In which Fem!Reader does not listen to her boyfriend, the Housewardens, when he says that another student is flirting with her. Reader comes back after meeting with that student and apologizes.
Hurt/Comfort. Fem(AFAB and MtF-friendly)!Reader. Established relationship. Requested by Anon.
Where Leona, always insecure and determined about the patheticness of his UM, begins to change after meeting you, an artist who creates glass and crystal figures, and asks him to use his UM to transform glass remains into sand
loved this one <3
Leona hated his Unique Magic. Always had.
Sure, people said it was impressive. The ability to dry anything, to strip it down until it crumbled to dust in your palm? Sounded like the kind of magic suited for a king. Ruinous. Untouchable.
But in practice? It was destructive. Useless. Unoriginal. All it ever did was reduce things into sand. Turn lush greenery into withered husks. Sap water from soil, drain warmth from food, crack even the air with its dryness.
He’d never found a good reason to use it unless he wanted something to disappear.
And Leona Kingscholar didn’t like being reminded that he was good at getting rid of things.
So when you first approached him about it, out of the blue and way too bold for someone who barely knew him, he looked up from the grass in the greenhouse with a deep, annoyed grunt.
“You want me to what, herbivore?”
You stood over him in that stupid art-stained apron you always wore, holding a cracked chunk of smoky, burnt glass in your gloved hands.
“I’m not asking you to blow anything up, geez,” you said lightly. “I just… need some sand.”
He squinted at you. “What, the beach too far for you?”
You smiled. “Yeah, and your sand is better.”
He blinked. “Come again?”
“The sand you make. From your UM.”
You lifted the shard to show him its jagged edge.
“See, this one’s ruined. The shape’s off, and it’s scorched. But if I grind it down, melt it again, I could maybe salvage it. But if you could just—turn it back into sand, I could get a cleaner rebatch.”
Leona sat up slowly.
“You want me to use my Unique Magic… on your garbage?”
You didn’t flinch at the edge in his tone.
“I want to try turning it into something new.”
Leona almost told you to piss off. Almost.
But you looked at that broken glass with such purpose in your eyes, like you believed something beautiful was still hiding in it.
And for some reason—maybe the sun was too hot, or he was too tired—he muttered under his breath.
King’s Roar.
The shard crumbled instantly, dissolving into a fine pale gold powder. Clean. Almost sparkling in the sunlight.
You crouched to scoop it into a container with a small, satisfied hum.
“That’s perfect,” you said, like you’d just watched a flower bloom.
He raised a brow. “It’s just sand.”
“No, it’s potential.”
Something shifted in his chest at that. Uncomfortable. Hot.
You came back the next day. And the day after that.
Always with cracked glass or ruined sculptures.
Always asking with certainty, “Can I borrow your magic again?” And Leona always acted annoyed, always rolled his eyes like he was being inconvenienced, but he never said no.
And eventually, you started bringing things back to show him.
Bowls blown in spirals of color, where specks of sand were like desert stars.
Sculptures that caught sunlight just right, making tiny rainbows on the greenhouse walls.
Or delicate little trinkets—a lion’s paw, a flower blooming in a dish—that you swore were just “practice,” but he caught you smiling when he lingered on them too long.
“Couldn’t’ve done this without you,” you said once, holding a jar filled with a swirling, amber-hued hourglass.
“Your sand’s smoother than anything I could get from crushing it myself. It melts cleaner. Glows brighter.”
Leona grunted. “You’re the one doing all the work. I’m just breaking things.”
“You’re not breaking anything,” you said. “You’re giving me a chance to start over.”
He didn’t know what to say to that.
Because no one had ever said that before. Not to him.
Weeks passed like that. And slowly, Leona started to wait for you. Subtly. Not that he’d admit it.
He’d lie on the grass and tilt one ear toward the greenhouse entrance, pretending to nap while secretly hoping for your footsteps.
He found himself pocketing little broken pebbles on walks, wondering if you could use them. Once, he even caught himself thinking about what kind of glass he would be, if you ever sculpted him.
(Probably dark. Sharp. A piece that refused to be molded.)
One afternoon, you showed up carrying a bundle in cloth.
“This one’s for you,” you said, unwrapping it.
“I made it from the first batch of sand you gave me.”
It was a glass lion—small enough to fit in his palm, all sweeping mane and proud curve. Not flashy, but warm, like the sun on stone.
Leona stared. His mouth went dry.
“…Why?”
You tilted your head.
“Because I wanted to. Because I thought you deserved something that stayed, instead of just slipping through your fingers.”
That—hit something. Deep and buried
He closed his hand around the glass lion slowly.
“…You’re weird, you know that?”
You smiled. “You’ve mentioned it.”
But when you turned to leave, he spoke again, quietly.
“Hey… next time you’ve got something to ruin, come find me.”
You paused, a little smile blooming on your face. “Yeah?”
He shrugged, looking away. “Might as well make some use outta this busted magic, huh?”
For the first time in years, Leona Kingscholar didn’t think of his magic as something to be ashamed of.
Your voice was soft. “It’s not busted, Leona. It just needed the right hands to show what it could become.”
He thought of sand in your hands. And glass glowing gold.
A/n: AAAAAAAAAAAAA It's my birthday today and obviously I had to write something again for my King Leona to celebrate 🥰
The sun filtered through the windows of the Savanaclaw housewardens room, painting stripes of warm gold across the rumpled sheets. Leona was sprawled across his bed, his tail giving a single, slow flick against the mattress. His eyes, tracked your every movement as you stood nervously by the foot of the bed.
“Well?” His voice was a low rumble, a lazy challenge. “You’ve been staring at me for five minutes. It’s your day. Spit it out.”
You twisted your fingers together, heart hammering against your ribs. “You said… anything I wanted.”
“I did.” He stretched, the muscles of his abdomen tightening and rolling under his smooth tan skin. He wore only a pair of low sitting sleep pants, the defined V of his hips clearly visible. “Birthday privilege. So, what’ll it be, herbivore? Want me to do all the work? Want me to take you against the wall?” A slow, predatory grin spread across his face. “Or do you have something more… creative in mind?”
The question hung in the air, swallowing became hard for you when his eyes were fixated on you like this. Your gaze drifted to the set of silk cords he used to tie back the bed curtains, discarded on his nightstand. An idea, bold and maybe a bit terrifying, came into your head.
“I want you to not be in charge” you said, the words tumbling out in a rush.
One of his brows arched. “Oh?”
“I want you to… let me.” You gestured vaguely toward the cords. “To humor me.”
Leona’s grin didn’t fade, it simply changed, becoming more intrigued. He followed your gesture, his gaze landing on the silken ropes. A low chuckle vibrated in his chest. “Tch. You want to restraint me?” He shifted, rolling onto his side and propping his head on his hand. “You think you can handle me?”
“You said anything.”
“So I did.” He held your gaze for a long moment, the air between you crackling. Then, with a sigh, he rolled onto his back, spreading his arms wide. “Fine. Have at it. But if you’re boring, I’m taking over.”
Your hands trembled only slightly as you picked up the cords. They were cool against your skin. You climbed onto the bed, straddling his thighs, feeling the solid heat of him even through the fabric. Leona watched you through half-lidded eyes, his expression one of amused tolerance, waiting to see what you’d do.
You started with his wrists, looping the silk around one and tying it securely, but not too tightly, to the ornate bedpost above his head. He let his arm go limp, offering no resistance. The act of binding him, of seeing his powerful wrist secured by your knot, sent a jolt of power straight to your core. You repeated the process with his other wrist, until he was stretched out before you looking like a feast.
“Satisfied?” he purred, testing the bonds with a subtle flex (you knew he could get out of them easily but he still humored you).
“Not even close” you whispered, finding a strange confidence now that he was kinda physically restrained.
You leaned down, your lips finding his in a kiss that was all your own, slow, exploring, tasting him. He kissed back, but it was different, he followed your lead, letting you set the the pace. You broke the kiss, trailing your mouth down the strong column of his throat, feeling his pulse jump under your lips. Your hands slid down his chest, mapping the hard planes, tracing the lines of his ribs, dipping towards his navel.
Your fingers hooked into the waistband of his pants. You looked up, meeting his gaze. His eyes were dark now, the lazy amusement replaced. He gave a slight nod.
You pulled the fabric down, freeing him.
He was already hard, his cock springing up against his stomach. It was a beautiful sight, thick and long, the shaft a shade darker than the skin of his stomach, traced with prominent veins running up his shaft. The head was a flushed, deep mauve, already glistening with a single bead of moisture at the slit.
“See something you like?” he murmured, his voice rougher.
Instead of answering, you lowered your head.
You didn’t take him in your mouth immediately. You nuzzled the hot, velvety skin of his inner thigh first, inhaling his clean, musky scent. You licked a slow stripe from the base of his shaft up to the tip, collecting that first salty-sweet drop on your tongue. Leona’s breath caught, a sharp intake, his hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk, but the restraints held him.
That, the proof that he was affected, that he wasn’t in control (or at least pretended to not be) fueled you. You opened your mouth and took the head of his cock inside, swirling your tongue around the sensitive ridge beneath it. A low, ragged groan tore from his throat.
“Fuck…” he hissed, his tail lashing against the sheets.
You took him deeper, your lips stretching around his girth, your mouth filling with the taste of him, skin, salt. You set a slow, deliberate rhythm, one hand wrapping around the base of his shaft to stroke what your mouth couldn’t reach. Your other hand drifted lower, cupping the heavy weight of his balls, rolling them gently in your palm. His entire body tensed, the muscles in his arms corded as he slightly pulled against the silk ties.
“Eyes on me” he gritted out.
You glanced up, your mouth still working him, and found his gaze locked on you. The look in his eyes was raw, stripped of its usual lazy arrogance. It was pure, unfiltered hunger, watching you take your pleasure from him. You moaned around his length, the vibration making his thighs tremble.
You increased your pace, your head bobbing faster, your tongue pressing hard along the vein on the underside. Saliva mixed with his own fluid, creating a slick, obscene sound that filled the quiet room. Your own need was a throbbing ache between your legs, ignored but still present. This was about him, about reducing the proud, lazy lion to a trembling, pleading mess under your ministrations.
“Gonna… ngh… you’re gonna make me…” he warned, his voice a strained growl. His hips were pushing up in tiny, desperate thrusts, meeting your mouth. “Stop or I’ll—”
You didn’t stop. You sucked harder, hollowing your cheeks, your hand pumping in tandem. You watched his face, the clench of his jaw, the flutter of his eyelids, the way his lips parted on a silent cry.
His release was sudden, he let out a shou, raw and guttural as his cock pulsed in your mouth, jet after jet of warm, bitter cream hitting the back of your throat. You swallowed, taking everything he gave, your own body clenching in pleasure. His hips bucked wildly against the restraints as he emptied himself, his chest heaving, sweat glistening on his skin.
You pulled off slowly, licking your lips, watching him come down. He was surprisingly a wreck, tied, spent, panting. His eyes opened, hazy and sated, finding yours.
A slow, wicked smile curled your lips. You shifted, crawling up his body until you were straddling his hips again, your clothed core hovering just above his softening, glistening cock.
“Happy birthday to me” you whispered.
His eyes cleared, focusing on you “You think we’re done?” he rasped, his voice wrecked. “That was just the appetizer, herbivore. My turn to give you my present.”
