#maybe youre just not cool enough to see that BUT I AM

[writeriguess]

I think this is where I send requests?

Could you maybe do a Bakugo x fem reader where the reader is a transfer student from the UK? It could be crack or fluff I just think that would be funny.

Could it also specifically be more someone from the north and not like the typical posh London person. I think it would be cool if they just came from a random little town in the north and no one can understand her accent.

Thank you!

You fidget with the hem of your uniform, feeling your nerves spike as you step into the hallway of U.A. High. Your shoes click softly against the polished floor, and your gaze flickers to the nameplate on the door ahead. Class 1-A. This is it. You feel your heart race a little faster. It wasn’t the typical first day nerves that got you—it was the fact that you were a transfer student, plucked from your little northern English town and dropped into this highly prestigious Japanese school for heroes. You barely knew any Japanese, and on top of that, your thick northern accent had already gotten you some confused stares from teachers.

Right, you think to yourself, deep breaths, it'll be fine. Just stay calm, smile, and don’t panic if they can’t understand you.

The door slides open, and a tall man with wild, unkempt hair, half-hidden in a yellow sleeping bag, stands at the front of the room. His eyes are half-closed, and he looks like he’s fighting off sleep. You can’t help but feel a little taken aback. This was your homeroom teacher?

“Ah, the transfer student,” he mutters in a bored tone, barely lifting his head to acknowledge you. "Introduce yourself."

You clear your throat, stepping up to the front of the class, feeling the weight of several pairs of eyes on you. The classroom falls silent, all eyes on you. There’s a mix of curiosity and confusion in the air. You swallow hard.

“Uh, alreet,” you start, flashing a nervous smile, “I'm from t’north of England, came 'ere to transfer 'cos, well, it's U.A., innit? And I reckon I could learn a lot, y'know?” Your voice is confident enough, but you can already tell from the blank stares that they don’t have a clue what you just said.

You shift awkwardly. Of course, you think. The accent.

You try again with that little Japanese you knew, as slowly as you could. "I, uh… I’m from a town in the north of England. Here to train as a hero. Nice to meet you all."

There’s still a pause, but you can see some of the students starting to nod, like they’re piecing together what you meant. Except for one boy. You notice him immediately because of the way he’s glaring at you, arms crossed over his chest. His ash-blonde hair spikes aggressively in every direction, and his sharp crimson eyes are practically burning a hole through you.

“You speakin’ some kinda foreign language or somethin’?!” the boy snaps, scowling deeply. “What the hell did you just say? Speak properly!”

Your eyes widen slightly, and you feel the heat of embarrassment creep up your neck. You take a breath, steadying yourself. Right. This must be the infamous Bakugo, you think, recalling the brief description you were given before the transfer. Fiery, loud, prone to explosions—both literally and figuratively.

“I am speakin’ properly,” you reply, raising an eyebrow. “I speak English, just not posh London English like y'might be used to.”

Bakugo’s eyes narrow further, and he stands up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. “What’s that supposed to mean, huh? You callin’ me stupid?”

“No, I’m callin’ yer ears broken if y'can’t understand a bit of a northern accent!” you snap back before you can stop yourself.

The class erupts into laughter, some of them trying to hide it behind their hands while others, like a girl with pink skin and horns, outright cackle. Even the teacher, though he looks as if he’d rather be anywhere else, quirks a brow in mild amusement.

Bakugo’s glare intensifies, and you swear you see sparks flicker from his palms. Oh, brilliant, you think, first day, and I’ve already wound up the most temperamental student here.

Before Bakugo can explode—quite literally—a boy with glasses and a serious expression stands up from his desk, waving his arms wildly in a chopping motion. “Everyone, calm down! This is no way to welcome a new student! Let’s maintain order and professionalism!”

“Shut up, Iida, I don’t need you telling me what to do!” Bakugo growls, but he sinks back into his chair nonetheless, arms still crossed and glaring daggers in your direction.

The boy with glasses, Iida apparently, adjusts his frames and turns to you with a formal bow. “I apologize for the disruption. I am Tenya Iida, the class representative. If you need any assistance adjusting to U.A., please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Cheers,” you say with a smile. At least he seemed nice.

You’re shown to your seat, which happens to be near the back of the class. As you sit down, you catch a few of the other students stealing curious glances at you. A girl with short brown hair and a round face leans over from her desk. “Hey! I’m Ochaco! I like your accent—it’s really cool!” she says brightly.

You give her a grateful smile. “Thanks, pet.”

She giggles. “Pet?”

You laugh softly. “It’s just what we say where I’m from. It’s like saying ‘love’ or somethin’ like that.”

Before you can explain further, Bakugo scoffs loudly from the other side of the room. “Tch. ‘Pet.’ How about you speak like a normal person so we don’t have to decode every word?”

You roll your eyes, feeling the familiar frustration bubble up. “How about you learn to keep up, yeah?”

He opens his mouth to retort, but he’s cut off by the sound of the classroom door sliding open again. The tension in the room dissipates as a tall figure walks in. You recognize him immediately—All Might, the legendary Number One Hero, in his debonair yet far-too-cheerful form. The air practically shifts with his presence, and all eyes, even Bakugo’s, turn to him.

"Ah! A new student! Welcome!" he booms, his voice full of energy, completely oblivious to the simmering tension from before. He grins at you, giving you a thumbs-up. “It’s always exciting to see new young heroes join us! I’m sure you’ll do splendidly!”

You nod, not trusting your voice just yet. Your stomach is still doing flips from Bakugo’s outburst.

The day drags on with lessons and training exercises. Most of the class seems welcoming enough, though you catch Bakugo’s glare on you more than a few times. You try to shrug it off. He clearly had some sort of superiority complex, and you weren’t going to let that get to you. Not on your first day.

It’s later in the afternoon when you’re paired with Bakugo for a training exercise. Of course. You sigh, mentally preparing yourself for whatever was about to unfold.

The task is simple—defeat your opponent or capture the flag. But with Bakugo, you know it’s going to be anything but simple.

The second the buzzer goes off, he’s on you like a storm. Explosions crackle from his palms as he charges, eyes locked on you with that same fierce glare from earlier. You barely have time to dodge as he barrels toward you, his attack leaving scorch marks on the ground.

“C’mon, newbie! Don’t just stand there!” he yells, clearly irritated that you’ve managed to evade him.

You grit your teeth, your mind racing as you try to think of a strategy. You might not have the same flashy quirk as he does, but you’re quick on your feet. You duck under another explosion, your muscles coiled, waiting for an opening.

“Yer gonna ‘ave to try harder than that, mate!” you shout over the noise, dodging his next blast with a quick roll.

Bakugo grits his teeth, his eyes blazing with fury. “I’ll wipe that smirk off your face!”

The tension between you and Bakugo only seems to grow with every passing second. It’s a clash of stubbornness, of fire against wit. He’s relentless, and you… well, you’re not about to let him win that easily.

Not today.

Bakugo charges at you again, his palms crackling with raw energy. Each explosion is like a thunderclap echoing in the training arena, but you remain calm, dodging just out of reach, your reflexes kicking in. You’ve faced tough situations back home—just because this is Japan and the world’s most prestigious hero school doesn’t mean you’ll crumble under pressure.

“Hold still, you damn extra!” Bakugo snarls, eyes blazing as he unleashes a barrage of blasts, determined to corner you. The intensity of his attacks makes the ground tremble, smoke rising in swirling plumes from the spots he hits.

You duck behind a large piece of rubble, your heart racing, the vibrations of his attacks reverberating through your body. You can feel the adrenaline rushing through your veins, the fight-or-flight instinct pushing you to your limits. But instead of fear, there’s something else—a challenge.

“Yer daft if y’think I’m just gonna sit ‘ere and let you blow me to bits!” you call out, glancing at him from your cover.

His eyes flick to where you’re hiding, a growl escaping his throat. “I’m gonna blow you up, and then we’ll see who’s daft!”

You grin despite yourself. He really is just as bad-tempered as they said.

You catch a brief glimpse of the flag, just a few meters away on a raised platform. If you could just get to it before Bakugo realized… Your mind races, formulating a plan. You’ve noticed that Bakugo is all about speed and power, but if you can outmaneuver him—if you can get into his head—it might just give you the edge.

You dart out from behind the rubble, and he’s on you immediately. You sprint, weaving through debris and obstacles like a fox evading a hound. The explosions light up the arena, and you can feel the heat of them as they just barely miss you. Bakugo’s attacks might be powerful, but they’re wild, almost too focused on brute force.

“You keep runnin’, but you’re not getting away from me!” he yells, his voice hoarse with frustration.

You smirk, adrenaline sharpening your senses. “Oh aye? Y’sure about that?”

He charges at you full speed, completely focused on taking you down. It’s exactly what you wanted. At the last second, you feint to the left, using the momentum to slide under him just as his explosion misses your side by inches. You can feel the heat from the blast lick your skin, but you don’t stop. Your body twists as you pop back to your feet, heading straight for the flag.

Bakugo, furious, spins around. “You little—”

Before he can finish, you leap toward the flag, your fingers just grazing the edge of the cloth.

Bakugo is right on your tail. You can practically feel his breath as he dives for you, his hand reaching out, but you’re faster this time. You grab the flag, twisting your body to dodge his final attack as his palm comes inches from making contact with your side. Instead of blasting you away, he crashes into the ground, narrowly missing you.

You hold the flag up, your chest heaving as you grin victoriously. “Looks like I’m the one still standin’, mate.”

Bakugo lifts his head, his face a mix of shock and rage. He glares at you from where he’s crouched on the ground, dirt smeared across his face. “What the hell…?”

You shrug, smirking as you twirl the flag in your hand. “Told ya. Might be from a small town, but we don’t back down easily.”

For a moment, Bakugo doesn’t move. His eyes burn with frustration, fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turn white. Then, with a low growl, he pushes himself up, dusting off his uniform, though it’s clear he’s more angry at himself than you.

The buzzer rings, signaling the end of the match. The other students begin filing in from the viewing platform where they had been watching the battle unfold. Some of them are whispering, while others openly grin, impressed with your victory.

“Not bad for a newbie!” Kaminari calls out with a grin, giving you a thumbs-up. “I didn’t think anyone could keep up with Bakugo’s explosions on their first day.”

“Yeah, that was awesome!” Kirishima adds, his sharp teeth showing as he smiles broadly. “You’re one tough cookie!”

“Impressive,” Todoroki says quietly from his spot on the sidelines, his mismatched eyes watching you with a mixture of curiosity and respect.

You can feel a swell of pride in your chest. It’s not easy fitting in, especially when you’re thousands of miles from home, but maybe—just maybe—you’ve started to prove yourself.

Bakugo, however, is less than impressed. He storms past you, shoulders stiff, muttering something under his breath about “dumb extras” and “cheap tricks.”

“Oi, Bakugo!” you call after him, unable to resist poking the bear just a little more. “If y’ever wanna learn ‘ow to outwit someone instead of just blowin’ ‘em up, gimme a shout!”

He stops dead in his tracks, slowly turning to look at you with a dangerous glint in his eye. For a second, you think he might actually explode. But instead, he just glares at you, his voice low and venomous. “Next time, I won’t miss.”

You smirk, unfazed. “Lookin’ forward to it.”

The rest of the day goes by in a blur, but the atmosphere in the classroom feels a little different. People aren’t just curious about you anymore—they’re impressed. You’ve already shown that you can hold your own, even against someone like Bakugo.

Ochaco leans over again as you’re packing up your things. “You were really amazing out there! How did you manage to dodge him like that?”

You shrug, trying to be modest, but you can’t help the grin that tugs at your lips. “It’s all about payin’ attention. Bakugo’s strong, but he’s predictable. Once y’get a feel for his rhythm, it’s not so ‘ard to dodge.”

She nods, eyes wide. “Wow, you make it sound so easy.”

“Yeah, well, it’s easier when y’don’t get distracted by all the explosions,” you say with a chuckle. “But I reckon Bakugo’s got more up his sleeve than just brute force. I’ll have to be on me toes next time.”

“Next time?” Ochaco giggles. “You’re brave, I’ll give you that.”

As you step out of the classroom and into the cool afternoon air, you feel lighter than you did this morning. Maybe it’s the victory, or maybe it’s just the relief of surviving your first day, but for the first time since you arrived in Japan, you feel like you might actually belong here.

It’s just the beginning, you think to yourself, glancing back at the towering school behind you.

And with a small smile, you step forward, ready for whatever comes next.

It had been a few months since your chaotic first day at U.A., and life had become a strange mix of normal and, well, still chaotic. You’d settled into your role in Class 1-A, made some friends, and even managed to navigate your way through most of the Japanese language barrier. But there was one thing you still hadn’t quite figured out: Bakugo Katsuki.

Your relationship with him was complicated, to say the least. On one hand, he was still loud, brash, and always seemed ready to pick a fight. On the other hand, he’d stopped openly berating you every chance he got, and while you’d never call him friendly, he was… less hostile than before.

You were sitting in the common room one afternoon, chatting with Mina, Ochaco, and Momo during a break. The conversation was light, drifting from gossip to training stories, until Mina brought up something you weren’t prepared for.

“So,” she started, her voice taking on that teasing tone she always used when she was about to stir up trouble. “Have you noticed anything… different about Bakugo lately?”

You blinked, tilting your head in confusion. “Different? Like what?”

Mina leaned forward, eyes twinkling mischievously. “I don’t know, maybe how he doesn’t yell at you as much? Or how he actually listens when you talk? He’s definitely warming up to you.”

Ochaco grinned, nodding along. “It’s true! He’s not nearly as aggressive toward you anymore. And I’ve seen him watching you during training.”

You blink again, utterly baffled. “W-watchin’ me? Nah, yer ‘avin’ a laugh.”

Momo, who had been quietly sipping her tea, chimed in with a thoughtful look. “They’re right. Bakugo’s behavior around you has shifted in a noticeable way. He seems… less combative, more focused. It’s almost like he respects you.”

You snorted, shaking your head in disbelief. “Respects me? Yer jokin’. We barely get through trainin’ without ‘im threatenin’ to blow me up.”

“Yeah, but that’s just how he is!” Mina laughed. “For Bakugo, that’s like a love language.”

Your eyes widened, and you felt your face flush with heat. “Whoa, hold up. ‘Love language’? Yer not seriously suggestin’—?”

Ochaco giggled, covering her mouth. “Oh, come on! You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed! He’s been way less explosive with you lately. And it’s not just that. There’s a vibe, you know?”

You shook your head adamantly, crossing your arms over your chest. “No way. No bloody way. Bakugo doesn’t like me. He barely tolerates me. He’s always barkin’ orders or glarin’ at me like I’ve done somethin’ wrong.”

Mina waggled her eyebrows. “Oh, he definitely glares, but maybe he’s just frustrated ‘cause he doesn’t know how to act around you. You know how he is—he’s bad at this kind of stuff.”

You stared at them, dumbfounded. “Y’really think Bakugo’s softenin’ up to me? Like… that way?”

“Absolutely,” Mina said, her grin widening. “Trust me, I’ve got a sixth sense for these things.”

Ochaco giggled again. “Yeah, and we’ve all seen how he interacts with you compared to everyone else. He might not know how to be nice, but he’s definitely different with you.”

You shook your head, still refusing to believe it. “Nah, y’lot must be seein’ things. Me and Bakugo, we’re still… tense. He’s still rough around the edges, and it’s not like we have nice, friendly chats or anythin’. Half the time, I’m dodgin’ his attacks or tryin’ to avoid a full-blown argument.”

Momo set her cup down gently and gave you a calm, knowing smile. “It’s not always about what’s on the surface. Bakugo is difficult to read, but he’s not as closed off as he seems. There’s a reason he hasn’t been as harsh with you lately. He respects you, and that respect could easily grow into something more.”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. It all sounded so ridiculous. Bakugo? Liking you? In a romantic way? You didn’t know what was crazier—the idea itself, or the fact that these girls were convinced it was true.

Mina poked your arm, bringing your attention back to her. “You’ve gotta admit, it makes sense, right? You’re one of the few people who can actually stand up to him and not get blown to bits.”

Ochaco nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly! He’s probably just not used to someone who can keep up with him like you do.”

You frowned, still unsure. Sure, Bakugo had calmed down a bit around you over the months, but that didn’t mean anything romantic was going on. Right?

“I dunno, girls. He’s still Bakugo. And let’s be real, the guy can barely stand havin’ a civil conversation with me, let alone somethin’ more. Plus, he’s way too focused on becomin’ the Number One Hero to even think about stuff like… relationships.”

Mina gave you a sly smile. “You’d be surprised. The toughest ones are usually the ones who fall the hardest.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, the door to the common room slammed open. Speak of the devil.

Bakugo strode in, hands shoved in his pockets, his usual scowl plastered across his face. His crimson eyes scanned the room briefly before landing on you. He didn’t say anything, just narrowed his eyes like he was trying to size you up for some unknown reason.

You tensed instinctively, bracing yourself for whatever snide remark he might throw your way. Instead, he just huffed, turned on his heel, and walked out as quickly as he’d come in, his footsteps heavy with irritation.

The second he was out of earshot, Mina burst into laughter. “See?! Did you see that look? Oh, he’s definitely got it bad.”

Your jaw dropped. “That’s what yer callin’ interest? He looked like he wanted to bite me head off!”

Ochaco giggled again, shaking her head. “No, no, that was totally his awkward ‘I don’t know how to talk to you’ look. It’s classic Bakugo.”

You buried your face in your hands, groaning. “Yer all mad. Absolutely mad.”

Momo chuckled softly. “Maybe. But don’t be so quick to dismiss it. You might be surprised by what Bakugo is capable of when it comes to emotions.”

You peeked out from between your fingers, still feeling embarrassed but also a little intrigued despite yourself. Could they really be right? Was Bakugo actually starting to… warm up to you? You couldn’t wrap your head around it.

But as you replayed the interactions between the two of you over the past few months in your mind, you had to admit… something had changed. Whether it was respect or something deeper, you weren’t sure.

You sighed, leaning back in your chair. “Alright, fine. Maybe there’s somethin’ different goin’ on. But don’t go gettin’ any ideas. We’re still more likely to end up yellin’ at each other than havin’ a nice chat.”

Mina grinned. “We’ll see. We’ll see.”

Requests are open. Send as many as you like at once.

[lulunothulu]

“Phone neighbor”

Jake “Hangman” Seresin x Reader

Summary: You’re bored one night and decide to text your phone neighbor…who happens to be a very hot (and cocky) aviator.

Content: drinking, fluff

Friday nights are so boring. Especially when you have nothing to do for the night.

Your friend, Natasha, invited you to go to the bar she and her aviator buddies frequent. Hard Deck, was that the name? Who knows. Either way, you didn’t think hitting a bar right now would do you much good.

You’d been in a reclusive and lonely mood all week but right now, you were feeling adventurous.

You pull your phone out of your pocket and dial the first nine digits of your number but changed the last number to the following one that came after yours.

Let’s play a game of phone number neighbor.

You: Hi, so this is random, but you’re my number neighbor.

Them: Oh really?

You: Yes… so you’re from Texas too?

Them: Born and raised in Austin.

You: That’s so cool, I was raised in El Paso and Houston.

Them: Nice! Are you still there?

You: Nah, I’m in California. How about you?

Them: Funny enough, I’m in California too. I’m in the Navy, a pilot 🤠

You: Oh shit! You might know my friend, Natasha Trace.

———

Jake smiled down at his phone. “Hey Phoenix!”

Nat turns around, rolling her eyes at him. “What?”

“I think I just met your friend.”

“What?” She looks around. “Where? And who?”

“I don’t know their name, let me ask,” he says. He looks down at his phone, sending a quick text before smiling and telling her your name.

“Holy shit!” She laughs.

“Is she single?” Jake asks.

“She is actually…give me a second.”

———

“Hello?” You say, answering your phone.

“What the hell are you doing?” Nat asks.

You can hear the noise and chatter coming from the bar you knew she’d be at.

“I’m at home doing a face mask,” you tell her.

“No I mean, with Hangman,” she tells you.

“Who’s Hangman?”

“The person you’re texting?” She laughs.

Hangman: So you know Phoenix? How?

You: We grew up together. She’s practically my sister.

“Hey, he’s texting me right now,” you tell her.

“I have an idea.”

Hangman: What do you look like?

You: I’ll send you a picture of you send me one too.

Hangman: What? You want proof?

You: Sure, let’s call it that.

Hangman: [Picture]

Hangman: I’m on the left, that’s Bob in the middle, and Fanboy on the end.

Hangman: Your turn.

You smile, sending him a picture of you with your green face mask, hand up in a peace sign and lips in a duck face position.

Hangman: That’s not what I expected but still hot.

Hangman: Wait a second… did Nat call you?

You: Maybe…

[Incoming call from ‘Hangman’]

“Hello?”

“Hey, mask lady. Nat!” You hear him say. His voice is deep and southern drawl thick. “Tell your friend to send me a real picture of her.”

“Y/N?” You hear her say.

“Hey, Nat.”

“Send this pretty boy your face. He’s desperate and threatening to make me drive him to your house.”

You laugh. “Fine. Should I send the one with my tits pushed up?”

“Jesus Christ, tell her yes.” You hear Hangman say in the background.

“Tell him that I’ll send him a normal one and to stop listening to our conversation,” you tell Nat. “Actually, pass him back.”

“Hi,” you hear Hangman say.

“Hi back, cowboy,” you reply.

“I like that nickname, makes me sound a lot cooler than I am,” he tells you.

You laugh. “I’d like to know your real name, and not your callsign.”

“I’m Jake. Jake Seresin,” he tells you. “You don’t have to tell me your name. I already know.”

“Yeah I figured that much,” you mutter.

“When can I see you in person?” He asks.

“When are you free?” You smile and bite your lip.

“How about now? Come to Hard Deck.”

“I don’t really do bars…”

“Then I’ll come to you. What’s your address?”

You laugh. “I don’t even know you like that. What if you’re a psycho?”

“I wouldn’t be a top pilot in the navy sweetheart.” You chuckle, making him wait before he asks, “Soooo can I come over?”

“Have you been drinking?”

“Not really,” he tells you.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“You can come over. But bring food, I’m starving.” You tell him.

“Same,” he tells you. “And it’ll give you enough time to get ready and wash that face mask off.”

Fuck I forgot about that.

“I’ll see you soon.”

———

A face wash, makeup application, and teeth brushing later, you hear Hangman—Jake—ring the doorbell.

After changing into some cute sweats, you run downstairs and answer the door.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey yourself,” he says. He’s a lot taller than you thought he’d be. And a lot hotter than you thought too. He holds up a bag of takeout and a gym bag. “I brought food and a change of clothes.”

He’s wearing his khaki Aviation uniform still.

“Yeah, come on in.” You step to the side, allowing him to come in. “Bathroom’s down the hall and to the left.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he smiles.

God his smile made him so much hotter.

When he comes back from the bathroom changed and in gray sweatpants and a Texas Longhorns shirt, you smile and wave him over to your couch.

“What’re you watching?” He asks.

“Nothing that the moment,” you tell him. “I was waiting for you.”

“How sweet.” He smiles. “This has to be the best first date I’ve a been on in a long time.”

“Who said this was a date?” You ask, raising your eyebrows.

“Oh, did I assume?” He cockily smirks at you which makes your cheeks turn red. “And from the way you’re blushing, I’d say you’d like this to be a date.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, a smile playing on your lips.

Two hours later, Jake is still at your place and your head is resting on his shoulder.

“That was a cute movie,” he tells you. “Why did I cry so much?”

“Because Toy Story 3 is ruthless,” you sigh, wiping your eyes.

“Either way, I don’t think I can sleep if we don’t watch something else.”

You sit up and face him. “Why? You too sad to leave?”

“No, I don’t want to leave yet,” he says truthfully. “Plus, it’s my turn to choose a movie.”

“Which is?”

“Legally Blonde.”

You smile, scoffing before laughing and shaking your head. “You surprise me.”

“In a good way, I hope.”

“Definitely,” you nod.

“Can I surprise you one more time?” He asks, voice barely over a whisper.

You shrug and smirk. “Depends on what it is.”

He places a hand on your cheek, snaking his fingers to the back of your neck.

“Can I ask you one more thing?”

“That counts as a question,” you whisper.

He chuckles. “That one doesn’t count.”

“Go ahead.”

He takes a deep breath, leaning in close to the point his nose touches your own. Your heart is pounding, excitement and anticipation flowing through your body.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Please do.”

So he does, soft and sweet at first. That is, until you pull his head in, deepening the kiss. Your mouths race, devouring and exploring every inch of your mouths. You shift your body, straddling Jake’s lap and wrapping your arms around his neck, something you notice feels so normal, you don’t want it to end.

“Take me upstairs.” You order.

“Yes ma’am.”

[mandalhoerian]

sacrosanct | leon kennedy x reader | 3

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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: 14K

warnings: period-typical conservative values... bechdel test failure 💔

author's note: i am a liar. this isn't the end. the finale will be the next one... im sorry 😭

🌀 READ ON AO3 !

The small candle flickers in the corner of the room, casting faint, dancing shadows across the stone walls. The soft snores of the other maids fill the space around you, their breathing steady, their bodies resting in untroubled sleep. But you are awake. Kneeling at the edge of your thin, rough bed, the worn fabric of your nightdress brushing against your knees, you clasp your hands tightly together in silent prayer.

The small idol of Ethelion rests before you—a crude wooden carving of your making, stained with the blood you shed clumsily cutting into your flesh over and over in the process, no taller than your hand. It’s a far cry from the towering statues of Him that once surrounded you, carved from marble and adorned in gold. Those statues commanded awe, reverence. This one, however, looks small and sad, like the devotion of the people who crafted it was just enough to create something that could barely hold the likeness of a god.

Your hands are trembling, the beads of your prayer bracelet rattling softly with the movement. You take a shaky breath, glancing around the room as if to make sure no one has stirred. The air is stifling, the thick warmth of the shared space pressing down on you like a weight. The scent of sweat and old straw clings to the air, mixed with the faint sweetness of the single candle burning beside you.

How different this is from the temples you once knelt in. The hallowed halls of Ethelion, with their lofty ceilings and polished floors, where incense filled the air and your prayers echoed off the sacred stones. There, the light streamed through stained glass in brilliant colors, casting a holy glow over everything it touched. Here, the room is dim, cramped, and suffocating. The candle’s flicker feels more like a reminder of how small the world has become around you.

You bow your head, trying to steady your breath, the whisper of your prayer barely audible over the steady rise and fall of the other girls' breathing. “Ethelion, guide me,” you murmur, though the words feel strained, thin. “Forgive my wandering heart.”

The idol doesn’t respond, of course. It’s nothing more than carved wood, far removed from the grand images of your god that once surrounded you. Still, you pray. It’s all you know. All you should do. Must do.

The sound of a creaking bedframe startles you, and your heart lurches. You glance over your shoulder to see one of the maids, Sarah, shifting in her sleep. Her face is calm, untroubled by the worries that gnaw at your mind. You envy her.

Biting your lip, you turn back to the idol, lowering your head once more. But the words are harder to find now. Your thoughts are too loud, too tangled, too restless.

How long has it been since you truly felt His presence? Pouring into your veins like sunlight every single time you reached out to Him?

You were supposed to be His chosen one. The vessel through which His light would shine. But that light has dimmed, and you don’t know if it’s because He has abandoned you, or if you have failed Him. Maybe it’s both. Maybe you were never worthy to begin with.

Your fingers curl around the prayer beads, the cool touch of them grounding you, but they feel foreign now. When you were the Saintess, they were a symbol of your connection to Ethelion, a reminder of your place in the world. Now, they’re just relics of a past life—one that feels more distant with each passing day.

“Why did you leave me?” The question slips out before you can stop it, a breathless whisper that hangs in the air, fragile and desperate.

You grit your teeth, trying to suppress the bitterness that rises in your chest. You’re not supposed to question Him. You’re supposed to trust, to believe without doubt, without hesitation. That was your purpose, the sole reason for your existence.

Your hands drop into your lap, the weight of your own thoughts too heavy to hold up anymore.

Is this what your life has become? Praying to a god who's turned away from you, living in the shadows of who you once were? You glance at the idol again, the dim candlelight making it seem even more pathetic, more distant.

There’s no divine presence here. Just you, alone, in the dark.

The flicker of the candle casts long shadows across the small room, its light barely reaching the corners. You can hear the rustle of straw from the other beds as the girls shift in their sleep, unaware of your turmoil. This space is so different from the serene, almost divine solitude of the temple. Here, you’re surrounded by people—by warmth, by the soft murmur of life. But you’ve never felt more isolated.

Being the Saintess had its burdens, but at least you knew where you belonged. You knew your purpose. Now, you’re adrift, clinging to a god who might not even remember you. Who might have never cared to begin with.

But oh, how you love Him. How you ache for Him. Even in this moment, when grief threatens to choke you, the longing in your heart burns brighter. It stings your eyes, your throat. How desperately you want to belong again, to feel His light filling you.

It's you. You're the problem. Not Him.

You close your eyes, pressing your palms together so tightly they ache. If you just pray hard enough—if you just focus—you’ll feel Him again. You’ll find that connection, that sense of peace that once filled your every breath.

Leon's wrong.

You've grown accustomed to hard work, to physical exertion. It's far better than the hollow nothingness that's left in the aftermath of losing the divinity you'd been given. Yes, the job is strenuous. Exhausting. But it keeps you from falling back into the endless spiral of self-doubt. You're not miserable here. You're... content. As content as a person in your situation can be. And that's not nothing.

Besides, it's the best thing that could have happened to you. Compared to the streets, compared to the empty abbey in which you dwelled alone, this is a blessing. You cannot deny that. To be able to bathe and dress and eat is such an immense gift. Ethelion hasn't left your side, not for one second.

...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.

You press your forehead to the cool stone wall beside your bed, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps. You thought you could find solace in prayer, in the familiar rhythms of devotion. But no matter how many words you whisper, no matter how tightly you press your hands together, his words keep tearing at the fragile seams of your heart.

The memories rise unbidden. Days spent fasting until your vision blurred, your body trembling under the weight of divine obligation. Nights spent kneeling on cold marble floors, your prayers stretching into the early hours, the ache in your legs a reminder that your suffering was part of the duty. Every blessing you gave, every drop of blood shed from the blade into the mouths of those in need, every prayer you offered, was a part of the divine plan. You had accepted it. You had embraced it. You believed in it.

Leon's whisper sneaks up into your mind, like a snake coiling around your thoughts, And it still wasn't enough.

You shake your head, willing the thoughts away, but they cling to you like thorns. There had been a time when you thought you were content, when you believed your life had purpose. Even after losing your title, even when you were stripped of the robes, the veil, and everything that once defined you, you told yourself you were free.

I can still be of use, you had thought. I can find a way to live the way I used to. Perhaps Ethelion had granted you mercy. Gifted you with a path to follow that didn't lead to complete disgrace, to ruin.

Your eyes sting, but no tears come. You've cried too much already. Instead, you pull the thin blanket around your shoulders, huddling closer to the wall and shutting your eyes tight, clutching the idol tight. It's as close as you'll get to feeling the divine now, a piece of wood cut to look like your God, reduced to a mere object to be held.

You miss the simplicity of being used. The serenity. The fulfillment. You miss knowing that your suffering meant something, that your blood, your body, your soul, served a higher purpose, and that's all you had ever desired. And now, all that seems to be left of you is this empty husk, chasing fragments of memories like fireflies on an endless summer evening.

You glance at the other maids, their forms barely visible under their threadbare blankets, their breaths even and untroubled. They sleep so soundly, unaware of the turmoil that grips you.

You envy them. You envy the clarity of their lives, the ease with which they move through their days. For them, there is no loss of grand purpose, no heavy weight of fallen grace. They scrub floors, they mend clothes, they serve meals—and they rest. They don’t carry the burden of a god’s silence.

You thought you were free when you came here. You thought you had left the life you had in the temple behind. But Leon saw through you, saw the truth you didn’t want to admit to yourself. You haven’t left. Not truly. You’ve simply traded one form of servitude for another. For the sake of feeling whole again.

You wonder if he can see through you. If he can pick apart all the pieces you are trying to hold together. If he can see the cracks in the image you try so hard to project, the invisible scars that have been healed by Ethelion's hand ritual after ritual. But then, he doesn’t even know who you are, not really. Not like he thinks he does.

You don't know who you are, either. You've only been the Saintess, always guided by someone else, fulfilling duties for Ethelion. When the grace flowed through your veins, you were confident, firm. Calm. Resolute in the knowledge that you were the only one who could do what you did. Your mind clear as crystal. Then you lost everything. Or at least, everyone who recognized you. Your place in the world.

That's who Leon knows. He doesn't know anything of you, or the mortal who lived within you. No. He just sees you as the Saintess. Nothing more.

That's why marriage is the only way he can continue his duty as an Oathbreaker. He sees you as holy and elevated above others. And he needs to reconcile himself with what he thinks he failed to do, what he thinks he must fulfill for you, to atone for his sins. You understand. You were made to understand.

When you look at him, you can't help but see an echo of your former self, a kindred spirit bound by duty to your cause. He yearns to honor his promises, to fulfill his responsibilities, just as you once did.

Leon's a good man, with a noble heart. And his devotion is true. But it isn't because he loves you. It's because he pities you.

And you hate it. You hate it because you know you don't deserve this. This kindness. This sympathy. You're nothing but a shadow of what you used to be. A remnant of a time gone by. Your wings have been clipped. Your fate sealed. Yet here he stands, offering to take your broken, battered self in, to care for you, to cherish you, when that loyalty should belong to the new saintess. To the woman who will be able to keep his oaths intact and secure his salvation, who can guarantee his place in Ethelion's heaven.

His presence lingers like smoke from a burning log, impossible to dispel, choking the very breath from your lungs. You don't turn your head, but you know he's there, hovering at the door to the kitchen. A hush falls over the room as the servants freeze, caught between their tasks and this new development.

It isn't appropriate for a noble to be here, wandering the manor's halls uninvited, and yet... Leon seems unperturbed by the breach of social conduct, gazing about as though he were surveying his own grounds.

Finally, the silence is broken by a shuffle of footsteps, and the head maid comes forward, hands clasped together in respectful greeting. She keeps her eyes lowered, avoiding direct contact, but she inclines her head deferentially.

"Sir, how may we be of assistance?"

Leon glances over the room again, as though considering each of you in turn, and heaves a sigh. "I want to speak with her." He gestures toward you without looking at you specifically, focused on the head maid.

Your hands tighten around the cloth you're holding, wrinkling the fabric. He's talking about you, you know it. But your mind still drifts back to the previous night, to the tender expression in his eyes as he offered you everything on a platter, a feast spread out before a starving beggar. Your chest constricts painfully, and you suck in a deep breath, doing your best to calm your racing thoughts.

"Ah..." The head maid hesitates, clearly caught off-guard. "Of course, sir. If I may inquire about the reason?"

"Please don't concern yourself with it."

"Surely there must be some misunderstanding here?" The head maid counters gently, frowning slightly. "If she has done something wrong..."

"...no, that is not the case." Leon interrupts before she finishes speaking, his tone clipped.

He stares directly at you now, a piercing gaze that makes you feel like you're a mouse beneath the paw of a cat, unable to break free. The entire kitchen seems to tense, everyone aware of how out of place and inappropriate this encounter is, waiting for your response.

A shudder runs down your spine, and you fight to suppress the impulse to curl in on yourself protectively, to make yourself as small and invisible as possible. Heat floods into your face, creeping up along the line of your neck to settle under the collar of your simple cotton dress. The fabric feels too tight, too restrictive, pinching your skin uncomfortably, making sweat prickle along your hairline. Your palms are damp, but you don't dare wipe them on your skirt. It's improper to fidget. To let weakness show.

To be seen.

"I apologize," Leon continues after a moment's pause, seeming to recover his composure somewhat, "but there's something private that I'd like to discuss with her. And, uh...alone, please."

Another shiver wracks your frame. Goosebumps erupt over the back of your exposed arms, trailing up the length of your bare forearms. Your stomach roils nervously as all eyes swivel toward you, boring into the back of your skull, drilling holes straight through you. The room feels stifling. Overly hot and overwhelming, as though you're drowning in the heavy air. The taste of ash coats your tongue, and you struggle to swallow around the lump lodged in your throat. You wish you could disappear right now. Melting away and leaving nothing but a faint outline of yourself would be better than enduring the scrutiny of this moment.

The head maid takes a step back, and then another, backing up until she's standing near her colleagues, all of whom stare expectantly at you, waiting, and you can't jog quickly enough towards the door to escape the sudden oppressive atmosphere.

You hear him, quick steps matching yours as you push forward, and he places himself next to you, keeping the pace with effortless strides. The contrast between your hurried walk and his composed saunter is striking; the way his height and his strength tower over your frame, swallowing you whole with an instinctive reflex. But, unlike most men, he doesn't impose it upon you—at least, not intentionally.

"Saintess—"

The old name snaps you out of your momentary daze, and you halt in your steps, stopping to glare at him. "It's Saintess no longer."

For once, he falters, blinking. You imagine he wasn't expecting you to cut him off with such brusqueness, but hearing it used gives you an unpleasant jolt. You'd been called the same title for so long that your name was nothing more than a memory, a fading dream of what you once were. It's difficult to think of yourself as anything other than Saintess—it's hard to believe in what else you could have been in that past, without being granted such sacred gifts.

But now? Now it's something tainted with bitterness. Of what could have been, if your gifts hadn't faded like the last golden rays of sun melting into the ocean.

"Sorry. Forgive me," he murmurs quietly, looking oddly apologetic. And perhaps it's this display of genuine contrition that softens your resolve.

"Why did you seek me? Is this about what happened yesterday?"

It's subtle, but you catch a glimpse of shock in his eyes, the hint of widening in them. He clears his throat and says, "Yes. About that. I had some things I needed to clarify. Some questions."

There's a pause, a beat of silence that drags on, until it's filled with a sort of anticipation, a curious hope. You know the kind—the one that builds up within, swelling, threatening to burst out of confines. You know it well, because that feeling used to drive your prayers, your words murmured in fervent whispers, rising to a crescendo before crashing down, like a wave cresting into foamy seafoam before its ebb. But this is different. What compels him is entirely different.

"Questions? Such as?" You tilt your head curiously, trying to mask the wavering nerves. You're not used to having conversations like this, and even though his company should bring a sense of peace, it only makes your pulse flutter in nervous agitation. It's so strange to be the sole focus of someone else, and while the attention would have been coveted by your old self, now it feels uncomfortable, itchy, like something is crawling over your skin.

He glances around. The hallways are empty and quiet, but you're both alone in public, and he won't voice his thoughts unless you prompt him to. Your mind wanders to how easily he slipped into the background of the manor, hidden among the rows of people going about their day, so natural in the way he navigated the spaces around you.

So unlike how he acts around you.

Then, as if picking up on your mental whirling, he asks, "Are you happy here? Are you comfortable? I don't mean to pry, I'm just concerned that I..." He seems to fumble for words, like a child who lost his footing, then recovers, adding with haste, "I’m sorry my offer made you feel like I was degrading your position. That wasn’t the case at all."

A sigh escapes your lips. The apology brings no sense of relief or ease to your tension-ladened shoulders; rather, it leaves you feeling guilty. The shame of burdening him eats away at your gut, gnawing like a parasite growing into something vile inside you. His words from the day before replay in your ears—of the indignance at the thought of you serving, of you working as a servant.

Is this what this is? Him pitying your plight? Feeling as though it is his responsibility to 'right' your situation? It's a noble notion, but it isn't his to handle.

"You didn't offend me," you admit slowly. A part of you is afraid to meet his gaze, scared to see the pity in it. You have no doubt he means well—you could almost feel the sincerity emanating from his body, the kind that radiates from people who sincerely want the best for others, not out of an ulterior motive. You had encountered this type often, though it was in a more ceremonious setting. "Your intentions were noble."

"I'm glad." He offers a smile. A genuine, relieved one. Something blooms within you at the sight of it.

"...how is it that you’re permitted to stroll the halls as you wish?" You ask, raising your brows. It doesn't pass your notice, the way people would jump to action as soon as Leon walked in.

"Well, the Redfields are all familiar with me. I'm a guest. And not a particularly troublesome one."

"Indeed."

"So..."

His voice trails off, leaving the end of that statement hanging there, unsaid but nonetheless understood. A silence falls between you again. You can't say much about the other occupants, but even you are uneasy around Leon when he has that serious, unreadable expression.

And that's how he usually looks. With a little sadness, a touch of longing in his gaze. Maybe regret. But mostly, he wears this pensive look, as if he's lost in thought, deep in concentration, mulling over the words in his head.

Right now, his face is blank. Completely void of emotion. Just that somber stare, contemplating the situation in front of him. His expression would be unassuming and neutral if not for those troubled eyes, constantly flickering back and forth. It's frustratingly annoying, like he's weighing the options and can't decide which side he wants to go with.

Yet, you're fascinated at the same time. How his lashes flutter delicately, the creases forming between his brows as he ponders. All these little details, all of these signs, he is putting on display. Intentionally or otherwise. He used to be an open book, now it is closed, guarded and locked with no keys. You crave to peer at whatever lies within, but you've already seen glimpses. Fragments, snippets. Moments. Enough to stir your interest, though.

So when you hear him clear his throat, you find yourself glancing back up. Caught staring.

"If I may be so bold..." he begins, his tone betraying nothing. "Why stay here?"

You're taken aback by his frank question. So much for subtly.

"I don't understand..."

"I've learned that retired saintesses choose to become nuns at convents and dedicate their lives to prayer and acts of charity. Which is what I assumed you would have chosen." He crosses his arms, and you note that he has a very strong, muscled physique when the movement makes his arm and chest pop. It's distracting through his clothes, and it's making you very conscious of yourself and the differences between you both, even physically. "But here you are, doing labor that is deemed... less desirable. And I'm confused. Why is that?"

You shrug, averting your gaze. It's a difficult answer to provide, especially when you haven't given yourself the chance to contemplate it yet. But... maybe it's because he asked. It doesn't seem fair to brush him off, not when he's opened himself up so genuinely to you.

"Perhaps I am tired of prayers." That seems to startle Leon, so you continue with renewed bravery. "Is it that bad to want to experience the world, to understand humanity, instead of seclude myself away from it? And I can only do that by walking in their shoes."

The silence stretches out again, but the atmosphere doesn't feel stifling anymore. Instead, you find yourself breathing easier, leaning into the softness of it.

"Come," Leon says suddenly. He holds out his arm and gestures toward the end of the hallway. "Let me walk you to a place better suited for this conversation."

The thought of taking him up on it—of stepping away with him—doesn't horrify you like it would have yesterday. He's somehow more open now, his defenses slightly lower, his words more fluid, more casual. Relaxed. Like you're two old friends meeting for a pleasant stroll, reminiscing on times past. Or maybe just acquaintances getting to know each other better. Either way, it feels nice, and the thought warms your heart.

Something about this feels right. Natural. Almost as though it was meant to be.

And so, you loop your hand into the crook of his elbow and let him guide you out of the narrow passageway and out into the sunshine. The bright morning light blinds you briefly, and you blink rapidly, trying to adjust to the harsh contrast between indoors and outdoors.

Leon guides you towards a row of large stone benches facing the pond at the center of the garden, shielded from view of anyone walking nearby, providing the illusion of privacy. He motions for you to take a seat, and you do, scooting closer towards him as he settles beside you.

There is an indescribable tranquility about the scene before you: the sun shining down on the glistening water, the breeze rustling the leaves of the surrounding trees, the chirping of birds echoing around you. The warmth seeping through the fabric of your clothing envelops you, and you breathe deeply, relishing the fresh air. You've always been captivated by nature; there's an undeniable beauty in simplicity, in things unhindered by manmade restrictions. There's purity and innocence in it too, and you bask in the peacefulness of it all.

And with Leon beside you now, it... almost feels right. As though everything has clicked into place. As though it's meant to be like this. A shared moment. Between equals. Between people who matter to each other. You savor the feeling of normalcy in your veins, warming your cheeks, your stomach fluttering with nerves but also comfort.

This moment—this fleeting moment in time—is perfect.

There is nothing more beautiful than freedom. That much is certain.

"How are you finding life outside of the temple?" The question breaks through your haze of contentment, causing you to jerk up and turn your head in surprise.

Leon sits perfectly still beside you, watching you intently, and that pocket of small silence is striking enough for you to be confronted with how a splash of dark ink he is in the midst of the popping colors of the garden.

A long, midnight-black coat sweeps past his knees in a fluid motion, its tailored cut accentuating the figure with sharp, clean lines, the surface gleaming faintly in the light, as if woven with threads of shadow, and its cuffs and lapels are embroidered with fine golden patterns. Beneath the coat, a double-breasted vest, also black but subtly different in texture, wraps snugly around his strong torso. The vest is fastened with polished brass buttons that gleam with a soft, antique sheen, each button precisely aligned. A chain, slender and golden, drapes elegantly from the vest’s pocket, suggesting the presence of a pocket watch. At his throat, an indigo cravat is tied with meticulous care, its silky fabric mirroring the coat’s inner lining, and at its center is a dark jewel gleaming with understated brilliance. The trousers, pressed to perfection, follow the form of his legs with a tailored precision, and gloved hands, encased in supple black leather, complete the ensemble. The suit fits perfectly, and it looks impressive enough for your first guess to be that it is tailor-made. The overall effect is that of a man who commands power, presence, and authority, and the sharpness of his gaze emphasizes this impression even further.

A man dressed to impress, no doubt. For what occasion, you dare not ask. A court function, perhaps? You cannot help but wonder just how many layers there are in the clothing he wears beneath that coat—and how many hands were required to help him into such an elaborate outfit.

It's such a far cry from the white robes he wore as a paladin, with their simpler forms and design, yet it's equally elegant, in its own way.

"...is there something wrong?" Leon asks, catching you staring. He tilts his head to the side, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks. "Was that the wrong question—"

"No. It's—fine. There's nothing wrong," you interject hastily, averting your eyes from his intense stare. Ogling him like that, out in the open, what is wrong with you! It's so unbecoming, so improper! "Life's... Life has been different. An adjustment, to say the least. I didn't know how to put it for a moment there, but... yes. It's been rather, uh..."

You trail off, your mind drawing a blank, unsure what word you're searching for. The sensation is awkward and unfamiliar, and you worry he might think poorly of your lack of eloquence, but he waits patiently, letting you stumble through it on your own.

Finally, you find your voice again, saying, "I enjoy it. Here, I mean. I came here hoping to gain some experience, learn the ways of humility. It's satisfying to be useful."

His expression grows contemplative, his eyes dark and unfathomable, but he doesn't speak. This close, you can smell the faint scent of perfume on his collar, the sweet aroma mingling with the crisp freshness of soap and dewy linen, mixed with something that's distinctly him, something you can't quite identify but makes your insides twist all the same.

"And before you say anything," you add, feeling a sudden rush of courage, "I know now, yes. That it's just a different path of servitude. But the difference is that I chose this. I could have become a nun as you said. I don't know, I... I guess I just needed some semblance of control. In the absence of Him, I could choose for myself for once."

"I suppose I can understand the feeling." He nods thoughtfully. His voice is gentle, understanding. And you find yourself wishing that he wouldn't act like this towards you—a woman who's just a mere maid. A nobody. "I've had to make that choice in His absence as well. Not exactly similar circumstances, but there are parallels to be drawn."

The admission stuns you momentarily, your lips parting in surprise, but your shock soon morphs into curiosity, and you lean closer, eager to hear more of him. "You're faring way better than me, I'd say, Sir Leon."

He laughs. It's low, rich, and smooth, like silk against your skin, and you nearly shiver. "You don't need to address me like that. Just 'Leon' is fine. My... former role isn't relevant to where I am now."

There's a touch of self-conscious humor to that remark. You've never heard him sound so playful, almost cocky—and certainly not with you—but it's refreshing. Almost comforting. "Of course." You shift in your seat, turning toward him so that your knee brushes against his. It's a small gesture, but it makes his whole leg jerk for some reason. "...may I ask, how are you adjusting?"

"Better, lately." A wistful smile plays about his lips, as if he's reflecting on fond memories. "The years haven't been easy... But they were necessary. They were worth it."

"To get where you are now?" you complete for him, your expression matching his, a mirror. "Why did you choose this new path, if I may inquire?"

For an instant, he freezes, seemingly caught off guard by the question, but he recovers quickly, his face remaining placid save for a brief flash of emotion that passes too quickly for you to decipher it. His gaze turns inward, focused on some point in space beyond you, and he lets out a breath. "That's a... heavy topic. One which I'm not sure we should discuss in public."

"Oh... My apologies," you blurt out, instantly regretting having been so direct. Of course it would be an inappropriate subject of conversation. What were you thinking? A former member of the Church blatantly questioning him about his oathbreaking, of all topics. You drop your gaze in shame. "I'm sorry, I overstepped. We can talk about something else if you wish. Something less personal. Anything. You can—if you want—ask me questions in return."

"Oh, no, please don't apologize," he interjects quickly, gently. His eyes meet yours once more, and although they're still guarded, there's also tenderness and reassurance behind them. "I don't mind sharing this story with you. There just needs to be another time and place for it. Is that alright?"

"...yes, yes, absolutely!" You nod vigorously, surprised at yourself for accepting his offer so eagerly, yet strangely excited about it nonetheless. You never would have expected a former paladin to invite you to talk to him, to spend time together... Though in truth, you hardly know anything about this man before you, other than his past deeds. The thought causes butterflies to flutter in your belly.

Leon chuckles softly at your reaction. "Wonderful."

Then his expression becomes serious again as he surveys your surroundings, pausing for several beats before speaking. When he does, his voice is calm, measured, and careful. "Back to you, then... You've mentioned you chose to do this of your own accord... Do you enjoy doing domestic tasks? Having your own space, your own things?"

"Most of those, I mean, uh... I don't have my own space, but I appreciate the accommodations here, so, yes." You give him a little smile. "Sharing a room doesn't allow for much ownership. About the work... I do enjoy it most days. Sometimes I grow tired but I keep at it. And the staff has taught me a lot, so I don't feel too clumsy. You should have seen me try my first laundry session—"

A cough cuts in, and you stiffen.

Turning around, you catch a group of maids hiding behind the hedge, peeking from their shelter with reddened faces. You wonder if they have been listening in on the two of you. Embarrassing. "...We should return to the main building. Before the gossips begin."

He hesitates briefly before nodding. You notice the tip of his ears redden before he pulls away, leaving your side colder than before, and offers you his arm once more. You loop your hand into the crook of his elbow and let him guide you back onto the cobbled path back towards the house.

His pace is leisurely as he leads you toward the manor proper, guiding you along with ease. Every so often, his gaze darts around, seemingly keeping an eye out for someone approaching. Perhaps he wishes to avoid being seen with you, you think wryly, trying to suppress the hurt that thought gives you. It's not his fault. You both must maintain a certain image. It's only natural for him to not want to be associated with the likes of a servant girl. Still, as you make your way through the hallways, you can't stop yourself from noticing the odd looks you garner from the servants who pass by the two of you, and you wonder why, as he's just escorting you.

You're quick to learn, however, that you were too caught up in the appropriateness of a paladin escorting the saintess that you forgot to consider how it would translate to a noble in a maid's company, no matter her status. It takes a pointedly raised eyebrow from a knight you recognize to bring you to your senses, to realize what might be running through the minds of the household members you walk by.

A noble does not take a maid by the elbow. That's apparently reserved for a lady. And even among that select circle of women, it's for a more private audience.

The gossip has already started, in earnest.

It's not Lord Chris that calls on you later that week after the gossip reaches an all time high, but Dame Jill and Lady Claire, sisters in all but blood.

When you answer their summons, they greet you warmly and immediately whisk you away, leading you through the twisting corridors of the castle until you arrive in the courtyard, where an elaborate picnic is spread out before you. It seems as though they had it all planned out: the plump cushions, the fancy drinks and dishes, the lavish decorations. You relax that this isn't about the etiquette fiasco with Leon for a second, and figure they'll ask you to serve them instead. That you can handle—just don't spill wine on their dresses, and be prepared to pour a refill as they ask.

However, they don't ask you to stand to the side, but join them instead, sitting atop the cushions like equals. It's strange at first, not knowing where to settle down, but after some adjusting and squirming, you find yourself settled comfortably within reach, nibbling on fruit from the extravagant buffet laid out before you while sipping cool chilled juice served in elegant crystal goblets.

It's surreal. Strange and unusual, but not in an uncomfortable way. And yet, you can't shake the feeling that this is some kind of trap, that they must want something from you. You know their intentions are genuine, but your expectations were always that of service. Obedience. Not in the favor of others.

Maybe they sense that, because the topic shifts suddenly and unexpectedly.

"We wanted to have a little girl talk with you," Lady Claire says, picking up a grape from her plate and popping it into her mouth with surprising finesse. She licks the excess juice from her fingertips, her green eyes fixed firmly upon you. "You know, harmless stuff. About the terrifying creature lurking in the horizon and getting closer every day, that you call the what am I doing with my life meltdown. It's a common occurrence around a certain age. I'm sure you're familiar with it."

Although it's phrased like a question, there's an unmistakable ring of amusement in her tone. Amusement at your expense, but it doesn't feel mocking or mean-spirited in nature, only teasing. You're relieved this isn't about Leon, but horrified all the same that all of your anxieties can be summed up with that one sentence.

"I... I've heard of it," you mumble sheepishly.

"Oh Claire," Dame Jill admonishes loudly, throwing a warning glance at her friend, which Lady Claire promptly ignores. "This isn't the time to be making light of it."

"Still, though. The poor girl clearly needs some perspective and advice." The auburn-haired lady shrugs and moves on, not missing a beat, completely nonchalant. "So. Someone from your past appears, and now you find yourself plagued with existential doubts and insecurities. I know this would happen eventually. That's why I told you to aim higher in life before you started out here, but you went and got stubborn anyway. And now look at you."

She smiles as she says this, reaching out to pat your shoulder reassuringly. There's no malice in her voice, not even a hint of mockery; she's genuinely concerned about your welfare and her tone reflects that.

But that doesn't prevent you from flinching away instinctively, cringing internally at the mention of your inflexibility, and at the reminder that you do need guidance in life, especially right now.

And even if they don't know all the details, the Redfield family members are excellent at reading you like a book—already, they've hit pretty much every point with pinpoint accuracy, cutting to the core of your problems with frightening precision, and leaving you feeling raw and exposed underneath their keen scrutiny. It's unnerving how easily these two women managed to discern so much information just by observing your behavior and gauging your reactions, and it leaves you feeling uncomfortably vulnerable.

Your eyes flick nervously towards Dame Jill. She hasn't spoken much throughout the entire exchange, simply watching you quietly with a thoughtful expression on her face, but she must notice your unease, because she speaks up at last, breaking her silence.

"You can relax. We're not here to pry into your affairs. And while you should listen to Claire's words—she does have her moments where she actually makes sense—"

"Why would you say it like that—"

"We can also offer you practical advice and assistance. The world can be tough. Especially if you're a woman."

The fact that there was such care despite your comparatively low social standing warms your heart. Like they're really relatives of yours who weren’t frequent donors to your temple and got special visits to you for blessing and healing purposes. If you hadn't gotten to know them better after becoming a maid, you could have mistaken them as real sisters.

The words themselves give you pause, though. You're grateful, yet puzzled too by this unexpected kindness from these two high-born ladies, so foreign to you.

"I do love the little life I've built for myself. Even if it's mundane." You reply slowly, unsure how else to express this unfamiliar emotion bubbling within you. "It may be menial work, but it gives purpose. A sense of accomplishment."

"And what about when you want something more for yourself?" Dame Jill presses, leaning in closer. Her gaze is piercing, almost accusatory, but her tone remains calm, steady, never wavering in its intensity. She wants answers—from you.

But you don't have any.

"I don't know what I want in the first place," you finally confess, turning to look out over the gardens, feeling overwhelmed and uncertain. "I'm just trying to survive in this world. Everything's new to me—having autonomy, being able to decide for myself... I never dared imagine much beyond fulfilling His will, or whatever duties were assigned to me as Saintess. All of this... Sometimes I find myself entertaining the possibilities of certain things now, things I didn't know I could until very recently. And I don't know if I should."

The out of guilt part, you leave out of it. That’s a box of worms you aren’t willing to dump on these poor women.

Lady Claire pipes up immediately, excitement written across her face: "Then go chase them! Go and enjoy life and love and all that fun stuff!"

A sudden wave of anxiety washes over you at the mention of 'love', and you can't help but feel mortified, suddenly realizing that what you meant probably sounded quite different from her interpretation of it.

Thankfully, the young noblewoman doesn't seem aware of your slip-up, continuing enthusiastically with a dreamy expression: "Trust me, you definitely want to start living for yourself before it becomes too late, otherwise you'll end up like some of the old prune lords you see around court."

You try to contain your laughter at the sight of such pure enthusiasm, but fail miserably, letting it burst out. They both join you shortly thereafter, filling the air with melodious peals of laughter as the sun shines brightly overhead. After all that time spent being trapped inside walls all your life, to laugh so freely feels like nothing short of heavenly bliss. And it feels good. Laughter—joyful, unrestrained laughter—is something that's far rarer these days than you would ever admit aloud.

"I wasn't going to talk about this just yet but..." Dame Jill clears her throat, regaining control of herself. She straightens her dress carefully before looking back up at you with a serious expression on her beautiful features. "Leon's offer could very well be the answer you're looking for."

"I..." you start defensively, but Dame Jill raises her hand and silences you before you can finish forming the rest of your protest.

"Hear me out. I'm going to lay it out for you from a strategic and realistic angle. The simple truth of the matter is that you have limited options, given your background and current position in society. You don't have access to power, resources, or wealth. This is the reason why former saintesses stay in the convent—it's safer and easier, compared to facing the real world head on with no experience."

It makes perfect logical sense. Dame Jill is laying out the facts plainly, and even though you may not fully understand all of the nuances involved with regards to the issue of marriage in noble society, you're smart enough to comprehend what she's telling you. Your heart leaps into your throat at the thought of marriage, of Leon... and then promptly drops into your stomach once more.

"In our world, it's unlikely anyone else will ever ask for your hand unless you actively seek a match for yourself, which is why people generally arrange marriages instead. It's a miserable affair for women, because they don't really have a say in who gets picked, or what kind of person that suitor ends up being. But you... I say you've been blessed. To have found someone willing and able to provide for you financially and personally—that's rare as hen's teeth among the nobility. Leon, for all intents and purposes, is a wealthy man, one that isn't difficult to get along with."

That's true, you acknowledge silently, recalling the countless stories you've heard about the brutality of many men, especially high-born ones. If the rumors are to be believed, some wives barely avoided being locked in their rooms by the husbands they never saw, as they were forced to do as told without complaint.

But so were you made to do the same as the Saintess, in a way. You shudder just thinking of it.

Dame Jill pauses for a moment to collect her thoughts before continuing, taking in you shrinking into yourself. "What I'm trying to say is... perhaps this could work? Leon's social standing is strong. He carries great weight within Ethelia due to his achievements and is en route to become one of the wealthiest in the kingdom with all the favors he has. And from the way he ignores us when he comes to our house as a guest to tail after you tells me he wouldn't take your independence away in marriage. You'll be able to do whatever you want—visit wherever you please, hire any staff you desire, live wherever you fancy, and be with whomsoever you like. As long as you remain discreet about certain affairs, of course."

The last subtle suggestion about taking a separate lover after marriage is received with a loud snort of displeasure from Lady Claire, but the comment has served to jar you back into awareness.

"Which is to say, you'd be happy with him. From my perspective, that's the best deal any woman can ask for. In fact, it's quite literally out of a fairy tale, to be honest. An agreeable man who cares and will give you whatever you wish for. Wealthy. Great status. Do you not want that?"

Of course you would want that! That much you cannot deny. A happy, comfortable life with stability and freedom is exactly what you dreamt of during your worst hours in the convent. And Leon would be a decent husband. Kind, dutiful... handsome, honorable... you know those aspects already.

"But... At least I have my own freedoms as a commoner who has a job, no matter how small. I'd feel too bad to be financially dependent on him..."

"I went through the exact same thing, so let me tell you," Dame Jill states in a firm voice, raising her chin proudly as she does so, "Even with a dowry, I still depended entirely on my husband's good graces at first. But I managed to gain privileges and my own investments through him, and paid him back with my own income later. The system isn't perfect but it works. You have the luxury of starting on a higher foot than I did, and will undoubtedly earn better terms in marriage because of it. You should take advantage of that. If you use your cards right, you'll become independent from Leon soon enough."

You can see that argument. And you trust Dame Jill knows what she's talking about—she and her betrothed have lived together happily, and she doesn't hold his title and still retains her own surname. That must have taken incredible maneuvering on her part to achieve. She's the living monument of her argument, evidence of it working out if a woman decides to pursue her interests under the rules set forth by noblemen by using those against them. And you suppose that if it worked for her, then perhaps...

And yet, you're still hesitant, unconvinced. "How would you suggest I do that?"

"You can become a patron for artisans and tradesmen, or fund shops with your inheritance." She shrugs lightly. "Invest in enterprises and industries related to Leon's territories—there's so much potential, considering all he controls. Or join a guild to start up a company of your own. I've helped build my family's fortune through my own contributions and activities."

Oh… That would be…

Your mind is spinning at all the possibilities opened up to you by the prospect of marriage—a whirlwind of ideas and options.

Suddenly, your future is filled with exciting prospects and opportunities, whereas before, it had only seemed bleak and dull. A chance to improve upon your life, rather than settle for what you had before. It sounds tempting. So tempting that you're almost inclined to leap at the opportunity and accept it right away because of the sole hope of somehow working your way up to something that belongs to you and yours alone, free of outside influence. Something personal.

You'd be a fool not to consider it—but the idea is just too overwhelming to contemplate fully in a single day. You need time to process everything, to come to terms with how drastically different life would be if you agreed to the proposal. You need to take things slow. Start with the basics first—the practicalities of getting used to spending time around Leon and making sure he truly is what Dame Jill says.

"It's... I don’t know," you murmur softly, looking down at your hands resting atop your lap. They're clasped tightly, holding onto something invisible. Your heart. Perhaps... your hopes and dreams as well... "I wouldn't even know where to begin with any of this. All of these opportunities... What if I ruin everything? I’m not qualified like you ladies."

"All valid concerns. That's why we're here with you today and all the tomorrows to come."

A gentle squeeze to your shoulder from Lady Claire brings your attention back to them, and when you meet their gaze, you find no judgment there. No mocking. Just kindness. Understanding. Love, even.

It makes your chest ache painfully to be on the receiving end of a helping hand when you were the one extending it to others before, and you force yourself to push back the tears that threaten to form at the corner of your eyes.

You can't afford to cry now, not in front of the two people who've given you their support and guidance, who've listened without question as you poured out your fears and frustrations without judging you for expressing your emotions, who've treated you with respect and dignity despite your humble roots.

They've made sure to explain things to you in a way that makes sense—something that you appreciate immensely, since you've had no experience with financial matters outside the scope of charitable donations in service of the temple—and haven't belittled you or looked down on you for your lack of knowledge regarding these topics. You wouldn't have considered this marriage without them in the first place, wouldn't have even known what you could do with said marriage to help build up your own capital. How lucky you are to have met such wonderful women, who are guiding you towards discovering your own agency! You owe them far more than mere thanks.

And Leon... Leon certainly isn't a bad choice of husband at all.

After the day’s work has slowed to its natural ebb, the warmth of the hearth fills the maids’ quarters with a cozy, amber glow, it smells of fresh-baked bread, slightly burnt at the edges, and the faint, lingering scent of rosewater from one of the girls' perfumes. You sit cross-legged on your shared bed, your hands busy with a piece of mending, though your attention is far from the needle and thread.

The other maids bustle around, tidying up their own small spaces, chattering softly about the day’s events. One by one, they settle into the room, their eyes flicking in your direction, and you can feel the weight of their curiosity mounting like the slow build of a storm.

Finally, Maria, one of the bolder girls with sharp green eyes and a wit to match, plops down beside you with a mischievous grin.

“Alright, out with it then!” she teases, nudging your arm. “We’ve all been wondering—what's going on between you and him that both ladies called you out to talk today?”

Your heart skips a beat, though you try to keep your face neutral. “Him?”

Maria rolls her eyes dramatically. “Don’t play coy with us, girl! We’ve seen the way Lord Leon looks at you whenever he visits. Always trailing after you like a lovesick puppy, isn’t he?”

The room erupts in giggles, and the other girls gather closer, abandoning their pretense of work to join the conversation.

“He’s always hanging around,” adds Lila, her voice low and conspiratorial. “And didn’t you two have some private chat the other day?”

“That’s right!” Maria jumps in, eyes twinkling with excitement. “I heard he came looking for you in the kitchen. Just you. Alone. If that doesn’t mean something, I don’t know what does!”

You try to wave them off, but the girls lean in even closer, their faces alight with the thrill of gossip.

“Come on,” Lila presses, basically dripping with eager curiosity. “Spill it! What’s it like, having a nobleman so interested in you?”

Your pulse quickens, and for a moment, you’re at a loss for words. The thought of sharing anything about Leon’s marriage proposal feels too intimate, too unreal. How could they possibly understand?

Still, the girls’ eyes are bright with expectation, so you decide to tread carefully. “It’s... nothing like that,” you say softly, hoping to dissuade their excitement. “He’s just being kind.”

Maria snorts, clearly not convinced. “Kind? Please. Nobles don’t come slinking around after maids out of kindness.” She pauses, then leans in even closer, words dropping to a whisper. “If you bat your eyelashes at him the way he likes it, you could end up with a lot more than just kindness.”

You blink furiously, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

Lila grins wickedly. “You know what she means. A mistress! Why else would he be following you around like that? It’s the perfect setup! You’d have all the perks of being with a noble without any of the chains. Gold, dresses, fancy gifts—he’d be wrapped around your finger!”

Your stomach twists at the suggestion, a rush of discomfort bubbling beneath the surface. “A... mistress?”

The word feels foreign on your tongue, sour and wrong.

“Stop playing coy,” Maria says, grinning like a fox. “He’s clearly interested in you. And you’d be a fool not to take advantage of it. Do you know how rare it is for a man of his standing to even look at someone like us?”

The other girls murmur their agreement, nodding enthusiastically.

“And think about it,” Lila adds, her tone soft but coaxing, “you wouldn’t have to lift a finger again. No more scrubbing floors, no more serving the ladies of the house. You’d be living the high life, tucked away in some lovely estate with all the luxury you could ever want. All you’d have to do is keep him happy.” Her gaze flickers up and down your form, appraising, before she smirks. "And I bet he won't be too disappointed with that either."

A sudden surge of anger rises in your chest, hot and fierce. It’s as though they’ve reduced Leon’s sincerity to a mere transaction, something cheap and temporary.

You glance around at the eager faces, each girl picturing the life they’ve described, a life of ease and opulence. But all you can think of is Leon—his genuine concern, his careful words, his sincerity when he’d offered you a life beyond this one.

A life as his equal.

You lower your head, focusing on the piece of fabric in your lap, but your voice comes out firmer than expected. “I’m not interested in becoming anyone’s mistress.”

Maria frowns, tilting her head. “Why not? It’s not like he’d marry you, you know.”

Lila nods, shrugging carelessly. Her eyes drift lazily around the cramped room as she speaks. "Let's be real here, honey—we all want to find a good man and live happily ever after, but that's not how the world works. If we're clever enough, we can get the right one to take us to the side and let us play the lady, maybe give us an allowance, but we'll never get to wear their name or inherit any property. Might as well enjoy the benefits of being the other woman. Life's easier that way."

A quiet realization settles over you like a comforting blanket in the midst of the winter of these girls' harsh reality and what they have to live with—Leon’s offer, regardless of whether you want to take him up on it, was a lot more honoring than you'd initially thought, more than it should be, when everyone else sees it as an empty promise, a tease of something better they could never achieve.

Because Leon hadn’t offered you a life in the shadows. He hadn’t looked at you as though you were something to be possessed, something to be kept hidden. He’d offered you a future—a real future, as his equal. And it’s only now, in the face of the maids’ casual suggestion, that you realize just how sincere his proposal had been.

He wasn’t offering you luxury in exchange for secrecy. He wasn’t trying to keep you as some hidden treasure. He was offering you something far more precious than wealth or status—he was offering you respect.

He’d offered you something real.

A soft breath escapes your lips, and the tension in your chest eases ever so slightly. The girls continue to chatter, oblivious to the shift in your thoughts, still wrapped up in their fantasy of you as a nobleman’s mistress.

But you know better now. You know what Leon’s intentions truly are.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to understand what you want too.

The late afternoon sun bathes the garden in a golden light, casting long shadows across the cobblestone paths that wove through the hedges and flower beds. The air carries the crisp, earthy scent of autumn, mingled with the faint fragrance of fading blooms. A gentle rustling of leaves fills the space, stirred by a cool breeze, while distant bird calls echoed from the trees, the atmosphere holding a kind of serene stillness, as if the garden itself was waiting.

In spite of the nerves coiled tightly in your chest, it reminds you of the temple's private prayer garden—your one refuge from the weight of expectations. Here, just like there, you feel a semblance of peace. This space, however, has become something different: a sanctuary from more personal burdens, from the eyes that constantly watched, speculated, and judged your every interaction with Leon.

As you walk, your fingers skimmed the soft petals of the flowers lining the path, a tactile comfort that grounds you as your thoughts swirled. The garden is quiet, save for the faint gurgling of the fountain ahead, where a lone figure sat. Leon.

He's hunched forward, elbows resting on his thighs as he watches the water trickle steadily into the basin below, completely unaware of your presence. His fair hair hangs loose around his face, partially obscuring his features, and he wears simple, unadorned clothing, a far cry from the formal attire you'd grown accustomed to seeing him in during his visits to the manor. His coat is tossed haphazardly over one armrest, vest half-undone, sleeves rolled up messily at the elbow. Even the collar of his shirt hangs open loosely, giving a glimpse of pale skin beneath. The relaxed position belies a sense of agitation and frustration, a sort of restless energy that your offer of wanting to meet him today has caused, no doubt.

This informal state of undress is a refreshing change from his usual perfectionist approach to fashion and is unexpectedly... intimate. That, combined with the way he's dressed himself down, almost in defiance, to meet you in private gives you pause.

You have no idea if he's trying to look as approachable and nonthreatening as possible or is truly so caught up in turmoil about your answer that he's forgotten how appearances make him come across, but you're struck by how attractive he looks at the moment. It's... refreshing to see him like this. Like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders.

As if feeling your eyes on him, Leon shifts his attention to where you've paused behind him, spotting you standing in the distance. His posture abruptly straightens before he rises to his feet, greeting you formally, clear and resonant, "Saintess."

"It's not—" you begin, instinctively recoiling at the title and reminder of all the demands that came with it, but stop yourself short. No sense in correcting him anymore. Not when you're so close to figuring out where to go next with him. Not when he looks like he's prepared for the worst. "Please. Make yourself comfortable."

He doesn't move.

There's an awkward silence. Then, slowly, reluctantly, you step forward. Your steps get swallowed by the silent garden, into the chatter of the surrounding foliage and ornamental ponds.

Now that you've closed the distance and you're standing only an arm's length apart, Leon stands impossibly tall and imposing in front of you. A shadow draped over you both by the canopy of the willow tree you've met underneath, sheltering you from the rest of the world. His blue eyes are dark like the sky in the moment before dusk, expression severe as you look up to face him properly, trying not to lose courage.

You lead with, "Have you noticed there's not one single lily blooming in the entire estate gardens?"

In the context of your talk, it comes off as an obvious subject change, and Leon picks up on it immediately, quirking up a brow quizzically, then casts a sweeping glance over the greenery instead, as if searching for any hint of the flowers you named. "Now that you mention it..."

"It stood out to me immediately," you confide. "I'm rather fond of lilies, you see. They're my favorite flower."

It sounds a little silly once you've spoken aloud, but a fond, "Ah," escapes his throat. Leon's features soften as he looks upon you again, listening carefully, intent to keep talking if you wish to speak more. There's a ghost of a smile on his mouth, tugging at his lips, like he wants to say something, but holds it in check.

"You'd think I would be able to convince Piers to plant some for me, but he said, first of all it's not your garden to change. Second of all, if you want lilies that much, how about you make your own garden and grow them yourself. Apparently, I was 'obsessed' with them enough to warrant such advice. I didn't have the first idea about caring for flowers, though. It was a bit more challenging than I anticipated, learning how to take care of plants—not too much, not too little sunlight, not too little water, not too many pests... I realized how fortunate I was to have florists or the servants take care of things while I was the saintess. So much to learn!"

Leon makes a noncommittal hum at the back of his throat, looking off to the side pensively, brows coming together as he runs the tip of his tongue against the edge of his lower teeth, deep in thought. You look away when you catch yourself following the motion, staring openly at the soft angle of his jawline. Instead, your gaze flicks to the rows of vibrant roses nearby.

"My gardening efforts... were mediocre at best," you laugh sheepishly.

You recall the sad, shriveling collection of greens you had managed to get from the earth. Dried out and blackened with spots when you should have known better after reading so many books on the topic of cultivating the land and keeping the flora alive and thriving, how the soil felt on your fingertips and hands as you tended to the various kinds of crops. But then you had finally grown some tender stalks and baby blooms, the barest beginnings of buds bursting forth, growing lush and strong—only to promptly die under your care. It wasn't intentional—in fact, you had done everything right, followed all the instructions to the letter—but it was still disappointing nonetheless, to watch as all your hard work withered and faded away before your very eyes.

"Years have passed, and I'm still not particularly great at it. For all the miracles I performed in Ethelion's name, I never did figure out what I did wrong to make my own garden turn out that way." You trail your fingertips lightly over the delicate petals of a rosebush, remembering how the dewdrops had clung to them like gems, sparkling in the sunlight. "Even today, I still haven't quite gotten the hang of it and just help Piers around. Growing my own lilies is out of the question like this. I still want it, that's the whole point of why I started this journey in the first place. But I guess fear of being confronted with the fact that these hands that once brought back many from death's doorstep can't even grow a weed correctly stops me from ever attempting. It's like a lesson in humility."

The wind ruffles Leon's golden hair as he stares off into the distance, thinking intently. He rests his weight on one leg, cocking it out to the side as he props an elbow on his thigh, settling his chin against an upturned palm. Those sharp eyes sweep across the manicured lawns of the estate, and you can almost see the gears turning in his head as he mulls over your words.

"You're not just talking about lilies, are you?" Leon says quietly, his tone cautious, but thoughtful. You shake your head, chewing on your lip to prevent any further emotional outbursts from betraying your composure.

You let your eyes slide shut and allow yourself a small moment of respite, inhaling deeply through your nose, tasting the fresh fall air as it fills your lungs. "I thought... A new pair of hands helping me out with the lilies would add insult to injury. Humiliating." Your fingers clench involuntarily around a rose stem, and you jerk your hand away sharply before it can snap the fragile thing in half. "After years of relying on Ethelion to supply me with lilies whenever I wanted, I thought this was the only way for me to pride myself on something for a change. Failure upon failure eventually made me realize that perhaps I'm too proud to admit that I don't have things figured out just yet—and am also ashamed to ask for assistance from others, even those that are willing to help me out when I need it. Perhaps that was another reason why I didn't even want to entertain your offer, Leon. Because it felt like giving up."

Opening your eyes again, you see him watching you intently, blue irises focused entirely on yours, attentive to every word that leaves your lips. The sight of it causes warmth to spread throughout your body, causing you to falter for a second, unsure of where to proceed next. You bite down hard on your lip, then, "And... And if... If I couldn't accomplish even something small like this, then what kind of saintess was I? What good would a failed servant of God be as a wife?"

"Goodness knows, you can be a fool, you know that?" Leon snaps without hesitation, brusque and direct. Startled by his reaction, you whip around to face him in surprise—to see his features drawn tight in displeasure. He's frowning down at you, brow creasing, nostrils flared slightly, a muscle twitching in his jawline. "Of course you wouldn't succeed immediately. You were practically a bumbling toddler released into the wild! Trying to expect such growth in a handful of years is plain lunacy. Especially with the insistence to do it without any assistance."

"I—"

"And the worst part? You don't even acknowledge how you've made strides with your limitations!"

You quiet down with the shock of blatantly being scolded by someone as kind and softspoken as Leon—or for the first time in your life, for the matter.

"Let me put it like this," he says, having simmered down. "If you want to grow lilies, you need to let go of this obsession to be some almighty perfect being that must know everything there is to know in the world about lilies before setting out to grow your garden."

You wring your hands together in front of you anxiously, still taken aback by his sudden tirade, and unsure of how else to respond to it. Part of you is annoyed that he took to calling you a fool, albeit accurately so, but the greater portion of yourself is beginning to feel guilty about dismissing Leon's assistance due to your pride. You stay silent and let him finish.

"Marrying me wouldn't make you a failure. As a matter of fact, accepting my aid for the sake of getting to try your hand at creating your own garden doesn't have anything to do with that either." His gaze grows gentler as he fixes you with a firm, meaningful stare. "Even if no lilies grow today or in the next month, all the seeds you're scattering around shall come to fruition soon enough if you keep at it. If there are an extra couple of hands helping out with the watering and weeding, then surely your efforts will be twice as efficient. The goal is ultimately what matters—making your dream become a reality and not be stifled by arbitrary rules that have never existed until now."

Leon's words hit home for you in ways that you didn't expect them to; how did he manage to come to terms with the issues you struggled with so easily?

"Did I do good?" he asks all of a sudden, shattering the moment, a shy grin appearing on his face that transforms his appearance almost instantly. He suddenly seems younger, less experienced, more like the paladin you knew him as years ago. A sweet, sincere boy, struggling between uncertainty and eagerness to do right by you. "Allegories are not my strong suit... Or is it called a metaphor?"

You chuckle weakly, "Yes, you certainly succeeded. More than you know, actually."

Those blue eyes light up in response, his mouth breaking into a broad grin that brightens his entire face and takes your breath away. Your heart does an odd skip in your chest, but before you have a chance to analyze the strange sensation, Leon leans forward eagerly. "Does this mean you'll accept?"

Taking in his expression—eyes wide and hopeful, a slight flush coloring his cheeks—you can't help but smile back with a brief nod.

"Yes?" he insists excitedly, his voice rising in pitch slightly. It's clear he isn't convinced of your answer just yet and wants some sort of verbal affirmation.

"I'd be happy to," you reply before the nervous stutter can give rise to doubts again in his mind about you. At that very instant, a flock of doves rises from the trees above and soars off into the sky, disappearing into the clouds, leaving behind only a trail of white feathers. "If you'll still have--"

"Yes!" He steps towards you quickly and envelops you in a tight embrace without warning. His arms encircle you completely, his warmth radiating through the fabric of your dress. You yelp, startled, but he only pulls you tighter against him and spins you around in the air. You cling to him helplessly, your body pressed firmly against his, and try not to think about how solid he feels underneath your fingertips.

The sudden intimacy sends a thrill through your veins, heat pooling low in your belly and spreading throughout your limbs. Then you hear him exhale loudly in your ear in relief. His hot breath tickles the sensitive skin beneath your earlobe, sending a shiver down your spine, goosebumps raising along the bare nape of your neck and along your arms underneath the sleeves. All the pent-up anxiety leaves his body at once and you find yourself relaxing in response. For a split-second you forget where you are or who you're with—only that you want to feel more of him against you...

The lightness in Leon's eyes is a rare sight, one you haven't seen since you first crossed paths again. His entire face is illuminated by his beaming grin, so bright it almost makes you forget the chill in the air. You’d said yes, and in that moment, it was as though the world outside the garden ceased to exist. It’s just the two of you, suspended in time—Leon’s arms still wrapped around you, his breath warm on your cheek.

“You won't regret this,” Leon says as he pulls away slightly, his smile never fading.

You nod, too overwhelmed to say anything more. There’s something about the way he says those words, with such sincerity and confidence, that makes your heart swell. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, you allow yourself to feel hopeful—hopeful that perhaps this arrangement could bring you both the happiness you’ve been missing.

He holds out his arm to you, a gesture you’ve come to associate with his chivalrous nature, and you take it without hesitation. The warmth of his touch still lingers as he leads you out of the garden, your heart racing, thoughts pleasantly buzzing.

A few days later, you find yourself in a carriage, trundling down the road towards Leon’s estate. The entire journey has been spent in comfortable silence, save for the occasional exchange of smiles or soft remarks about the passing scenery. You lean your head against the window, gazing out at the world beyond as it goes by in a blur of color and motion. In the distance, you spy the familiar sight of the grand cathedral, towering high above all else, its spires reaching upwards into the azure sky. Memories flash before your eyelids: of visiting the structure during the early hours of dawn, as the first rays of light filtered through its stained glass windows—of wandering within its labyrinthine passages and praying quietly in secluded corners—of the comforting scent of incense as it drifted through your robes like smoke through the rafters.

But the pull isn't as strong, or tempting as it once was, a whisper of something ancient that lives inside your ribcage.

You haven’t spoken much about the wedding yet—it hasn't even been half a week since you accepted Leon's offer—but you've already settled on doing a smaller ceremony, consisting only of the Redfields and close associates. Your side of the guest list is virtually non-existent, so you suppose the wedding preparations are going to move pretty fast considering there are not a lot of moving pieces to juggle.

When the manor finally comes into view, you’re momentarily breathless. It’s grander than you imagined, despite being in the borders of the capital and within the vicinity of other lavish estates—a grand sandstone building topped with elaborate gables, a slate tile roof, and ornate wooden trellises encasing balconies decorated with intricately carved fretwork. The lush grounds surrounding the manor appear immaculately groomed, topiary hedges and carefully pruned boxwoods lining the entrance drive, leading up to an imposing iron gate with ornate scrollwork patterns.

You have no idea how his estate in the margravate will compare to this summer home for the social season...

The carriage turns into an ornate stone drive, traveling the length of the courtyard, halting at last beside the entrance. Everything is eerily quiet for a moment, save for the crunching sound of gravel beneath wheels and hooves echoing through the open space. A young footman immediately opens the door and steps aside, and Leon descends gracefully before turning to help you climb down yourself.

You smooth out your skirts once you're on terra firma again, grateful for the moment to compose yourself after such an imposing sight. He offers his arm to you once more, and you wrap your fingers delicately around the crook of his elbow. With his free hand, he gently guides you forward, each step seeming to take longer than the last, until you're crossing through an arched entryway and stepping into an airy atrium.

Your gaze sweeps across the room, drinking in every detail, your nerves returning. The entrance hall is beautifully furnished, but distinctly masculine, with heavy mahogany furniture and a plush Aubusson rug sprawled out across the marble floor. An impressive chandelier hangs overhead, glittering with dozens of flickering candles. Everywhere you look, you're greeted by rich materials and exquisite craftsmanship—carved woodwork framing elegant oil paintings depicting scenes from history, damask wallpaper adorning the walls, polished silver sconces mounted on pillars flanking the staircase bannister...

All the finery makes your heart beat a little faster, and you're struck by the realization of just how different your current situation is compared to yesterday.

You let out a shaky breath, your grip on Leon's arm tightening as he leads you past a row of elaborately dressed footmen, their hands folded neatly behind their backs and heads bowed politely in greeting. Each of them regards you curiously, observing you with expressions devoid of emotion, as though studying some sort of exotic animal in a zoo. Up ahead, an elderly butler awaits you by the bottommost step, his stoic features arranged into a thin mask of courtesy. When Leon comes closer, however, the man's impassive facade melts into one of genuine respect, his graying eyebrows lifting slightly in recognition.

"Welcome, Your Excellency," he greets with a slight bow. "We've been expecting your return. We've also prepared lodgings for the honored bride-to-be."

Your cheeks grow warm at the use of the title, and you shift nervously from side to side as Leon thanks the old man.

"Can you send Dame Hunnigan for us, please?"

"I believe she is waiting for your arrival," the butler says, dry and monotone. "Will you require any refreshments in the parlor, sir?"

"No, leave us," Leon nods, dismissing the retainer. He then glances down at you and chuckles lightly, leaning over to mutter, "You look like a frightened mouse about to hop out of her clothes."

You press your lips tightly together, avoiding meeting his amused gaze and fixating on the floor instead, mentally berating yourself for acting so ridiculous, but then Leon continues speaking as you ascend the stairs. "Forgive me if I seem smug. That was simply endearing."

His words draw a surprised laugh out of you, the unexpected tease easing some of the tension in your shoulders. "I appreciate you taking the opportunity to poke fun at my expense."

"Always happy to serve," he teases right back without missing a beat, his grin flashing wickedly at you. There's no bite to his teasing, however, merely playfulness.

As you reach the top landing, a young woman approaches you from down the hallway with a calm and composed demeanor, lacking the urgency of the servants below. Her dark hair is pulled back into a neat bun, and she’s dressed in a simple but elegant gown, showing her higher position. She stops before you with a nod of greeting, her gaze respectful but sharp as it flickers between you and Leon.

“Welcome back, my lord,” she says smoothly, steady and professional. “And welcome to you, my lady.”

Leon’s smile remains as he gestures toward her. “This is Dame Ingrid Hunnigan, my house steward. If you require anything at all, do let her know and she will assist you as best she can. Isn’t that so, Hunnigan?"

Her posture is as perfect as a soldier's, and her demeanor is polite and collected, and yet you detect the subtle traces of power beneath. "If it is in my power, then most definitely," she answers dutifully, bowing to you with a flourish. "Please don't hesitate to contact me if you need anything at all, milady. The servants have been instructed to tend to all your needs accordingly."

Something about the way she holds herself—the confident set of her shoulders, the steely determination in her brown gaze—reminds you of Piers. You get the sense that she is fiercely intelligent, but also skilled in diplomacy and management, the kind of person that knows just what to do in every situation.

You return the greeting with a polite nod, feeling a little self-conscious under her watchful gaze. There’s something about the way she carries herself that suggests she knows everything happening within these walls, down to the smallest detail. She’s not just an aide—she’s someone who ensures the manor runs like clockwork.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you say, feeling an odd sense of relief knowing that there will be someone to help you navigate this unfamiliar place.

“The pleasure is mine,” Hunnigan replies, her lips curving into a small smile. “I must say, we’ve all been looking forward to your arrival. It’s clear how much Lord Leon cares for you."

Her words, though spoken with the utmost professionalism, catch you off guard. You glance at Leon, who shifts slightly, his smile fading into something more reserved, almost embarrassed. There’s a tension in his posture that wasn’t there before.

“Oh, uh... yes,” he stammers, holding his right shoulder and rolling it around like it's sore and he's trying to stretch it. “I—well, of course, I—”

Hunnigan doesn’t miss a beat. “The staff is already preparing for the wedding, and I’ve made arrangements for you to meet with the dressmaker later this week. If there’s anything else you need, my lady, don’t hesitate to ask.”

For a split second you remember all your previous hesitations, but you push the thought aside almost as quickly.

Leon clears his throat, straightening himself and gesturing down the corridor. "Come, it would be rude not to show you to your rooms."

You allow him to lead the way, following a short distance behind him and Hunnigan as they weave through the corridors. It occurs to you that you've never seen the inside of another nobleman's home, aside from a tour of the palace in the royal capital—even though it shouldn't come as a surprise, given that it's been a while since you stepped foot in the temple. But even in those moments, you were sheltered from much of the actual activity that occurred daily, having private quarters away from the others, except for when you traveled with the Bishop. And even then... it wasn't like you ever came across homes or mansions this beautiful. This was something truly grand—so much space and fine furniture to fill it, the kind that probably had names for. The kind that held history within its walls and decor. The kind of residence that spoke of generations of wealth, privilege, and status.

Though, you can't seem to focus on much, Dame Hunnigan's words about how much Leon cares for you and his weird reaction to it replaying in your head over and over again, like the echo of a bell ringing somewhere in the distance. Did he really talk about you like that to his staff? And why would he...? You mean, of course he should care for you; he asked you to marry him! Still, it stirs up some conflicted feelings within you.

This marriage isn't about love, but there is love in it. Even though that might never go anywhere romantic or sexual. A connection between two people... is still love, regardless of the specifics. You know that's what you've been taught throughout your entire life—that such an agreement is built upon respect, admiration, compassion.

Maybe...

Just maybe...

"Right here," Leon says, coming to a stop in front of a set of double doors as he pushes them open, revealing a vast room decorated in shades of blue and cream. The sun pours in from large windows framed by thick velvet curtains, flooding the space with light and illuminating the plush carpets covering the hardwood floors, creating a soothing ambience.

The centerpiece is undoubtedly the four-poster bed against the wall, complete with drapery falling around the sides and pillows piled atop a silk duvet. Against the adjacent wall stands a small table next to an armchair by a fireplace, a vase filled with freshly picked lilies placed atop the mantel. Off in the corner is another door which presumably leads into the baths. There are several tall bookshelves stuffed with tomes in various languages, spanning from historical texts to philosophy to poetry, and a large oak desk sits adjacent to them. A vanity full of cosmetics is situated nearby, along with a large wardrobe standing in front of a screen decorated with intricate embroidery.

You almost blurt out something about this room being made for half a dozen people rather than one before catching yourself.

"It's connected to my room through that door, so feel free to knock," Leon adds casually, seemingly unaware of how such a statement causes your brain to short circuit for a brief moment.

"Oh," you manage to say as you peer at the imposing piece of furniture near the vanity and swallow thickly. Married couples are often required to share a sleeping chamber, and this arrangement was done for your comfort, no doubt. But it's still intimate to think about how he'll be right next door, accessible to you at all times.

"Is that acceptable?" Leon asks, dipping his chin and raising an eyebrow.

You flush, realizing you hadn't responded, and hastily nod your head, causing him to chuckle lightly as he heads back towards the exit, but doesn't leave, talking to Dame Hunnigan about something in a low tone before he shuts the doors and leaves both of you alone in this new space together.

He lingers there for a moment. You can't see his face as he says, "I wanted to... I wanted to apologize for what Hunnigan said back there. About how much I apparently talk about you whenever I'm back home. I assure you, she's prone to exaggerations sometimes, and there's always gossip running around between the maids in these sorts of places."

"Oh, that." You didn't think Leon would make such a big deal out of it—there are certainly far worse things in the world to worry about—but he seems quite bothered by it. Maybe it's a breach of his privacy? He's clearly not very comfortable with Hunnigan telling you about such matters. "I guess everyone can be chatty," you try to soothe his embarrassment. "She was probably just trying to be hospitable, in her own way."

"Yes... Well... I do care about you, of course. Just, er, well..." Leon trails off awkwardly, suddenly fumbling over his words as he tries to get them out, a light dusting of pink coloring the tips of his ears. "Not that way. Obviously. Which she's insinuating. That would be inappropriate. For us. To... To act in such ways outside of our marital responsibilities. Or inside. Which we don't have to. So, I... I want to make sure that... You know. I have invited you here under honorable intentions only. I hope that this does not put you in any uncomfortable situation. Because I wouldn’t dare feel about you in such a manner."

Despite your better judgment, his sudden rambling and odd choice of phrasing tugs at your heart strings a bit, somewhat in disappointment. Not that you would ever expect such things—you aren't expecting romance or love in this union, and that's not the purpose of this arrangement in the slightest—but there is some sense of rejection upon hearing that the man before you has no desire to pursue anything romantic. In all fairness, you may never have thought about it either if you had remained within the temple, as you dedicated your entire existence to worshiping Ethelion. Until now, at least.

"I know," you reassure him gently with a tentative smile, an inexplicable pit deep in your stomach. "There's no need to be flustered. I'm well aware of what this is, and I appreciate your honesty."

"Good," he sighs in relief, visibly relaxing as the tension leaves his frame. Finally turning around, he flashes a charming smile in response, bright blue irises glinting beneath his lashes in the warm sunlight streaming through the windows. "Would you like to sit with me for tea?"

[scorpioriesling]

Too Hot to Handle - Episode 8

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Characters featured: Reader, Feyre, Morrigan, Nesta, Gwyn, Emerie, Amren, Cassian, Lucien, Eris, Tarquin, Rhysand, Helion, Azriel, & Tamlin

Warning(s): mostly VERY suggestive, but... ehm... light smut at the end. You're welcome. I suppose. (:

SR’s Note: Guys I know you’ve waited ages for this episode… don’t fret. I made this one juicy asf for you. Eat it up. (; Tags: @velarisdusk @lilah-asteria @starlightazriel @mellowmusings @paintedbyshadows @book-obsessed124 @kitsunetori @rcarbo1

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"To say I am utterly disappointed in almost all of you would be the understatement of the century."

Lana's voice was the last thing you wanted to hear this morning, though her lovely morning wake up calls were inevitable. Many members of the group failed to even sit up in their beds this morning -- you at least gave your host the decency of acting like you were paying attention, though your head was still throbbing from the amount of alcohol you'd consumed the night prior.

Your only comfort was Lucien's warm arms still wrapped around your waist, a feeling you never wished to escape from; his soft, sleepy breaths against his pillow confirmed that he definately was not paying attention to Lana this morning.

"In fact, I feel so embarassed by the actions of these individuals that I would like to replay the footage from last night caught on the security cameras for everyone to see."

You straighten, and catch Nesta's silvery stare from across the room. Surprisingly, or, maybe not -- Cassian is rubbing his eyes in bed next to her, not seeming to be fully awake yet either. Her eyes widen as Lana's cone projects an image onto the adjacent wall near the entryway; large enough so everyone is able to see.

"I don't think we should be back here," the soft, familiar female voice sounds as the video tape begins on the screen.

Your eyes widen, glancing to the bed across from yours where your friend flings the covers off of her, frantically shaking the male next to her to pay attention.

"Oh, come on -- no one is even back here," that cool, suave tone prods. The couple walks on, rounding the corner of the villa near the spot where you remembered finding Elain and Lucien in their... well, compromising, position. The footage is a bit grainy, and in black and white, but there is no doubt about who the two are. The audio is clear proof of that.

The girl chuckles, the stripes of her skirt swishing with each step she takes. He keeps walking, his hand guiding her on her lower back and inching lower as they slow to a stop near a dark corner.

"I feel so... sneaky," she giggles, and he smiles at her as the camera zooms in. You glance toward them again, her usually pale-freckled face tinged pink with embarassment.

"I bet there are no cameras back here," he says, his hand bracing against the wall and caging her in. She looks up at him, her hands lightly roaming over the planes of his exposed chest.

"Rhys... we have to have a green-"

"I don't care about a green light; I just want you, now," he says. She reaches up, and in an instant, their mouths are on one another. Audible gasps come from the group, and Feyre buries her head in her hands as the lewd sounds of soft groans and wet kisses are played aloud for the group to hear.

"Alright Lana, I think that's enough," Rhys says, his brows furrowed as he runs a hand over Feyre's shoulders. You look down, your palms clammy as you grab onto the top sheet. Lucien is slowly coming to, looking at you with a confused expression while he quietly takes in the scene around him.

You don't have the heart, or the courage to tell him what's happening.

"Had enough?" Lana pauses the clip. "So have I." She says, clearly irritated. "Your rule break cost the group $10,000. Right after I gave everyone gifts, too. How kind of you to repay me." Amren shakes her head from across the room, and you watch as Tarquin bites the inside of his cheek.

"Don't fret too much over it -- we're only just getting started." She continues. "Let's have a look at our next couple to violate my rules, shall we?"

The group watches with baited breath as the camera footage switches, this time panning to the shoreline. In the background, the tiki bar and dancing from the main group is seen, but in the front, well... another couple is seen. Alone. Laying in the sand.

This didn't look good.

"By the Cauldron," Tamlin whispered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Oh give me a break," Azriel snapped, and your brows rose as you squinted to make out the dark footage before you.

The camera zoomed in, catching the perfectly illuminated profile of the redheaded female giggling in the sand. Her dark haired counter part was delicately tracing his fingers up her exposed stomach -- the see through dress covered in M&Ms doing little to conceal her form.

"Tickles!" She squeaked, her fingers lacing through his before he pinned both of her wrists above her head in the sand. Her breath was coming out in short pants as he moved on top of her, his... excitement rather evident through the gold "foil" Twix shorts he was wearing.

"You have to know," he says quietly, sliding down toward the tops of her thighs where the short skirt of the dress ended. "This is my favorite," he pauses, kissing the inside of her knee. She shivers, smiling softly. "...candy," he kisses the other knee, looking up at her through his dark brows. You had to admit, he wasn't even your man, but... had it been Lucien, you would've melted like an M&M on the pavement during a hot summer day.

She seems to remember what is to come -- a few beds down, she grabs every layer of blanket, sheet, comforter on the bed and pulls them completely over herself, covering her entire body out of embarassment, surely.

"Azzie..." she squeaks, and you feel your face heating from the second-hand embarassment. You watch as Azriel is forcibly restraining himself, many of the other group members' eyes glued to the screen in horror.

He keeps kissing her legs, going up her thighs and you fight yourself in your own mind to not allow yourself to think of Lucien. You know where this is heading, but when you sneak a glance at him, he's only looking toward the projection like everyone else.

Azriel bites one of the candies on her skirt, the candy coming off and she gasps as he chuckles near the top of her thigh. "Mmmm," he groans, and her head tips back in the sand. "Delicious," he mutters, the next candy closer to her pelvis. She sucks in a breath when his hands move to hold her hips in place, his nose brushing the thin fabric.

"I... m-more..." she pleads, and he grins mischeviously. She continues to squirm under his touch as he descends on her again, his fingers moving under the hem of her dress before stalling, and she groans again.

"I'm sure you'd taste sweeter than anything I've ever eaten before, Gwyneth Berdara-"

"ENOUGH OF THAT," Azriel is up in an instant, his entire body up and off the bed without hesitation. The group seems to snap out of their daze as he throws himself in front of the projection, his arms wide as the picture distorts itself across his bare upper half. You can see why Gwyn is so attracted, but... Gods, how embarassed you'd be.

You could only pray for your sake, for Lucien's sake, what you remembered doing wasn't too bad.

"Not another moment more of that. I don't want to see it." He said firmly, the video pausing on the rather explicit frame of him hovering over her, his lusty gaze fixed on her mouth, fallen open in what looked like a moan as his hands disappeared beneath her dress.

"Don't like facing what you've done, is that it?" Lana mocks. Azriel glares at the cone, as if she were a real person and could see his reaction. "I think it's quite healthy to own up to our mistakes, especially when we know what's right and choose not to follow the rules."

Azriel scoffs, slouching back into bed and crossing his arms. "I'll honor the request and spare you the rest of the footage -- but this rule break, my my. This one is $20,000."

More frustrated gasps come from the group, glares sent toward the couple. Azriel only stares forward, his brows furrowed. Looking around, you aren't too surprised to see Helion finding the whole situation rather entertaining.

"Hey man, I get it, I mean... we've been cooped up in here, you got your girl alone on the beach-"

"Not another word about the situation," Azriel growls, and Helion chuckles, throwing his hands up in surrender. Gwyn shifts beneath her blankets, muttering something about how she'd choose the Cauldron in this situation.

"It's cool, I'm just sayin'..."

"Not. Another. Word." He bites out, and Lana lights up once more.

"No need for words, boys. We still have more couples to reprimand. This next pair didn't seem to need many before they-"

"So, what if we just, admit to what we've done," Nesta's cool, confident voice interrupted Lana's chiding, causing her purple lights to flicker. All eyes wavered between the two, and yours watched as Cassian sat up straight, leaning in to whisper hurriedly to the blonde with concern. She only brushed him off, seemingly unconcerned with whatever warning he was trying to give her. He slowly sat back against the headboard, running his hands through his hair as he stared at the ceiling.

Lucien smirked beside you. "For a guy so Hell bent on keeping everyone in line this whole time, he sure looks like a teenager who just got caught jerkin' it for the first time." He chuckles again, and you smack his shoulder. Was he really not getting it? Surely the cameras picked up on what you'd done last night -- or, what you thought you did. You weren't dumb enough to think events like those happened in a dream.

Beneath the blankets, your hand slipped under the hem of your nightshirt. You slowly inched your hand upward, careful to not raise any suspicion to the others. Your fingers drifted along your ribs, tracing them one by one, travelling closer and closer inward...

Ouch. The dull pain radiating just below your right breast was proof enough.

Definately not a dream.

"If we just admit we broke a rule, you won't need to play any more of the tapes. Right?" Nesta continues. The room is quiet for a moment, and Lana's lights move back and forth, as though she is thinking.

"While I appreciate your honesty in admitting you have broken one of my rules Nesta, the point of showing these videos this morning is for all of you to understand the humility in the actions you take. This explaination was going to come at the end of my reprimanding, but in short, it will lead to the main activity for today." She explains. Nesta sighs, biting the inside of her lip.

"We'll get to that later. For now, as you all can assume -- the next video and rule break." The screen projects again, this time as predicted, Nesta is on the screen. She walks, well... stumbles, perhaps, toward the outdoor lounge it seems. Even in the moonlight, she looks ethereal; her flowing hair perfectly shimmering down her back; the low cut, chocolatey brown dress draped across her, clinging in all the right places to accentuate her every curve. You almost wish you could cover Lucien's eyes, but there was no point. You feel a pang of jealousy when you notice him unashamedly staring at the screen like a male starved.

The camera angle changes, and you watch as she chuckles at something, then uncharacteristically trips over one of the tendrils of her dress. Your breath catches -- but, in an instant, Cassian is there, her hands wrapping around his bicep as his hands clasp around her waist. She looks up and smiles again as he guides her toward one of the plush outdoor couches, helping her into it and then sitting next to her.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see her slowly shaking her head in disapproval. Cassian runs his hands over his face, peeking out at the projection in horror between his fingers.

"You should have taken me on a date," Nesta drawled, clearly intoxicated as her fingers toyed with the fluff of Cassian's outfit. He arched a brow.

"A date? You were the one picking who to take on a date, not me," he retorted, and she rolled her eyes, leaning close to him.

"You still could have asked me out or something after," she continued, and he shook his head, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

"You're making no sense right now Nesta, but I love to listen to you talk nonetheless." He said, gazing at her as though she was the only female to exist in this world. Your heart warmed at the sight, probably the only good thing to come from this morning from Hell. You were happy for your friend, a silver lining, perhaps, even if she didn't remember every word and conversation had amidst the madness of the morning.

"Hmmm," she sighed, twirling her finger around the cotton-like strands of his shirt. "What is your costume, anyway?" She smirked.

He grinned mischeviously at her. "Aw, really? You couldn't tell? They gave me the marshmallow one." Nesta tilted her head back, a real, genuine laugh of excitement leaving her lips. Cassian couldn't help but join in, the sight of her usually serious composure slipping was one he was happy he could bring out of her.

When she finally caught her breath, she leaned in, so close that a few tendrils of her long hair tickled his neck.

"Well," she said quietly. "I think chocolate tastes better with marshmallows, anyway." Her eyes find his, blown wide in amusement as he pulls her in, his mouth colliding with hers. It doesn't take long for his hands to slide under the curve of her ass, pulling her on top of him as their mouths move in a tango, the cameras catching once again, every sound and groan-

"So," Lana pauses the tape. "Now we have seen three rule breaks, all in one evening. I hope you're all proud of yourselves." The room is quiet, the innocent group members shaking their heads in disapproval. Lucien's fingers slide along your thigh, his touch sending fireworks across your skin beneath the blanket.

"I do appreciate the admission of the rule break, Nesta; however, the cost is $10,000. It's been long enough now that you all know why you're here, and what my rules are."

You bite the inside of your cheek as she continues. "Which brings me to why I've tortured you all this morning. Today, we will be having workshops -- the guys will have their workshop this morning, and the girls will have theirs later tonight." This news seems to excite the group, and some of your nerves dissipate as she elaborates. Maybe she hadn't caught what you and Lucien had done, and maybe, just maybe, you wouldn't be punished for it.

"Since you all seem to think it is alright to misbehave after I gift you things like bracelets and parties -- you'll attend the workshops today and hopefully understand why your small amount of remaining time here is so precious." You move to stand, ready for the morning of torture to end so you can prepare for whatever "work" she has coming your way later this evening.

"Ah ah ah," she tuts, her lights blazing. "Please, guests. I'm not finished."

You sit, the pit growing in the bottom of your stomach. You can feel Lucien's eyes on you, but you don't dare to look. You can't seem to tear your gaze from anywhere but straight ahead. Straight at that damned. Cone.

"My final thoughts from this morning included another guest who'd been in my hot seat for a minute now, and after last night did not prove themselves worthy of staying at this retreat any longer." Murmurs ripple through the group, and you watch as the male in bed alone stands, seeming to know whats coming. His clenched fists indicate his unhappiness, but it's his glare toward the bed Netsa and Cassian share that has you more intrigued than sympathetic.

"Eris, please pack your things. You'll be leaving-"

"Yeah, yeah. I got it." In one swift motion, he slings his backpack over his shoulder, wheeling his suitcase behind him. The group watches silently as he walks out, not stopping to say goodbye to anyone on the way out. Its quiet for a few moments before Lana pipes up again.

"Finally guests, we have one more tape to watch. This costs the group another $20,000 -- leaving the total prize fund at $110,000. Please direct your attention to the projection."

All heads turn toward the open wall. Lana plays the video recording.

And to your horror, you watch as your face appears before the group.

ﾟ:* ✧

“What kind of outfit does one wear to a… what did Lana call it?”

It takes a few moments before there is a response. A dreary one, at best.

“A workshop.” At least Feyre had the decency to respond. No amount of bubbliness in Morrigan’s voice seemed to uplift the majority of the group today, and it was late enough that you could no longer blame the hangover headache or morning after fatigue.

All you had to blame was your outright shame. Your ignorance that cost the group due to your actions from the night prior.

Luckily, you weren’t alone. Nesta was colder than usual and Feyre hadn’t seemed to smile all day. You couldn’t say much for Gwyn, you weren’t as close with her — but you could imagine the feeling all too well.

“Right,” Mor sighs, uncapping her eyeliner and leaning toward the vanity mirror.

Lana had said earlier to be ready by 8 for the workshop, but it was now 7:45 and you’d been ready an hour ago. You simply didn’t feel right today — the pool water was too cold, you didn’t think you could handle any more alcohol, a walk along the beach didn’t even entice you as Lucien and the guys were gone to their workshop during the daylight hours. Not to mention the walk of shame from the villa to the pool to retrieve the discarded piece of your costume from last night. That was the final nail in the depression-coffin.

So, you got ready early.

As the girls corralled on the pool deck just after 8, your spirits lifted a little as you watched the guys approaching from the beach. Tarquin… then Rhysand… then Cassian…

Lucien stopped, taking your fingers lightly and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. You gave him a small smile, his reassuring gaze finding yours.

“How was the workshop?” You asked.

He shrugged. “It went well, but I would’ve rather spent my day with you if I’m being honest.” He winked, and you grinned at his cheekiness.

“You’re too much,” you added playfully, and he squeezed your hand.

“But you love it,” he said, and your breath caught in your throat. You supposed you… did, love it. There were a lot of things, lately, you’d come to… love.

“Talk later?” He asked, following the group of guys back to the villa. You could only nod as you watched him leave, unable to find the words and force them out the way you wanted.

ﾟ:* ✧

“Good evening, ladies!” A tall, lean woman stood near a crackling campfire on the white sands of the shore. Her smile was inviting, her arms open and inviting the group to come join her on the beach — but you couldn’t help but wonder why she was wearing-

“Is she wearing pajamas?” Feyre whispers, and you nod silently. Morrigan snorts from her other side.

“I swear, if Lana sent us down here for twisted bedtime stories as punishment…” she shakes her head.

“Or maybe,” Nesta’s cool tone rings out from behind. “She is sending us into some kind of freakish, bedtime-cult.” Feyre shudders, wrapping her arms around her ribs. You smack your forehead with your palm. Leave it to Nesta to come up with something like that…

“No bedtime stories, nor a cult gathering, ladies,” the woman responds cordially. She must have heard you. “Tonight’s workshop is about accountability, embarrassment, change, and growth!”

The group disbands, spreading out in a circle around the roaring fire. There are 8 terry cloth blankets laid in the sand, small pillows atop each. Assuming there is one for each person and one for the instructor, everyone takes their spot near a blanket.

However, it only takes a moment to realize that the pillows are embroidered, and the blanket you’ve chosen next to Feyre will not do, as your name is not “Emerie”.

“I think you might be over here,” Morrigan says, and you look up, hoping to meet her eye. You quickly realize she was talking to Nesta, who happily struts over to her blanket next to the blonde and sits.

It seems everyone has found their spot, and you keep searching, looking for the last open one.

“Y/N, is it?” The instructor asks. You look up, her face clouded behind the smoke of the fire.

“Yes,”

“I think you’re over here,” she gestures to the last spot, right next to her. Great, you thought. Not next to your friends, and you’d have to likely go first when doing things in a circle. How convenient.

You walk over, sitting between her and Gwyn, who gives you a small smile. Settling in, you look to her as well, noticing the faint dusting of freckles on her cheeks, and despite everything — you smile back.

ﾟ:* ✧

“As I’d hinted at before, we want to really focus on themes like accountability, embarrassment, change, and growth tonight,” the instructor begins. “Now, I heard you ladies had a rough morning, which we can talk about more later — but I want to know, does anyone have any guesses on what setting you’d see things like accountability, embarrassment, growth, and some change?”

It’s quiet for a moment, before a small chuckle sounds from across the burning logs.

“Maybe at the strip club?” Morrigan giggles, and Nesta’s hand claps over her own mouth at the response. You can’t help the small grin creeping onto your face as the instructor rolls her eyes.

“Yes, yes, very funny. I’m sure you’d definitely some growth and quite a bit of change tossed around in there,” she shakes her head. “But, on a serious note. These topics of the evening relate to the overarching theme of this workshop — a sleepover!”

To say she got more than a few confused looks would be selling it short.

“Sure, you might not always discuss things such as these at a sleepover with your best friends,” she elaborates. “But, the objective is to get everyone talking; all of you are experiencing this retreat in full, you can relate to one another and lean into each other in that way. Opening up to the people who go through these kinds of things with you will only make it easier to open up in relationships in the outside world.”

You nod, a lump forming in your throat. Being questioned, prodded and having to say things you weren’t exactly good at expressing would be… well, tough.

To your right, Gwyn chewed on her lip. She seemed nervous too. You thought about this morning, how Lana played her intimate moment with Azriel for the group like that…

The thought only made you angry. Angry for her.

“Let’s get started then — I won’t truly keep you here all night,” the instructor chuckled, adjusting atop her blanket and cradling her pillow. She looked around, then settled on the girl to her left.

“Ahh,” she sighed, squinting at the embroidery on the girl’s pillow. “Amren. Let’s begin with you, shall we?”

ﾟ:* ✧

Each girl was given an opportunity to hash out their feelings, respond to the questions the instructor asked, and then go around and give one “honesty” to everyone, ending with themselves and their current partner if they have one.

Everyone so far had done so well, you were impressed by how emotional some of the women were getting. Amren of course didn’t cry, but her “honesty” to Emerie about being happy she made a new friend was really touching.

During Nesta’s turn, it was hard watching her struggle and calculate how to answer each question. The instructor called her out on it, and by the end, she was expressing her excitement over Cassian — and how much his never-ending endearment scared her a bit.

Morrigan made you smile, always. She told you she was happy to call you a friend, and even apologized to Nesta for how she acted toward her initially. It was nice to see, the full circle of it all.

Emerie took her turn, discussing her childhood trauma which clenched your heart and made you realize how hard some people have had it. You felt so terrible, you had no idea. You were happy to see Feyre comforting her as she let it all out — admittedly, feeling much better afterward.

Speaking of… Feyre did bring you to the brink of tears. She spoke of how meeting Rhys has been so special, but finding friends like you and Mor are what she will take away more than anything from this retreat.

The lump in your throat only grew at that.

Gwyn was surprising, as she brought up her past relationships and how she didn’t trust Azriel at first. That, you could relate to — Elain, of course. You saw it in her eyes when she talked about it, but when she talked about him now, a new light was brought into her face, one that you were happy she was able to find. One you hoped no one would take away, or embarrass her for, again.

“Y/N, are you ready?”

You swallowed hard. No.

“Of course,” It came out shaky at best.

All of your past. The relationships, the dynamics. The toxic ones, the good ones, the almosts — every card was on the table. But she just kept pushing. You felt that with every answer, there came a new question. Were the other girls talked to this long?

“…I see you’ve been through some difficult relationships,” the instructor says. “But, you seem very happy in your current one?”

Your cheeks flush, the silence loud against the crashing of waves on the shore. The image of Lucien flashed in your mind, when he’d been out there in those waves. So carefree, so beautiful.

“I… I am.” You say, your eyes meeting her soft gaze.

“Do you think you’d, stay with him? Outside of the retreat?” She eases.

Oh boy. Here’s the hard part. You glance around, everyone’s eyes on you. You knew the answer, what you wanted to say, what you wanted to be true — but, you refused to be wrong, to be bitten and look like a fool in the end.

“Maybe, I mean, I-“

“Ah, ah,” she urges. “I feel like that’s not really what you want to say. In here.” The instructor points to your heart, and you glance down at it, as though you can see through your clothes, your skin, your bones right to it. If you could only say what you felt, you’d tell her right now that you’d rip it out of your fucking chest and hand it to him if he simply asked.

You didn’t realize in the silence that a tear slid down your cheek, only registering the feeling when a cool hand wraps around your own. You look to your right, your eyes burning when they meet a pair of turquoise blue ones staring encouragingly at you.

“It’s alright, Y/N,” Gwyn says quietly. “All of us are here with you. You’re not alone.” She smiles, and a river of tears floods over your waterline as you look between each girl, staring back at you with just as much encouragement.

You wipe your cheek with the back of your hand, your heart beating out of control as you clutch your pillow against your chest. Taking a long breath, you look directly at the fire, its dying embers smoldering as dark as the night sky.

“I will. I have to. He’s…” Your shoulders shake as a small smile creeps into your face, a steady mantra replaying over and over in your mind. Lucien. Lucien. Lucien.

“He’s … the best man I’ve met. In a really, really long time,” you continue. “I… I go to sleep, thanking the Cauldron I’m laying next to him. I wake up, so excited to learn more about him. I talk to him like I’ve known him my entire life, I…” You breathe heavily, looking around. Nesta’s hands cover her grin, and Feyre looks to you through her teary lashes.

“Well,” the instructor drawls, her smile evident. “I’m very pleased you got all of that off of your chest, and I’m hoping now that you’ve expressed it, you’ll be open to sharing these feelings with him as well.” She says, and you smile down at your pillow, swatting away your remaining tears.

“Because it seems to me, the feelings you share with him go a bit deeper than just liking him, dear.”

ﾟ:* ✧

You slowly pulled back the covers on your side of the bed, moving as silently as possible in hopes to not stir anyone -- especially the male sleeping on the other side. His shoulders rose and fell every few seconds, the soft sounds of his sleepy snores bringing a little smile to your face.

The mattress dipped slightly when you sat on it, slipping beneath the covers as quickly as you could. It was a challenge, especially in the dark; but, that's what you got for staying up later than everyone else to shower. After the retreat, you felt like a huge weight had been lifted off of your shoulders, and walking back to the villa, you only felt positive about the relationships you had formed while being on the retreat.

As you snuggled deeped under the covers, you stilled when Lucien suddenly angled his shoulders toward you. You saw his profile, his face scrunching in the darkness. He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand -- even in the dim room, you could make out the arcs of his muscled arms reaching above him.

"Mmm... Y/N..." he drawled, his voice gravelly and thick and so, so sexy from sleep. You leaned close, delicately placing your hand on his arm and leaning in to whisper against his ear.

"I'm sorry, I tried not to wake you-" He breathed deep, shifting to roll to his other side. He faced you now, but his eyes were still shut. He didn't hesitate in reaching his arms around your middle, drawing you as close as he could get you to him.

"I missed you," he said lowly, and you grinned, running your fingers through his long tendrils. He hummed in gratification, a little smile on his sleepy face.

"I missed you too sweetheart," you say.

"Smell so good," he drabbled on, breathing deep again. You giggled quietly, moving ever so slightly out of his grasp.

"Well, I just showered, my hair is still really wet-"

His brows furrowed, and he squinted his eyes open in the dark.

"C'mere baby."

You wiggled closer, and his arms fully encased you against his chest, his fingers playing down the column of your spine. You couldn't help but melt into his touch, his intoxicating earthy scent only a reminder of the spine-tingling moment you'd allowed yourselves to indulge in the night before.

This time, instead of feeling embarassed by your actions -- you allowed yourself to drift of to the memories of those wonderful, reckless, carefree moments, only hoping that when you left Lana's retreat, the two of you could share more of the same.

･ﾟ: *✧

The music from the tiki bar was blasting so loud you felt like it had transcended through the air, in through your ears, and was now embedded in your bones. The air was thick with the scent of the sea, but the sound of the waves was much too overpowered by the bass coming through the speakers.

Bodies around you moved back and forth, jumping, sometimes tilting their heads back as they downed another shot -- you knew you should have stopped hours ago. The neon lights blended together, pink and blue and yellow in the sky. You didn't care; inside, you were warm.

After the Tito's, you had to call it. You were holding up well until Lucien appeared in the corner of your eye -- and when he started talking, those inviting lips so close, practically asking for yours -- you knew you were done for.

When his hands touched you... now that's when you formulated your little plan.

You felt so needy, and frankly, you didn't care about money. Lucien was what you wanted, and the way his cock pulsed against your stomach... all it would take is some clothing removal, and there we go, he's all yours.

"I won't be able to just talk to you. When you look. Like that." He growled, his dominance sending heat straight to my core. I shifted on the balls of my feet, the gauzy fishnet fabric stretched across my chest scratching against his.

"I can barely hear you over this music," You say loudly, biting my lip and staring up at him with wide eyes. He huffs, tearing his gaze away from where my body connected with his.

When he looked at me again, his eyes narrowed. "If we go to the pool deck, will you promise to be good?" He asked, clearly agitated that he had to hold himself back. You grinned as he fell right into your little trap.

What was even better was that no one was on the pool deck. The ligths were dimmed, and the water was illuminated by the underwater glowing bulbs. Lucien sighed, propping himself on the sofa near the edge and leaning back.

You sat on his knee, and he frowned at you.

"Y/N, we said we'd talk-"

"Let's talk," you said, your arms draping over his shoulders. You leaned in, your hands playfully squeezing his shoulderblades as you let out a light giggle.

"Y/N..."

"You're so strong," you praised, adjusting your position so you straddled him instead. He sucked in a breath, his hands braced on your hips as you wiggled around on his lap.

"Y/N." He said sternly, and you pulled back, looking straight into his eyes.

"Hmm?" You hummed, your heart sinking as his expression hardened.

"We've been so good this whole time, babe," he explained, and you reached out to toy with a strand of his hair. "We're supposed to get a light first before we... well..." he trails off. You drop your hand, sitting back on his thighs as tears well in your eyes.

"You... don't... want me like that?" You ask, your bottom lip poking out dramatically. His eyes soften at your words, the realization in your reaction hitting him in full.

"No! No sweetheart, I just..." he cups your cheek with his hand, and you lean forward once more. "I need you to know I care about more than just this, alright? I care about you." He stops short, his eyes falling as he searches for the right words. Even as you toe the line of blacking out, one thing is clear; for him, you'd give up every cent of that prize fund. It means nothing -- for you, he was the real prize, and you'd won the moment you met him on the boat the first day you'd arrived.

"Lucien," you let out a breathy moan, inching closer as you grind your hips back and forth against the tent in his shorts. His eyes flutter closed, his lips parting as short breaths escape him.

"Oh... fuck, baby," he utters, his fingers squeezing the flesh of your hips as you continue your minstrations, his erection continuing to harden. Your hands brace against his shoulders as you lean in, not giving one damn about any money or prize fund while you shamelessly open your mouth, your tongue licking a fat stripe from his collarbone to his ear.

The sound that comes from his throat can only be described as primal, his hips thrusting up off of the sofa and harshly rubbing against your clit.

"Fuck," you cry out as his gaze focuses on you once more, your cleavage on display before his very eyes. The images running through his head are absolutely mouthwatering, but something Lana would never approve of.

"If I could," he pants breathlessly, continuing to dry-fuck you. "I would have... oh Gods, Y/N... I would have bent you over... the minute we walked into... the private villa..." he groans, and you tangle your fingers through his hair.

"You... you feel so good Lucien," you squeak out, before he grabs your hips and tosses you onto your back on the cushions. You let out a devilish laugh as he leans over you, his sly smile illuminated in the iridescent moonlight.

"You're not being a very good girl," he tuts, his hands lifting the arch of your back gently before unhooking your top. You gasp as he pulls it clean off of you, tossing the heart-covered thing right into the pool.

"Lucien!"

His only response is his teeth grazing your neck, sucking gently as he plays with your boobs. His fingers pull at your already hardened nipples, pinching and bouncing them while he smirks.

"Fucking perfect," he admires, his gaze now trained on the spot just beneath the right one. His eyes flick to yours only for a moment before his lips attach to the spot, kissing and biting at the skin there.

"Lucien... ahh, oh Gods yes..." you babble on, only slightly distracted by his thigh inbetween your legs, his bent knee propping him up above you. Instinctively, you drag your clothed pussy along his thigh, the only thing separating your skin from his being your lacy underthings which are surely soaked by now.

He nips particularly hard and you squeal, your fingers tugging lightly on his roots. His eyes find yours in a disapproving look.

"Don't get greedy now, sticky fingers," he says, licking his bottom lip again at the sight of your top half bare beneath him. "I'm just making sure everyone knows who you belong to."

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

[wazzuppy]

kind of frustrating to see ppl coming back to madoka magica with the new trailer drop and then simply referring to magia record as "that gacha game." like don't disrespect her name like that. just because its a mobile game doesn't mean it lacks value.

[greasydumbfuck]

thinking about frank and sex (in a sad way)

[crossbackpoke-check]

Dysprosium, Mary Soon Lee

dysprosium, AN 66, is a silvery-white rare earth metal. its name is derived from the greek dysprositos, meaning “hard to get at”, owing to the difficulty in separating and isolating this rare earth element. dysprosium is used to measure neutron flux, to fuel reactors, and to activate phosphors. terfenol-d is a magnetorestrictive alloy, meaning that it changes shape when a magnetic field is applied, and is used to manufacture underwater acoustic systems.

jason “robo” robertson, dallas stars #21 for @simmyfrobby’s nhl periodic table poems <3

[authenticcadence18]

I wonder how much money Toy Story 5 will make

[toytulini]

name some canonically nonbinary characters why dont you

[notjanine]

i am in suuuuuch a weird headspace rn, my brain is like. i want half a boyfriend i want a husband i want an easy carefree hookup i want to have sex with only one more person in my entire life i want to have a slut era i want someone to fall in love with me i want to ruin a man's life. who am i

[delicatetaysversion]

real

[eyivibyemi]

✧ I won’t really write descriptions for these, but see original post tags for explanation/commentary on the song snippet ✧

[earlgreytea68]

Okay. It's time for an AI rant.

My nephew is 13 years old. Whenever he writes a paper for school, I check it over and fix all of his mistakes for him. He said to me, "Maybe I'll proofread your paper for you in exchange," meaning one of the scholarly articles I write for work. I said, "Cool," and gave him the file. And he said, "Well, this is full of errors! See, you always say you have a lot to correct on my stuff, and look at all the stuff you got wrong!" And I said, surprised, "What? Where?" Because I'm sure there are typos in the draft I sent him, but not, like, that many.

And then he pointed to the screen and said, "Look at all the blue and red lines you have."

And I said, "Yeah, but those are wrong. Like, those are blue and red lines I'm ignoring because the computer is wrong." And then I paused and added, "You know you can't proofread a paper by just looking at the red and blue lines, right?" And he gave me the blankest look, because that clearly is EXACTLY what he thinks. And it became even clearer suddenly why, whenever I correct something on his paper, his immediate reaction is, "It didn't have a blue or red line."

There's a very good reason for that: THAT'S BECAUSE THE COMPUTER ISN'T SMART ENOUGH TO KNOW THAT IT WAS WRONG.

I am so tired of being sold the idea that computers are better than humans and so we should just outsource everything to them, which is clearly the lesson my nephew is absorbing in U.S. middle school. COMPUTERS ARE NOT BETTER THAN HUMANS. Like, maybe they are better at humans at crawling through rubble to find people trapped inside. They are also better at preserving things in a searchable format. Things like that. Very limited circumstances.

I don't want to sound alarmist but everything I hear about people using generative AI freaks me out. It's not just that I'm freaked out by people being like, "I use it to write novels!" (Although I don't see how they do, I have tried to have it write fiction for me and the output was truly terrible.) But I recognize my bias around creative writing and so no one needs to credit my views on artificial writing. But! Other things are alarming, too! "I use it to brainstorm x, y, or z." But...why? Why not just...use your own brain...to...brain...storm? The computer doesn't even have a brain to brainstorm with! And you might be like, "But it comes up with things that my brain would never think of!" So would other people! You could also brainstorm with other people! Or even through Google to see what other people have thought before you (not AI). Please don't belittle the wonder of thinking.

I just feel like the marketing around generative AI boils down to "Wouldn't it be easier not to use your own brain to think about things?" Everyone. No. It would not be. Please just trust me on this. I'm not just an old person who is out of touch with technology or something. I promise. USE YOUR BRAINS. IT WILL BE OKAY.

[astrxealis]

i am so used to my pinned post i kinda don't want to change the format but i want to

[48787]

toki suli nasa wawa li pona suli jaki e pilin mi nasa wawa

(Little too lazy rn to make sure that is grammatically correct, but toki ike is still more toki pona than toki English so I don't care that much hehe, it's good enough for me at least. I would write this blurb in toki pona as well but I still need to work out comparisons a bit more first.)

I made my post ideating a second blog or a Blog Revelation -> Regenesis or maybe something else entirely, and then immediately after posting I refreshed the page and saw people were contemplating the efficacy of this webbed site once again due to unneeded/unwanted/unpopular changes to the site once again, which got me thinking quite a bit more about what I actually wanted out of all this. It was kinda like a sign from the Gods, shedding divine light to guide my path.

And there's such a radiant glow coming from the "Export Blog" button...

I don't think the data theft shit'll be that bad for me specifically, I don't think I did anything here that could be considered "Sensitive" (Relative to any other shitty data stealing websites we keep finding ourselves normalizing) but I suppose you never really know until it's too late. Regardless, I think I don't need to consider the infernal temptation of the big red "Delete Account" button for quite a while until the next Divinely Comedic think happens and the temptation grows stronger. It is such a tempting button how it is alone anyway..

I just might not make as many "public" posts while I focus on my own local environment and a more targeted (and more "secure," whatever that means in this day and age,) audience. I'm so sorry denizens of this social platform, if it feels like I've been deceiving you into thinking I was here to socialize it's because I was and still am (Deceiving you, I mean), I'm really mostly just here to look at shit for wannabe art student inspiration and do pseudo slam poetry that I don't expect anyone to read but post anyway because the adrenaline kick from potentially being held accountable (In any possible way, getting complimented is another form of being held accountable you know.) helps me shape my social anxiety into something more positivity fetishistic. Though I do hope this doesn't come as a shock, as I've said quite a few times by now my first rule is "You are being deceived" and if you were deceived into thinking I was lying it's kinda a skill issue sorry, I literally feel psychic pain when I lie so I try my hardest to just act deceptive rather than actually lie or spread misinformation/false information (I don't know if the distinction between any of these words matters to anyone but me, but hey maybe you can learn the wonders and horrors of Etymology some day!.. Or maybe we should stop telling autistic people shit like "You need to not be expressive in order to be expressive" because that's not deception that's just a fucking lie or weird wannabe proof by contradiction, and I am living proof enough that that doesn't fucking work for people like me who feel the need to be expressive.).

Despite that deception, most of you have been excellent weapons and/or tools and I hope I can use you all again later. Maybe at some point this blog site that supposedly lets people be themselves will eventually let me be myself more too! It'd probably have to make a couple changes before I could consider it "worth" being "myself" on, but hey the future sure is bright ain't it! But if not feel free to message me on whatever communication platform, protocol, or format you prefer whenever you want about whatever (Maybe you like being one of my weapons or tools, idk, it's not my job to judge that beyond how it shapes how I utilize you), even on Tumblr's shitty messaging service if you happen to "prefer" it for some weird reason. I happen to prefer direct messages solely between two distinct entities because it makes the social contract a bit easier to understand or reshape so I'm even willing to put up with Tumblr's shitty messaging service for now, but hey you do you, if you want to try to communicate with me via tags or posts or whatever I'll certainly try to perceive your meaning! Good luck!!

And, if you can bear the raw psionic might emitted from whatever cobbled together homunculus I form to bear the weight of my thoughts (Most likely an even shittier website, but my previous definition of "website" has actually proven to be incorrect so who knows!), know that I have so many more posts in mind that have to go somewhere so you might be able to seize the relatively unique privilege of actually seeing them if you would like. It'd be a good idea to probably have a good understanding of toki pona first though, I'm only speaking English because I lack power to make pu or su mandatory readings in public education and I have yet to master telepathy well enough to psychically transmit the glyphs in a way other brains can actually understand.

I'll still be around, probably still making posts similar to how I have been if focus allows it, but there just won't be any kind of deliberate/active improvement to the format or structure, as well as the natural slowing that occurs whenever focus is diverted. Until I construct my spacebridge, this blog will stagnate at its current level of organization and coherency with the same kind of posts coming at the same or slowed irregular rate. Stagnation should be enraging, but it's merely a diversion of focus till all are one.

Maybe I'll start posting more music posts? idk, i'll feel it out, it might be faster at letting me spew an idea out without having to spend too much focus on, but who knows!

Okay that was a healthy distraction, back to work on the current homunculus! This new homunculus is named "nemesis" and usually uses it/its pronouns but when rodent is @ nemesis sometimes it uses he/him or she/her. She's my lovely baby of extreme power and potential, and I've been siphoning psionic energies and essences to channel within her to the point where its finally sentient, but she still lacks the right amount of perception and aesthetic to really start acting with sapience though (I usually do not separate the two words to make a deliberate etymological point, but I am doing it here to make the point opposite to the one I usually make). She knows I'm proud though!

[exopelagic]

ALSO TRANSGENIC TRIALS ARE JUST LIKE THAT SOMETIMES MAN PLEASE SHUT UP