summary: you and your coworker, eddie, are polar opposites when it comes to aesthetic. but maybe you have more than just a love for music in common deep down...
wc: 7.7k
cw: coworkers to lovers, opposites attract, modern au, jealousy, marking/hickeys, pining eddie, p in v sex (unprotected) oral (f recieving) fingering, dirty talk, pet names (princess, sweetheart, sweet girl dirty/filthy girl), eddie talks a lot during sex, over stimulation, multiple female orgasms, D/s dynamic, dom!eddie, cream pie, after care, fluffy ending, an adorable one eyed cat named ozzy.
love notes: ahhhhhh this has been in the brainstorming stage foreverrrrrr. i hope you guys love it. i really love giving eddie a cat in modern au fics. i just think its so cute. ummmm i really enjoyed the smut in here as well, so hopefully you do too hehe
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"So, over here are the new releases," your coworker's voice sounded vastly uninterested in teaching you literally anything. "Mostly a mix of stuff. That's newly released. Hence the name."
He seemed almost bored with training you. He ran a hand through his long curly brown hair, like he'd rather be anywhere else. "Any other questions, rookie?"
You were new to Melody Records, a tiny record store tucked into a corner of downtown. You'd been looking for a job for a while, something with a little more character than flipping burgers, and you saw a ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the window. Sure, you didn’t look like the usual employee here, but you knew your stuff. The owner, John Melody, had hired you on the spot after you geeked out about finding an original pressing of a Joy Division bootleg.
But Eddie, your new coworker, clearly didn't see it that way.
To him, you were just the new girl. With your pink cardigan and your little bow in your hair, a stark contrast to the black band tees and ripped jeans that seemed to be the store's unofficial uniform.
"Are you always this... 'enthusiastic' when you train new employees?"
He definitely didn't expect the sarcasm that dripped over every word. His head tilted, a flicker of surprise in his dark eyes. A slow, easy grin spread across his face, the kind that made you wonder if it was genuine or just another part of the uniform.
"Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "Just trying to manage expectations. Most newbies last about a week. Usually after trying to alphabetize 'The' under 'T'. Plus... you don't really look the part, sweetheart."
You grimaced at the name. It was condescending, almost paternalistic. You hated it.
"And what 'part' is that, exactly?"
He gestured vaguely at you, at your pastel outfit and the little floral purse you had tucked behind the counter. "The Melody Records part. John's got a thing for lost causes, I guess."
You straightened up, pulling your shoulders back. The soft cashmere of your cardigan suddenly felt like armor. "Oh that is hilarious."
You let out an actual laugh at that as he stood there, eyebrow quirked and arms crossed. "Yeah? How so?"
"Eddie Munson. King of nonconforming, judging someone on their aesthetic." The words came out sharp, precise, each one a tiny pinprick. "My musical knowledge is just as deep as yours, I guarantee it. The fact that I like skirts doesn't mean I can't tell you the difference between black metal and death metal."
Eddie's smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he recovered. He leaned against the counter, the worn wood creaking under his weight, and watched you, a new, more assessing light in his gaze.
"So the princess has bite," he mused, the nickname an experiment. "Alright, then. Go help him."
He nodded over to a man who had just walked in, leather vest creaking as he browsed the punk section. You recognized the patch on his back from a local band, The Flesh Riot. He looked lost.
"I could be wrong," you said, not moving an inch, "but something tells me he's looking for early UK anarcho-punk. I'd start him with a little Crass, maybe some Conflict. If he wants something more American, MDC's a safe bet."
You turned back to Eddie, raising an eyebrow in perfect, challenging symmetry to his earlier gesture. "Or I could just point him to the Taylor Swift section. Since I'm probably only qualified to sell that, right?"
A choked, surprised laugh escaped Eddie's lips. It was rough, unused, but it was real. He looked at the man, then back at you, and for the first time, the condescending amusement was gone, replaced by something grudgingly impressed.
"Let's just get you trained on the register system. It's older than dirt." Eddie sounded almost... subdued.
It had been three weeks. Three weeks of shared shifts, bickering over the correct way to file compilations, and the slow, steady erosion of Eddie's initial assumptions.
You were here together after close, doing your first Sunday night inventory together. The usual music was shut off, and instead some low folk you could both agree on played distantly on your phone.
That's when you heard the sound again. Skittering above you, like something was running across the floor upstairs.
"Oh my god, what is that sound? It's driving me insane." You groaned.
Eddie looked up from his clipboard, pausing for a moment. "There's an apartment upstairs."
"Okay. Who lives there? A bunch of rowdy gnomes?"
He shakes his head and looks back to his list, hiding a smile. "Nah, John used to back in the day before he married Marie and they had kids. Now he rents it out to some lowlife with a cat."
"There's been a random guy living above our workplace that I don't know, and you just... didn't tell me?" You stared at him, aghast. "For three weeks? You let me walk into the store alone for three weeks, knowing there's a stranger upstairs?"
You slapped him on the arm, half-joking, half-serious.
He rubbed the spot where you'd hit him, feigning injury. "Hey! What was that for?"
"For being a terrible coworker! What if he's a creep?"
"Oh he's definitely a creep. The creepiest. Hear he worships Satan and sacrifices bunnies in the upstairs bathroom." He's looking dead at you as he says this, and you don't believe it for a second.
You roll your eyes and go back to tallying the 7-inch singles, but you can't shake the image of some pale, gaunt figure performing a dark ritual in the bathroom while you were stocking shelves downstairs.
An hour or so goes by and you're finally finished. Eddie walks you to the front door but doesn't head out with you.
"Uh, is there more to do? If you're going to stay and take all the extra hours that's kind of ass, Munson. I need money too." You said, half-joking, but still confused.
He just smirked and gestured upstairs. "I'm going up."
"To the devil worshipping, bunny sacrificialist's apartment?"
"Hey, he's also a really good cat owner and guitarist. Don't put people in a box." He says with a wink.
"Wait, you live here?" The question comes out as a choked whisper, a flurry of realizations hitting you all at once.
"Surprise," he says, but there's no malice in it now, just a weird sort of gentleness you haven't heard before. "Told you. Total creep up there."
He doesn't wait for you to process, just gives you a two-fingered salute and shuts the door behind you, locking it from the inside. You watch him head upstairs.
Another month goes by and you're early for your shift. Shivering from the cold, you hold a tray with two hot coffees in one hand, unlocking the door with the other.
You and Eddie have built up a bond of sorts. You talk about music, of course, debating the merits of '80s goth versus '90s grunge until your voices are hoarse. He's learned you have a soft spot for sad, twee indie pop, and you've discovered his surprisingly encyclopedic knowledge of folk singer-songwriters.
The bickering is still there, but it's morphed. It's less barbed, more like a well-rehearsed routine. It's comfortable. Sometimes even bordering on flirting.
"It is like, freezing out there dude." You say to the store, assuming he's already downstairs. "I swear I am not built for the cold."
You set the coffee tray down, shrugging off your pink peacoat and unwrapping your scarf. "Brought you coffee. But, don’t worry, it's black. Because I know you're too good for sugar and cream like a normal person." You're talking to the empty store, the words echoing slightly in the quiet space.
A floorboard by the back creaks and you turn, expecting to see Eddie.
What does greet you is a woman, slightly disheveled in a way that screams 'I just had a very good night'. Her dark hair is a mess, and she's wearing what is unmistakably one of Eddie's sweatshirts over a tight black dress. She pauses, shoes in one hand and she looks just as surprised to see you.
"Oh!" You both say at the same time.
The awkwardness hangs in the air, thick and suffocating.
"Um... Eddie said the exit was down here but... I think I picked the wrong door."
"Yeah, the one on the left... goes out to the alley," you manage, your throat suddenly tight. "Easy mistake."
As if on cue, you hear fast footsteps coming down the stairs, and Eddie appears, pulling on a t-shirt, hair a chaotic mess. He freezes when he sees you, then sees the woman, then looks back at you.
"Shit. Hey. Morning."
"Morning," you parrot back, trying very hard to look anywhere but at them.
This is fine. This is totally fine.
Why do you care what he does? It's his home, technically. He can have whoever he wants over.
But the image of her, in his sweatshirt, flashes in your mind. A hot, acidic feeling bubbles in your stomach.
She's pretty, in a way that is very different to you. Sharp, defined angles, a confident smirk. She's one of the sleek black cats to your fluffy pink kitten.
"So, this is awkward," she says with a small, breathy laugh, breaking the tension.
"Hey, no worries sweetheart, I'll walk you out. Left door, okay?" Eddie says, all charm and confidence. The nickname, the one he'd used on you that first day, now lands differently when directed at someone else. It feels cheap. Transactional.
The girl and Eddie disappear through the back door, her giving you an awkward wave. The silence that follows is heavy, loaded with unspoken things. You busy yourself with getting the register ready, the movements stiff and robotic. The back door opens and the shuts a few minutes later. You don't look up.
"Listen," Eddie's voice is low, careful. "About that."
"Don't," you cut him off, your own voice surprisingly steady. "You don't owe me an explanation. It's your... apartment. Your life."
"Yeah, sure," he starts heading toward you and pulling his hair into a low ponytail. His neck had faint marks you pretended not to notice. "But it's also our workplace. And that was... not my most professional moment. I'm sorry."
You risk a glance at him. He looks genuine, which only makes it worse. You force a smile that feels brittle on your face.
"You're fine. I brought coffee." You point at the tray, changing the subject with all the subtlety of a foghorn.
He looks at the two cups, then at you. He picks up the one you designated as his, his name on it in your bubbly handwriting with a little heart, and takes a long sip. A small, genuine smile touches his lips.
"Thanks, princess," he says, the nickname falling between you, heavy with new, complicated layers. "This might just save my life."
"Speaking of... professional…" You finish counting the money. "I think you should probably stop calling me that."
He pauses mid-sip, raising an eyebrow. "Princess?"
"Yes. We're coworkers. Equals. It feels... demeaning. Now."
"Now?" A smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. You want to wipe it off with your own hands.
"Yes. Now," you snap, your carefully constructed composure cracking. "Maybe when I started I was your 'rookie', but I've earned my spot here. I'm not your princess."
For a long moment, he just looks at you.
Something flashes on his face that looks a lot like hurt, which is ridiculous. He nods, slowly.
"Okay. Fair enough."
"Good."
"Good."
The morning proceeds in a tense, quiet efficiency. The usual banter is gone, replaced by the sterile sound of tape guns sealing boxes and the rustle of plastic sleeves. You're pointedly not looking at him, and he's pointedly not talking to you.
"I don't, like, have women over every night or something." He says at one point, when there's a lull in customers.
You pause. "I really didn't ask."
"I know, I know. I just... wanted to clarify that I'm not some... man-whore." He looks so awkward saying the words it almost makes you smile.
Almost.
"Your neck says otherwise, Eddie." You retort, the words laced with a venom you didn't know you possessed. The instant it leaves your mouth, you regret it. It's none of your business.
"Jesus," he breathes out, running a hand over the faint purple marks. "I'm sorry you had to see that. It was... a one-time thing. She liked my band's set. We had a few drinks. It wasn't anything."
He looks so genuinely distressed, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, that your anger dissolves into a confusing, hollow ache.
"You really don't need to explain," you say, your tone softer now. "Who you bring home is your business. It was just... awkward."
"Yeah, no shit," he agrees, a little of his usual swagger returning. "I'll try not to bring anyone home who doesn't know their left and right from now on. Scout's honor." He holds up three fingers, a mock-promise.
You don't laugh. You just nod and go back to your work, the silence stretching on.
Eddie is fucked.
It's been only a week since the awkward encounter with his one night stand.
One week since you'd asked him to stop calling you princess. One week of being acutely aware of your presence, the scent of your fruity perfume, the gentle click of your heeled boots on the wooden floorboards, the way you'd hum along to whatever was playing on the store's speakers, a soft, off-key counter-melody that he found himself straining to hear over the actual music.
He is, as they say, completely and utterly fucked.
Because you weren't talking to him. Not full silent treatment, but not the easy bickering he'd come to rely on. The silence was a new form of torture.
It all came to a head when he'd been helping a customer find an obscure post-punk record, and when he'd turned to ask you a question about the stockroom inventory, he'd found you with your phone in your hand, a brilliant, genuine smile lighting up your face as you texted someone back.
The hot, possessive surge of jealousy was so potent it almost knocked him backward. He'd wanted to smash the phone.
It hit him like a ton of bricks that maybe he wanted you to be his. His princess. An honorific you’ve recently denied him from using.
"You're being really brooding right now."
Gareth's voice, muffled by his mouthful of fries, pulled Eddie from his thoughts.
"Yeah, man. You're doing more staring at that beer than actually drinking it." Jeff raised an eyebrow.
It was Friday night at the Hideout and Corroded Coffin had just played a gig for a crowd of at least ten drunks.
"I'm not brooding," Eddie grumbled, taking a large swallow of his beer.
He was thinking about the way your nose crinkled when you laughed. He was thinking about how he'd accidentally overheard you on the phone with your mom, your voice soft and sweet as you reassured her you were eating enough.
That. That right there was the problem.
"You're thinking about the new girl, aren't you?" Gareth grinned, a knowing look on his face.
"Her name is not 'the new girl'," Eddie snapped, a little too quickly. "And no, I'm not."
"Liar," Jeff chimed in. "You only get this constipated look when you're thinking about a girl."
Eddie's mind flashed back to that morning. The look on your face. The venom in your tone when you'd said, ‘Your neck says otherwise, Eddie.’ He hadn't been able to get it out of his head.
"She's not even your type, man," Gareth continued, oblivious to the inner turmoil he was stoking. "Isn't she like, all... pink and fluffy?"
"And she asked him to stop calling her 'princess'," Jeff added with a smirk. "That's gotta hurt the ego."
"It does," Eddie mumbled into his beer. "It really, really does."
He just shook his head and signaled the bartender for another round.
"She caught one of my... groupie conquests, trying to escape through the store," Eddie admitted, finally giving in.
Jeff and Gareth's laughter was loud and obnoxious.
"You're an idiot, Munson," Jeff said, clapping him on the back. "An absolute idiot."
"Yeah, well, tell me something I don't know," Eddie grumbled.
"So what's the plan?" Gareth asked, suddenly serious. "Are you going to, you know, talk to her? Like a normal human being?"
"And say what? 'Hey, sorry you saw me with another woman, but I'm actually hopelessly in love with the way you organize the vinyl'?" Eddie scoffed. "Yeah, that'll go over well."
"Just... talk to her, man," Jeff urged. "You guys have a lot in common, despite the... aesthetic differences. You're both nerds about music. Start there."
That night, lying in bed, the sounds of the sleeping city filtering through his window, Eddie couldn't stop thinking about you.
The way you hairbow bounces a little when you danced behind the counter to some obscure power pop song he'd put on.
The way your face lit up when a customer would ask you for a recommendation you were passionate about.
Your perfect pink pout when he annoyed you.
Yeah. He was so fucked.
The next day you walked into the store and the air immediately felt different. Eddie was already behind the counter, furiously scribbling something in a notebook.
It was starting to snow, the weather app on your phone saying it was going to be a bad one, so you were grateful for the warmth of the store. You hung your coat and went to the counter.
"Morning."
He looked up, and for a second, you saw panic flash across his face before he slammed the notebook shut.
"Hey pri-" Eddie caught himself, jaw tightening. "Hey. Morning." The correction landed awkwardly between you, a placeholder for something more familiar.
You simply nod, and the silence stretches, filling the space with a thousand unsaid things.
"I'm surprised we're open. I doubt we're going to get a lot of customers in this blizzard." You said, trying to make small talk, anything to fill the void.
"You could have called out. I could handle it on my own. Not like I have a far commute. Just up the stairs." The tone was casual, but the offer was clear. A peace offering.
"No. I like the snow." You said, looking out the big front window. And it was true. You did. The way it muffled the world, turned everything into a soft, hazy dream. "Makes the whole city quiet."
Eddie watched you for a long moment.
Your nose was a little red from the cold, and you'd tucked your hair behind your ears. You looked so... soft. A stark contrast to the jagged, noisy feeling inside him.
You were right. There was barely any foot traffic all day.
By the time the storm got pretty bad, John called, saying you two could close up early and get home safe. The problem was your car was buried, and Eddie knew even if you tried you wouldn't get far in it.
"You can, uh, wait it out at my place if you want," Eddie said, trying to sound casual and failing spectacularly. "It's better than freezing in your car."
"My knight in shining armor." You deadpanned. "It's fine. I can walk."
"You live across town. You'll be a human popsicle by the time you get to the main road." He said, locking the front door and flipping the open sign to closed. "C’mon. I'll make us some hot cocoa. With tiny marshmallows and everything. And you can meet Ozzy."
The promise of cocoa, with tiny marshmallows, was apparently your undoing. You hesitated for a moment, then nodded, a slow, reluctant bob of your head.
"Ozzy?" You asked, a small smile finally breaking through your defenses.
"My cat. The real ruler of the apartment, Prince of Darkness himself."
You followed him up the narrow, creaking staircase, your heart thumping a strange, uneven rhythm against your ribs.
The idea of being in his space, the space he shared with other women, sent a confusing mix of anticipation and dread through you.
His apartment was exactly what you expected, and nothing like it. It was chaotic, but a lived-in, comfortable chaos.
Guitars hung on the walls, surrounded by posters of bands you both loved and loathed.
A vintage leather couch was covered in mismatched pillows and a black fuzzy blanket.
It was a studio, so the bed was just there, half made and partially hidden behind a privacy screen.
It was messy, but clean. And it smelled like him— incense, old wood, and something warm, like sandalwood and clean laundry.
Then, a sleek black cat with one enormous green eye padded out from behind the couch, the other eye a milky, cloudy white.
It made him look perpetually unimpressed with the world.
"And this is Ozzy," Eddie said, scooping the cat up with practiced ease. Ozzy tolerated the affection, purring a deep, rumbling engine against Eddie's chest. "Don't mind him. He's judging us all."
You reached out a hesitant hand, letting Ozzy sniff your knuckles.
"He's blind in that eye," Eddie said softly. "Found him in a dumpster behind the store. Someone, uh, wasn't very nice to him."
Your heart did a painful little lurch.
You looked from the scarred, one-eyed cat to the man holding him. The 'devil-worshipping' freak of Hawkins who rescued hurt animals. The contradictions piled up, making your head spin.
"He's beautiful." You say it softly, unsure which of the boys you were actually talking about.
Eddie's gaze caught yours, and for a moment, the air crackled. The unspoken things between you felt heavier than the storm raging outside.
"Yeah, well," he cleared his throat, carefully placing Ozzy back on the floor. "Cocoa. Right."
He busied himself in the small kitchenette, pulling out two mismatched mugs and a carton of milk.
You sat on the edge of the worn leather couch, hands clasped in your lap, feeling like an intruder in a life you were suddenly desperate to know.
A few minutes later, he came back with two steaming mugs, topped with a generous handful of tiny marshmallows, exactly as promised.
"Careful, it's hot." He set yours down on the cluttered coffee table.
You took a cautious sip. The chocolate was rich and dark, and the tiny marshmallows melted into a sweet, sugary foam on your tongue.
"Thank you." You murmur, wrapping your hands around the warm ceramic.
"It's no problem." He sat down on the opposite end of the couch, a careful distance between you. "So, uh, this is the place. Palace of sin, as John calls it."
You cough a little as he says that, almost choking on your marshmallow.
"He's joking, mostly." He adds quickly, misinterpreting your reaction. "He knows I'm not really sacrificing bunnies."
"I don't think that's why he calls it the palace of sin." You say quietly into your mug, and then you look at him. You look him directly in the eye, and it's the first real, sustained eye contact you've had since the morning with the girl in the sweatshirt.
"You really think I'm some kind of slut, don't you?"
The question hangs in the air, raw and unfiltered. It's not an accusation, not really. It's a genuine inquiry, and the vulnerability in it catches you completely off guard.
"No... I just..."
You what? Why did you care so much what he did or who he did it with? Why did you feel a heat pooling lower when his shirt would ride up or when he would stick his tongue out just slightly while concentrating?
You try to search for the words, to articulate the tangled mess of your feelings.
"I'm not judging you. I don't care who you sleep with. It's..." You trailed off, gesturing vaguely between you, the storm, the empty apartment. "I don't know what it is."
"Then what was that comment about my neck? That sounded a lot like judging." He's not angry, just… confused. A deep furrow of confusion between his brows.
"Because I was jealous, Eddie!" The confession bursts out of you, loud and uncontrolled. "I saw her. In your sweatshirt. And I hated it. Because she was... she looked like she made sense next to you. And I don't. And that makes me feel insane!"
The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the howl of the wind outside and the frantic thumping of your own heart.
Eddie's big brown eyes seemed even bigger now, wide and a little glazed. He opened his mouth, then closed it.
"You... what?" He finally manages to say.
"I was jealous!" You repeat, the admission now free, terrifying and liberating all at once.
"You were... jealous. Of... her." He's processing it, the words slowly arranging themselves into a coherent thought in his head. A slow smile spreads across his face, but it's not his usual smirk. It's something softer, a little dazed.
"Can we not? Look, I know I'm not your usual type. I'm not some cool, effortless rocker chick in black jeans and a band tee. I'm wearing a sweater with little embroidered daisies on it, for fuck’s sake. I just... I didn't expect it to bother me so much. Seeing you with... someone more your type." You finally look at him, and the vulnerability in your expression is raw, an open wound.
Eddie leans forward, closing the distance between you on the couch.
"You're an idiot," he says, and there's no venom in it. It's a mirror of what you'd said to him what felt like a lifetime ago, but this time it's gentle, almost fond. "A complete, beautiful, floral clad idiot."
You blink. "Beautiful?"
"Yes, beautiful," he says, his gaze unwavering. "And you think she's my type? Did you not hear a single word I said? She was a one-time thing. A... mistake. I was trying to get over this... girl I work with."
He takes your cocoa mug from your trembling hands and sets it on the table. Then he takes one of your hands, his calloused guitarist's fingers wrapping gently around yours.
"You're like, my dream girl. All pretty and soft but with this fire inside you. You know more about music than half the dicks who come in here trying to flex on me. You laugh at my stupid jokes. And for whatever reason, you seem to tolerate my general presence." He takes a shaky breath. "Honestly, I can't imagine why you'd ever give me a second look, but I am so glad you do."
The tears you were fighting back finally escape, tracing hot paths down your cold cheeks.
"I thought you were making fun of me," you whisper. "When you call me princess."
"I am, but it's affectionate! I think you're a princess, but like, a warrior princess. The kind who would totally behead her enemies but then cry at a sad movie." He's so close now you can feel the warmth radiating from him. "I like your little cardigans. And the bows in your hair. I like them so much."
You can't take it anymore. The tension, the longing, the weeks of misunderstanding, it all snaps.
You close the final inch of space between you, pressing your lips to his.
It's not a gentle kiss. It's messy and desperate, a collision of months of unspoken feelings. He tastes like cheap cigarettes and expensive cocoa, a combination that is somehow fitting. His hands come up to cup your face, thumbs stroking away your tears as the kiss deepens, becoming softer, more exploratory.
"Don't cry, princess," he murmurs against your lips, the nickname a caress now, a secret shared only between you two.
You shift, swinging a leg over his lap to straddle him, the worn leather against your knees and the seam of his jeans rough against the soft fabric of your tights.
He lets out a surprised laugh, hands moving to the soft curve of your hips. "Well, shit," he breathes, looking up at you with wide, adoring eyes. "Okay."
His hands grip your hips, and you can feel the hard press of him through his jeans.
"You're so pretty," he says, the words a low rasp against your skin. You lean down to kiss him again, a slow, deliberate press of your lips. This time, it's less desperate, more sure. His hands slide from your hips, up your back, tracing the line of your spine through the delicate embroidery on your cardigan. He's touching you like you're something precious, something he's afraid of breaking.
"I want this," you whisper, the confession a puff of air against his jaw. "I want you."
"You have me," he answers, his hands stilling on your back. "Eager girl."
With newfound confidence, your lips find the sensitive skin just below his ear, and you're rewarded with a sharp inhale.
"Let's," you start, a little breathless, "move this to somewhere not the couch."
"Right. The bed. Yes."
The journey is clumsy, a mess of tangled limbs and quiet laughter. He backs you towards the bed, and the backs of your knees hit the mattress, sending you falling back with a soft bounce.
He looms over you, blocking out the dim light of the single lamp in the corner, a shadow made of ink and want. He hooks a finger into your sweater, tugging it up and over your head.
You had layers on, a tank over your bra, a skirt, tights, leg warmers. You blush a little at how many items of clothing he'd have to work through.
"Aren't you a present," he mutters, his eyes raking over you. "Gonna let me unwrap you, sweet girl?"
All you can do is nod, a frantic little bob of your head.
His knuckles brush against your skin as he unbuttons your skirt, slowly pulling it down your legs. His eyes follow the path of the fabric, a dark, hungry look in them. He tosses it aside, leaving you in your tights and tank top.
"These have to go." He says, hooking a finger in the waistband of your tights. "I'll be good and not ruin them. This time."
He's careful as he peels them down, the fabric whispering against your skin. The cool air of the apartment hits your bare legs, and you shiver.
"Shhh, I've got you," he murmurs, leaning down to press a warm kiss to your knee, then another a little higher, on your inner thigh. "Gonna keep you warm."
His hands trail up your legs, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin where your thighs meet your hips. The touch is feather-light, maddeningly teasing, and you can't help but arch into it, a silent plea for more.
"Let's see if we're on the same page." he whispers, as if he can read your mind. His fingers continue their slow, deliberate journey upward, and you feel a breath catch in your throat as he traces the edge of your underwear. He hooks a finger under the damp fabric, and your whole body tenses in anticipation. "Oh, yeah. We are definitely on the same page."
With a low groan, he kneels on the floor at the foot of the bed, pulling you flush against the edge. He presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your clothed core, and the heat of his breath through the thin cotton is enough to make you gasp.
"Eddie..."
"Wet little thing already," he murmurs, his voice vibrating against you. "All for me? Just from a few kisses and some sweet talk?"
You can only manage a weak, desperate nod in response.
"Gonna treat you so good, princess." The nickname is a worshipful murmur now. "Gonna make you forget all about being jealous."
He finally slides your underwear down your legs, the cool air a shocking but welcome sensation against your slick heat. His hands gently spread your thighs, and you feel utterly exposed, completely vulnerable under the intensity of his gaze.
"Fuck," he breathes, the word a reverent whisper. "Look at you."
He leans in, and the first touch of his tongue is a revelation. It's slow, deliberate, a thorough exploration that has you writhing on the bed. He's not in a hurry. He's savoring every second, every sigh and whimper that escapes your lips.
"Mmm... this is my favorite flavor," he hums against you, the vibrations sending shivers through your entire body. "Wet, sweet, and all mine."
He focuses on your clit, drawing lazy circles with the flat of his tongue before switching to quick, precise flicks. Your hands find their way into his hair, the strands tangled between your fingers as you guide him, your hips bucking against his face in a desperate, needy rhythm.
"That's my girl," he praises, pulling back for a second to look at you. "So needy for me. Look at you, trying to fuck my face."
He's smiling, a smug, entirely too pleased smile, and you want to be annoyed, but all you can feel is a white-hot pleasure coiling tight in your belly.
"More, please, Eddie," you beg, your voice breathy and high.
"Anything for you, princess," he whispers, diving back in with renewed fervor.
He slides a long finger inside you, then another, the stretch perfect as he curls them just right, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. His tongue is relentless at your clit. His eyes are on you, so dark with lust they're almost black.
He looks like the most handsome devil and you understand why this is a den of sin as your back arches off the bed, a silent scream caught in your throat. The orgasm crashes through you, a wave of blinding pleasure that leaves you shaking and breathless.
He doesn't stop, working you through it until you're whimpering, oversensitive and boneless.
"Please," you gasp, pushing weakly at his head. "Too much."
"Too much?" He grins, pressing a final, soft kiss to your oversensitive clit before crawling up your body to loom over you. "We're just starting."
His lips crash against yours, and you taste yourself on his tongue. The intimate flavor makes your head spin. You kiss him back with a desperate hunger, your hands roaming over the familiar planes of his back, feeling the muscles tense and shift under your touch.
He lifts his shirt off and then reaches for the hem of your tank top. You raise your arms, letting him pull it over your head, revealing the simple, lacy pink bra you wore.
"Jesus Christ," he breathes, his eyes darkening as he takes in the sight of you. "Hiding these from me, were you?"
He reaches behind you to unclasp your bra with a practiced flick of his wrist, tossing it aside. His hands are on you then, cupping the weight of your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your already hardened nipples.
"God, I'm gonna worship these." He says, before leaning down to take one into his mouth.
He sucks and licks and nips, each tug sending a jolt straight to your core. Your back arches, pressing yourself closer, seeking more friction, more of him.
"Sensitive little thing," he murmurs against your skin before switching to the other, giving it the same, thorough attention. "Could probably make you come just from this, couldn't I?"
The thought alone is enough to make you moan.
"Yeah.. I bet I could. Maybe next time." He pulls away, a string of spit connecting his lips to your nipple. "Right now, I need to be inside you."
He stands up, making quick work of his own belt and jeans, shoving them down his legs along with his boxers. He kicks them away, and your breath catches in your throat.
It's the prettiest cock, dark curls at the base, flushed and already beading with precum at the tip. You watch, transfixed, as he gives himself a few slow, deliberate strokes.
"Yeah?" His smirk is sinful. "You like it? Like knowing you did this to me?"
"Come here," you demand, your voice thick with want.
He moves over you again, settling between your thighs. He takes himself in hand, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal.
"I'm on the pill," you breathe out, a desperate last-ditch effort at coherent thought.
"Thank fuck," he groans, and then he's pushing inside you.
The stretch is a steady burn as he fills you inch by inch.
"Oh, fuck," he chokes out, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "Feel so... you feel so good."
You wrap your legs around his waist, your heels digging into his back, pulling him deeper.
"Dirty girl," he chuckles, the sound of a low rumble in your ear. "Want it deep, huh?"
His hips begin to move, a slow, rocking rhythm that has you seeing stars.
"Does the pretty, soft princess like to be fucked deep and hard?" The question is a taunt, a dare, and you answer with a sharp buck of your hips, taking him even deeper. "Yeah she fucking does."
He rears up, grabbing your hands and pinning them above your head with one of his, lacing your fingers together. The other hand grips your hip, holding you steady as he picks up the pace.
"Perfect for me, aren't you?" He breathes, his eyes locked on yours. "Soft and sweet on the outside, but underneath, you're a dirty little thing. My dirty little thing."
"Just for you..." It comes out a whiny moan as he starts to pound into you, the headboard of his bed starting to tap against the wall.
"My good girl." He claims. The rhythm is punishing, a driving beat that pushes you toward the edge again. "Letting a monster like me defile your pretty little body."
The coil in your belly is winding up again, tighter and hotter than before.
"I'm close," you gasp, your nails digging into the back of his hand. "I'm so close."
"Mm yeah, baby. Can feel it. But you're gonna give me a few aren't you?" He coos. His pace changes to deep, grinding thrusts, the coarse hair at the base of his cock grinding deliciously against your clit. "Gonna soak my dick again and again before I'm done with you."
You whine his name as your orgasm washes over you, the pleasure so intense it borders on pain. Your walls flutter around him, gripping him tight, and he groans, a long, deep sound of satisfaction.
"Oh yeah... I'm going to make you do that again," he pants. "Look at you, can't even stop shaking."
Before you've even come down, he's flipping you over. He pulls your hips up, guiding you to your hands and knees.
"This okay?" He whispers in your ear, checking in even now, the consideration a stark contrast to the raw, primal fucking.
You nod, pushing back against him, a wordless plea for more. He eases back in, the new angle hitting even deeper.
"Jesus... look at that," he breathes, his hands gripping your ass, spreading you wide so he can watch himself disappear inside you.
He starts moving again, a faster, harder rhythm that has the headboard slamming against the wall all over again.
"Wish you could see the way this pretty pussy swallows me," he growls, punctuating his words with sharp, deep thrusts. "So greedy for me. Taking my cock so well."
His words are filthy, a string of praise and degradation that makes your head spin.
"I'm gonna have you on every surface in this apartment. The couch. The kitchen counter. Up against the window where anyone could see."
The image flashes in your mind, and a fresh wave of arousal gushes around him. "Oh you filthy fucking thing. You'd like that wouldn't you? Want someone to see what we do? See how good you take me?"
You're reduced to a series of desperate sobs and whimpers, your brain too foggy with pleasure to form a coherent response. "S'good... f-feels so..."
"Yeah, I know, princess," he pants, one of his hands snaking around to find your clit. "Got you stupid on my cock, don't I? Just a pretty, brainless mess for me."
He circles your clit with a rough thumb, and that's all it takes. The next orgasm rips through you, violent and overwhelming.
He leans over, kissing your shoulder as your body trembles. "There we go... I want one more."
"Eddie..." you protest, the word a weak puff of air. "Can't..."
"You can," he insists, his voice low and demanding. "You will."
And he proves it.
He pulls out, turning you onto your back once more. The sheets beneath you are damp, a testament to your pleasure. He looks at you with such awe, a reverence that makes your heart ache.
"My messy girl," he murmurs, spreading your legs wide. "Fucking perfect."
He slides back in, the sensation of him filling you again almost too much, and yet exactly what you crave.
Your thighs are pressed against your chest, a position that has him impossibly deep. He moves slowly this time, deep, grinding thrusts that stoke the fire in your belly all over again.
"Yeah... gonna give it to you nice and slow," he breathes, his forehead pressed against yours. "Make you feel it."
"Feel you everywhere," you whimper, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. "Everywhere..."
"You're so beautiful like this," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "All fucked out and begging. Never seen anything prettier."
The praise is your undoing. You can feel another orgasm building, a slow, deep wave that promises to be the most intense of all.
He keeps kissing you as your thighs begin to shake. It's a slow, deep, bone melting thing. You're not even making loud noises anymore, just a constant mewl into his mouth.
Then you feel him start to lose rhythm, you pussy clenching him like you never want to let him go.
"M'close... fuck... princess, you're gonna make me... make me cum... " He grunts, burying his face in your neck, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you with a long, shuddering groan.
His release is warm and there's so much of it that it leaks out around him, but he doesn't pull out right away.
He stays there, a heavy, comforting weight on top of you, as you both catch your breath.
"Please don't pull out," you beg, clinging to him. "Not yet."
He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound in your ear. He rolls over, taking you with him, so you're sprawled across his chest, still connected.
"I'd never pull out if I didn't have to eventually," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. He was still buried deep, softening slowly inside you. "We can stay like this as long as you want."
He shifts slightly, and you can feel a little more of him slip out. You try to clench around him to keep him in place, a futile, desperate gesture.
"Sweetheart... easy," he soothes. "We've got all night. And tomorrow. And every day after that, if you'll have me."
He pulls a blanket over your tangled, sweat-slick bodies, cocooning you in warmth.
"Like... dating?" you ask, your voice muffled against his chest.
He laughs. "No, like I'm planning on keeping you as my sex prisoner in my den of sin." He says sarcastically, then his tone gets serious. "Yes, like dating. Fucking obviously. I've been pining over you for months. You think I'm just gonna let you walk away after I finally got you into my bed?"
The idea of him pining, of Eddie Munson being just as wrecked by this quiet, aching tension as you were, makes your heart swell.
"I'd like that," you whisper. "The dating thing. Not the sex prisoner thing."
He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your hair. "Good to know. Glad we got that cleared up. But I mean... if we're talking roleplay..."
You swat at his chest, but it's a weak, lazy motion. You feel him soften completely, finally slipping out of you. You whimper at the loss, a sudden, hollow ache.
He kisses your forehead, murmuring against your skin. "Let's get you cleaned up, princess."
He's gentle, so surprisingly gentle. He disappears into the small bathroom and returns with a warm, wet washcloth. You expected him to just toss it to you, but instead, he kneels on the bed beside you and carefully, meticulously wipes you clean.
"Really did a number on you, huh?" A soft, proud smile on his face as he looks at the mess between your thighs. "All full and swollen. Perfect."
You hide your face in your hands, a fresh wave of heat flooding your cheeks.
"No, no. Don't hide from me." He gently pulls your hands away, leaning down to kiss you, a slow, deep, claiming kiss. "Come on... shower and pee time. Maybe round two if we're lucky."
He pulls you to your feet, and your legs tremble, almost giving out from under you.
"Woah there." He catches you, scooping you up into his arms with a grunt. "I've got you. And the princess gets carried to her throne, apparently."
You can't help but laugh as he carries you into the tiny bathroom.
After you've both showered, the hot water a welcome ease to your sore muscles, he leads you back to the bed, pulling on a fresh pair of boxers before handing you a t-shirt of his, an old Metallica one that's been washed so many times it's soft and worn.
You pull it on, getting into bed next to him. Ozzy jumps up to join you, curling into a ball against your stomach with a deep, rumbling purr.
"See? He approves," Eddie murmurs, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close. "And Ozzy is a very good judge of character."
You snuggle into his side, your head on his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heart.
The storm has passed, and outside, the world is quiet, blanketed in a fresh layer of snow.
Inside, you're warm and safe in your own private palace of sin, the world outside melting away until there's only the two of you, and the comforting weight of a one-eyed cat, and the promise of every tomorrow.
synopsis: loneliness wasn’t something new, you found yourself growing used to the isolation, because people never stayed when it came to the heaviness of your emotions, strong enough to swallow you entirely, leaving nothing but an empty stare — until Eddie Munson showed up, and showed you what it was like to breathe again, to be the person you needed all along.
content tags: mental health issues, anxiety, self-doubt, depression, implied personality disorder, attachment, co-dependency, emotional vulnerability, angst with comfort.
word count: 2.2K
The first thing people usually notice about you is that you’re always alone, not the mysterious kind of lonely that makes people curious, just alone. This was the kind of loneliness that settled deep in your bones, following you everywhere until it climbed into bed with you every night.
You wore loneliness like a second skin, and by senior year, nobody questioned it anymore. Nobody asked why you spent most lunches hidden behind the school with a cigarette burned between your fingers even though you hated the smell of smoke.
Nobody asked why you always looked exhausted, even though you slept through all your classes.
Nobody asked why your eyes were permanently shadowed with dark circles, even though you wore concealer everyday to try and cover them.
Nobody asked why some days you walked through the halls like a ghost and other days you were laughing too loudly at things that weren’t entirely that funny.
People stopped asking questions when they realized there weren’t any easy answers. You were a complicated person, too difficult, too emotional, too attached, simply just too much for the regular person. People decided early on that your feelings were always too big, your sadness was too deep, and your anger burned too hot.
The worst part? Your love, because when you loved someone, you didn’t know how to do it halfway. You never did, it was almost physically impossible. You loved people with your entire soul, like a drowning person finally breaking the surface of the water.
You latched onto people, clinging to them desperately until eventually they left, including friends that got too overwhelmed, until boyfriends got too annoyed, until people just grew tired of it.
Everyone always grew tired, so eventually you just stopped trying. You stopped trusting people, and more importantly, you stopped hoping that someone would finally stay. You spent most days moving through Hawkins with a permanent ache in your chest, a quiet sadness mixed with the constant fear that everyone secretly hated you.
Your mind never shut up, eventually turning every conversation into evidence, every glance becoming silent proof of their hatred, and every delayed response felt like abandonment. It was utterly exhausting, living inside your own head felt like being trapped in a house that was constantly on fire, and no matter how hard you tried, you could never escape the smoke.
You spent nights staring at your bedroom ceiling while old records played softly in the background, something to keep your mind from spiraling into that darkened depths that you barely managed to pull yourself out of.
You rarely slept those days, where the voices got too loud, leaving you to drift through life in a haze of anxiety and loneliness, until Eddie Munson showed up, and suddenly you remembered what it felt like to breathe.
It happened by accident, the way all disasters do. It was around late September when you were sitting outside the school after hours, sitting on the concrete steps with your knees pressed against your chest, headphones plugged into your walkman, draining out the thoughts in your head with a cigarette pressed between your fingers.
You weren’t even smoking it anymore, just holding it between your fingers as you watched the smoke curl into the air, until a sudden shadow fell across you. When you looked up, all you saw was leather and denim, paired with messy curls and brown eyes.
“Those things’ll kill you, sweetheart.”
You blinked once, staring up at him with a slightly confused expression, because nobody talked to you, not anymore, but yet there he was, looking directly at you, almost like he saw you beneath the surface of everything.
You hated how quickly your heart raced after a single interaction. “I’m not really smoking it.” You muttered, because you weren’t, the spark was barely lit anymore.
Eddie glanced down, noticing the fading spark, then laughed softly at the realization, the sound making something warm bloom inside your chest. “Oh, well, that’s probably healthier.” He pointed out.
You rolled your eyes at his words, but your lips twitched into a slight smile despite yourself. “Yeah, guess so.”
Without a word, he sat down beside you, almost like it was the most natural thing in the world. There was no judgment or hesitation, just a simple movement that made it feel like he belonged there, like you weren’t something that people whispered about.
The conversation lasted twenty-three minutes, you knew because you counted. You counted everything, twenty-three minutes, thirty-seven laughs, three accidental touches, and two nicknames.
And when he finally stood to leave, you spent the entire night thinking about him, replaying the memory on repeat until sunrise. You should have known then, should have recognized the signs, and that dangerous feeling that bloomed beneath your ribs, because you felt it before.
You felt that desperate attachment before, that overwhelming fixation that left your heart racing until it was consumed with the terrifying certainty that someone suddenly mattered more than they should.
But, Eddie felt different, at least that’s what you told yourself.
And after that day, Eddie started to appear everywhere, even your favorite isolated spots around town, almost like gravity kept dragging the two of you together, and everything you saw him, the ache inside your chest eased, just enough to keep you wanting more.
Because being around him felt different than being alone, the noise in your head quieted, letting the sadness and anxiety loosen, not completely, but enough to make him feel addictive.
You started looking for him everywhere, scanning crowds, checking parking lots, even listening for his voice. Your entire day would be ruined if he wasn’t at school, but your entire mood would change instantly if he smiled at you.
You hated how much power he had over you, but you loved it at the same time, because for the first time in years, someone reached for you first, and that realization hit harder than anything else had.
It was late in the evening, raining talking against the window as you curled up against his mattress while music played softly from an old cassette player. Eddie was sitting cross-legged on the floor, sorting through D&D notes while you stared at him, admiration glimmering through your eyes.
You couldn’t help it, everything about him fascinated you, the way he laughed, the way he talked with his hands when he was excited, and especially the way he made you feel wanted, like you existed somewhere outside the whispered and voices inside your head.
You watched him for nearly fifteen minutes before he noticed, turning his head just enough to catch that spaced out expression. “What?” Eddie called out, smiling softly as you pulled yourself back into reality.
“Huh?” You blinked, head tilted slightly with confusion.
“You’re staring, sweetheart.” He pointed out, practically sensing the heat that flooded your cheeks.
“Oh, you noticed?” You asked, a small, embarrassed laugh slipping through.
Eddie laughed softly, shaking his head in amusement as he looked at you, matching that expression of admiration. “Sweetheart, you’ve been staring at me like I’m the last man on Earth.”
His words made your stomach twist slightly, because that was exactly how it felt. You looked away, anxiously fidgeting with your fingers as embarrassment flooded through you.
But, before your brain could convince itself that he’d been mocking you, Eddie reached over and nudged your knee, trying to pull your attention back onto him.
“Hey, look at me, sweetheart.”
When you looked back over at him, his expression softened immediately, noticing the silent panic beneath your eyes. “What?” You asked, voice coming out quieter than before.
“You okay, sweetheart?” Eddie asked quietly, concern laced into his voice as he looked over at you, head tilted slightly to get a better look at your face.
Suddenly, you felt your chest tightened, the weight of his concern nearly enough to destroy the glass bottle you packed your emotions inside of. You quickly looked away again, feeling your eyes burn with unshed tears as your throat swelled with an achiness.
“I’m fine, Eddie.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
The room became painfully quiet after that, just the rain tapping softly against the trailer as the music continued to hum in the background. You could practically hear your heart pounding against your chest, convinced it was loud enough to echo throughout the silence.
“I’m just scared.” You finally admitted, voice coming out in a whisper of uncertainty.
Eddie frowned slightly, eyebrows furrowing together with that softened expression, as if his heart were already aching after hearing your words. “Scared of what?” He asked gently, giving you the choice to continue.
Being left.
Being forgotten.
Being too much.
Being unlovable.
Being alone again.
But, the words never managed to come out, almost like they were lodged in your throat, the fear of being vulnerable clawing against your chest. Instead, you just shrugged, lips pursed together slightly, trying to swallow down that lump of emotions.
Eddie watched you for a moment, staring at you like he was trying to solve a puzzle before standing up and settling down beside you, close enough that you could smell the cigarette smoke lingering in his clothes.
“You know, you’re allowed to tell me stuff. Whatever it is, you can talk to me.” Eddie said quietly, almost encouraging you to speak up.
The words were so simple, but shattered something inside you, because nobody ever said things like that, nobody ever stayed long enough to want the ugly parts or the mess that came with them. But, when you looked at Eddie, all you could see was the sincerity and concern in his expression.
“I’m scared you’ll get tired of me.” You finally admitted, the confession slipping out before you had time to process the weight of it.
His expression immediately shifted, eyebrows furrowing together slightly as he processed your words, fumbling on his words for a moment before finally speaking.
“Don’t say that, sweetheart. I’m not going to get tired of you.” Eddie said, his voice clear with that gentle firmness.
You shook your head lightly, looking down at your lap, fingers anxiously twisting between each other. “You will, you just don’t know it yet.” You whispered, voice cracking as the silence stretched through the bedroom again.
Eddie shook his head, reaching over and grabbing your hand, gently holding them close, preventing you from picking at your nails any longer. “I could never get tired of you, sweetheart. No matter what happens, I would never.” He said softly, thumb brushing over your scarred knuckles in soothing motions.
A shaky exhale slipped over your lips, stiffly shaking your head at his words, trying to choke back the tears that threatened to spill. “You don’t know how bad it can get.” You whispered, voice breaking with each syllable, as if it were the only reasonable explanation.
His expression softened further, lightly squeezing your hands, trying to stop the subtle tremors rippling through you. “Then show me, show me how bad it can get, and I’ll still be here.”
The went went completely still, your head practically snapped toward him, staring at him with an unreadable expression, different emotions swirling behind your glossy eyes as you looked for anything to give away his sincerity, almost looking for a reason to doubt his reassurance.
But, there was none, and for one impossible moment, you actually believed him. Which was dangerous, because after all this time, hope has always been your downfall, because having hope made losing people unbearable.
And yet, sitting beside him, feeling the warmth of his body pressed against yours, you couldn’t stop the hope from slowly creeping in, quietly mixing into your body like something poisonous, or salvation.
Across the bedroom, the cassette player finally clicked as the song ended, filling the room with static, though neither of you moved to turn it off. Somewhere between the static and silence, past all the broken pieces buried inside you, the terrifying realization that you needed settled against your chest, heavy and permanent.
You already knew what happened when you needed people, you lost yourself in them until they faded away completely, leaving you hollowed and destroyed worse than before. You knew you should have pulled away, should have protected yourself from letting this happen.
Instead, you leaned closer.
The movement was barely noticeable, yet he noticed, and his eyes looking down at you, a small smile pulling at his expression, something filled with warmth and affection. Without hesitation, Eddie lifted an arm, gently wrapping an arm around your shoulder and pulling you against his side.
Every anxious thought disappeared, every doubt and insecurity gone, all because of him. You melted into his touch immediately, head resting against his shoulder as you inhaled deeply, the comfort of his presence wrapping around you warmly.
Outside, the rain continued to fall over the trailer park, everything still moving as it did before, but instead that tiny room, curled against his side, you felt something dangerously close to peace.
But neither of you realized that this wasn’t the beginning of a healthy relationship. It wasn’t healing or balance, and it wasn’t two people saving each other. It was loneliness finding loneliness, two damaged hearts discovering a place safe enough to hide.
It was a boy who loved being needed, and a girl who didn’t know how to survive without needing someone, and somewhere in between all of that wreckage, something beautifully devastating began to grow.
• stranger things masterlist.
author’s note: i actually missed writing for eddie so much, literally my COMFORT character, i will be getting back into writing for him again, promise!! also this isn’t proofread, im posting this at 4am :/
being too warm during the day: well, this sucks, but this temperature makes sense because the sun is up, and the sun is making me warm. i am unhappy but logically i can deal with it for now.
being too warm at night: what if i kill everybody.
re4r!Leon Kennedy x f!reader
summary: after six years of silence, you stumble into a ghost from your past at a crowded bar; only to find the boy you once knew replaced by someone hardened, haunted, and barely holding himself together.
wc: 11.5k (whoops)
content warning: SMUT MDNI!, porn w plot, brief use of y/n, alcohol consumption, swearing, kinda mean leon (at the beginning), fingering (f receiving), unprotected p in v, rough sex, aftercare, angst at the end, happyish ending
note: my first work! i apologize for the length i got far too carried away but i hope you enjoy! This is the first thing I've ever written for leon so if it's not as true to his character i will try to work on that. i'm very new to posting on this platform so if there's any issues please bear with me lol
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The local dive bar was crawling with people. It was a Friday night, dead of summer, everyone eager to start the weekend off right. Including you. It was a long, exhausting work week, and all you wanted was a night out with your close work friends and indulge in a drink. You’d lost count of the drinks somewhere between just one and definitely too many. All you knew was that the music was vibing well tonight and the alcohol coursed through your veins. You were dancing in the middle of the bar, bumping and grinding against your friends as they all laughed and sang terribly along with the music. Your head felt featherlight as you kept dancing, clearly feeling all the good effects the drinks had to offer. You lifted your cup and downed whatever was left of your drink, tossing the cup into the nearest trashcan. You looked over to one of your friends who wasn't the most fucked up, and leaned into her ear and slurred that you were going to get another drink. Your friend gave you a look, as to say are you sure you need another one? But you just shrugged it off. You deserved to get wasted tonight.
You sauntered your way across to the bar, hips swaying in your tight black mini skirt, along with a skin tight black tank top that definitely left nothing to the imagination. Your hair was curled loosely and laid gently across your back. Your eyes beelined to the bar, not aware of all the lingering stares from various men eyeing your ass or trying to get your attention. You also didn't register another familiar pair of eyes clocking you approaching him at the bar.
Leon was slumped in the barstool, like he usually was every weekend. Head hung low, eyes dark and brows in a permanent furrow on his face. He cradled a glass of whiskey, neat, also unsure of what number he was on now. Although he wasn't drinking in celebration. He was drinking to forget.
It had been a month since Spain, a month since he endured that treacherous mission and saved the President's daughter from whatever fucked up cult she found herself entangled with. As rewarding as it was to complete his mission, it never made up for the amount of trauma Leon would endure afterwards. Constant nightmares as soon as he had gotten home, memories of the Plaga coursing through his veins and almost causing him to fail his only mission, keep Ashley Graham safe. The only thing that would subside the nightmares and triggering thoughts was getting blackout drunk every night. That way he couldn't think straight, could forget about not only Spain, but everything that had led up to this moment in the past six years.
So here he was, downing yet another glass of whiskey to lull him to that so-called "safe space". He wanted to blend into the shadows of this bar and drink himself to death. The last thing he wanted was for someone to approach him. And as he sluggishly lifted his head to order another drink from the bartender, he couldn't help but feel his breath hitch as he saw you approach the bar.
He felt like he was transported back to his college days, about to graduate from the police academy, eager to save the world as he watched you put two supporting hands on the bar. They had known each other since high school, friends for years that coincidentally ended up going to the same college. Back when all Leon had to worry about was upcoming exams and whether or not you could tell that he was in love with you. He could feel his chest swell at the memories of debating whether he should upright tell you, those late nights they would spend together in each other's dorms studying when all he really could do was stare into your beautiful eyes. But that was six years ago. He wasn't that same enthusiastic, go getter boy that believed in the best in the world anymore, and he hated being reminded of that. Hated being reminded of what his life could've been, a police officer that just wanted to make the world a better place. He quickly turned his head back down to stare into his empty glass, hoping he could curl up enough to make sure you didn’t notice him.
You stumbled up to the bar, hands coming up to stabilize yourself so you didn't face plant into the hardwood of the counter. You got onto your tip toes so you could lean into the bartender's ear to shout your drink order over the loud chatter and music. Double vodka cranberry slurred out of your mouth and the bartender gave you a thumbs up. You settled back down, looking across the room to your friends absentmindedly dancing together. You turned your head the other way, towards the bartender, and watched with somewhat blurry eyes the other people trying to order drinks. Just then, you noticed someone sitting down at the end of the bar, shoulders hunched over and blond, shaggy hair hanging over their face. A full drink was slid over to their direction, a hand coming up to instinctively grab it before it slid onto the floor. At that point their head lifted to welcome the drink into their mouth, and you finally caught a glimpse of this familiar someone.
Holy shit, you thought to yourself, as none other than Leon Kennedy was at the end of the bar. The last time you had seen him was just before everything that happened at Raccoon City. You remembered how excited he was to have gotten a position at RPD, but after that fateful night you didn't know what had happened. You thought the worst, he was killed on duty trying to save the city. But it wasn't until a couple of weeks ago that you had heard through someone that he was the guy that rescued the President's daughter in Spain. You were more than relieved to hear that he was still alive, but what was more confusing was why you hadn't heard from Leon in the past six years. You thought that they were relatively close, but perhaps not.
If you weren't so hammered right now, you would've been able to read Leon's body language and realized that he was not in the mood to chat tonight. But the vodka was working overtime, and the man you thought was dead for the past six years was in the same bar as you right now. The bartender slid over your drink, and you picked it up before sauntering your way over to him. You approached Leon, head still hung low, eyes fixated on the brown liquor before him. You rested your elbow on the counter, leaning down to try and get a good look at him.
"As I live and breathe," you spoke a little too loud, trying to get your voice across the loud music and chatter, "Leon Kennedy? Is that you?"
Leon's grip tightens around the glass, knuckles almost white as he exhales a slow, agitated breath out his nose. He kept his head down, eyes closing tightly as the last thing he wanted to happen tonight came true. His free hand taps against the counter of the bar in an impatient rhythm, as if he was counting down the seconds until this encounter was over.
"Christ," he muttered to himself, voice rough from the lack of talking and slight burn of the whiskey down his throat. His icy blue eyes slowly make their way to look up at you, and he almost forgot why he was so upset.
You were even more beautiful than he remembered. Older now obviously, but all of your features had found their place to compliment yourself. Your hair was longer, cheeks slimmer, breasts fuller and your tiny black skirt hugged curves that weren't there six years ago. But you still had those bright eyes, still just as much fire and joy behind them. That's what brought him down to earth. As far as Leon could tell, you were still the same girl that he knew you to be. And you would be terrified to know that he was completely different. His eyes linger back up to yours, dark and unamused, the left side of his mouth twitches almost as if he tried to smirk, but came out more like a warning.
“Yeah, it‘s me.” His tone is flat, dismissive. He lifts his drink up to his mouth, glass clinking against his teeth as he takes another slow sip, trying to draw out the feeling of the burn down his throat. He takes another look at you as he lowers his glass, down at the drink you’re holding, then back up to your face, eyes hesitating a second too long at your tank top that hugged just tight enough around the swell of your breasts. He didn’t mean to stare too long, but he was drunk enough for his eyes to wander before focusing back at you.
“What do you want, y/n?” He said your name like it sliced his tongue, stinging over the feeling of who they used to mean to each other. “I’m not in the mood for a fucking reunion.”
You should’ve taken that as a warning and let him be, but you couldn’t keep your eyes off of him. He looked good. A little rough around the edges it looked, and definitely way too many late nights as you noticed the dark circles under his eyes, but his features were much more defined than they used to be. He lost all of the baby fat he once had, jawline sharper and cheeks hollowed out, his striking blue eyes laced with something darker that he didn’t have before. You glanced down at his drink, more so at the huge bicep straining over the grip he had on the glass.
You took a sip from your drink, barely registering the harsh taste of vodka on your tongue. You lean in just a tad closer, “Shit, didn’t realize you had a stick up your ass or something,” you laughed, your eyes grazing over the black compression t-shirt he was wearing, all his muscles perfectly accentuated, “it’s been awhile, no? Like, six years now?”
You could hear Leon scoff, and definitely not in a good way. He barely looked at you, and when he did, his gaze was sharp. Almost as if it pained him to see you here. You pulled out a stool beside him, as much as he would’ve rather you not, and sat down. You placed your drink down on the bar and propped your elbow up to rest your chin on your palm. You weren’t sure if it was the alcohol talking, or if it had been far too long since you had gotten laid, but the smell of Leon’s cologne and the whiskey that came off of his breath had you going crazy.
He still had not said anything to you, so you tried to bring something up to talk about. You remembered his latest mission in Spain, and your eyes lit up.
"Celebrating tonight? After saving the President's daughter? That had to have been interesting."
Leon's jaw clenched and his grip seemed to grow impossibly tighter on his glass at the mention of Spain. As if he had been trying all night to forget about that had gone down the drain. He looks over at you, noticing how much closer you had gotten and the way your eyelashes batted gently as you spoke. A hint of something sweet, like salted caramel, wafted into his nose instead of the stale bar air. He was getting pissed off. He didn't want to talk, and he was getting frustrated that you weren't getting the hint.
"Celebrating? Yeah. Real fucking party." His voice was a low growl, laced with something dangerous. "You wanna hear about it? Fine. It was a total shit show. People died. and I got to play hero as the whole goddamn city turned into a fucking graveyard." He watched as your eyes widened, still attentively looking at his own.
“Fuck, Leon, I didn’t know-”
"No, you don't fucking know," He cut in, leaning in just enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, the sharp edge of his cologne mixing with the whiskey on his breath, "I'm not here to reminisce. I'm here to drink. So unless you're gonna buy me another round y/n, get the fuck out of my face."
His eyes dropped down to your lips for just a split second, pink and plush from your lipgloss, slightly parted as you listened to him speak. Just as quick as it left, something soft flickers in his gaze. The woman he was once in love with was standing right in front of him, and you’re looking at him like how you used to; like he's not a total mess. He grinds his teeth, and knocks his head back to finish off the rest of his whiskey. "Or don't. I don't give a shit."
Leon's tone was just enough to snap you back to reality for a second. Sounds like whatever he had been up to the past six years was not treating him well. You knew he was angry, but as you watched his eyes, how dark they had gotten after mentioning his mission, you could sense he was hurting. Like he's longing for what he's lost over the years.
You don't say anything when you signal the bartender down, and order two more drinks for the both of them. You looked over at Leon again and smiled,
“Can I stay then?”
Leon almost rolls his eyes as he grunts, neither saying yes or no to your invitation. You took that as a yes, and settled into the barstool further. The bartender slid the drinks their way, and you grabbed yours and clinked the glass against Leon's before lifting it up to your lips.
"Here's to drinking our problems away, right?" You teased, giving him a wink and throwing your head back to fuel the liquid courage.
"Fucking hell..." Leon said under his breath, watching as you clinked your glass against his. Watching your neck extend as you drink causes him to shudder. He can't help but have his eyes wander again, the way your legs are crossed in the stool, skirt riding up far more than he's comfortable with. He has to tear his eyes away to his glass before he acts on something he shouldn't. You placed your drink back on the counter, and watched as Leon traced his finger over the rim of his glass, tongue licking his bottom lip unknowingly. You remembered that was a habit he had when he wanted to say something but wouldn't let himself.
You leaned in closer, one of your hands slowly snaking itself to the one Leon was using to toy with his glass, just gently hovering over it.
"You know," you dragged, words just slightly slurred and eyes lolling across Leon's face, "you're still just as handsome as I remember you."
Before you can react Leon's hand grips tightly around your wrist, just enough to make you gasp and yanks you closer, noses just inches away from each other. You can smell the whiskey off his breath, you look up at Leon's blown out pupils that are already burning holes into your face. His voice is low and rough when he speaks,
"Stop this game, y/n. You think I don't know what you're doing? Think I don't see the way you're looking at me?" His thumb presses into your pulse, feeling it drum against him. You swallowed a lump down your throat, not daring to break eye contact.
"I see the way you're looking at me too, Leon. My eyes aren't on my tits." A playful smile creeps up your face, wriggling your wrist free to glide a hand up Leon's forearm. Leon retracts his arm like your hand is on fire, and pulls it down into your lap. His hand stays pressed firmly against your thigh as he moves his lips to the shell of your ear, just ghosting over the skin.
"You don't know me anymore. I'm not the boy you remember, y/n." He pushed himself off of you, and leaned back over to his drink. Another second longer against you and he would've given in. Would've forced his lips onto yours and kissed you like it was his last day on earth. But he can't do that to you. Can't have you believe that he's someone he even recognizes anymore.
But just as quickly as Leon pushed away from you, you lean back over to him, hooking a finger onto the collar of his shirt and pressing your lips flush against Leon's ear.
"You seem to be forgetting something, Leon. I'm not the same person from six years ago either." You smiled against him, teeth grazing over his ear. You pulled back to look at his face. If he wanted to be rough with you, you could handle that.
"You've got this, hard front you're portraying," you began, letting go of Leon's collar to wave your hand gesturing to him, your free hand grabbing your drink, "mad at the world that you were the one to get caught up in its shit." You finish off your drink, clinking the glass down onto the counter.
“That’s not-”
"Do you want me to feel sorry for you? Is that it?" You’re leaned over the bar again, fingers tapping against the counter. "I can do that, if you'd like me to," you purred, your other arm coming to rest on Leon's shoulder, "but I think what you really want is for someone to take your nightmares away."
"You don't know what the fuck I want." Leon's voice is a razor blade, a bitter laugh claws against his throat. His hand wraps around the wrist hanging over his shoulder, not shoving it away, but gaining control. He leans into you, forehead almost touching, his breath hot and uneven against your face.
"I don't need your sympathy, y/n. I need-" He stops himself before he can say it. He realized that maybe he does need someone to help him forget. The whiskey was only doing so much, and for the time that you had been talking to him, all he'd been thinking about was how it would feel to kiss you. To slide his tongue into your mouth, to press his chest against yours.
Your hand intertwines with his, your head nudging just slightly to test the water. Your nose brushed against his and you felt Leon's breath shake. As standoffish as he was trying to come off right now, what you could really see was the hesitation. He kept stopping himself from doing what he truly wanted to.
"What, Leon? What do you need?" You whispered, your free hand coming to rest at the back of Leon's neck, fingers playing with his nape. You could see the contemplation behind his eyes, darting between your eyes and lips. Before you can ask him again, his lips crash against yours. It's rough and unsteady, teeth clashing and lips bruising. You melted into his touch, hands coming to cup the sides of Leon's face as you pulled him in closer.
Leon puts a hand in your hair, pulling it gently to tilt your head to kiss you deeper. Your lips part gently to gasp, which Leon takes advantage of to slide his tongue into your mouth. He can taste the vodka and cranberry juice against your tongue, he slides his free hand up to your throat to place gentle pressure, enough to make you moan into the kiss. For a minute, the thoughts in Leon's head go silent. All he can think about is you.
It doesn't stop him from pulling away just as quickly, though. His chest heaving as his wild eyes roam your face, the furrow in his brow just slightly loosening. the grip around your neck pulses, feeling your heartbeat racing against his palm.
"You wanna take my nightmares away? Show me that you can handle what's left of me."
Your lips pout slightly at the loss of Leon's touch, your eyes wild and roaming. You started to notice stares from other people in the bar now paying too much attention to the two of you. The way Leon's hand is gripped around your throat could be taken as something more malicious than it actually was. You turned to look over at your friends at the other end of the bar, still dancing and completely unaware of the situation. What harm could be done if you went home with him?
You got up from the barstool, your hands sliding up Leon's shoulders, a chaste kiss planted to the side of his neck. You could feel his neck strain at the feeling.
"People are watching, Leon," you whispered, your eyes pointing towards the exit, "you got somewhere we can continue this?" You could feel the adrenaline starting to flood through your veins, the heat between your legs making itself more known by the second. Without waiting, you made your way towards the exit of the bar, feet stumbling just a tad from the alcohol. You glanced over your shoulder to see Leon take his last sip of whiskey before throwing himself out of the barstool.
Leon couldn't have given less of a fuck if people were watching the two of you. Let them, he thought, let them watch how easily I can make you melt. He throws a wad of cash onto the bar counter and beelines his way to catch up to you. His blood boils as he watches you sway out of the bar, hips moving from side to side, your skirt riding up to just above the swell of your ass. He can already feel himself stiffening from just looking at you. It doesn't take him long to catch up behind you, pushing the door open to lead the both of you outside.
"My place is just a block away, unless you've changed your mind," He growls as he leans down to your ear, his hand coming down to press firmly on your hip. The cool air feels like nothing to the two of you from the way the heat of this tension radiates off of their skin. You placed a hand on top of his, looking up to meet his ice blue eyes.
"Lead the way, baby," you whispered, leaning in to kiss him passionately, your tongue swiping Leon's bottom lip. He groans into the kiss, using all of his strength not to just take you right now on the brick wall of the bar. He resists, pulls his lips away and leads you to his apartment.
Up ahead, a skyscraper is now in your line of vision. You almost got dizzy trying to look at the very top covered by the clouds. Leon pressed a couple of buttons and you heard the doors unlock with a click, where then Leon ushered you inside and walked towards the elevator. They enter the elevator, and Leon presses the button that leads up to the penthouse. You let out a breathy laugh, crossed your arms and leaned against the wall of the elevator.
"Penthouse, huh? President pay you handsomely after saving his daughter?" You could see Leon's shoulders tense, he slowly turned around to face you. He stalked toward you, an arm coming to cage you in between him and the elevator wall.
"Yeah. Government pays well for silence," he muttered, tone coming off more painful than he'd prefer. You looked over at the mirror on the other side of the wall, watching the way Leon's back muscles twitch under his shirt.
"Not as scrawny anymore either," you hummed, hands reaching up to feel up his biceps to his shoulder blades, "bet they whipped you into shape after Raccoon City, huh? Lucky me." A lustful smile crept onto your face, flashing your pearly white teeth. Leon's body presses harder into yours, pushing you deeper against the elevator wall. His other hand comes to grip your jaw, tilting it to have your gaze on his face.
"Lucky you?" His voice is a dark, dangerous purr, lips just gently brushing against yours as he spoke, "Sweetheart, you have no idea what you just got yourself into." The elevator dings just as Leon puts a firm grip on your thighs, fingers digging into the plush skin as he lifts. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, arms resting on his shoulders and leaned down to plant another sloppy kiss.
Leon walks backwards into the foyer of his apartment, the darkness of the living room engulfing them the further he went inside. Your hips ground into Leon's waist, your hands trailing up to rake through his hair. A low groan vibrated out of Leon's lips, eyes wiring shut and brows in a tighter furrow than before. It feels like he's walking for forever until you get tossed onto a couch, eyes flying open to Leon looming over you.
You took a quick glance at your surroundings. Everything about the penthouse is dark. The walls, furniture, even whatever lights on are dimmed low. The floor to ceiling windows are wide open, beautiful views of the city and night sky surrounds them. You noticed how pristine the place is. No pictures of friends or family, except for a singular picture of a blonde little girl in the corner of the room. Empty whiskey bottles are littered around the coffee table and kitchen island. You wondered if Leon ever actually spends any time here, if it actually feels like a home.
Before you can ask any questions, you feel Leon's presence quickly closing in on you. He's propped up on top of you, hands a mind of their own. They’re on your thighs, hips, waist, chest, neck, and finally tugging at your hair. His lips come down to kiss along your neck, sucking hard enough to definitely leave marks in the morning.
You moaned, your eyes fluttering closed and your lips parted slightly. Leon's hands left your hair, his right hand coming down to play with the hem of your tank top before yanking it high enough to expose your lacy bra. He pulls himself off your neck to look at your chest.
"You're just fucking asking for it aren't you?" He gives you no time to answer as his hand gropes your chest over the bra, calloused fingers pinching at your nipple. A breathy gasp leaves your mouth, locking eyes with Leon as he continues to stimulate you. The friction between the fabric is becoming too much, you pull his hand away to pull your tank top and bra over your head in one swoop. A lazy grin forms over Leon's face, eyes trailing down to your now exposed breasts.
"Cutting to the chase are we?" He purred, both hands now reaching to grab at you. You let out a tsk, hands quick to grab Leon's wrists.
"Your turn." You looked at his too clothed torso, eyes practically burning through his shirt. Leon sits up, breaking free from your grasp.
"So needy, not even a please?" Leon pulls the shirt over his head, throwing it on the floor next to him. His chest glows from the light out the windows, collarbones hollow, ab muscles tightening with each breath. What you didn't expect to see was a long scar going diagonally across his right pec. Something, or someone, had done that to him. You tried to rise from the couch, fingers extended to try and reach his stomach, but he stopped you. With enough force he pushed you back down onto the cushions.
"Enough of that," he said, hands coming to rest on your knees, spreading them apart before him, "you don't get to touch me without my permission now." A whine escaped your lips, eyes never breaking contact with his. He reaches for your skirt, your hips lift off the couch at the same moment he goes to tug it off of you. All that's left is a matching lacy black thong, already soaking wet.
Leon pushes your knees all the way apart, hands slowly creeping their way down your thighs, one stopping right at your pelvic bone while the other feels your mound over the underwear. Leon groans at the wet spot, the fact that you’re already so turned on for him makes him feral.
"Already so wet for me," he slowly rubs circles with his index and middle finger on your clothed clit, hips bucking up in reaction. He picks up the pace, other hand pressing firmer on your hip to stop from squirming. Your chest is heaving, one of your hands grasping at your breast to increase the stimulation.
"Fuck, Leon, been so long since someone's made me feel good like this," you moaned, "you do know how to make a woman cum, right? Or did they not teach you that in the military?" A laugh escapes your lips but is just as quickly morphed into a high gasp as your panties are ripped off of you, and two fingers are forcefully inserted deep in your core.
Leon wastes no time in pumping his fingers in and out of you, eyes transfixed on the way his fingers disappear inside of you. He can feel the way your walls are already tightening around him, causing the strain in his jeans even more unbearable. Your body writhes under his touch, your hands begging to wrap around his shoulders and claw your nails into his back.
"Leon..." you moaned, eyes pleading and lip pouting, "...need to touch you, please." You exhaled, breaths erratic as you felt that familiar knot in your stomach tightening.
"So you do know your manners," Leon purred, the pace of his fingers only getting faster, "you wanna touch me? Will that make you feel better?" A sloppy nod is your response, voice occupied with whines and moans.
“Use your words baby.”
“Y-yes! Please, Leon, let me touch you.”
"Good girl," a smile crept onto his face, pearly teeth catching the light. That gave you enough to lunge your arms around him, pulling your chest flush against his. Leon met you halfway with a kiss, never wavering in the motion of his fingers. He used his thumb to rub deep circles over your clit, causing a moan to vibrate against Leon's lips. That gave him the opportunity to slide his tongue in your mouth, deepening the kiss much more passionately.
You can feel yourself getting closer and closer, your hips grinding against Leon's fingers to reach that one sensitive spot. A third finger slips inside, the stretch burning your entrance in the best possible way. Your hands rake down his back, crescents indenting his back from your fingernails.
"You getting close? You gonna cum all over my fingers?" He teased, all three fingers curling right up inside of you, pace quickening at the reaction of your body.
"F-fuck, I'm so close," you whimpered, hips bucking and back arched off of the couch. The knot is taught in your belly, and with a few more strokes of his fingers and the deep circles over your clit, the knot snapped.
The orgasm flooded over your body, thighs shaking around Leon's hand, walls clenching tightly around his fingers. He continued to pump to ride out your high, until your back relaxed onto the couch and breaths evened.
You watched through lidded eyes as Leon pulled his fingers out of you, the digits soaked in your slick and glistening in the moonlight. Before you could realize what he was doing, the fingers prodded at your lips and you welcomed them into your mouth, tasting yourself on your tongue.
You sucked on his fingers, tongue swirling around them to swallow every last bit. Leon’s eyes were glued to your mouth, lips parted in awe and eyes full of lust.
“Fuck sweetheart, just like that,” he encouraged, taking the moment to register the beauty laid before him. Your hair was tousled over your shoulders, cascading down your chest and framing your breasts. Deep purple splotches were already beginning to form down your neck and chest, nipples pebbled from the brisk air of the apartment.
Leon’s mind was racing. You were so beautiful, so obedient to him, and that almost scared him. You didn’t know the extent to what he had been through in the last six years, you barely even knew who he was at all now. And he had convinced you to follow him back up to his apartment to let him bruise you? Let him ravage you? He felt sick. He felt like he was spoiling the last good thing left on this earth. He shook his head, cleared his throat and pulled his fingers out of your mouth.
“Turn around.”
You paused for a split second as you watched Leon’s hand exit your mouth and move to his belt buckle. You quickly flipped yourself around on the couch, hands and knees scrambling to prop yourself up. Your thighs still trembled from the orgasm that ripped through you not too long ago, your entrance aching at the emptiness. You could hear the clinking of Leon’s belt being unbuckled, jeans being unzipped and the soft thud of them hitting the floor next to you.
Leon’s large hands came to grip at your hips, hiking them higher up causing your face to smush against the couch cushions. One hand left your hip and you heard him hiss, sucking a breath through gritted teeth. It was your turn to gasp as you felt the tip of Leon’s aching cock swipe through your folds, coating the head with your slick. He lined up at your entrance, and wasted no time in fully pushing himself inside, bottoming out.
You yelped into the couch cushion, the hard smack of Leon’s hips against your ass is enough to make it sting. His cock hooks into that perfect spot, slamming it down again and again.
“God! Leon!” You whimpered, thankful now for his fingers stretching you out to prepare for what was about to come. You reached your hand in between your thighs to rub tight circles over your clit, matching the rhythm of the thrusts hitting your sensitive spot. Leon’s hands grip down hard on your hips, fingers pressing deep into your skin to keep him grounded. As if he needed to be touching you everywhere, he leaned down to press his chest against your back, grunts now purring in your ear.
“Fuck-” His voice is a growl, his lips brushing your ear as he feels you tighten around his cock, your walls fluttering as you once again get closer to that release. “So fucking pretty with my cock inside you.”
All that can be heard in the penthouse was the crack of his hips, balls slapping against your cunt as Leon quickened the pace even more. Moans just slipped out of your mouth involuntarily, forgetting the dominant front you had been putting up all night. He was making you feel delirious, eyes clouding with pleasure, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth.
“Don’t stop baby, it’s right there, don’t stop…” You babbled, back arching into his chest the closer you got to another orgasm. Leon’s hand slid around your throat, not choking, but holding, claiming. His thrusts slow, just enough to tease, and you can feel a smirk press into your temple.
“You’re all mine, y/n. Say you’re mine, or I’ll stop.” His hips rolled against yours, his cock dragged against that soft spot inside of you, breath hot on your face.
“Yours! I-I’m all yours, Leon!” You cried out, hips backing into his to try and regain the stamina, orgasm fighting to flood all over you. You craned your head back to try and look at him, eyes watering and saliva dripping down your chin, eyes begging for more. “I belong to you Leon, please, belong to only you.”
With that, Leon’s body shudders, and his hips pick up their speed again, pounding deeper than before. You cry out in pleasure, hand fumbling at your clit to add intensity to that familiar knot tightening in your core.
“That’s it- take it,” Leon snarls, taking his hand off of your neck to replace it with his whole arm, stabilizing your head better the deeper he rammed inside of you. His bicep pulsed in front of you, and without thinking you buried your face into it, teeth sinking down into the hard flesh.
A guttural groan tore from Leon’s throat as the pain mixed with the pleasure, his cock throbbing inside of you. He unleashed a whole other wave of energy, cock rammed its way into your core, hard enough to almost split you in half. With every thrust that reached your sensitive spot, your teeth sunk deeper into his bicep to muffle the screams.
“Fuck! Yes, Leon!” You muffled into his arm, tears streaming down your face as the walls of your cunt constrict around Leon’s cock.
“Cum on my cock, baby, wanna feel you fucking soak me,” He groans, his hips never letting up on the pace, one hand still firmly gripped on your hip. With a few more thrusts, and your fingers pressing into your clit, the knot snapped. Your orgasm crashed into you, your entire body vibrating as the pleasure made its course.
your high. But he wasn’t done yet. The silence between them is thick, all that can be heard are the ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city below them. Leon’s fingers twitch against your hip, loosening slightly. Just enough to let you breathe, but not enough to let you go. His lips press against the back of your shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin just hard enough to make you shiver. Every sense on your body is heightened, nerves shot and overstimulated.
“Fuck.” Leon exhales, almost like the sound of a chuckle. His hands slide up your waist, fingers splaying over your ribs like he’s mapping you, mesmerizing you. “You’re gonna be the death of me, y/n.”
You whimper as you feel him pull out, his cock still throbbing and red hot. “I think it’s gonna be the other way around, Leon. You haven’t even cum yet.”
“Yeah, about that.”
Leon gives you no time to react as he’s flipping you around, back against the couch and his body caging on top of you. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, his voice a low, dangerous purr,
“Round two.”
His mouth crashes onto you before you can respond, his kiss bruising and demanding. His hands roam all over your body like he’s starving for you, he grabs a handful of your breast and squeezes the soft flesh.
“Oh good,” you moan, “I’ve been dying to look at your pretty face while you fuck me.” Your hands cup the sides of Leon’s face as you kiss him deeper, your hips coming up the grind against rock hard member. Leon groaned into the kiss, his own hips grinding back letting his cock slide between your slick, swollen folds.
“Yeah? You wanna watch me as I pound into you? What a dirty girl.” He pulled his face back to meet his gaze to yours, eyes dark and possessive. You stared back at him with half lidded eyes, exhaustion slowly beginning to take over you with the alcohol wearing off.
You just smiled, hands leaving his face to rest on his shoulders. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling his hips flush to your core, begging to fill that empty void between your legs. Leon wastes no time and recognizes what you’re doing, he lines himself up and buries himself into you in one rough thrust.
“Keep your eyes on me, sweetheart,” he groaned, a hand reaching to grab ahold of your jaw. His grip is firm on your face, keeping it still and locked on his gaze. Your jaw slacks open, saliva dripping down your chin and onto his hand. He pounds into you, his cock repeatedly hitting that sensitive spot over and over again. His gaze burns into you, watching you as your back arches off of the couch, legs tightening around his waist to push him deeper inside.
“Oh Leon-” you whine, nails raking down his back, feeling every muscle tensing in his body. His pace is ruthless, hips snapping rapidly against you, the grip on your jaw tight enough to ache.
His possessiveness should scare you, but all you can do is writhe under his touch, walls clamping down around his cock. Your hand flies back down to your clit, rubbing tight circles around yourself as the intensity in your core builds up for the third time that night.
You watch as Leon’s gaze trails down to where you connect, where your hand sloppily teases at your clit. He grunts, slapping your hand away from your mound and replaces it with his own, thumb pressing down hard where your fingers once were. Your hips buck in reaction, rolling against his hand to create further friction. Leon lets out a breathy chuckle,
“Pussy’s all mine, love the way it’s fucking milking me,” he leans down to kiss you, tongue spreading your lips apart forcing his way in, “you’re gonna cum for me one more time, yes?”
“Mm- yes, one more, please-” You said, voice raw from whines and moans.
“You’re so close, I can feel you. Cum on my cock and then I’m gonna fill you right up it’ll be coming out of you for days.”
Your hands dig into Leon’s back, indenting the skin as he rams deeper into you, your stomach tightening with a third orgasm. The feeling is too much for you, your senses overstimulated and your body begins to shake.
“Oh f-fuck Leon!” You scream, eyes wiring shut and head thrown back on the couch cushion as the final knot snaps. Your body locks tight, feeling the pleasure consume you as Leon continues to pound into you, never slowing down the pace.
At the peak of your high, you feel a gush of liquid soak between your legs, you pull your head up to look down at where you’re connected. Your face goes red hot with embarrassment as you realize that you had squirted all over Leon. You don’t dare to meet his gaze as your head slams back down onto the couch eyes rolling into the back of your skull,
“Shit- sorry, I-I’ve never done that before…” You whisper, hands coming up to cover your face. Leon never slows the pace, but he leans down and tears your hands away to make you look at him.
“Don’t be sorry, it was fucking hot.” He smiles, coming down to plant a kiss on your lips. It was softer than before, lips pressing gently against your own almost as if to reassure you. Your body began to relax, legs loosening around his waist, arms now just resting around his neck. You looked over at Leon’s arm, a deep red bite mark left over on his bicep.
Leon’s thrusts became more sporadic, breathing uneven, you could tell he was nearing the end. You went to caress his face, holding his cheeks so you could stare into his icy blue eyes, looking just a little lighter than earlier in the night.
“You close, baby? Gonna use my pussy to get yourself off?” Leon’s body shudders, brows knitting together and lips parted ever so slightly.
“Fuck-” He groans, cock swelling inside of you, balls drawing up tight the closer he got to his release.
“Let me help,” You whisper, and with whatever energy you had left you lifted your hips slightly, letting him plow deeper inside. You clench around him tight, ready for him to fill you up.
“You want it? You want me to cum for you?” His hips thrust faster and more shallow as he chases his release, your walls almost too tight for how sensitive his cock is.
“Please, Leon, fill me up until it’s dripping out of me.”
The sound of almost a whimper escapes Leon’s lips, and with a final bruising thrust he buries himself inside you, his orgasm hitting him like a freight train. You can feel the hot ropes spurting inside of you, feeling impossibly full as he completely drained himself. He lets out a raw, desperate groan, his body trembling as he marks the inside of your walls.
Leon collapsed on top of you, the weight crushing your chest but also giving a sort of comforting pressure. You can feel his heart stammering against your chest, his sweat coated skin sticking to yours and his breaths fanning across your face. All that could be heard were the deep breaths the two of you were trying to regain, and the silence wasn’t tense. It was comfortable, and you could sense that Leon was beginning to accept that welcoming quiet.
Your foreheads are pressed together, your eyes fluttering open to see Leon’s wired shut, eyebrows still knotted together. Your hands come to gently hold his cheeks, one lifting to brush the hair that had messily fallen in front of his face. You placed a gentle kiss at the furrow of his brow, on the tip of his nose, and then his lips. He kissed back, strong at first, but then you could feel his muscles relax and melt further into the kiss. You pulled away, and brushed your thumb across his cheek.
“You okay?”
Leon’s eyes opened, scanning your features. Your tear stained cheeks, mascara smudged under your eyes, cheeks flushed pink and lipgloss that had been kissed away quite a while ago. He thought you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever laid his eyes on. And you were looking at him like how you used to. Like that optimistic twenty one year old who was still madly in love with you, who still felt like he had a purpose in life. That’s what scared him, that you weren’t aware of who he had become and you still trusted him. After he had used your body for pleasure, it definitely went far too rough than you were comfortable with, and you’re still here. Not running. He blinked a couple of times to register what you had just said, and nodded lazily.
“I should be asking you that, sweetheart,” he muttered, his thumb coming up to brush against your bottom lip, “I’m fine. Better, actually.”
“Good.” You smile, placing a kiss on his thumb. You look over across the apartment, the night sky dark without the bright lights of the city illuminating it. You glance over at a nearby clock, reading far too late to want to catch a cab at that hour.
“I hope this isn’t the part where you kick me out of your apartment,” you awkwardly chuckle, not meeting Leon’s gaze, “because honestly, I don’t think I’ll even be able to get off this couch if I wanted to.” You slowly look back at him and his brows are furrowed again, but not in that cold, dismissive way. It was more concerning, like how you could even be questioning that he would throw you out after everything? He shakes his head quickly, the hand at your bottom lip coming to fully caress the side of your face.
“What? No, I-I wouldn’t leave you like that. You’re staying.” His eyes widened slightly, like the thought of you leaving at a moment like this actually bothered him. His shoulders slumped a little, the exhaustion creeping its way through his body. You nodded, your eyes fixed on his so he could fully take in that you weren’t going to leave.
“Okay, I’ll stay.” You nudged your head against his as your arms came to embrace him. It was soft, genuine, and comforting. Not just for Leon, but for you too. What the two of you had done was intense and barbaric, and even though you had loved every second of it, you knew you needed this moment to come back down to earth.
You could feel Leon’s breath shuddering above you, his body tensing as if he’s not used to this type of comfort. Not used to somebody holding him without a sort of expectation. Your hand reached up to cradle the back of his head, gentle strokes through his hair. You turned your head slightly to place a soft kiss onto his temple.
“I’ll stay as long as you need me to, Leon,” you whispered, “I meant it when I said I can help you. You don’t have to talk about it, but you’ve gone through some tough shit. Might help to talk to someone who will listen.” You spoke carefully, not wanting to say the wrong thing or get him upset.
You knew that was a difficult thing to ask him, hell, it’s been six years since you’ve last seen each other. You’re practically strangers now. But there was a past, there was a time where the two of you could speak so openly to each other, you hoped that there was still a part of him that remembered that.
You continued to stroke his hair, and looked over his shoulder at the apartment around you. This place wasn’t home to him. It was somewhere to crash in between missions with the lack of personal decorations, except for that singular picture of the little girl. The bottles of whiskey littering the place left a bitter taste in your mouth, realizing that the only thing that could “ease” the pain was the alcohol. You wanted to be able to take that pain away from him, wanted to hold him close like this and tell him that everything would be fine.
You could feel his heart pounding against your chest, breathing getting a little erratic as his mind started to spin. He thought he wanted a distraction, something rough and meaningless to drown out the thoughts and forget the pain. But then you held him, fingers gliding through his hair, your gentle, genuine words.
Something inside him cracks. He remembers before Raccoon City, remembers the amount of joy you brought into his life. How he could come to you to talk about anything. His heart ached at the memories, he didn’t deserve to spill his trauma onto you after all this time, he didn’t want to burden you more than he had already done tonight. But your words were so soft, your lips against his temple so comforting. Years of building those impossibly tall walls felt like they were beginning to crumble.
His hand slid up your back, fingers trembling as they splayed over your spine, pulling you closer. His head nestled into the crook of your neck, hiding his face as he could feel it getting hot. His voice is a rasp, like he’s afraid to speak too loud or the moment will shatter.
“You don’t get it, y/n. I don’t deserve this,” his breath shakes against your collarbone, “I-I did what I could in Raccoon City, but it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t save everyone, I couldn’t save-” His voice cracks, and he stops himself. He lifted his head to look at you, and you instantly raised your hands to cradle his face. His eyes were red and glassy, breath stuttering as he whispered,
“I survived that day. And everyday since then, I wish I hadn’t.”
You can feel your own eyes start to get well up, but you swallow it away. You have to stay strong for him, be the one to bring him back. You push yourself up on the couch, sitting Leon up and settling yourself in his lap. You grab ahold of Leon’s face again, a little firmer to make sure he’s looking right at you.
“Stop thinking you’re a lost cause, Leon, because you’re not,” you said with a firm tone, not meaning to scold him, but to try and reason with him. “The guilt is eating you away, and it may not feel like it, but you do deserve this. You deserve to feel better.”
Leon lets out a deep, shaky breath, hands resting at your hips, fingers digging into the flesh gently.
“You should run now before it's too late,” he mumbled, “I’m just gonna drag you down.”
“Don’t say shit like that.” Your voice couldn’t help but break, it killed you to hear him talk about himself so lowly and watch the defeated expression on his face. Your arms wrap around his neck, face leaning in to press light kisses onto his cheeks. “You tell me to run, and it only makes me want to stay even more. I’m not gonna give up on you Leon, you hear me?” You notice his gaze shifted, eyes looking at the picture of the little girl. His face hardened, trying to contain the emotions beyond the surface.
“Who is she?” You said ever so softly. You felt his muscles tense at the question, surprised you even noticed the picture. His fingers press into your hips deeper, trailing his gaze back to your eyes.
“Her name’s Sherry,” He rasped, looking down at your hips where his hands are holding, “she was twelve when I found her in Raccoon City. Twelve, y/n.”
“And you couldn’t..?”
“N-no, I did get her out. We were both taken under the government. But no kid should ever go through what she had to. That I couldn’t save.” Leon’s head drops to your shoulder, breath fanning over you as he tries to calm himself down.
“We can stop-”
“-And I still hear the screams,” he begins, voice cracking, “I hear them in my dreams. I see the blood, the fire, and I can’t fucking escape it.” His shoulders begin to shake, and you wrap your arms around them tight. You hold him as silent sobs rake through him, brushing your hand up and down his spine.
“Oh, Leon,” you whispered, softly shushing as you felt his hands slide up your waist and pull you closer against him, “you’re okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
You let him hold you for as long as he needed, rubbing soothing circles over his back to help calm his breathing. You could feel a tear of your own roll down your cheek, letting yourself feel everything he had been dealing with on his own for all of these years. You were unbelievably proud of the amount he shared with you, you knew this wasn’t easy for him and you were just grateful that he was able to trust you.
Leon’s shoulders stopped shaking, and his breathing returned to a steady rhythm. When you felt like he had calmed down enough, and you felt composed enough, you pulled away from the embrace, arms resting on Leon’s shoulders. His head hung low, not meeting your gaze, but you noticed his flush face and tear streaked cheeks nonetheless. You brought a hand to gently lift his chin, his blue eyes; once dark and icy now slowly melting into a sky blue meeting yours.
“Thank you for talking to me, Leon,” You began, voice steady and comforting, “you don’t have to go through this alone anymore. But I’m gonna need you to trust me.” Your thumb circles his shoulder, watching as his brows twitch at your words. He’s crying for help, even if he doesn’t realize it. The liquor bottles scattered all over the place, his under eyes dark, the self deprecating talk. He’s needed a shoulder to cry on for years.
“If this is gonna work, you’re gonna have to put your guard down, and let me in. You’ve already done a great job, Leon.” It wasn’t stern, wasn’t demanding, but enough to put your point across. He scoffed, head leaning into the touch of your hand,
“Don’t know if crying like a baby is considered a good job.” You sighed, the hand on his shoulder coming to wipe the tears off of his cheeks.
“Letting yourself cry about it is a great start. You’re allowing yourself to feel that pain. To own it.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.” You confirm, giving him a confident look to make him believe your words. You give him another tight embrace, rubbing soft circles on his back, feeling the scratches from your nails earlier. You could feel the sweat sticking to your skin, the smell of sex and whiskey on his body. His hair was sticking up in various places from your fingers running through it, while yours clung to your forehead and the sides of your face. You needed a shower. Bad.
The night had been exciting enough, but now all you wanted to do was take care of Leon. It was time to wind down. You slowly let go of Leon and stood from the couch, your hand still holding one of his.
“Where’s your bathroom, honey? Can I help you clean up?” Leon shuddered at your words, fingers tightened around your hand, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear. His gaze drops down to your entwined hands, your thumb brushing over his knuckles.
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” his voice is hoarse, uneven, “second door on the left.”
You nod gently, and guide him off of the couch and towards the bathroom. He follows slowly behind, intensely watching you find your way. The alcohol is fading away, the adrenaline, and all you can feel is exhaustion. Your body aches, and your mind is flooded with all different sorts of emotions. The severity of Leon’s condition was a lot worse than you had thought, and you wouldn’t lie and say it didn’t scare you. But he had been going through this alone, didn't have anyone to speak through his feelings with, he was carrying this burden all on his own. He didn’t have to do that anymore.
The bathroom was dark, the only light coming from the city outside the shower window. The tile is cold on your feet, and you switch on the light and stark white illuminated the room. Both of you squint at the harsh light, eyes slowly adjusting from the contrast of the dimly lit living room.
You let go of Leon’s hand and move to the shower to run the water, getting it hot enough to handle on your skin. You turn around to face him and he’s resting against the sink, head slumped, gaze on the floor. Now you can clearly see him. The scar on the right side of his chest is a lot more noticeable, long and jagged. You now notice smaller, more faded scars littering his torso ranging from thin and long to thick and rugged.
“Job’s not been very kind to me,” Leon muttered, now looking dead on at you. You meet his gaze, cheeks getting slightly warm from being caught staring. You just give a weak smile, and walk towards him.
“I didn’t mean to stare.”
“It’s fine.”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, “let me take care of you.” You rest your hands on his shoulders, giving them comforting rubs. Leon just nods weakly, and you slide your hands to hold his as you guide him into the shower.
The room is filled with steam as you let him step in first, standing under the water to wash away the initial sweat on his body. His hands grip on yours a little tighter as the water hits his back, the heat stinging against the fresh scratches. You tighten your grip back for just a second, enough to ground him, before letting go and reaching for the soap.
“Let me know if anything hurts.” You lather the soap in between your hands, the scent of something clean and citrusy cutting through the humid air of the bathroom. You start with his shoulders, your fingers working the soap into his skin. You carefully move across his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles, the ridges of his scars. There’s no ounce of pity in your movements, just care. You stand behind him to work on his back, and you place a gentle kiss on the back of his neck.
“You’re not alone in this, Leon,” your hands move down to his arms, scrubbing over the red bite mark on his bicep, “Anything you tell me won’t scare me away. I’m here for you.” You step around to face him, putting down the soap to grab the bottle of shampoo. His eyes are already looking at you when you look up, blue irises tired. He doesn’t say anything, but from the way he’s looking you know he’s listening. He always listened. You put some shampoo in your hands and lather them together before reaching up to spread it through his hair.
Just as Leon’s clean, you go to grab the soap and begin to clean yourself when he gently grabs your wrist. He takes the soap from you, and guides you to stand under the water.
“Your turn.”
You chuckle, remembering from earlier, and let Leon take care of you. He lathers the soap against your body, the valley between your breasts, down your thighs, and across your back. His fingers are firm over your muscles, working out the knots already beginning to form. You flutter your eyes shut as you feel his fingers massage shampoo and conditioner through your hair, taking in the moment.
Just as quickly as it began you hear the shower shut off, and Leon grabs your hand to guide you out of the shower. You drip on the bathroom floor before Leon wraps a towel around you, then wraps one over himself. You dry off in a comfortable silence, absorbing all the water off of your skin and shaking the towel through your hair so it stops dripping.
You wrap the towel around yourself before taking a step out of the bathroom, “Where can I find some pyjamas, hun? Your room?”
Leon’s towel is wrapped very loosely around his waist, damp hair sticking out from all angles as he nods his head.
“My room’s down there,” he rasps as he points towards the end of the hall, “but you don’t have to-”
“I know. I want to.” You take a step closer to him, acknowledging him. You grab one of his hands, and brush your thumb over the outside of it. He squeezes it back gently, and the two of you head to his bedroom.
Leon’s room was what you had expected. Dark walls and furniture, king sized bed with black, plush sheets. More floor to ceiling windows to the right but with a balcony that overlooked the city. To your left you found his closet, and made your way over there. There wasn’t much clothing, mostly work clothes and athletic wear, but you were able to find some grey sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt. You also picked up a pair of briefs for underneath the sweats.
You emerge from the closet, finding Leon standing awkwardly in the middle of the room looking like a lost puppy. You couldn’t understand how he could look so uncomfortable in his own home. You laid his clothes on the bed, and walked up to him carefully not to scare him.
“Can I put these clothes on you?” A slight nod from Leon was the consent you needed to peel away the towel from his hips, dropping it to the floor next to him. You carefully threaded his legs through the briefs and sweats, and pulled the shirt over his head, brushing his hair back into place with your fingers.
“Thank you, y/n.” He whispered, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. You cover it with your own, giving him a warm smile.
“Don’t mention it,” you reach on your tip toes to place a soft kiss on his lips, quick and sweet. You turn back to the closet, in search of something to wear yourself. You sifted through the closet, and landed on an old RPD hoodie. It was oversized for you, but it would work for the night. You threw it over your head, pulling your damp hair from the hood and letting it rest on your shoulders.
You walked back into the bedroom, your hands stuffed in the pockets, “I hope it’s okay if I wear this, probably more comfortable than sleeping in a mini skirt.”
Leon’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, eyes scanning your body, reading the old, faded letters of ‘RACCOON CITY POLICE’ on the front of the hoodie.
“It’s fine,” his gaze drops to the floor, his fingers twitching at his sides, “looks better on you than it ever did on me.”
“I very much doubt that,” you scoff, a sheepish smile forming over your face. Leon pats the bed beside him, voice softening.
“Come here.”
You waste no time sitting next to him, and he pulls you in close. His arm wraps around your shoulders, fingers tracing absent circles on your arm. You rest your hand on his chest, feeling the soft patter of his heart. The city casts long shadows over the room, lights flickering outside the windows.
“I’ve never had anyone stay here before.” Leon whispers in a confession, chin resting on the top of your head. Your head nestles into his chest, taking in the clean smell of his clothes and skin. No scent of whiskey lingers anymore, no vices to hide his true self.
“Thanks for letting me be the first,” you whisper back, kissing the base of his neck. He just holds you closer, a heavy sigh escapes his lips. You let him hold you for as long as he needs to. It feels too normal, cuddled up to Leon like this, in his clothes, smelling like his shampoo. Like it’s always meant to be this way.
You turn your head to look out the window, the city lights still glittering in the night sky. You get up from the bed and walk towards the window, arms crossed over your chest.
“I’ts a pretty view,” you said mostly to yourself, looking down at the still busy streets even at this hour.
“Beautiful.”
Leon’s voice was hoarse in your ear as you felt him come up behind you, chest pressed against your back and head resting on your shoulder. But he wasn’t looking out the window, he was looking down at you. A wide, goofy smile spread across your face as you tilted your head to rest against his. His arms snaked around your waist, pulling you in close.
“Peaceful, huh? Quiet can be good at times,” you mumbled, relaxing into his touch. You could feel his heart pattering again, as if he’s fighting the urge to enjoy the silence. The calm. You turn to face him, arms wrapping around his waist, “I’m proud of you, Leon. Proud of you for opening up to me. That’s a big step.”
“I don’t deserve your pride.”
You sigh, and instead of arguing, you stand on your tip toes to give him a passionate, but caring kiss. Nothing further, just enough to ease his nerves. You pull away, but stay on your tip toes, faces inches apart.
“Too bad. Pride’s just pouring out of me, baby.” For the first time that night, and maybe for the first time in a while, Leon genuinely laughs. He rests his forehead against yours, and pulls you into a tight embrace.
“Alright then.”
You stay like that for a minute, until a yawn escapes your lips. You pull back and rub your eyes with your hand.
“Bed?” Leon inquires.
“Please.” He chuckles, and places his hand on the small of your back to guide you to bed.
You slide under the covers, cool on your skin, but is quickly replaced by the warmth of Leon’s chest. You curl into his side, head resting on his chest, fingers tracing patterns over his heart. One of Leon’s hands slides into your damp hair, nails scratching against your scalp. You hum in content, eyes getting heavy with sleep. With the gentle rhythm of Leon’s breathing, the scratches on your scalp, and the plush bedsheets, it doesn’t take long for you to fall fast asleep.
Leon stays awake a while longer, just watching the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you sleep peacefully.
He thinks about earlier in the night, how much he tried to push you away at the bar, how many warnings he gave that you completely ignored. And he couldn’t be more grateful that you did. He doesn’t wince as he remembers your time together in college, actually reminiscing about how young and carefree the two of you were. He realizes that the love he had for you so long ago never went away, and all it took was for you to drunkenly stumble into him at that shitty dive bar.
For the first time in years, Leon sleeps through the night.
Not in sound, though the music drifted richly through the halls, all elegant strings and soft percussion but in color. Everywhere the eye turned, there was red. Crimson silks, scarlet armor accents, deep wine-colored banners cascading from the high ceilings. Gold glinted in every corner, polished and deliberate, reflecting firelight like the entire palace itself was breathing.
And in the middle of it all, you stood out.
Green.
Soft, earthy green, your gown flowing gently around your smaller frame, the fabric embroidered with delicate, swirling patterns.It hugged your form in a way that felt far too noticeable, far too seen, especially compared to the structured, sharp silhouettes of Fire Nation fashion. Your sleeves draped elegantly past your wrists, your sash tied neatly at your waist…your bare feet pressed against the smooth, cool stone floor.
That, more than anything, made you feel exposed.
Everyone else wore lacquered shoes, polished and pristine. While you stood grounded, like you belonged somewhere else entirely.
Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve as you shifted your weight, eyes flickering nervously across the crowd before quickly dropping again. You tried to make yourself smaller, tried to tuck into the edges of the room, but it didn’t matter.
You could feel it, the look's, the whispers and then a soft giggle from somewhere to your left made your shoulders stiffen.
“…Is she really barefoot?”
“Earth Kingdom, obviously…”
“And with that color honestly, at a Fire Nation court?”
"Isn't she the Wife of the Fire Lord too?"
"That? Married to Zuko....please."
Your cheeks burned instantly, heat creeping up your neck as your chin dipped further. You weren’t even doing anything wrong, you knew that but the attention pressed in on you all the same, heavy and suffocating. Your toes curled instinctively against the floor, grounding yourself the only way you knew how.
Stone. Solid. Steady.
Even still…your chest tightened.Maybe you should have just stayed in the room.
You were just about to step back maybe slip out quietly, find somewhere less crowded when a hand caught yours.
You startled slightly, head snapping up as you were gently but decisively pulled forward.
“Hey—”
You didn’t even finish the word before you were guided...no, pulled through the crowd, your steps quick and a little clumsy as you tried to keep up. The murmurs shifted, attention redirecting, but this time not toward you alone.
Toward him.
Zuko didn’t stop until he reached the center of the room, until the whispers had died down into something quieter, more cautious. Only then did he turn, positioning you at his side like it was the most natural thing in the world whole his hand never left yours.
Your wide eyes flickered up at him, still flustered, still trying to process the sudden shift. “Z-Zuko, I—”
“I was looking for you,” he said, voice steady, though there was a tight edge beneath it. His gaze flicked briefly over the crowd, sharp, warning—before settling back on you, softening almost immediately. “You wandered off.”
“I didn’t...I was just—” you faltered, words tangling as your cheeks flushed deeper. “I didn’t want to—interrupt anything…”
“You weren’t interrupting anything.” His tone was firmer now, quieter but carrying weight. His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, grounding you this time. “You’re with me.”
Around you, the energy had shifted. The same girls who had been whispering earlier now avoided looking directly at you, their attention suddenly very focused elsewhere. No one spoke. No one laughed.Because you weren’t just you anymore.
You were standing beside the Fire Lord, where you were ment to be. Your grip on his hand tightened just slightly, instinctive, and he didn’t miss it. His thumb pressed reassuringly against your skin, a silent promise that he wasn’t going anywhere.
Your gaze dipped again, but this time not out of embarrassment, out of something softer, quieter.
“…I stand out,” you murmured under your breath, barely audible.
Zuko glanced at you, then at the sea of red surrounding you both. His lips twitched faintly, something almost amused flickering in his expression. “Good.”
You blinked, startled, looking up at him again.
“Why would I want you to blend in?” he continued, voice low enough that only you could hear. His eyes lingered on you, your dress, your bare feet, you—with something steady and certain. “You look better than all of them.”
Your face immediately burned brighter, flustered beyond recovery as you tried to look anywhere but at him. “Zuko—!”
“I mean it.” His voice softened again, but there was no hesitation in it. No teasing. Just truth.
For a moment, the noise of the room faded. The weight of the whispers disappeared. The way you stood out didn’t feel like something wrong anymore.
Your shoulders relaxed just a little, your stance grounding again, not from anxiety this time, but from something steadier.
You shifted closer to him without thinking.
Zuko didn’t comment on it.
He just adjusted his stance slightly, making sure you fit perfectly at his side, his hand moving to settled at your hip, firm, grounding, unmistakably possessive in the quietest, most certain way.
You barely had time to process it before he turned, guiding you with him so you were no longer half-hidden at his side but fully seen beside him. The movement alone drew attention, subtle but deliberate, and the two women who had been whispering earlier suddenly found themselves the focus of the Fire Lord’s gaze.
The room seemed to still.
Zuko didn’t raise his voice, because he didn’t need to. “Doesn’t my wife look beautiful tonight?”
The words landed gently but there was steel beneath them.
Your breath caught.
Wife.
Even after all this time, hearing him say it so plainly, so openly, still made your heart stumble. Heat rushed to your cheeks, your instinct immediately to shrink just a little but his hand tightened ever so slightly at your hip, keeping you right where you were.
Seen. Beside him. Unmoving.
The two women froze under his attention, their earlier confidence dissolving almost instantly. One of them let out a small, nervous laugh, her posture straightening as she dipped her head quickly.
“Of course, Fire Lord Zuko,” she said, voice suddenly careful. “She...she looks lovely.”
“Very,” the other added just as quickly, eyes flickering toward you before dropping again.
Zuko held their gaze for a moment longer, not harsh, not cruel, but pointed. Enough that the message settled clearly without another word needing to be said.
Then, just as easily, his attention shifted back to you and everything about him softened.His thumb brushed lightly against your side, grounding, reassuring, like he could feel the way your heart was still racing. “You okay?” he murmured, quieter now, meant only for you.
You nodded quickly, though your face was still burning, your eyes fixed stubbornly somewhere near his collar instead of his face. “…They were just talking,” you mumbled, voice small.
“I know.” His tone was calm, but there was a flicker of something protective beneath it. “I heard enough.”
Your fingers twisted lightly in the fabric of your sleeve, still flustered, still unsure what to do with all the attention, even if it had shifted in your favor now.
“…I don’t really fit here,” you admitted softly.
For a second, he didn’t answer.
Then his hand moved, leaving your hip only long enough to gently tilt your chin upward, guiding your gaze to meet his. His expression wasn’t sharp or guarded like it had been moments ago.
“You fit wherever I am,” he said simply.
Your lip quivered then pulled into a soft smile as around you, the palace continued on, music, conversation, the flicker of firelight but it all felt distant compared to the way he was looking at you now, like nothing else in the room mattered.
Your shoulders eased, just a little.And this time, when you leaned into him, it wasn’t out of instinct or nerves.
It was because you wanted to.
Zuko’s hand returned to your hip without hesitation, anchoring you there at his side as he faced the room again, his posture relaxed, but unmistakably firm as the music didn’t stop right away but it faltered.
It was subtle at first. A missed note from one of the musicians. A conversation that trailed off mid-sentence. The shift rippled outward, slow but undeniable, as Zuko stepped forward, just slightly ahead of you this time, though his hand never left yours.
The room felt it.
Felt him.
Your fingers tightened instinctively around his, your heart picking up again as attention began to turn—heads lifting, whispers dying out, eyes settling on the Fire Lord as he drew a breath.
And spoke.
“I have something to make clear.”
His voice carried easily through the hall, calm and controlled, but there was an edge beneath it—something firm enough that no one dared speak over him. The last of the quiet chatter died completely.
Zuko didn’t rush, he didn’t soften. He just turned slightly, just enough that you were no longer behind him, no longer something hidden or overlooked. He brought you forward at his side again, his hand grounding at your waist like a declaration in itself.
“This is my wife.”
The words echoed.
Across the room, you could see it, the realization settling in waves. Surprise. Recognition. A few lingering looks of doubt that didn’t last long under the weight of his gaze.
“I chose her,” Zuko continued, his tone steady, unwavering. “Not because she fits your expectations. Not because she looks like what you think a Fire Nation ruler should stand beside.”
His hand pressed just slightly more firmly at your side, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you he was there.
“I chose her because she is strong. Because she is kind. Because she stands her ground in a way most of you couldn’t even begin to understand.”
There was a shift in the air now, heavier, sharper.
“And because she doesn’t pretend to be something she’s not.”
Your chest tightened, warmth flooding through you as his words wrapped around your nerves, steadying them.
Zuko’s gaze swept the room again, slower this time.
More deliberate.
“If anyone here has a problem with that,” he said, voice lowering just slightly but somehow carrying even more weight, “you can say it now.”
And no one dared to answer, the room was so quiet you could hear the rustle of clothes.
No one even breathed too loudly.
The firelight flickered along the walls, casting long shadows across faces that suddenly looked very careful, very still. Even those who had whispered before now kept their eyes lowered, posture rigid, as if the floor had become far more interesting than risking his attention again.
Zuko held the moment, let it stretch, let it settle, then almost casually, like it was just some conversation he was having with his Uncle.“So I know who to banish.”
The words weren’t shouted, they didn’t need to be.
A quiet inhale moved through the room, sharp, collective, restrained.
But still no one dared to speak.
Zuko’s gaze lingered a moment longer before he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, like he’d gotten exactly the answer he expected.
“Good.”
Just like that, the tension eased but it didn’t disappear. It shifted into something else. Respect. Caution. Understanding.
Final.
His hand softened at your waist again as he turned back to you, the sharp edge in his expression fading the moment his eyes met yours.
And suddenly, it wasn’t the Fire Lord standing there.
It was just him, your husband.
“You alright?” he murmured quietly, voice meant only for you now.
You stared at him for a second, wide-eyed, flushed, your heart still racing from the sheer intensity of what he’d just done.
Then, slowly nodded your head. “…You didn’t have to threaten them,” you whispered, though there was no real protest in your voice, just soft disbelief.
Zuko’s lips twitched faintly. “They were bothering you.”
Your grip on him tightened just slightly, something warm blooming in your chest as the last of your earlier embarrassment melted away completely.
Because this time, when people looked, they didn’t whisper, they didn’t laugh.They bowed their heads.
And you stood beside him, barefoot, in green, exactly as you were without even thinking about hiding anymore.
Trigger Warnings: infidelity, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, pregnancy, courtly isolation, jealousy, gaslighting, heartbreak, public humiliation, coercion under duty, palace intrigue
They taught you early, in the lacquered halls of your father’s estate, that the ember must learn to live inside the coal. A lady of a noble house must inwardly blaze and outwardly glow—never smoke, never ash. Your grandmother tied your wrists with red thread and made you recite it until the words burned into the soft of your mouth.
So when the summons came to the Fire Lord’s palace—when the eunuch bowed so low his forehead touched the floor and called you “Consort”—you folded your hands and accepted a destiny you did not choose in a voice that never trembled.
You arrived beneath a sky the color of cooled iron. Palace roofs pitched like cut waves; crimson banners cracked as though there were fire in the wind itself. They led you past lantern ponds and bronze censers, through corridors whose doors slid like measured breaths. Somewhere in those corridors, a girl in green lacquered hairpins walked with the swing-step of a reed blade: Mai. You only knew her as the duke’s daughter from the western quarter, the one the Fire Lord had once sighed over in stories told like proverbs.
Still, it was you who first drew his gaze in that autumn season. The Fire Lord. Zuko.
He noticed you in the White Sand Courtyard where the apothecary slaves dried magnolia stamens. You had your nose buried in a ledger—a habit you learned from an old apothecary auntie who took pity on a restless noble girl—and Zuko asked a question as clumsy as a dropped sword: “Do you read plant scripts?”
“Only enough to mispronounce them,” you said, and then corrected yourself with a shallow bow. “My lord.”
Something in him cracked open at your answer, like clay in sudden heat. Later, you would write a list of reasons against your heart—a paper shield: the way he came back that same evening under lantern light; the way he smelled of cedar smoke and soap and summer steel; the way his voice was a little too careful as though he had trained his tongue to be king and not boy. The way he was already promised to a future that did not include you.
But that evening, he ghosted his fingers above the pages as if words might scorch, and you began to talk.
You spoke of the modest things apothecaries loved: the red camellias girls tucked behind their ears in spring, the red lotus that bloomed like restrained suns, the balloon flowers that opened their star-mouths only when coaxed with patience, the baby’s breath (gypsophila) that brides begged for in delicate sprays. He listened like a thirst you could pour your life into. And because you had been taught to be ember in the coal, careful and contained, you let only the smallest heat slip out, enough to warm a room.
He returned the next night. And the one after.
Then came the flowers.
They began as a whisper on the night breeze: a handful of petals on your writing desk, an imperial seal tucked into folded silk, shy blooms caught like memories in your hair. Then armfuls. Then baskets. Then rooms filled with the scent of wet leaves. He sent them without reasons you could repeat aloud, and you accepted them with a gratitude that sat like a ribboned knife in your throat.
The night the servants staggered under the weight of them—the flowers overflowing with shy panic onto your floor—you looked up and saw what he had done.
One hundred and eight.
He came with them as if in apology to the flowers for their burden, in a dark robe fastened at his throat with a phoenix. He did not wear his crown. You counted in a daze as the courtyard filled: 27, 54, 81—no, more—camellias with red so deep they seemed bruised, lotus the color of arterial blood, balloon flowers puffed and clipped like little beaked lanterns. And baskets of baby’s breath, showering white like winter dust.
“Do you know what it means?” he asked. His voice was salt on an old wound.
“Everyone knows,” you answered. You dared to look at him then. The scar like a banner of your own unspoken hungers. “One hundred and eight… is will you marry me.”
“Do you accept?” he said, not King and not Boy but a man trying to step between them.
You could have reminded him of law and lineage. You could have reminded him that Fire Lords do not ask questions they cannot rope and brand. Instead, in the sugared hush of your courtyard, a moth beating to death against a lantern, you said, whisper-soft: “Is this a vow you can keep?”
He did not answer. He kissed you as if he had no tongue for vows, only for ash and honey.
In the morning, he did not send flowers. He came. Night after night. With scrolls and with questions. With tea he burned. With the smell of rain trapped in his hair. The palace gossips called you incense and then called you fire and then called you everything a woman is called when a man loves her like a drowning man loves an air pocket.
You let yourself believe. Not belief as a virgin does—in white and blindness—but belief as a noble daughter trained in accounts believes: appraising, weighing, counting the sutra beads of his behavior like little verdicts. He laughed when you teased him. He traced circles between your fingers and called the webbing there constellations. He bared his throat to you and fell asleep with your comb still stuck crooked in his hair.
He loved you.
Until he didn’t.
It is not so easy to tell when a man stops loving you. It is not a sound like a throat tearing, nor a smell like old lilies. It is the absence of small things first: the missing tea cup in the morning, his coat held a second longer by a valet as if to ask, Are you sure? It is the way the birds continue to chirp with obscene faith.
He had a session with the Council that week. He had three.
He missed a night. Then two.
He sent flowers, to apologize, a small half-armful. Then none. Then one morning you found on your step a spray of white gypsophila so meager it could have been a bridal crown for a mouse, and your stomach tightened with the sort of dread that tastes like tin—a taste you knew from biting your tongue.
You told yourself the lie decently brought-up women tell, the one embroidered on every pillow in this place: It’s only politics. It isn’t me.
On the third day, the servants didn’t avoid your eyes. They sought them. They carried gossip as if drawn on with kohl, as if their lips were the brushes and your heart the inkstone. You made your mouth still. You made your hands still. Somewhere in the garden a thrush sang, mad with desire. It seemed to you that the palace had fewer birds until you had need of silence.
By the fifth day, the whispers slithered into the open. “He was seen in the east pavilion,” a laundress told a stable boy who told a perfumer who told a kitchen maid who told the woman who tended your braids. Her fingers were steady with hairpins; her voice was kind beyond her station. “He was seen taking dinner…not in the ceremonial hall. In his personal quarters.”
You kept your head high. It was stubbornness, that old family brand. It was also the only thing you could still hold upright.
It was Mai.
Of course it was Mai. The palace had hardly remembered her as a woman. It had remembered her as an expectation. She was a sliver slip of a thing still, cut right and thin as a blade, her face a lake that did not ripple unless a stone of intent dropped into it. She didn’t look at you in corridors. She didn’t need to.
On the seventh night, you put on the red silk robe he’d once slid from your shoulders with shaking fingers and walked to his quarters because there are pains best swallowed boiling. Better to scorch your tongue than your lungs.
You should have been turned away at the east pass door. Servants were told to say His Majesty is indisposed if such and such and so on and so forth. Your guard was a child trying to wear a man’s scowl. He faltered when you met his eyes.
“I need to see him,” you said, and your voice was a perfect blade. He stepped aside.
Inside, light fanned like brushed lacquer. The hearth murmured. And there they were: Zuko and Mai, seated on cushions at a low table, a bowl of fish with ginger and scallions steaming between them. The scent of sesame oil clung to the air. He had never let you eat here. Personal quarters, he had explained once, were for solitude, for boyhood, for the crown to unhook his neck from its weight. He had said this with regret as if you were a law carved into his own ribs—and you had accepted it because you had been taught to accept the wicked with the good. The ember must learn to live inside the coal.
Mai looked up with that low-lake face and raised an eyebrow as if you were a new foreign utensil no one had taught her to use.
Zuko’s chopsticks froze. He was halfway to offering Mai the ginger.
“Leave us,” he said to no one and to everyone. The doors slid shut like breath held too long.
You did not bow. You did not kneel. You did not cry. You let only the worst part of your throat show: the part that pulsed with speech you could not have back once loosed.
“Your Majesty,” you said, granting him what the room demanded. “I see I am late to dinner.”
Mai’s smile, when it came, was not unkind. It was also not kind. “Consort,” she said, without the courtesy of your name. “You have a flair for entrances. Was there some…floral emergency?”
Your gaze ticked to the mantle. Three red camellias sat there, stiff and rich, their leaves glossed like lacquer. A spray of baby’s breath crouched at their feet like small snow.
Zuko recovered enough to look at you. He could not meet your eyes. He faced your hair. Your earlobes. The space between your shoulder and your throat where he had once rested his face like a contrite animal. “This isn’t… The Council has asked—”
“The Council does not pull your hands like a puppet’s,” you said softly. “They have asked—and you have answered.”
Mai’s chopsticks clinked against the bowl with precise disdain. “He is the Fire Lord,” she said with no heat at all. “He answers for the nation, not for your vanity, Consort.”
Zuko flinched. You saw it. He flinched as if she had sliced him and was only now applying pressure with bandage. “Mai—”
“You asked me a question,” you said, still looking at him, hearing his not-name in the way he avoided yours. “That night. With the flowers. Do you remember, Your Majesty? You asked if I would accept.”
His mouth opened. Closed around something heavy.
Mai’s eyes flicked to the mantle. She counted camellias, perhaps, as you had. She saw, perhaps, the ghost of 108. Her blade-smile widened imperceptibly. “Ah. Gesture arithmetic. It is dangerous, counting feelings. They double-count themselves.”
“I can’t—” he started, “—I can’t marry you,” he finished, and it sounded like a boy taught to confess by standing on pebbles.
“I know,” you said, because you were merciful even now. “But you asked. You asked and you sent 108 flowers. The meaning was plain.”
That was when the anger came—not the kind that bit and lashed like a rope, but the slow anger of stone brightening under friction, older than you, older than this palace, older, perhaps, than fire. You thought of your grandmother’s wrists tied with red string. You thought of camellias bruising under sheer abundance.
“Then perhaps,” you said mildly, “you should be more careful with what you send into the world.”
Mai set down her chopsticks. Carefully. Her voice slipped into something silkier, which was to say something more dangerous. “We all received an education in symbols. Some of us learned restraint.”
It would have been easier if she had been jealous, if she had plucked at your hair with pettiness, if she had stamped her foot. But Mai did not stamp. She placed pins. She suffocated with pillows of propriety. You wondered—as you had never let yourself wonder before—if the boy you had loved had always loved someone whose knife was not the kind that bled you openly, but the kind that simply made sure you could not breathe.
“Congratulations,” you said, and you did not look at her. “I hear there is to be a wedding.”
Zuko breathed in so sharply it could have been flame. “I meant to speak with you,” he said, and his voice dropped into the lower register he used for apologies, which was also the register he used for orders. “I was going to—”
“Make me your Empress Consort?” you asked, and did not smile. “You had, as the apothecaries say, all the necessary herbs.”
Something like guilt made a home in his face. He had always been too unguarded with it. That was his blessing and your curse. “You know I can’t. The council—”
“The Council,” you echoed, and bowed as if to an invisible elder. “Of course.”
You felt the heat rise behind your eyes. You stood very straight so it would have to climb and climb to escape. “I bid you a pleasant evening, Your Majesty. Lady Mai.”
You bowed. You left. You did not run. You walked like a woman walking a garden she would never see again, noting the lantern moss, the ways light hugged stone. You walked like a woman eating the scene so she could have it later in a room without air.
Behind you, the laughter did not start. You were grateful for this mercy you would never forgive.
The wedding arrived with rain that smelled of bronze. The palace polished itself into a blade: bells that sounded like gilded thunder, banners that took their colors as if lacquer had been poured over the air. You dressed in protocol’s colors: a muted cinnabar that meant you were consort, which meant you were revered, which meant you were disposable in a kinder case.
They put pearls in your hair and painted your mouth like a wound. You sat where your rank required: not in the shadow of the throne but to the side of the shadow. You watched.
Zuko’s face when he lifted Mai’s veil was neither radiant nor reluctant. It was duty’s face, which is the face of a man who has decided not to be a boy any longer. He looked as if he had run a long way through a small room. He looked as if someone had smoothed a hand over his mouth and told him to keep quiet.
Mai’s face was the usual water surface. But her eyes—dark and flat as onyx—were on him with a singleness that terrified you. Love was not the right word. Claim was too brutish a word. It was attention as an instrument—a whetstone’s attention to a blade. She would keep him sharp. She would keep him honed to the angle that cut her out of the world. You almost admired her for it.
When the priest invoked Agni and said the fire is witness, you wanted to laugh. Fire is witness. Fire was Zuko’s oldest wound and oldest balm. But fire is not impartial. Fire takes sides. Fire remembers the first hand that taught it to live in the house.
And then, in the wrong moment, at the wrong time, your eyes filled.
You had not wept when your mother died. You had not wept when you left your father’s house. You had not wept when the camellias made red footprints all over your floor. Now tears welled up as if pulled by a string you could not name. You did not let them fall. They sat, trembling, making the world shimmer just a little—as if you were underwater and the wedding were above you. You smiled a very small smile. You imagined it made you look dignified. You imagined it made you look like a woman who remembers the apothecaries’ rule: that dose and poison are twins, and love, too.
There was applause. There were drums. You folded your hands over your lap and smoothed your robe lightly as if you were an empress of ants.
Later, in your chambers, the servants peeled pearls from your hair as though unplucking stars from a net. One of them lingered over your ear just long enough for pity to drip. You tipped her an amount that made her bow often and back out of the room without turning her back on you as if you were a shrine with a history of cursing.
You woke each morning with a second heartbeat. You told yourself it was the memory of tears caught and not the thing it was.
By the second month, gossip had chewed you and spat you into the river. It had moved on to the other consort—a pretty, clever girl named Linh from a line that once kept the palace accounts. She had lacquer-black hair that fell like rain and a laugh that trembled on the edge of hysteria. She had discovered, to her chagrin and her delight, that the Fire Lord liked to be scratched on the back of his neck when he brooded. She had not discovered yet that women sometimes had to become their own brooding.
You did not dislike Linh. You disliked youth, which is to say you were jealous of the time she still thought she had.
Mai liked no one.
The first time you and Mai met as two points on a triangle rather than as two stars in luckless parallel was at a tea prepared by the Mistress of the Inner Court. The Mistress was a woman who could crush you with tea etiquette. You considered it a specific talent. She placed you opposite Mai as if she were planting creeping vines and wanted to watch them strangle or interlace.
“It has come to my attention,” Mai said, after the proper sips and silences, “that certain flowers are being misread in this palace.”
You smiled like a scholar at a lecture she could have taught. “I always assumed misreading was part of the fun. Why else would soldiers cut themselves on letters?”
Mai’s eyebrow raised a millimeter. “Red camellias,” she said, “signify excellence, yes? Or are you with the faction that insists on perfection? Such a provincial argument.”
“It depends on whether you are a gardener or a poet,” you said. “Or whether you are a man bleeding into a poem and hoping the flower looks.”
“And the red lotus,” she went on, bored with your answer and also pricked by it, “is purity of heart in the fire nation’s temple tradition. But in war it has meant stubbornness in blood. The council thinks it is…unwise to send so much flower language into the city.”
“Does the council fear petals now,” you asked, sweetly, “or meanings?”
Her smile did not move. “I fear boredom,” she said. “And women who think symbols are substance.”
“Then best not to wear the empress’s crown long,” you said, just as sweet, and the Mistress of the Inner Court inhaled as if she had swallowed a pepper seed.
There would be ripples from that. You intended them. If she insisted on playing still water, you would stone her gently and often until she adapted, until she remembered water can carve mountains, too.
The sky had the exhausted purple of a bruise. You were reading a treatise on poison. It had been mis-shelved in the apothecary annex because no one wanted to be the one to tuck it in right. It was, you suspected, borrowed often by noble daughters who wanted to feel brave.
Your maid startled then fled like paper. And there he was. The shame came with him. It wore his body like a robe. He stood in your doorway as if the threshold were a sea and he was too tired to swim.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you said, and you meant it two ways.
“I know,” he said, and he meant it all one way.
He stepped forward and you did not step back. You do not flinch from heat you have chosen. That is part of the old training, too. He looked at your hands, patient where they lived in your lap. He looked at your face like a man who could not decide if the sun had always been that color.
“Mai,” he began, then stopped because he had never known how to speak of one woman to another without making the air unbreatheable. “The physicians…” He gestured in a way that could have been at the whole palace. “There have been no… She has not…”
You put the book down very carefully. “Conceived,” you supplied, not unkindly. The word rolled like a herb you knew the taste of.
He nodded. He looked so tired it made something old and unwise in you reach for him. You sat on your hands.
“The Council,” he said, and you laughed, a short uncharitable bark you did not intend. He flinched again, which made something petty and mean in you breathe in.
“The Council,” you said, regulating your voice. “And your duty. And the line. And the nation. And the fire god who presides over all your lack of imagination.”
He rocked back. A man struck in a friendly duel. You had always been a more dangerous fighter when you didn’t want to fight.
“I know what this looks like,” he said, painfully honest. “I hate it. I hate that I’m here like this. I hate that I still—”
He stopped. The room paused with him. Even the rain outside seemed to hold its breath so it would not be accused of eavesdropping.
“Say it,” you said, because mercy is a cruel god and she had your face tonight. “Say that you still love me and cannot act as if you do.”
He made a sound like his scar remembering flame. “I don’t know how to love and rule at the same time.”
“You don’t,” you said. “You choose.”
He stepped closer and reached for your hand with the kind of reverence that makes a person into a shrine. You let him take it because you do not punish yourself with prudery. You do enough penance waking. His hand was rough. He had been training, then. Or had not stopped. Of course he had not stopped.
“I am asking you,” he said, and it was awful, “to help me—to help the palace. To help the nation.”
“To lie with you so you may have an heir,” you said, and it was not cruel, it was tidy. “To do what your Empress cannot.”
He closed his eyes. His mouth was a problem he couldn’t solve. “If there were any other way—”
“There are many other ways,” you said, and you didn’t list them because you had no energy for law tonight. “But they are all not you, and the council can only imagine you.”
He flinched at that, too. It was like slapping a drum.
You looked at him properly then. The man you had loved because he had learned to be gentle despite state violence kneading him into the dough of history. His shame was honest. His cowardice was honest. It would have been easier if any of it had been lies.
“You are cruel,” you said gently. “And I am crueler. I will help you.”
He stepped forward like a starving man offered water. And because nothing is simple—you had to know that last season was not a story, it was a rehearsal—you reached up and caught his jaw the way you always had, like you were checking for fever, and then you tilted his face and kissed him until your heart remembered itself foolish and therefore dangerous.
After, he lay with his head on your stomach like contrition itself. You thought of the book on poison. You thought of apothecaries measuring to fractions of a grain, knowing the smallest degree that made the difference between medicine and end. He fell asleep. He grieved in his sleep as though dreaming were a labor he had been drafted into. You watched the rain. You watched the room not catch fire.
In the morning, you did not wake him. He woke to the absence of your body and made a small, ash-sound. He dressed. He stood in your doorway again, a man in a story who had missed the lesson’s point.
“I will take care of you,” he said, meaning coin, rank, reputation, secrecy, all the things he could imagine that he could not hold.
“You are taking care of a nation,” you said. “Save your hands.”
He looked at you as if you had slipped a knife into his rib cleverly. “Do you hate me?”
You considered. “Yes,” you said. “And I love you and everything in between. I am a noblewoman. We are taught the spectrum early.”
He left. He was a king leaving a room, which was to say the air kept the absence like a bruise long after.
You did not tell him.
You told no one. Not Linh, whose laugh had sharpened since the wedding into something occasionally weapon-like. Not your maid, who had learned to pretend she could not count the mornings you were sick. Not the Mistress of the Inner Court, who would have known what to do and made sure it was done with the softest of gloves and the strongest of boxes.
You hid it with clothes, with posture, with the careful way you folded your hands when you sat so your sleeves blossomed in the right places. You hid it like a crime and loved it like a rebellion. For the first time in months you let yourself think I am alive and I can choose, and even though the choice was already old and made in a bedridden hour, the thought had heat.
You went to the apothecary annex in the hour before dawn when only ghosts do paperwork. You read about roots that made milk abundant. You read about cords that tangled and cords that snapped. You read, to frighten yourself properly, the chapter on what beauty we lose when we bleed too much. Then you closed the book and tied your hair and ate rice and salted plums and forced your body to remember it was not only a statue.
Mai came to you the day after your third month’s turn. She came without guard, which meant she had told them to trail and then leave at the last second so she could show trust or expose herself to risk. You had lived long enough to know when a woman rehearses her own courage.
You received her in your courtyard under a trellis heavy with wisteria. The purple made everyone beautiful. You poured tea because you wanted your hands busy.
“Consort,” she said. She never used names. Names are a kind of grip.
“Your Majesty,” you returned, pouring for her first because she did not need the homage and therefore needed it most.
She sat and tucked her legs so perfectly it made you bone-tired to look. Something around her eyes had tightened since the wedding, and there was a tension in her wrist as she lifted the cup that reminded you of a violinist tuning against a crowd. If you had been crueler, you would have been glad.
“It has been remarked,” she said, as if offering a courtly puzzle, “that you have been…unwell.”
“You mean thin,” you said, not helping and not harming. “Or pale. Or quiet in rooms I used to fill.”
“That is what they mean,” she said. She did not drink. She watched the steam with the concentration of a scholar desiring distraction.
“What do you mean?” you asked. You were tired of women who used the mouth as a cipher machine.
Mai’s eyes rose to meet yours. Her voice had no tremor. “I mean that one of us still bleeds,” she said, and did not blink. “And the other does not.”
There it was. A gift in sackcloth. You took a breath so small only trained eyes would notice. “And which am I?” you asked softly.
She smiled. The smallest displacement of shore. “If you wish to preserve your dignity, it is time to decide the manner of your news.”
You looked down at your own hands as if they were herbs you had plucked and forgotten to label. “And what is the manner you would prescribe, Your Majesty?”
Her smile grew the width of a grain. “Discretion. Which buys clemency. And gratitude, which you can afford.”
“And your gratitude,” you said, tracing the rim of your cup, “is worth…?”
She set her tea down without spilling a drop. “Being allowed to keep what can be kept,” she said. “Your rooms. Your stipend. Your title.” She paused, and insult peeped shyly. “Some comfort.”
“Comfort,” you repeated. It tasted like the inside of a joss stick.
“It is the best I can do while retaining the dignity of my rank,” she said. It was honest—Mai’s honesty was a cardinal virtue of the cruel.
You thought of 108 flowers. You thought of fire as witness. You thought of how quietly women had always negotiated plague and succession. You thought, too, of how careful you would have to be when it was time to deliver—that some midwives were more loyal to seals than to the bodies that opened in front of them.
“You are to be a mother to a nation,” you said, and did not mean it kindly. “Even if the nation does not pass through you.”
The smallest crack showed at the corner of her mouth. “I will be Empress regardless,” she said, and in those words was all of the palace, the law, the god. “Do not mistake my visit for helplessness.”
“I never have,” you said, and did not smile. “I congratulate you on your courage.”
“On my restraint,” she corrected. She stood. “We are not enemies,” she added, and it was possibly the worst thing she could have said. “Unless we choose to be.”
“The choosing,” you said, “happened elsewhere.”
She left. She did not look back. You let your shoulders slump when the wisteria hid you.
The Mistress of the Inner Court sent small bland favors—a rare fruit, a packet of herbs that did nothing but suggest concern. Linh came kneeling with stories, sitting on your floor like a child as if to exorcise your melancholy. She confided that she faked headaches now to avoid nights she could not endure—“He has started to…talk during,” she said, which was Linh’s way of describing that Zuko’s guilt had gotten chatty with his body. You almost told her you envied that talk. You almost told her to let him speak until he remembered he had a tongue for consent.
Zuko did not come back.
You hated him. You loved him. You hated him with the clean hate of a craftsman for poor work. You loved him with the rotten love that comes of being seen and then being made invisible in the same room. You kept your head up because someone had taught you it was nicer that way for others.
The evening the pain started, there was no omen. The sky was pink, like a bruise that had given up on passion. You were writing a letter to your father you would not send. You wrote a line about the pond and then struck it out because the pond was not a thing your father had time for even when you were ten and trying to learn to speak the language he wanted.
The pain folded you clean in half.
Your maid screamed your name and then bit it back because she had been trained, too. The midwife you trusted most was in the south wing with a cousin of a concubine whose child had decided to come sideways. They came running with another midwife—older, her hands strong, her eyes cool as cirrus. She had delivered Emperors and kitchen hands. She did not waste voice on comfort that meant nothing. She inserted two fingers and told you a thing you did not want to know like she was telling you a recipe.
“Early,” she said, and something in her tone was not Heavens save us but Ah.
You did not cry. You are tedious in your stoicism and you will carry this through as you have every other thing. You bit your wrist to keep your teeth from your tongue in the wrong way. You gripped the bedding like judgment. You breathed as the apothecary aunt had taught you to breathe during applied leeches: slowly, at the same speed as the woman chanting the sutra in her throat.
It is a thing to labor with your jaw clenched so hard you will not even give the air your pain.
Someone ran for Zuko. You do not know if it was your maid or the midwife or the hand of a god that decided he should carry another sliver of what was owed.
He came. He wore his crown. He did not remember he wore it. He went pale in a way men do only in battle and in rooms where women make blood into people. He reached for you and then did not because he could not tell where his touch helped and where it branded.
You hated him as the wave came. You loved him as you pushed. There was nothing in between; there never had been. The room went white and then narrower than your body.
When the child slid into the world, she came with a sound you had never heard and would never know again. It was not crying. It was a small raw flare, like an ember remembering fire. She was red and furious. You laughed once, a bark, a bad sound, and then you sobbed—a single body-wracking sob you did not permit a second of.
You did not look at Zuko right away. You looked at your daughter. She was uglier than myths allow and so alive you could not count it with breath. You wanted to put her on your chest and never let any hand but yours own touch her.
The midwife, old and cool as cirrus, cut the cord. She lifted your daughter into the light as if she were something rare a fisherman had dragged up from a ledge and did not trust to surface.
Zuko made a sound that was familiar and not. “She—”
“She is a girl,” the midwife said without tone. She wrapped her in your cleanest linen. She put her on your chest at last, and your daughter rooted with the implacable will of all hunger. Your breast ached. You put your nipple in her mouth and she latched with a ferocity that made you cry again for the good reason this time, the reason that made you feel like a door the world had finally opened correctly.
Zuko’s hands hovered like planets. He touched the baby’s hair as if it were spun sugar. He cried the way men do when they do not wish their faces to know. You forgave him a little for that honesty. You despised him still for everything else.
“What will you name her?” he asked, and then looked at you as if the question were a rope thrown across a chasm you stood on opposite sides of.
You had thought of names. You had not permitted yourself that indulgence and yet you had a list that had lived under your tongue like a small god. You wanted to name her for fire that didn’t burn. You wanted to name her for the apothecary who taught you how to bleed right.
“Meilin,” you said, and then corrected yourself without shame. “No. Not delicate. Xinran.” You looked at the midwife, not Zuko. “Heart-joy,” you translated, and the midwife nodded once in the way of women who bless with the absence of nonsense.
Zuko said the name under his breath as if it would bite him. “Xinran,” he said, and then, after a beat, “She needs… she deserves—”
“She deserves protection,” you said, meeting his eyes for the first time in hours. “And a father who does not ask me for mercy when he brings knives into our rooms.”
He flinched. You were tired of counting.
He left an hour later, looking back as if glances were threads that braided safety. You let him go because you were not stupid and you were not about to invite a spectacle. You had learned the palace’s lesson: you could only burn a thing so many times before it learned to be stone.
Your body bled and healed and bled again. Your daughter howled like a divinity who wanted the old primacy restored. You learned the sounds she made, which were not one sound but a grammar. You learned the squalls for hunger and for wet and for the strange small pains of a stomach learning to be world. You fed her with a patience you did not know you had kept in a box in your ribs. Linh came and brought improper songs and the gift of making you laugh so hard milk leaked.
Mai did not come. Her absence was a knife differently handled.
But the palace was a fisherman’s net and you both tangled in it. News reached you the way leaves reach the ground: ceaselessly, drifting whether you willed it or not. Mai had taken to visiting the shrine of a minor goddess of children carved into a corner between two courtyards where no one went unless they were desperate or very old. She prayed without moving her mouth. She burned offerings as if she could make the goddess addicted to the smell alone. The temple women left oranges on the shrine to supplement her rice cakes.
You wanted to pity her and did. You also wanted to hurt her and did not.
Zuko saw the baby twice that month. The first time he came with too many guards and had to be sent away until he remembered to come with one. The second time he came with a toy—a wooden phoenix painted clumsily by someone terrified of you. He held Xinran with the cautious ecstasy of a man who has been given a treasure and a curse. He cried again in that quiet man-way.
“Do not make a habit of that here,” you told him, not unkindly. “She will learn that men must be consoled.”
He looked at you like a student caught behaving exactly like the book told him to. “You think poorly of me,” he said, and it was not a question.
“I think poorly of me,” you said. “For expecting anything else.”
It earned you a look half-gratitude and half-wound. You could not tell which part of you it fed.
The argument landed on you both on a day with weather so mild you could have mistaken it for mercy. Zuko came earlier than he should have. He came without telling anyone who would have told someone who would have told Mai.
He came and he stood over your daughter’s sleeping form and he said, not meeting your eyes, “There is to be an announcement.”
You pressed your lips together to keep a thousand little pities from escaping. “An announcement,” you said. “How the palace eats.”
“About… about the matter,” he said, and looked at Xinran with a softness that rearranged the furniture of your mind briefly. “About the line.”
You felt something old and coup-shaped rise in your throat. “What manner.”
He took a breath. “She cannot be named Crown Princess.”
“No,” you said promptly; you were not an idiot. “She is born of a consort.”
“She will be acknowledged,” he went on. “As my daughter. Publicly. With honors.”
You waited.
“She will be raised in the palace,” he said, and your throat closed just enough to make air feel like a privilege. “With tutors. With safety.”
“With eyes,” you said, very softly. “With enemies.”
“With protection,” he insisted, and the word protection hurt the air between you like a high sound only animals hear. “And I will see her as often as—”
“As often as you can fit me into your guilt,” you said, sweetly. “No. As often as you can slip the leash of dignity and duty.”
He put his hand on the table. It was the way he used to hold your wrist at the wrists when sex was prayer and not contract. “Do not do this,” he said, and he meant the way you held the room in contempt.
“I am not doing anything,” you said. “I am watching you do. That is my station: to witness. Fire is witness; did you know?”
He closed his eyes, an old habit when he wanted to light a room against his own thoughts. “Mai knows,” he said then, and it was a coward’s blow.
You kept your expression as still as your grandmother’s funeral. “Of course she does.”
“She… she is not—” He fumbled. It was not a thing you had thought you would ever see: him losing words not out of shame but out of lack of weaponry. “She is not unkind.”
“No,” you agreed. “She is not unkind. She is careful. Care can be the slowest cruelty.”
“She told me I should do right by the child,” he said, and shame washed his face the way dye washes cloth: all at once, staining everything.
“And by me?” you said. Not expecting. Testing the steel you already knew the answer of.
He did not answer. You laughed once. It was not beautiful.
“Get out,” you said, friendly as if offering tea. “Your guards must be bored on the walkway.”
He went. He took the toy phoenix accidentally. You did not call him back. You did not permit yourself the small failure of wanting.
Linh brought you a parcel as winter decided its first attack. She had secreted it under the tray with the pickles. She was a terrible spy and a loud friend and you loved her for both. You opened it after she had gone, out of decency. Inside: a tiny silk pair of slippers, red with little lotus threaded on in pink. They were the size of your palm. Your throat made a sound you would never have admitted to if anyone had been listening.
There was a note, folded very small. Linh’s handwriting was messy as laughter; this was not Linh’s. It was Mai’s.
The script was the kind sold to girls for whom beauty was a cage and a resource both, court hand neat enough to forgive itself extravagance: You will not find it easy to leave. If you attempt it, the palace will take it as an insult, and the insult will burn the child. Stay. Raise her. I will make sure the right doors are closed and the right ones opened. We do not have to like each other to make a pact. We only have to fear the same gods.
You did not know, after reading it three times as if it might turn into a hawk, whether to throw it into the brazier or wear it under your clothes like a relic. In the end, you did what women do with things that are both poison and medicine: you folded it into your memory and told no one.
You saw Zuko less and less. The palace began to eat your days with officials and with women who wanted to touch your daughter so their luck might change. You learned when to accept offerings and when to crush them underfoot with etiquette. You kept your head high because that was the pose that made the guiltier among them flinch. You wore red often and white never.
At night, sometimes, when Xinran fell asleep with her hand on your breast as if to make sure you would still be there in the morning, you told her stories that were not stories but strings of facts made into music.
“Your father is not a bad man,” you told her, and then, because facts must be careful with babies, “He is a man with a crown. He is a man whose father did not teach him how to be a man and who learned anyway, and now the crown thinks it can make up the difference.”
“You are a firebender,” you told her, even though she was still all wet lungs and blunt fingers. “Not because of blood but because of breath. Because of how you will learn to take a room into you and give it back as heat.”
“Once,” you told her, and this one was a story, “your mother thought all flowers were kind. Then she learned that flowers have teeth, too.”
You tucked into those nights the knowledge that one day you would have to burn. Small stealth fires first: to cauterize gossip, to boil dirty water, to keep men from freezing their own hearts. Then, perhaps, larger ones. You did not fantasize about revolt. You fantasized about the tiny rebellions that make revolts possible.
You would teach your girl to kneel properly and to never kneel too long. You would teach her the names of flowers and their meanings and the meanings you would give them if you were permitted poetry. You would teach her not to believe men’s numbers when they counted love.
Zuko sent a message—a request, braiding formality into a plea: Will you walk with me in the south gardens.
You considered not going, which was to say you lied to yourself long enough to perform dignity. Then you went because there are ghosts you must feed once or they bang on the door forever.
He was waiting beneath a cherry tree so heavily flowered it looked vulgar, which you suspected was the point: to make the pain a little ridiculous so it could be borne. His hair was tied with a ribbon you had once slid into your own hair as a joke he had kept.
“You look well,” he said, which was not what he meant.
“Our daughter thrives,” you said, which was what you meant.
He nodded. He looked as if his hands itched to reach for a sword he had put aside as a decision. “I dream of a day,” he said, “when no one in that palace says the word council to me again unless it is because I have chosen to ask them.”
“That day may come when you begin to speak in I instead of we,” you said, and did not soften it. “And when you stop using women as bridges.”
He took it like a fruit he deserved to eat and did not like. “You are… You have always been—”
“You do not get to praise me,” you said, and you did not raise your voice. That was the old lesson, too. A noblewoman’s real weapon is not anger but precision. “You get to do better.”
He nodded. “I am trying.”
“Try with someone else’s spine,” you said, and smiled once, sharp. “Mine is occupied.”
He winced, which was penance by a different altar. “She smiles at me,” he said suddenly, as if this were the thing that had sprouted in his chest and burst his ribs to show its flower. “Xinran. She… she smiles and it is like… The world becomes a small room and only the right things are in it.”
You looked at him and the old wild love bit you once more viciously just to remind you it lived here, too. “Then perhaps,” you said, “you will learn to rearrange more rooms.”
He laughed; it was ugly and honest and made something unclench in your spine. “You always knew how to make me hate myself less,” he said, and then he was very quiet. “And more.”
“Good,” you said. “Balanced diet.”
He wanted to say I’m sorry. He wanted to say I love you. He wanted to say I am a coward. He wanted to say I will change. You saw the boy and the man both learning and unlearning in his face. You had no patience left for his process. You had used it all ensuring your daughter remembered she was not a secret.
You walked with him in the garden where butterflies were stupid with spring. You said nothing else of substance because too much substance drowns people who have not learned to breathe underwater. You took your leave with a bow shallow as a tea dish. He bowed too deeply in return, which made a courtier later frown the exact correct amount.
In the end, the palace did what palaces do. It encased. It displayed. It powdered. It gossiped until the gossip turned into scripture.
You did what your grandmother had ordered on a day with peaches: you kept your head up and learned to let the ember live in the coal.
There were nights, after, when you woke with your daughter’s foot pressed into your throat, when you found yourself laughing like a madwoman and you let it run through you like lightning because if you didn’t you would become a statue of a noblewoman and someone would put you in a corridor and burn incense in front of you and girls would pray to you for consolation instead of revolt.
There were afternoons when you met Mai in the corridor and you both paused infinitesimally and then kept walking. You lived long enough to watch her soften around a child not of her belly. You lived long enough to serve her tea once—once—and to say without flinching, “It is time we spoke of tutors,” and to hear her say, “I have made a list,” and to not throw that list in the brazier. You lived long enough to know she, too, was holding a red thread she had not chosen, and she too bled from where it cut.
There were mornings when Zuko trained until the ground steamed and you watched from a distant balcony with your daughter on your hip and you whispered to her the things men forget: that breath is not owned by kings, that fire is not the only witness, that blue flames burn hotter when the air is tight but they still must be fed.
And there was, sometimes, a small joy so sudden it made you graceless: your daughter lurching across a room to you as if you were not a person but a fact; your name in her mouth not as consort or lady or the other woman but as mama—a word that flattened palaces and rebuilt them in an afternoon.
The flowers returned one evening—not the poor apology of a miserable man, not the blitz of a boy. A simple arrangement placed quietly on your table. A servant had slipped in and out like a soft-footed ghost.
Four kinds.
Red camellias. Red lotus. Balloon flowers. Baby’s breath.
Not one hundred and eight. You counted because you had learned to count love even as you swore never to count it again.
Four.
You stood looking at them long enough for dusk to forget itself and turn to lamp light.
You picked up the card. It had no seal. It had no signature. It had one line in a hand you knew as well as your own was, once.
I am learning the difference between asking and vowing.
You almost laughed and you almost cried and you did neither because your daughter picked up a fistful of baby’s breath and made stars of them on the floor, and you had to stop her from eating them, and it is difficult to be tragic when a small person is conducting astronomy with petals at your feet.
Still. Meanings mattered. They had always mattered more to you than they should. You found a clean page and you wrote—because writing was your revenge as much as it was your kindness—the simple facts, ready for the day your daughter would ask what the flowers meant and why.
Red camellia: in court language, excellence perfected and the admiration that bows its head to greet it; in lovers’ code, you are the flame I want to carry in my sleeves.
Red lotus: in the temple’s strict tongue, purity of heart proved by perseverance; in the soldiers’ slang, a vow kept even when it burns the mouth that says it.
Balloon flower (platycodon): in old apothecary scripts, truth-telling and constancy that does not require audience; in folk joke, the honest star that opens when it is ready no matter who yells at the sky.
Baby’s breath (gypsophila): in bridal hands, everlastingness and the courage of small things; in the way your grandmother said it, the promise that what is tender can survive what is hard if held right.
You put the paper away. You did not send a reply. You sat on the floor with your daughter and let her be astronomer and emperor both. You counted with her, not love this time, but petals you would sweep up later, together.
Outside, in the palace that was a machine for remaking people into myths or into bones, bells began to ring a ceremony you were not required at. You did not move. You could hear them and choose not to attend. It was not the sort of victory that could be dressed in banners. It was the sort that meant you were still your own witness.
And if one day, when the bells rang for a thing that was yours to decide, you would be ready to choose without counting—well. You had been taught early how to keep the ember alive.
I think it is good to share again this petition - even if the movie got leaked and to honour the work of animators and the whole studio behind the film, we should push for theatrical release!!
HAIR DOWN HAIR DOWN HAIR DOWN HAIR DOWN HAIR DOWN HAIR DOWN HAIR DOWN HAIR DOWN HAIR DOWN HAIR DOWN HAIR DOWN HAIR DOWN HAIR DOWN HAIR DOWN HAIR DOWN YOU MEAN OUR MAN!!AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH THE ANIMATORS NEED A RAISE FO THIS 😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩 I'VE ALWAYS BEEN A SOKKA GIRLIE BUT GAAAAWWWWDDD DAAAYYYYUUMMMMMMM😭😭😭😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩
This was where my mind was the whole time soz gang
Not to mention Zuko calling a man attractive and Sokka saying Zuko has a beautiful face
Zukka gang how we feelin
Putting this here instead of keeping in tags but edit: Reminder that Paramount donates to lsrael [x x] and while it is genuinely awful for the artists, maybe think twice before defending giving money to a company that actively funds genocide.
“why are you, as someone in their 30s, still on tumblr” oh so you think you’re gonna be normal when you’re my age? you think you’re gonna be CURED?? you think the witches’ curse will have been lifted by then?? cmon now
pixelskylines
snowghoul
andulkaphoto
origamiaround
2087
tangentwithtanner
