you. The ticking of the clock was loud in the silence, soft music playing from the radio doing little to drown it out while you read the morning’s newspaper. 

Laurence was working late again tonight, or at least that’s what he had said he would when he left in the morning. There was a plate sitting on the shelf in the icebox, his share of the dinner you had dutifully made and packed up for him knowing he would likely not eat it. 

You didn’t know if you believed what he said. It was a struggle to convince yourself that he was working late. Each day that passed, it was harder to believe that the pink on his shirts was from ink. 

Was it worse that you were not sure if you cared? 

If he got caught, if someone found out, perhaps you could divorce him. If that happened, you could be free from the pain and the yelling. Would your family take you back into their home if that were to happen? 

It didn’t matter; you told yourself. You didn’t think that was going to happen. You were a lot of things, but dumb was not one of them, no matter what Laurence said.

Society would look the other way in the case of an affair. Without the support of your family and his, you wouldn’t be able to push for a divorce yourself. You were trapped. There was no way out and worse, you knew it was a matter of time before you fell pregnant. That was, unless you were barren. 

You could run away. Take a new name, pretend to be someone else. While Laurence slept, you could take all the money from his wallet and just leave, not sparing a second to look back. 

Where would you go? The world was a dangerous place; you knew that. That was even more so true for a woman on her own. Would your family accept you back? Hide you? Look the other way?

Not likely. 

What would Alastor say if you just waited in the alley by the tailor shop and ambushed him with your plans to flee? Would he help you? He seemed like the type of man that might. Could you ask so much of him? A man you hardly knew?

Running away would mean leaving him behind as much as it would mean leaving Laurence behind. You were not sure if you could do that. You could live without Laurence, you were sure, but the idea of never seeing Alastor’s warm brown eyes made your heart ache.

It was wrong, you knew, how much Alastor had occupied your thoughts. The idea of him alone sent your heart beating faster, but you couldn’t help it. You were not even sure if you wanted it to change. 

Closing your eyes and setting the newspaper you’d hardly been reading aside, you imagined Alastor was sitting there with you. How different it would be to be spending this evening with him instead of alone. How different it would be to have him as your husband instead of Laurence. 

That was something you could never have as long as you were married. You would be married until either you or Laurence died, you feared. Imagining such things was doing little more than stabbing yourself in the heart with a small knife, again and again. 

With a sigh, you stood from the table. It wasn’t doing you any good, sitting here and thinking about him. There were dishes that needed washing, a task easier now that they’d had a good soak. 

While you set to the task, you let your mind wander freely. You expected it to dance around the thought of Alastor again but that wasn’t what ended up happening. While you washed dishes, you remembered tales of woman who disposed of husbands with harsh hands by putting a little poison in their food. 

Could you do that? Did you have murder in your heart? Could you take that secret to your grave? If it meant you could be free from Laurence’s anger, could you? 

You didn’t think so.

But what if you did?

Alastor refused to question what his motivations were as he hoisted himself into the apple tree. With each shift of his weight, the branch rustled, occasional leaves fluttering to the ground. The tree was at the edge of your back garden, where your land and the small forest met. 

There was no reason for him to be here. It was miles out of the way from where he had killed the pathetic excuse of a man he had been hunting. It was a waste of time to be here and yet here he was, scaling the tall tree. 

He needed to get the body back home before it got too much later. The body needed to be hung before rigor mortis set in or getting him out of the trunk would be a challenge. The last thing Alastor wanted was to dismember a body in his car. That would make for a large mess that he wasn’t eager to clean. 

Not waiting to butcher until it passed would leave the meat tough and flavorless. If the fool in his trunk turned stiff, he may as well just feed him direct to the bayou. He didn’t need the meat that badly. 

What a waste that would be, though. 

Alastor pulled himself up onto the thick branch he had thought of as his seat. In the distance, an oil lamp bloomed in the window. He watched, hidden by darkness, leaves and branches as your frame, dressed in a nightgown, came into view. 

You disappeared again, but that was alright. A few moments later, he could just see the glow of the lamp as you walked down the stairs. Did you know how much of your home could be seen through the large windows? Did you believe the forest and crumbling fence provided some security from prying eyes?

There could be killers lurking in the forest. You needed to be more careful. There was a serial killer on the run. Why not draw the curtains closed?

Alastor wasn’t going to be the one to tell you to do so, though. To do that would raise too many questions, none he was ready to answer. Plus, if you started drawing the curtains closed, how would he be able to check in on you?

Sitting on his branch, in his apple tree, he watched as you entered your kitchen. You looked tired, Alastor noted, but that wasn’t surprising. It was late. What were you doing awake? You should be asleep in your bed, next to your disgusting pig of a husband. 

His jaw ticked as he watched you take a knife out of the block, standing bathed in darkness and firelight. You were beautiful, just like that. It was a moment that deserved to be captured by the world’s greatest artists. The fire light shone off the knife and your hair. 

Alastor stunned by the simple beauty of you at that moment. Laurence did not know what he had locked away in his home, wilting under his harsh touches. 

You picked up the oil lamp and walked slowly, knife in hand, through your kitchen. Alastor watched as the glow disappeared, fingers running over the rough bark of the tree. 

Where were you going with that knife at this hour? What were you going to do with it? 

The glow entered your bedroom ahead of you. Alastor’s smile grew wider as he watched the knife glitter, the blade catching the light of the lamp as you moved toward the side of your bed. The lamplight jumped as you set the oil lamp on the bedside table before turning your attention to the bed. 

Alastor held his breath as the knife rose, gripped tightly in both hands. Oh, how you trembled. He could see it in the way the light reflected off the blade, even from where he sat. If he was there, he’d tell you to steady your hands, take a few breaths. It was better to steady yourself than to make a move when you were unstable. 

You were the most beautiful statue as you stood there. His lungs screamed for air as he continued to hold his breath, waiting to see what you would do. Oh, the sight you made! It was one he never wished to forget. 

After a few more heartbeats passed, you lowered the knife and Alastor’s breath whistled through his teeth. He watched as you looked around, as if you had just suddenly snapped awake from a dream. Your hand ran over your face and you looked around, head moving slowly. 

What would you do next? 

Alastor waited as you rushed to pluck up the lamp, flame jittering and flickering in the rush of movement. You scurried around the bed, stumbling for a moment as your feet caught on something he couldn’t see. You were in a rush to get away from what Alastor could only assume was Laurence’s sleeping figure. 

The light shook as you fell to your knees on the other side of the bed. If you were not careful, you’d drop that oil lamp. You were down, out of sight for a few moments before you rose again, this time without the knife. A moment passed as you cradled your face in your hands, shoulders shaking. 

“Don’t cry,” The sound of his whispered voice startled Alastor, “We can do it together.” 

Laurence was in a poor mood, but that wasn't new. In the last few weeks, he had been in a poor mood more often than not. He was tired, working late night after night. The long hours spent behind his desk had his back aching and his head pounding. 

His hands came, more often than not now, too. It was becoming rare that a day would pass without at least one strike against you. Thankfully, his anger didn’t come with the same harshness. Often his rages burned hot, but it burned out quickly, leaving you scared, shaken but fairly unharmed. 

His affections too, came less often, but for that you were even more thankful. The downside is when he wished to take you; it was often harshly. There was little courting or pretty words, you were just an object for him to use. You missed the nights when he took you without the pain, without striking you first, just for the simple pleasure of seeing your pain. 

“Are you listening to me?” Laurence slapped you, not giving you a chance to answer. 

“I’m sorry,” you said reflexively, sitting down hard on the bed. You didn’t know what you were sorry for, but you were sure you were sorry. You tried to focus on the feeling of the bed under you, the blankets bunched. “I’m still tired. What was that?”

“Pay attention this time.” Laurence waved the tincture bottle in front of your face. The label was stained with spilled liquid, dark brown that looked more like dried blood. He’d gotten messier in the last week. You had noticed but not said anything about it to him. It wasn’t a wife’s job to critique the cleanliness of her husband. 

“Yes, Laurence.” You looked up at him, shoulders pulled high as you waited for whatever would come next. 

“Take this bottle to the pharmacy on the corner of 5th and West. Give it to the man behind the counter and ask for two more.” He put the empty bottle in your hand. 

“Yes, Laurence.” You answered, wrapping your fingers around it.

“You think you can manage that?” He glared down at you as he finished tying his necktie. “Or are you too dumb?”

“I can do it.” You assured him, eyes following him as he moved through the room. 

“I’ll leave the money by the door.” You followed Laurence out of the room, a few steps behind him. 

“When will you be home?” You asked as you followed him down the stairs. While you were out, you could pick up a few things for dinner. Maybe if you made him a nice dinner he would-

Laurence turned and slapped you, the force of the blow sending you crashing against the railing, breath wheezing out of your lungs as you fought not to cry out. You gripped the polished wood, using it to keep yourself upright. Clinging to it, you struggled to put your feet under you again. The last thing your still healing body needed was to fall down the stairs. 

Laurence did not stop to help you. Your husband didn’t even look back to see if you were going to fall. He just walked down the stairs, fixing his tie as he made his way toward into the living room. 

“It’s not the wife’s job to manage her husband. That’s a fucking nag. Nags get beat. Do you want me to beat you?” Laurance called over his shoulder.

“No, Laurence.” You answered, taking a few tentative steps down the remaining stairs. 

“Since you want to know so fucking bad, I’m working late tonight. Got a business dinner. I’ll be home around ten. Don’t save me a plate. Don’t bother waiting up.” Laurence didn’t even look at you as you stepped into the living room, keeping yourself just out of his reach. 

“Yes, Laurence.” You said simply as he opened the front door. 

The spring brought warm sunshine that pulled a smile to your face. It felt good on your skin as you walked down the sidewalk. Birds chirped as they fluttered in the few trees that dotted the street. The pleasant day and good weather made for good mood, even with the rather disastrous start of the day.

Would it be strange to stop by the tailor and see if you could catch Alastor there? It was strange, but you realized that was where you had caught him most. You had no reason to stop by the shop, other than perhaps to thank Susan for her worry when you had been too hurt to get your dress, but that would just be an excuse to be there. 

“Well, fancy meeting you here.” Alastor’s warm voice washed over your ear, breath just sending your hairs dancing. 

You hadn’t heard him come up behind you. The sudden sound of his voice over your shoulder startled you, sending your heart jumping against your ribs as you jerked forward, away from him. You clamped your hand over your mouth, stifling your scream into a muffled squeak. 

“Alastor,” you hissed his name as you turned to him, “I was just thinking of you.” 

“Good things, I hope.” It felt like his chuckle wrapped around you, caressing the nerves he had set ablaze with his sudden appearance. 

“Of course,” you smiled at him before realizing that perhaps you were being too friendly with him. The corners of your mouth twitched as you tried to tame your smile, to take the girlishness of it from your face. 

“And what are you up to on this fine day?” Alastor took up walking at your side, a respectful distance between you but keeping himself between you and the road. As he spoke to you, he leaned forward slightly so that he could still look to you, between glances ahead. You struggled to push down the urge to preen under his attention, fingers growing restless as you picked at your nails. 

“Just an errand before I’ll set about the house chores this afternoon,” You had been wanting to see Alastor so badly but now that you were the center of his attention you realized you had no actual plan. 

“So late to start your wifely duties?” Alastor smiled wider as he leaned forward further to ensure you his teasing grin. 

“I did some before leaving,” you protested, laughing lightly as Alastor nearly tripped over a raised portion of the sidewalk. His teasing felt barbless when you knew the same from Laurence would have felt outright cutting. “But there’s no rush today.” 

“No?” Alastor let his attention fall from you for a few seconds as he straightened his jacket. 

“Laurence has a late dinner meeting tonight and is working right up to it.” You shrugged as if it didn’t matter to you in the slightest, and in truth, it didn’t.

“And how will you be passing the evening?” His eyes seemed to sparkle as he asked the question you had both hoping and dreading he would ask. 

“Oh, I don’t know.” You shrugged your shoulders as you glanced at the shop sigh, ensuring you didn’t get lost in conversation and had made it to the right place. “Probably listen to the radio and read a book.” 

“I’ll wait for you out here,” Alastor said, opening the door to the pharmacy for you as you stopped in front of. You were thankful for the consideration as he remained outside. It wouldn’t do for him to be following you into shops. 

Making your way to the counter, you fished out the bottle Laurence had sent you to pick up as the man behind the counter turned to face you. “What can I get for you?” 

“My husband sent me to get two of these?” Handing the bottle to the man, you continued, “I’m not sure exactly what it is, but he said you’d know? He takes it for his sore back occasionally.” 

“Landanum.” The man rolled the bottle in his hand for a moment, shoulders slumped. “Yeah, I know what it is.” The man set the bottle on the counter before turning, talking over his shoulder. “And he’s only taking a little, right? And occasionally?”

“Yes, sir.” You cocked your head to the side as you watched him dig through bottles on shelves.

“Good, this is strong stuff. People get hooked on it and it’s no good. Makes good men turn sour. I won’t usually sell more than one at a time and I out right won’t sell more than two.” The man turned, wrapping the two small bottles in crinkled paper before slipping them both into a small bag. 

“I thank you for doing so, sir.” You felt anxiety flood through you. It made sense. The tincture had put your mind on a pleasant cloud. It wasn’t hard to believe someone could become hooked on it. 

“I’m only doing it because your husband sent you,” the man grumbled under his breath. 

“Excuse me?” You were unsure if you had heard him right. 

“No one that’s not already hooked on the stuff buys two bottles.” The man looked at the bag disapprovingly. “Ma’am, I’m doing you a favor because when men run out of their fixes, they get real mean. But you’ll do good to tell him that this is the only time I’ll sell you two bottles.” 

“I assure you, Sir-”

“He’s got it all taken care of, all under control.” The man scoffed. “They always say that. It’ll be three dollars.” 

You pulled three neat dollar bills from your coin purse. Laurence had left you exactly the amount of money you needed, not a penny more. There was nothing but your pocket change for any shopping you may have needed to do. 

He had been more tight with the purse strings, but you tried to trust him. If you couldn’t trust your husband, who could you trust? You struggled to justify the half wired house and the lack of landscaping in the back garden. 

“All set?” Alastor asked as you stepped outside, clutching the bag in your hands. 

“That was all, yes.” You forced a smile on your face, trying to avoid allowing your mind to linger on the warning of the pharmacist. 

“Good,” Alastor’s smile grew wide, “Would a lady be interested in passing the afternoon with me?” 

It sounded like a date. It sounded like something courting couples would say. Blood rushed to your face as he looked down at you, a smile small while he allowed you time to think. 

“What do you have in mind?” you whispered, looking up at him. 

In the morning sunlight, his smile bloomed into something far brighter than the sun. It made your heart stutter and stop in your chest, only to kick itself into a rapid rhythm. 

You allowed him to take your hand, tucking it into his arm as he pulled you along the sidewalk. This was wrong, you knew. There wasn’t any real justification for allowing such casual touches. You told yourself it was only to allow him to take some of the weight off your still sore hips.

What you should do is go home and clean your home. Instead, you let Alastor lead you down the sidewalk. You didn’t know what the day would bring, and you found you liked that. 

Next?

[ecoterrorist-katara]

I have been thinking a lot about blood bending lately and why the writers decided to go with the storyline of it being banned. I personally do not think it should have been. Like any bending form it can be used for awful things or it could be used for great things (my first thought is always in a medical sense but I’m sure there are other uses). And then I started to wonder if part of why they did that is bc that storyline was connected to Katara more than anyone else, and maybe this was a way to sideline her/focus more on Korra and the new gang instead of exploring with the older characters along with the new ones. But I was wondering if you had any thoughts on it!

hi anon! Sorry for getting to your ask a little late. I was at music camp (okay it’s a professional development program for musicians but I think of it as music camp in an effort to remind myself to have fun) and it was a big challenge since I’m chronically ill and needed a whole apothecary of meds to get through it. (I’m fine now! But needed to pace very carefully before & after and therefore stayed away from Tumblr)

It’s absolutely weird to me that bloodbending is singled out in a world where people can literally steal breath from one’s lungs, but it’s even weirder to me that they had a whole “ban bloodbending” storyline and sidelined Katara, because like…in what world would Katara feel strongly enough about bloodbending to ban it, yet do nothing to enforce the ban? The only explanation that makes sense is that she banned it because she was so ashamed, and stayed away from all the stuff around Yakone et al because she couldn’t bear to be reminded of what she’d done. And like all interpretations of canon Katara in LOK, that is just horribly heartbreaking.

I don’t begrudge the creators for wanting LOK to be about the new generation and I don’t mind seeing the Gaang play second fiddle. But I do object to the creators putting Katara in these situations where she could something in her wheelhouse, that’s in-character with her skills and ambitions, that is in line with her cultural impact as a role model for girls…and then sidelining her. Yakone is a big example, obviously, but so is Katara’s lack of involvement in the Civil War, the Red Lotus kidnapping, etc.

Like you said, bloodbending is useful in terms of the medical implications, but I also think it’s a humane tool in battle as long as it’s only used to incapacitate and not control. I can’t think of many better ways of incapacitating an enemy without causing serious damage (it’s even more efficient than chi-blocking!). If a bloodbender can stop encroaching enemies in their tracks with a flick of their wrist — well, that actually seems more humane than freezing them into ice cubes, which is the go-to waterbender move. I mean, Katara stops Hama with bloodbending in The Puppetmaster; she doesn’t actually control Hama with it. It’s terrible to override people’s bodily autonomy and make them do things they don’t want to do, but that is a very specific use of bloodbending.

I do think, though, that Katara is not the type of person to recognize all the other potential uses of bloodbending unless someone prompts her, and unfortunately that person is not going to be Aang. It doesn’t help that Katara’s first experience with bloodbending is being stripped of her own agency; similarly, it becomes her go-to weapon when she encounters (she thinks) the person who made her feel the most powerless in her life. To Katara, bloodbending is about taking power from someone else…and on her own, she’s not likely to see other applications. Katara is an excellent fighter with a lot of raw power, finesse, and creativity, but she’s not actually all that in-tune with her element, and I think that’s another reason she was never very interested in healing in canon (Katara and waterbending could be a whole other meta). Katara would’ve been an equally excellent bender no matter which element she wields, unlike Toph and Aang, who are uniquely suited to their elements. Katara borrows a lot from the more aggressive forms of bending (fire and earth): grabs people with water tentacles, hits them with ice disks, overwhelms them with big waves. For all that waterbending is about going with the flow and using the opponent’s strengths against them, Katara doesn’t exactly exemplify that philosophy (unlike Aang, btw, who is more intuitive as a waterbender than she is; that is why he picked it up more quickly at the beginning). She addresses all her problems head-on and is more likely to meet them with raw power than anything else. If I were to guess her astrological placements, she’d be an Aries Mars, minimum, if not an Aries Sun as well (she’d be a Cancer Moon though…I have Thoughts on ATLA astrology lmao).

Anyway, all this to say: I don’t think Katara would’ve thought of the healing implications of bloodbending on her own, when she’s already been traumatized by it, and that’s pretty tragic tbh. I like the Zutara interpretation of Zuko inspiring Katara to think there are other uses for bloodbending (as a wielder of a potentially destructive element), but I think Toph could’ve had a conversation with her about other uses for bloodbending as well, since Toph is really creative with earth. Actually, I think Zuko or Toph or Sokka could’ve all had a conversation with Katara about coming to terms about doing things that one is not proud of & moving past them, but I guess Katara can only follow the rigid moral code of her Do No Wrong boyfriend. Anyway, LOK’s despicable treatment of ATLA’s female characters is nothing new, but Katara’s is the most obvious and egregious because she’s actually there. We have no idea what happened to Suki or Azula or Mai or Ty Lee, and what we do see from Toph is not great either (in what world would she retire to be lonely in a swamp when having her friends meant the world to her…). All the boys got to have cool fulfilling lives and all the girls who aren’t lost to history are sad sacks, thanks Bryke! On a non-sarcastic note, thank you anon for such an interesting question!

[mandalhoerian]

sacrosanct | leon kennedy x reader | 2

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pairing: leon kennedy x f!reader

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

The god he abandoned has other plans for him.

word count: 13K

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

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

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

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

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

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

🌀 READ ON AO3 !

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

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

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

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

"You're doing it wrong again."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Like this?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why would he do such a thing?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The manor feels like a gilded cage.

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

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

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

"My Lord."

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not marrying her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From the temple to the palace. Still a pawn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He can’t stay here. Not now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Necessary. The word is poison, burning through him.

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

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

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

He can't accept this. He refuses to.

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

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

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

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

A scent.

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

Lilies.

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

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

It’s your scent.

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

But his soul screams.

He knows it’s you.

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

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

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

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

Gone.

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

But you’re gone.

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

No, you’re here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm afraid I don't—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods, his jaw clenched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Over becoming king one day?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you’re not the Saintess anymore.

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

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

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

"Hey, you okay?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're housing the former Saintess."

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

"You heard me."

"Where did you hear that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.

Leon didn't think about that at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Saintess." The word slips out on a ragged breath before he can stop it, an involuntary confession. "I've returned to you."

The warmth of your fingers pressing against his startles him the moment you move, and he becomes aware of what he's been doing -- touching you so carelessly. The newfound title and fame couldn't have gotten to his head so badly that he would forget himself now, could it? Leon can't be sure whether he'd really been the type to behave like a reckless fool all along or if his meeting with you just now and seeing your form for the first time after years had broken down the little that remained of the disciplined man.

Heat climbs his throat and settles in his ears—you're not someone who he can put his hands on. Not even a stranger at this point, to him. In the back of his mind, the young boy with the sickly body remembers that he was touched by you, as a child, the day you healed him, the sensation still vivid, even after so many years.

Leon withdraws, shifting to a kneeling position as he clasps his hands together on his thighs. He tilts his chin upward to find you still crouched in the same position as well, with the wet napkin clenched tightly in your hands, holding your gaze fixed on him. Your intense focus, the way you're studying every line of his face, drinking in his appearance—it makes Leon swallow harshly, hoping his cheeks wouldn't color under your unabashed scrutiny.

"You..." You trail off, lowering your gaze to the floor as you fix your bonnet, as if unsure you should give shape to the words. "I'm no longer the Saintess. The temple has appointed another."

Something twists in his chest, a dark, twisting ache that's become all too familiar as of late. "You think I don't know that?" He means to sound understanding, patient, but instead, his words come out biting, edged with frustration. He deflates when you blink rapidly at him, startled at the change in his demeanor. "I'm sorry," he breathes, offering a shaky smile, "it's just... it was just a lot to take in."

It's a hell of an understatement, but it seems to satisfy you, at least enough to relax a fraction. Still, he watches as your shoulders rise and fall in a shuddering motion, a soft intake of air escaping you.

"We shouldn't be sitting on the floor."

"Ah, yes!" He scrambles to his feet, extending a hand to help you to yours.

When his fingers brush the back of your palm, he feels that same shock, the hairs on his arm standing on end, like an electrical charge, and it takes all his willpower not to snatch his hand away. Instead, he curls his fingers tighter around you, a reflex, and pulls you to your feet. He keeps you steady as you straighten, your bodies close enough that he swears he can feel the heat radiating off yours, warming him better than the fireplace ever could.

He shouldn't.

He really...

"You've changed."

At the sound of your voice, Leon blinks, returning to the present. It takes him a moment to realize he'd been staring. "What, no 'welcome home'?" The attempt at levity dies on his lips when he sees your expression—earnest, searching—and he swallows hard, forcing a tight smile. "Sorry. Impertinent now, aren't I?"

"No—"

"Come," he gestures towards the couch, "sit with me for a bit. It's been... a long time, hasn't it?"

You hesitate for a beat, uncertainty flashing across your features before you nod slowly, allowing him to lead you to the chaise by the hearth, the same seat Leon vacated.

As you settle, his eyes sweep over you, noting your appearance in excruciating detail. A faded grey dress, loose and modest, the neckline high and unfashionable. Lace cuffs, fraying at the edges. Thick wool stockings visible from the ankles, probably borrowed and a size too big, peeking out from under the hem of your skirt. Hems threadbare. Even now, you make it look lovely. Elegant. He wants to get on his knees.

He clears his throat, pulling his thoughts back to the present. "I wanted to—"

"How did you—"

Your words stumble over each other in a rush, and you stop short, caught halfway through your sentence.

He holds his tongue, waiting for you to finish.

"I'm sorry, please, continue," you bow your head apologetically, embarrassment in the flutter of your lashes.

"No, no, it's okay. Please," he motions for you to speak.

You press your palms flat against your lap, smoothing out your wrinkled skirts, trying to buy yourself a few seconds. "Why, I wondered... why you came to see me. After all these years, after everything?"

Why.

Now that was a loaded question.

"Because I swore a vow, didn't I?" He offers a small grin, but it wavers as he tries to explain. "I mean. To—"

"Are you perhaps here to call me to account for my failure, as a servant of Ethelion?" You ask, shaking, almost on the verge of tears. "For failing all my paladins when I should have protected you?"

You duck your head again, hiding behind the brim of your bonnet. Your gaze dips to the floor, fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of your skirts. But not before he catches a glimpse of the haunted expression, the torment and regret clear in the line of your mouth, pulled tight with emotion.

Leon slips off of the chaise all too easily, kneeling on the ground before you, his body moving of its own accord, as if drawn in by an irresistible force. He's so close that if he were to try looking down, he could just... rest his forehead on your knees, lean against your legs for support.

"What are you doing?" You start, half rising from your seat as if you're about to bolt, shocked at his boldness, but sit back down when you can't go anywhere with him as a barrier. “Sir Leon! Stop it, you can't—"

But he doesn't. He stays right there, unmoving, not daring to push boundaries. "You never failed anyone," he says earnestly, speaking with a clarity that catches you by surprise. "Not our cause, not me, not any paladin. It wasn't you who sent us to battle, it was those who served the gods, and they... They ordered their own people into a fight for their own glory."

He pauses, glancing up at your teary eyes, the disbelief, and he knows that you won't believe him, that the guilt will cling to you for days or weeks after today. If he's being honest with himself, the grief of losing his comrades may never fully go away, but—you haven't abandoned them. He will make damn sure you never consider yourself complicit in what happened, for as long as he lives.

Your lips quiver, and you tilt your head away from him, as though wanting to shield your face from view. He hates that he can't do anything to assuage your pain, to shoulder some of the burden you're carrying, but he's equally fascinated by this side of you, hidden and vulnerable, that he rarely saw when you were a saintess. He's grateful, too, that you're trusting him enough to see you like this.

You waver, thin and unsteady, as you respond, "And now what do you need? I'm no longer a Saintess who can bless your endeavors. I can’t give you anything."

The way you say it…

The words feel clumsy on his tongue at what you just said, inadequate compared to the burning intensity of what he truly wishes to convey. There’s too much to be said. That he’d never want anything out of you, that he wouldn’t stand you talking about yourself like something to be exploited, that he hates the way you see yourself…

It's tempting, so tempting, to just reach out. To slide his hand between yours, interlacing your fingers like lovers might. To curl his arm around your waist and draw you closer, to pull your smaller frame into him. It would be easy, so easy. But it would also be improper, disrespectful, wrong. And besides, despite what some might think, he knows how to restrain himself. He doesn't allow his hands to follow through with these baseless impulses.

Instead, he sits back on his heels like a dog, folding his hands in front of him. His posture is stiff and formal, mirroring your own, but his heart hammers wildly in his chest, betraying the calm façade he's attempting to maintain.

"I know you're no longer Saintess," he begins carefully. Your breath catches audibly at the title, and he hurriedly continues, "But I swore an oath to you, nonetheless, and I intend to honor it. You're my Saintess. Always will be."

Silence stretches between you, and he averts his gaze, focusing intently on the swell of your knees, afraid that if he looks at you, he'll break. "It's my duty to protect you, if you'll let me. I—" His words falter, caught in his throat as he struggles to speak past the sudden tightness there, "I swear upon Ethelion, I'll never leave your side. No matter what."

The room falls quiet again, save for the crackling of the logs in the fireplace, the soft hiss and pop as the wood splits apart, consuming itself. Outside, the sounds of birds singing in the breeze drift in, mingling with the rustle of leaves in the wind, distant conversations floating upwards from the grounds below. He counts the heartbeats pounding against his ribcage, three... four... five...

"Leon, what..?"

"Please marry me."

The words slip out, almost involuntarily, as though they'd been perched on the tip of his tongue, waiting for an opening to leap free. The silence grows, stretching taut between you, until he can't stand it any longer.

You draw a breath, and he raises his head. There's no mistaking it now — your eyes widen, and your shoulders tense as you sink back into the cushions of the couch. For a split second, the surprise gives way to something approaching fear, and a surge of panic wells up inside him at the sight.

This isn't what he intended — or, rather, not quite. He meant to ease you into the idea, to present his offer gently and smoothly, the proposal rehearsed in his mind countless times before. But his usual composure and decorum have abandoned him today, and now his mouth is running far ahead of his mind.

"Wh...Why?"

Of all the possible responses you could give, that is perhaps the most unexpected one. He stares at you dumbly, utterly thrown, fumbling for an answer. "I would cherish your hand in mine," he answers after a beat, trying to salvage his words, "I would treasure you, more than anyone ever could."

"But why?"

Leon's frustration bubbles to the surface. “This—” he gestures to the simple dress you wear, the apron tied around your waist, the calluses that have begun to form on your hands from hours of labor. “This is beneath you. Bowing down to others, doing their bidding… this isn’t what you’re meant for.”

Something flares behind your eyes—hurt? Anger? Indignation?

Before he can analyze your reaction too deeply, you ask again, more forcefully this time, “Why do you think it’s beneath me? Just because I don’t hold a sword like you or a blessing scepter in my hand doesn’t mean what I do is any less important—"

"It's not like that!" Leon interjects.

"—You think I should be wasting away as an ornament somewhere, is that what I am to you—"

"That's not what I meant! I meant I'd want to provide for you and protect you, and—"

"From what?! What is there to protect me from here?"

He rakes a hand through his hair, mussing the neatly coiffed locks and lets out an aggravated huff. "They don’t deserve you. The people here… they don’t deserve your labor, your effort. You should be served, not serving others.”

He must have said the wrong thing, your brows knit together as you frown, clearly displeased by his statement. Something in the twist of your lips sends a tremor through him, the way the set of your jaw is so determined, so stubborn, even against his arguments. This is the first time he's seeing fire from you instead of light, a display of character beyond the serene saintess façade you had to carry during the days at the cathedral. It makes heat pool in the pit of his belly, something heavy settling in his lungs and he's suddenly finding it hard to breathe.

"Then what am I supposed to do? Sit around doing nothing because—because you still see me as someone divine?" You shake your head, adamant in the words you utter. "I have purpose here! The Redfields have been kind to me, they took me in—"

"But you serve. You still serve."

Your words seem to die at what he says at the very end. Still serve. "I beg your pardon?"

"You bled every single day. Serving in the temple, serving the masses, serving others with a smile on your face, to the point of losing yourself. Used yourself, your strength, your grace, gave up your sleep and food and even your freedom. Your dignity, as the temple tried to mold you to suit whatever they wanted. That's all you knew for years and then just dropped into the world to figure things out by yourself, and went back to what you know best once more. Serve. This time, under a different name. A Saintess. A servant. It's not all that different, you know. And maybe you don't know how else to live. But I'm here to change that for you. To give you a choice."

Something wounded takes over you, like an injured animal struck by surprise before it bolts. A deep chill settles in him at how lost you look, how frightened and unsure, so unguarded and unprepared for him. He doesn't even know if this conversation is making you feel worse or better; maybe his intentions are clearer now, or more nefarious. It hurts either way, but Leon doesn't back down, doesn't look away from you.

The tears begin to fall without warning, trailing hot and wet down your cheeks. Leon's face crumples at the sight, shame washing over him at causing you distress. He reaches up instinctively, wanting to brush them away, but his fingers only graze your skin for a second before you flinch back and turn, covering your face with a hand as you forcibly stand up from the couch and move away from him.

He lets you go, a pang shooting through him as you cross the room. But when you reach the door, your steps hesitate, and his pulse stutters when you glance over your shoulder at him one last time.

"All I ask of you is to think about it," he pleads, not able to hide the note of misery in his voice as he leans toward your direction, hands placed on where you were just resting, fingers sinking into the cushions, "please."

Your lips part as if you're going to say something. You almost speak, almost giving way to your thoughts. Then you shut your mouth and dart forward, yanking the doors open and fleeing the room.

[lovelykhaleesiii]

Heyo love, can i request a smut where Mean Aemond fucks his innocent wife on the garden, please? ily ❤️

heya lovely, this idea...this holds a special place in my heart (just like you) 💓 hope you enjoy this x

A Flower to Ruin...

PAIRING: Cruel!Aemond Targaryen x fem!Tyrell!Innocent!Reader

WORDS: 2,516.

WARNINGS: mean/cruel!Aemond, degradation kink, female f*ngering, p in v sexual intercourse, swearing, NSFW. MINORS DNI.

A/N - I keep getting carried away, this was meant to be a small blurb, no plot & yet… here I am rambling away.

Having married the notorious one-eyed Prince, was a reality you did not dream possible. Although your House [Tyrell] was a meek one, it could and would gratefully offer endless wealth, a highly valued asset to the Crown, undoubtedly. Your betrothal nonetheless, was planned, a guaranteed means that further heightened the riches now shared with the newly appointed King, Aegon the Second, for the betterment of the realm.

And as romanticised as you'd dreamt of your surreal betrothal to the Prince Regent: such idyllic thoughts and daydreams that contaminated your mind, were vanquished with reality. For your husband, was a cruel man indeed...

Aemond Targaryen, was very much an unnerving man. Of all the rumours and whispers that would occasionally reach your innocent ears, of the infamous Kinslayer, you were keen to ignore such hearsay, remaining blissfully optimistic about your fiancé. However, much to your dismay, your initial impression of Aemond was one that stirred an internal debate inside: was it terror or lust that made you feel so uneasy around him?

The lingering yet blatant wound of his absent eye, although hidden beneath the feeble leather of an eyepatch, the red trail of a healed scar remained... And was somewhat chilling. Being frank to yourself, it did not falter your attraction towards him, however. He had a handsomely, chiselled face, the ethereal Targaryen features were most exemplified on him. Even from a distance, you could tell that his height would tower over you, his mass lean and toned. Just by his sheer demeanour, one could easily decipher that he was a warrior trained.

And when he spoke, he was stoic and monotonous, it seemed he was not impressed nor was he disappointed. The man was an enigma, impossible to decipher his raw emotions and pure intent. Was he pleased with you? Was he satisfied with this arrangement? Would he ultimately love you?

Overtime, in the following months proceeding the lavish, royal wedding, it remained impossible to say. Aemond, much to your relief, took pride in performing his husbandly duties. However, you'd grown familiar with his approach towards you, it was one filled with almost a sweet bitterness, gaining amusement in intimidating and humiliating you, and yet to some level he remained cautious with you, as though not to completely frighten you off. He kept you lingering for more, like bait on a hook.

It drove you mad, yet you'd never forged the courage to confront him, for fear that you would displease him enough to leave, wounding his ego. In truth, he was not a violent nor terrible husband either, he was committed. You had no plausible reason to complain. And yet, he treated you as though you were an inanimate object, his property, hurrying to his beckon call always, like some lamb to its shepherd.

Even in his absence, you had missed him. Only gone for a few days, for a hunting round with the young lords and knights of the realm, you'd disappointingly concluded that your feelings were one-sided. He did not miss you, how could he miss you? Aemond showed no sentimental attachment towards you, except that you were bound his loyal wife, before the laws of men and Gods... Or so you had convinced yourself.

****

"So I thought I'd find you here, my rose-" The sudden, abruptness of his deep voice had caught you off guard. Startling you, as you hastily cast your attention towards him from the open book resting in your lap. Slowly, he'd strolled towards you, hands firmly placed behind his back, as he found you nestled beneath a hidden canopy, sprawled on a silk, picnic duvet, across a freshly, cut grass-patch, beneath the cool shade offered by the blossom tree above.

"F-Forgive me, husband. I did not realise you had returned... Had I known I-" You stutter, as you attempt to gather yourself to stand.

Aemond stops you, surprisingly insisting you remain where you are, as he himself cowers down instead, laying himself beside you.

A few seconds of sheer silence are exchanged, as Aemond's attention shuffles from the stems of grass he distractedly picks at, to the neat, floral bushes onwards. You observe him longingly, a warmth fills your heart from his much anticipated presence, secretly embracing his return, as a thoughtless, faint smile appears on your face.

"H-How was the hunt, my Prince?" You utter, in a meek attempt to initiate some kind of conversation. Aemond looks onto you sternly, still his face remains stoic, although somewhat irritated, as he huffs in annoyance.

"Abysmal...Most of the bastards drunk, only myself, Criston and a few of the Kingsguard actually went out for the hunt. Waste of time when I could have been-" Aemond pauses, his words stopping in his tracks, as his gaze returns to fall upon you. His only surviving eye, lingers over your body, before resting upon your face once more. You could've sworn you saw a slight upturn curve of a smile, although one filled with that familiar glint of arrogance.

"When I could have been fucking my needy, whore of a wife."

The harshness yet deviousness of his words had caught you by surprise, feeling your cheeks turn scarlet, as you flustered and adjusted in your seated position. You felt a dull, aching pang between your inner thighs, a familiar feeling that you'd grown weakly accustomed to.

Gods, what was only a few short days, felt like long, agonising weeks since your husband had filled you. You were indeed, needy for him, for the sex had always been a pleasurable event, something you'd often looked forward to for many nights to come since your consummation. Although, this being the first since you'd both been spared some time and distance apart, you'd grown even more susceptible for his cock. Desperately craving for him during the dark, lonesome hours in the night, you'd attempt to sate yourself in his stead, however failed miserably...

It was not the same.

Remaining speechless, you’d often found yourself at a loss of words, or stuttering ambiguous sounds as Aemond tended to you. His rough hand slowly reaches up, caressing your clothed thigh, before hiking up the dress where his hand disappears beneath the garment. The flesh of his palm meets the sensitive spot of your inner thigh as he begins to trace soft circles.

“Gods, how I’ve missed you. Surrounded by all those impotent cocks, envisioning you begging for me, was the only thing keeping me sane.”

Your eyes begin to flutter before shutting, the tenderness of his words in conjunction to the lightness of his fingers, sent shivers down your spine. Sensing his hand etching closer towards your entrance, tugging at the undergarment, as the tips of his fingers graze over your moist folds.

"Although, it seems you might have been suffering as well..." His tone was low, yet amused. The smirk now prominent on his chiselled face, however was fleeting, as he returned to yet another stiff expression.

"Part your legs," He firmly uttered. From the early months of the marriage you'd learnt not to disobey, for your husband was a firm believer in justified punishment.

Doing as told, like any meek, obedient wife, you'd obeyed, spreading your legs, distant enough for his arm to snake over your thigh closest to him, where his hand remained over your cunt. Laying his weight over you, as he remained turned facing you, laid by your side, and you still propped up. The novel that you'd deeply immersed yourself in a few, mere minutes ago, now strewed across the grass, its existence no longer of significance.

"Hmm-Needy, little thing aren't you? My deprived whore-"

As he spoke, the tips of his fingers began to plunge in further into your folds, slowly encircling inside.

"Tell me, my sweet, pathetic, little wife, how desperate have you been for me? For my cock, hmm?"

"A-Aemond-" You thoughtlessly stutter, your pelvis motioning forwards, urging for more of his touch.

"Can't even think for herself, look at you. You were wet before I even began... Tell me, whore, have you touched yourself in my absence?"

His fingers delved deeper, now two, long digits inserted, pumping in and out in slow, sensual motions. His fingers massaging your walls within, as your wetness began to pool.

"N-No-" You lie, fearful that Aemond would think less of you, that you were incapable of living freely and dignified without him, even if it was for a few, short days. Aemond relished in how you'd hopelessly yearn for him, dependent on him, a loyal wife vulnerable for her dutiful husband. He loved to remind you repeatedly, growing hard thinking that only he could make you feel this way.

"Lies-" He venomously spat, urging his fingers to plunge in deeper, with a greater verocity and speed than before, causing you to jerk involuntarily, earning a loud, thoughtless moan.

"Quiet, you whore- Should someone hear us, you will be left cockless and deprived. Now tell me the truth-"

Even in the short span of time Aemond had grown acquainted with you, he knew you unlike anyone else in the realm. To some deeper, more meaningful degree, you had appreciated how intimately he had grown to know you, and often, he would use it to his advantage. Reading you like some feckless book in the citadel's library.

"Y-Yes, husband," You quietly stutter, your arms stretched back supporting you, as your legs remained widely apart. Gods, was it destined that you'd found the perfect, hidden spot to read in the gardens this fine day...

"Mhmm- Just as I'd thought. Now tell me... How badly do you want me to fuck you senseless?" Just as the last word had escaped his lips, his fingers shoved in deeper, the knuckles of his hand now grazing the entrance of your drooling cunt.

"So-So very much-" You hiccuped, your breath hitching in your throat audibly, as you attempt to steady your breathing, your chest heaving, accentuating your plump breasts and slight cleavage. Aemond's eye [whenever you granted yourself the chance] you had noticed it flicker from your face to your blatant show of breasts: undoubtedly, most infatuated by them.

"You are going to need to convince me harder than that, that was pathetic, even for you- Beg for me, my insolent wife."

"Hmm-" You'd hopelessly moan, your walls throbbing against your husbands steady, yet swift motions.

"Please, Aemond- I-I need you. It-It's been so very hard, these past few days. Y-You’d been gone for s-so long-" His pacing eases, as he insists on you to speak coherently, eager to hear what you have to say.

"F-Fuck- I need you inside of me. I could not do what you can, I-I cannot satisfy myself, as y-you do so-so very well.”

As your head was lunged backwards, looking upwards towards the rustling leaves, flowers and sky above, you casted your attention once more downwards, gazing upon Aemond, whom remained cockily smiling up at you. Ever so pleased with your honest response, it seemed.

"Hmm."

Shoving his fingers in deeper, his pace now had hasten: shifting in your seat, as your hips instinctively bucked forward. You could feel his fingers just grazing over your tight, sweet spot, with each pump, earning more mindless moans and pleas for his name [or more so indirectly, for his cock].

Without a second to waste, Aemond pulled his hand from your drenched cunt, causing you to moan from the sudden release of the tension. His fingers glazed in your wetness, sparing a moment to take in your scent lingering from his fingers, before seating himself up on his knees, between your thighs. Hiking your dress up, as he eagerly pulled your private garments down, he'd adjusted his position swiftly, undoing his trousers in a haste simultaneously.

Cowering down over you, as he softly laid your back down against the linen and grass, his 'clean' hand reached over towards your face, his thumb gently stroking the side of your flustered cheek. He'd often spare a sacred moment, closely watching you from above, during sex, as you both immerse yourself in each other's attention, taking in all the fine details up close and personal.

"No need to say more, my wife-" Feeling his hardened cock, grazing your glazed entrance, that same potent, aching sensation stirring once more.

"You need not suffer any longer, and neither must I. I have taunted you and myself enough."

In a swift yet vigorous motion, Aemond thrust his long, pulsating cock deep inside, burying it cosily within. Your tight walls had immediately clenched onto him, like a key latched to a lock. You were made just for him, it was undeniable and he knew it.

"Fuck-" He'd breathlessly growled, as you unsteadily pant against his sturdy pace. His backward and forward motions felt unruly, as he heavily laid on top of you, your knees brought up, instinctively wrapping around his lean waist.

"Feels so tight around me, look at how much you crave for me, whore. No matter how often I pry you open, how much I fuck or fill you up. You are always desperate for more-" One hand rests on the ground for standing support, just beside where your head rests.

"Selfish, little whore. Your body still aches for me, and it naturally shows. You cannot hide it from me-"

You could muster no logical words nor any comprehensible thoughts, incoherent and ignorant to any lingering, perverted eyes. You had missed your husband dearly. Each breathless word that spilled from his filthy mouth in this very precise moment, was the honest truth, there was no point to deny or retaliate against him.

"I-I do not intend to, ever," You breathlessly whimper, gripping Aemond's cloaked, muscular shoulders, feeling your nails dig into his dense clothes.

Earning a menacing, short chuckle from Aemond, his raw thrusts grew faster and regular, his breathing heavier and louder. You could feel yourself edging closer and closer until reaching the final, much anticipated peak. Unconsciously lunging yourself closer, burying your face into Aemond's chest, as you continued to grip onto him tightly for support. Feeling his weight, in return falling into you, pinning you down, as his cum shoots itself inside, coating your walls as he satisfyingly fills you up with his seed.

As you both hastily cleaned and redressed yourselves up as best as you could, you'd noticed the grass patches where your weight and hand prints had rested, left a noticeable imprint on the ground, triggering a faint, heartfelt smile from you.

Aemond helping you up form the ground, as you folded the soiled duvet and book, he'd begun to carefully pluck out each of the small, dry leaves and petals that had somehow mingled in your unkept hair. A faint, sincere smile beaming across his face as he longingly gaped down above you, fixing the misplaced strands of hair.

Although, he had often taken pleasure in hurling cruel words towards you, his love was genuine and unrelenting. He was a loyal and dutiful husband, and it was plenty more than what many of the lords of the realm would offer their wives.

[okkotsuus]

hello! i’d like to request a very sad gojo angst, based on billie eilish’s song “what was i made for?” like reader could be having a self doubt moment??? if she’s good enough for satoru (you can do the same thing you did as to that one gojo angst you did! where gojo was healing from geto’s death) thank you ! ^__^

it’s not what he’s made for (satoru g.) !

features: satoru gojo

contents: crying. implied death and injury. grief. basic jjk triggers. feeling useless. feeling not enough. feeling ashamed. failing to protect people. perceived judgment. heartbreak. hiding things from partners. hurt with comfort for once. angst. 1k words.

notes: idk how i feel about this, so lmk if it's not what you want and i can try it again :)

you can’t help but notice the way satoru gojo stiffens the second he sees raw emotion being expressed. it’s something you find out before you even begin dating him. you can practically feel the discomfort radiating off of him when he sees another sorcerer cry at their partner’s death.

it was at that moment you vowed to yourself to never cry in front of him. but that was a while ago, and you were no longer in a shallow friendship with him: you were in love.

but you couldn’t shake that fear that if you ever showed vulnerability to him, he would regard you with that same disgust. it was irrational, you knew that, but it still lingered in the back of your mind.

even now, as you feel your heart actively cracking in your chest as yet another sorcerer is slain under your care, you just choke down the tears until satoru leaves the room. the inside of your bottom lip is bitten raw from how many times you’ve clamped your mouth shut to ward off sobs of agony.

with a cursed technique like yours, every mission comes with a lot of survivor’s guilt. protector’s promise: a cursed technique that grants you a stats and cursed energy boost based on the strength difference between you and your allies. even more so when your allies are weaker than the opponent. you also get a boost from non-sorcerers being in the immediate area

alone, you are a low-grade one. but with a group weaker than you, it skyrockets to high-grade one or even to special grade. as such, you are often paired up with sorcerers fresh out of training, or even those still in it.

the higher-ups treat you as a way to weed out weak sorcerers, all while boosting your own powers and giving your obscenely hard missions. because you also receive a boost if your allies are injured or killed. it’s one of the most heart-breaking things a sorcerer can experience; to have a partner die. and you lose at least one nearly every mission.

with no outlet in satoru, you find yourself sobbing alone or with shoko. she knows how satoru is, just as well as you, having been his classmate and friend for ten years. that’s why you should’ve expected this.

when she picks up the phone, you speak immediately. “shoko, i’m sad again, don’t tell my boyfriend… it’s not what he’s made for.” you hear shuffling on the other line and protests from her before a familiar voice rings in your ear. “y/n, it is what i’m made for. now, come home, we need to talk.” then, the line clicks.

you feel your heart break, he doesn’t think you trust him. he’s mad. he’s upset. he’s disgusted. the thoughts spiral as fat tears fall down your cheeks, opening the door.

there stands satoru, arms crossed and his lips pursed. the blindfold he usually wore was hung loosely around his neck, forcing you to look straight into his baby blues. the second your eyes meet his, your facade crumbles.

with a choked sob, you fall onto your knees, crumbling like sand. but you never hit the ground, strong arms slip under your arms and around your back. the side of your face pressed against his jujutsu-uniform jacket. his other arm slips under your knees as he picks you up as if you were the most fragile thing in the world, kicking the door closed.

satoru sits on the couch, your legs draped over his lap as he holds your so tenderly. a part of you feels guilty and stupid for thinking that he would ever be disgusted with you. you had never seen satoru gojo handle anyone with this much care, touch feather-light with the strength of love.

“why haven’t you told me you felt this way, do you not trust me..?” his words come out in a whisper, voice shaking ever so slightly. at that moment, you feel like the worst person in the world for making him think that. your hands cup his face as you look towards him with your teary eyes, desperately shaking your head.

“satoru, no, i trust you so much, more than anyone-”

“then why?”

your words catch in your throat, shame burning and pooling in your gut as you decide whether or not to tell him that it was because of some silly face he made years ago. worry surges again before being dissipated by his forehead pressing against yours.

a deep breath in, then you speak. “i didn’t want you to think i was weak…” in that instant you see his face soften, likely connecting the dots himself. 

he’s gentle as he presses your face into the crook of his neck, arms winding around your back. his words come out faintly against your ear, breath lightly tickling your skin. “i’m sorry i made you feel that way, you’re not weak. you’re strong, much stronger than me in this regard.” he feels you smile against his skin and he chuckles, rocking side to side with you in his arms as if nothing else in this world mattered more.

you can’t help but feel like a fool for ever thinking that satoru gojo would look upon you with disgust for anything: especially not for some tears. not when he looks at you like you’re the world when you do any little thing. not when he whispers such sweet nothings to you at any opportunity. not when he holds you so desperately close when there is any sort of chance.

you can’t help but be forced to realize the strength in which satoru gojo loves. the love that is exclusive to you and you alone.

okkotsuus 23