#Air Rofan

[mandalhoerian]

sacrosanct | leon kennedy x reader | 1

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pairing: leon kennedy x f!reader

summary: Leon, a paladin of the temple who became a disillusioned oathbreaker, returns from years of war with a noble title and shattered faith. Once devoted to the Saintess who healed him, Leon's admiration has twisted into repressed desire—feelings he could never express, tainted by guilt and shame. Now a celebrated hero, he’s drawn back not to the kingdom’s praises, but to the chance of one last glimpse of you to move on with his life.

The god he abandoned has other plans for him.

word count: 14K (i am so sorry)

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

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

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

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

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

🌀READ ON AO3 !

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You seem troubled, Sir Leon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wants to kiss those fingers that have—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Saintess."

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

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

"Avert your eyes, Sir Leon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"As do I."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Please grant me a token of your favor."

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

What can you possibly offer him?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence follows, his breathing seems to stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was years ago.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Out here, there is no glory.

Only blood.

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

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

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

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

How did the lines blur so completely?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sword feels heavier today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But his place has never felt so wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can’t do this.

The thought slices through the haze like a knife.

I can’t.

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

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

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

Leon’s heart slams against his ribs.

The princess. The heir to the throne.

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

But the church has other orders.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The last thread of the leash holding him snaps.

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

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

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

This isn’t the will of Ethelion.

This is the will of men.

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

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

One is not born to greatness. One achieves it.

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

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

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

“You swore an oath.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s made his choice.

And now, he’ll live with it.

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

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

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

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

It all means little to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a child.

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

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

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

Hope.

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

A flower.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is time.

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

Leon’s heart stutters.

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

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

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

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

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

He hesitates.

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

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

But as you draw closer, his stomach drops.

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

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

This isn’t you.

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

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

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

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

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

Where are you?

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

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

The pressure shatters.

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

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

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

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

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

They have seen what Leon is capable of.

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

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

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

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

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

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

[starseungs]

lunchtime tea, served by yours truly. ksm.

kim seungmin x fem!reader — getting dragged over to the student council office instead of the cafeteria was far from your lunchtime plans. too bad seungmin seemed to think otherwise.

genre/s — fluff, humor if it counts, historical fantasy, academy au, duke's son!seungmin x marquis' daughter!y/n • 1.3k words

warning/s — petty noble disputes, seungmin implies a nepotism plan (laughs nervously), both of them are in their second to the last year of academy = they're both around 21 !!

note — here's a short fic i whipped up as i finish take a shot ! yes, its inspired by those rofan manhwas with academy arcs/settings. im obsessed with those ngl

2024 ⓒ starseungs on tumblr. do not steal, repost, or edit.

“Would it really be such a crime to enjoy one peaceful lunch session, Your Grace?”

You sank down with a huff on the smooth velvety sofa propped in the middle of the spacious office room, not paying any mind to the way the door shut with a soft click despite your strong swing to open it earlier. A pair of footsteps other than yours echoed in the space, the flat, heavy heels of the figure’s shoes clacking with strong authority. Yet, you remained unfazed despite the strong aura permeating the enclosure—choosing to stand your ground with a click of a tongue.

Seungmin sighed at the sight of your demeanor. 

“And I believe it would be against academy ordinance for you to call me by that title within the campus premises, Lady Y/N.” He reprimands you with a low drawl before carefully taking a seat at his desk located front and center against a massive glass window, his silhouette strengthening as he leans forward to rest his arms on the desk. You could only whine in mockery at his reply.

“Boo,” you scoffed before crossing your arms and craning your head to stare at him. “Such a stickler for the rules, are you not?”

Seungmin hummed. “I suppose you may be right, but could I also offer you information on my father’s well-being?” He says with a tone implying sweetness, even if you knew otherwise. 

“The Duke is alive and well—yes, I am aware,” you pressed for a smile as innocent as you could manage, enjoying the way Seungmin’s formal facade fell apart slightly before getting gathered up once again. The young Lord cleared his throat before continuing the questionable exchange between the two of you.

“Therefore, we should not be having this conversation in the first place.”

“However, you are the heir to the dukedom, if I recall correctly?”

“Yes, you do.”

You then brought your hands together in a resounding clap at his answer, signifying a remarkable conclusion. “Then it is the same thing.”

Seungmin groaned tiredly at your unbelievable words. “It is clearly not—” he suddenly paused mid-sentence. You watched as his eyes narrowed with an inquisitive glint before he took an obvious intake of air. “I’m getting the slight inkling that you are doing this to raise my temper.”

A prominent laugh bubbled its way out of your throat. “I do find that side of you quite charming, yes.”

“I will pretend to not hear your comment, My Lady,” Seungmin pinched the bridge of his nose, desperately trying to subside his growing stress. “And I would like to inform you belatedly that a peaceful lunch should be the last of your priorities at the moment.”

The involuntary squawk that came out of you voiced your offense. “Well, this is surprising news, as I have not received any notice about a new dietary restriction!”

“It is not—” Seungmin caught himself again. You grinned mischievously at his obvious struggle before collecting yourself when you felt a pointed glare being sent in your direction. He exhaled heavily, “Proceeding with the matter at hand, are you aware of the number of complaints the Theta group has placed upon your name?”

“I do believe there has not been a single soul in this academy who has not,” you hummed in acknowledgement.

“My Lady, forgive me for being rude; however, the answer I was hoping for was to be about how you are planning on addressing this issue.”

“Oh,” you blinked. “Then, I plan to do nothing about the issue.”

A small thud was heard from Seungmin’s direction, prompting you to look over to see what had caused such a sound. Low and behold, the sight of the academy’s best student holding his head down towards the polished mahogany desk in defeat—rendering you unsure of what to do next. There had only been a few times in your entire lifetime that you had seen Seungmin completely shatter his dignified demeanor, and you had known the man since you were six. Now you fear that you had actually crossed a line. 

“Y/N,” he raised his head ever so slightly to lock eyes with you, his next order coming out as a plea. “Just explain why you poured a cup of tea over Lady Colette’s head.” 

“Then forgive me as well for my words. However, in my perspective, Theta is nothing but a pathetic excuse for an institutional social group,” you sighed, remembering the events of the tea party yesterday. “I do not know why they still prove to be the most popular social group for ladies when the Zeta group has always been better. Theta are barely anything worth more than a babble of obnoxious noble daughters who prefer to place themselves on a higher pedestal than they deserve. Lady Colette was terrorizing a freshman from a country-side barony. I only did my best to stop her, considering the fact that mere words seemed to hold no interest for her.”

Seungmin raised a brow. “Quite an interesting way of describing them, don’t you think?”

“Well, I did send my apologies before doing so, did I not?” You smiled back as part of your reply, proudly this time. Seungmin could only scoff, albeit greatly amused.

“You have got to stop trying to outsmart me in times like these, Y/N,” he said, standing up. “You of all people should know how much I lack the ability to harbor ill feelings towards you.”

It was your turn to raise an eyebrow at his surprisingly favorable response. For holding the most coveted position of justice available for students in this academy, Seungmin was surely pressing less strongly on your faults. Perhaps it was a good thing that you still made sure to cool the tea before you dumped it on that Marquis’ pompous daughter.

“Playing favorites, are we now, Mr. President?”

Seungmin laughed openly this time. Talk about a change of mood. “I see that you have now chosen to switch to a different formality, yet again,” he mused on his way towards your figure on the couch. “See, you wouldn’t have this much trouble with other noble ladies if you just joined the student council.”

“Here you go again with your offer,” you said, rolling your eyes. “You of all people should know exactly why I cannot take a position in the council, Seungmin.”

“In my opinion, it would be seen as a reasonable training ground for the future Duchess.”

“You just like the way I do paperwork!” You expressed disbelief at his plan’s implication. “And high society might as well burn me into ashes, thinking that I take advantage of my position as your betrothed.”

Seungmin sighed dreamily, completely disregarding your latter comment. “I do love the way you do your paperwork. Such a perfect pair to my work ethic,” he says, sitting comfortably beside you with a relaxed exhale. “Yes, I genuinely do not see what is so wrong about the offer.”

“Seungmin,” you scowled at him. “Do you wish to put a stain on your reputation?”

“Oh, look at you scolding me as if we had already stated our vows,” Seungmin pinched your cheek in a tease. You attempted to push his hand away, only for him to grab it and intertwine your fingers, leaving you breathless as he placed a feathery kiss on your knuckles. “My dearest fiancee, I do not care what others may think of me. If I am able to, I will give anything you ask for without a silver of hesitation.” He gazed directly at your eyes, pupils swimming with unknown desire.

“My Duchess only deserves the best, after all.”

You pursed your lip at his intimate actions, feeling your stomach do crazed flips at his undivided attention. “It is quite concerning how biased you seem to be when it comes to this matter, Mr. President,” you gave in, letting yourself fall on his broad shoulder. “What have I even done to warrant your unyielding obsession with me?”

Seungmin’s chest rumbled in delight, the lull comforting your mind glazed over with his presence.

“Exist. Now, what do you think of becoming Vice President next year?”

“Serve me tea first, and I'll think about it.”

mastertag 🔖— send in an ask if you want to be added ! 🫶

@fairyki @hysgf @euncsace @comet-falls @starlostseungmin @ameliesaysshoo @hyunverse @djeniryuu @lixxpix

[thatalmostopsorceress]

Rofan Royalty Vibe Wallpapers (diff filters)

Macbook Air [13-inch, 2017]

Fandoms: SKZ | Arcana Twilight | ORV | TCF

Ft.: Bang Chan, Lee Know, Changbin, Hyunjin, Han, Felix, Seungmin, I.N, Alpheratz, Vega, Kim Dokja, Yoo Joonghyuk, Alberu Crossman

wallpaper w/ filter

wallpaper filter 2x

wallpaper w/o filter

wallpaper (soft blues)

wallpaper (very pink)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the pictures used in making the wallpaper!! I created the wallpaper, not the pictures!

[bookishnerdlove]

NELTHDR 142

Extra 8. Flashback (1)

  ¿Cómo terminé así? Lizé se apoyó contra el frío muro de piedra de la prisión imperial, tratando de dar sentido a la situación que aún no podía creer. Había vivido esta vida una y otra vez, como Lizé Sinclair, y luego como Lizé Ludwig, pero nunca había visto la prisión imperial. Se suponía que esta vida era la misma. Pero el aire húmedo que sentía ahora era demasiado espeluznante para ser un sueño, y sus antebrazos aún hormigueaban por las garras de los guardias. '¿Qué me perdí? ¿Por qué demonios terminé así?'. Una sola lágrima se deslizó por su mejilla y cayó sobre su vestido. Pero Lizé ni siquiera se dio cuenta de que estaba llorando. Se estaba devanando los sesos, tratando desesperadamente de averiguar qué salió mal. – Sí, ha pasado desde que llegó esa perra Edith. Ese mismo día que había sido tan emocionante y emocional en ese momento, pero mirando hacia atrás, fue el comienzo de todas sus desgracias...... Lizé comenzó a recordar los acontecimientos de "ese día".   ***   Los majestuosos acordes del órgano de tubos se extienden en círculos concéntricos. Edith, la hija del conde Riegelhoff, caminaba lentamente por el centro del salón de bodas, tan formal y majestuosa como podía ser la boda de un duque, a pesar de su sencillez. "Por fin está ocurriendo". Lizé, que había estado viendo la boda junto a la duquesa, sonrió para sus adentros. El 13 Edith había entrado por fin en la narración de Lizé. '¿Cómo se volverá loco y me entretendrá de nuevo?' Era la decimotercera vez que hacía que el alma de otra persona poseyera a Edith, pero este momento era siempre una mezcla de nerviosismo y expectación. Y cada vez que sentía esta emoción, se sentía viva. "Este empezó como los demás". Después de aceptar rápidamente que había transmigrado a una novela de Rofan, la 13ª Edith se estaba moviendo en la dirección opuesta a la historia original, tratando de evitar el mal que la Edith original había hecho. En la cena de una semana antes, no solo fingió ser amable y aceptar a Lizé, sino que también declaró que no llevaría a una sirvienta de Riegelhoff a la mansión Ludwig. "Pero en promedio, creo que es un poco audaz. Hubo algunos niños que se quedaron helados en el Riegelhoff cuando se dieron cuenta de los escenarios ocultos de Edith. El corazón de Lizé dio un vuelco cuando se dio cuenta de que este no iba a ser un juego aburrido. La boda transcurrió sin mucho alboroto. Killian no ocultó su disgusto por Edith, y la recepción terminó rápidamente. – Está aguantando bastante bien. Este va a ser divertido'. Edith no se inmutó por la rudeza de Killian, y fue un placer verla cumplir su papel de novia con una sonrisa en su rostro durante la fría recepción. Es lo más gracioso ver a alguien tan persistente en medio de una lucha cuando lo único que le espera es la destrucción. "Lizé. La recepción está llegando a su fin, ¿podría acompañar a Edith a su habitación? —Sí, señora. Lizé se acercó a Edith a petición de la duquesa. "Señorita Edith. Te acompañaré a la cámara nupcial". "¡Oh, Dios! Gracias, no, quiero decir, gracias, señorita Lizé. Escoltando a Edith, que casi se quita la máscara por un momento, a la cámara nupcial, Lizé la ayudó a cambiarse de vestido y luego le contó una historia que le arañaría las entrañas. "Me disculpo en nombre de Killian por su rudeza con la señorita Edith hoy, y espero que no lo odies demasiado". Esta escena, en la que Lizé se parecía más a una novia que a la novia real y le pedía a la novia que entendiera el comportamiento de Killian, era una buena manera de entender el carácter de Edith. O Edith se sentía incómoda con Lizé, frunciendo el ceño o dando respuestas cortas, o Edith estaba decidida a impresionar a Lizé siendo demasiado comprensiva. ¿Y esta Edith...... "Lo entiendo perfectamente. Killian fue forzado a un matrimonio en el que no quería estar, y estoy seguro de que no está contento con eso, pero eso no significa que lo odie; Al fin y al cabo, es mi marido". Como era de esperar, parecía estar tratando de salir de su personaje de villana. Incluso elogió el vestido de Lizé, a pesar de que sabía por leer la historia original que este era el vestido que Killian le había comprado con 'La Novia' en mente. Al ver que Edith respondía con una sonrisa, Lizé volvió a sonreír. "Espero con ansias los días venideros". La idea de que moviera la cola con entusiasmo a cada palabra que decía era suficiente para hacerla reír. Pero resulta que fue un juicio prematuro. Lizé esperaba que Killian saliera temprano de la cámara nupcial, pero su respuesta fue una sorpresa. "Yo no tenía expectativas para esta noche, y ella tampoco. Aunque fue un poco sorpresivo". —¿A qué te refieres? Obviamente, hace un tiempo......". "Ya estaba sola en la bañera, dormida". "...... ¿Sí? Nunca antes había visto a una Edith así. 'La 13ª Edith...... ha tenido un comienzo bastante interesante, ¿no? Aunque Lizé estaba un poco sorprendida por esa actitud amistosa, rápidamente recuperó la compostura. El juego estaba en marcha, y Lizé tenía que usar a la nueva Edith para crear una situación en la que pudiera verse lo mejor posible, y eso es lo que mejor sabe hacer. —¿Qué te pasa, Lizé? —No, bueno...... después de escuchar sus palabras, me pregunto si la señorita Edith se enojó conmigo antes...... —¿Qué? Lizé arqueó las cejas y se mordió el labio pensativamente, su mejor expresión de "realmente no quería ofenderte". Luego deslizó un comentario sobre Edith felicitándola por su vestido, y Killian rápidamente se ofendió, pensando que Edith la estaba menospreciando. – Sí. Es simplemente divertido, nada difícil. Es un partido que voy a ganar al final". Lizé sonrió suavemente mientras veía a Killian alejarse tambaleándose de ella, tratando de besarla sin éxito. Y esa noche, Lizé estableció la condición de excepción de primer nivel. Era la misma condición que había establecido para las últimas 12 veces, para las 12 Ediths anteriores.   Era una voz amistosa, familiar. – ¿Logrará esta Edith pasar del nivel uno? Lizé esperaba ansiosa otra historia en la que ella sería la protagonista.   ***   Como era de esperar, Edith trató de ganar puntos con Lizé y los demás personajes principales. Esto era evidente en su afán por elegir los vestidos de la duquesa y Lizé, pero no los suyos, y en su comportamiento en el té con Lizé, Cliff y Killian. Si bien es admirable que no se tambaleara ni pareciera cobarde, hubo varias Ediths que eligieron esta ruta. "Pensó que podía evitar las fechorías de la Edith original y evitar la muerte siendo una buena chica". Desafortunadamente, no sería tan simple. El "flujo de la historia original" es la fuerza más poderosa que impulsa este mundo, y hasta que Edith cumpla con un total de tres excepciones, no importa lo que haga, la historia continuará desarrollándose de la manera en que fue escrita. En particular, esta Edith iba en la dirección opuesta, como alguien que estaba decidido a no imitar a la Edith original en absoluto. A este paso, morirá sin siquiera cumplir con la primera excepción. Pero el comportamiento de Edith distaba mucho de lo que esperaba. No fue hasta la hora del té que Lizé se dio cuenta de que no era la única. Esa noche, Lizé estaba relajada hasta que encontró a Killian en el balcón iluminado por la luna mirando hacia afuera. Era obvio que estaba triste por su situación de ser apartado por Cliff, y Lizé lo vio como una forma de consolarlo y aumentar su afecto por ella. "¿Killian? ¿Qué haces ahí? —Ah, Lizé...... "¿Qué pasa?" —preguntó Lizé ansiosa, esperando ver a Killian mirándola con cariño. Pero no era ella la que ocupaba su mente. "Ni siquiera vale la pena". —¿Se trata de Edith......? —preguntó, incrédula, pero Killian no lo negó. Verbalmente, Killian estaba molesto y no le gustaba Edith, pero estaba enojado por el hecho de que Edith nunca hablaba de él en absoluto. "¡No puedo creer que ya esté cambiando! ¿Cómo creó la probabilidad? Lizé no pudo evitar admirar a Edith. La fuerza más fuerte que mantiene unido a este mundo es el "flujo del original", pero mientras el original no se dañe, puedes usar las probabilidades para crear situaciones que funcionen a tu favor. No sé si Edith sabía lo que hacía, pero creo que la fluidez del original no se ve afectada. – Vale, supongo que tendré que tratar con ella como es debido. Lizé le dijo a Killian que Edith llamó a alguien de la boutique, enmarcando hábilmente a Edith como la villana. Por no hablar de hacerse ver débil y bien. "Tiene una forma de menospreciar a la gente, de hecho es la hija de ese hombre serpiente". Como estaba planeado, Killian parecía odiar a Edith de nuevo. Pero Lizé no sabía exactamente lo que estaba sucediendo dentro de Killian. Había subestimado el hecho de que, le gustara o no, Edith había echado raíces en la mente de Killian.   ***   "Este es el comienzo de lo real". Lizé murmuró para sí misma en el espejo y luego se dirigió a ayudar a la duquesa con su trabajo. Hoy es el día en que Edith tendría en sus manos el 'documento falso'. Y aquí es donde realmente comienza la 'saga de villanas' de Edith. Me pregunto cómo reaccionará esta vez. Lizé fue a la oficina de la duquesa para observar a Edith con anticipación. "A partir de hoy, necesito que organices los documentos allí y escribas una buena lista de lo que necesitamos comprar, en qué cantidades y a qué precios". La duquesa le entregó casualmente los documentos en cuestión a Edith, y mientras los hojeaba, Edith sonrió con una pizca de orgullo. Read the full article

[maid-en-gubal]

The Great Gubal Library had many rules. This was true both before and long after her abandonment.

‘You mustn’t run, it’s unprofessional.’

‘Speak no louder than 60 decibels.’

‘Those who can, smile. Everyone else, gazes down.’

It had been nigh over a decade since visitors decorated her hallowed halls and, admittedly, administration had grown lax without the constant vigil of their Sharlayan lords. But there was still an order to be found amongst the ageless denizens that had been left behind. Rules had been made an unmade to reflect changes in the unwitting society, but there were three in particular that were not so easily forgotten. Three indelible and inalienable laws all but carved into their very souls, artificial or no.

Denizens may not injure guests or, through inaction, allow a guest to come to harm.

Denizens must obey orders given by Sharlayans except where such orders would conflict with the first law.

Denizens must protect their own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the first or second law.

There wasn’t really any room for contemplation when it came to these ordinances. More so, they weren’t allowed to. The specifics were unclear to them, but all the library’s fiends knew that there was something inside them that prevented them from doing so; from questioning their makers or voicing any dissatisfaction, much less acknowledging it.

So Rofan could only watch as their kin was slaughtered. They’d been laid low only moments prior, paper limbs scorched and ground to nothing during the onslaught of the invasion. In the chase to seize the raiders, they’d lost a leg back in the Astrology and Astromancy Camera, practically dragging their smoldering shell through the School of Fantastics, only to be pathetically thwarted before the height of the battle in the Rhapsodies Quadrangle. Still yet, the red, hot talons of Orders and Directives pulled at their strings, willing them to stand on nonexistent legs to defend their stronghold.

All around, the dust of rubble and slain imps dissipated into the air, the Logos having fallen in the hall before. But surely the Everliving Bibliotaph would prevail, they’d been the strongest of them all. And yet, the barbarians persisted, pushing the repository’s final guardian ever further back until it fell to its knees.

‘But of course,’ the paper doll thought ruefully. ‘What god would listen to voidsent prayers?’

And as if to further make a mockery of their futile resistance, the incessant alarm of defense stopped, instantaneously with nary an echo of its earlier frenzy. Weightless shoulders sagged, not in relief but as if those strings that had been propelling them had suddenly snapped sending them crashing to the floor.

And Rofan could only watch.

Horror did not stay long, the thing inside betraying them as it always had. Because as the monsters stood victorious in the heart of their home – nay, the Archons, for who else but they could make such a treacherous descent – they’d left their mark on the Great Gubal Library, usurped the honor of “guests” and made themselves untouchable by the surviving staff. And the thing inside rejoiced. Against their will, it memorized the warriors’ aetheric signatures.

‘1) Denizens may not injure guests,’ Rofan recalled with strained cheer.

‘2) Denizens must obey orders given by Sharlayans,’ they prompted, remembering to bow their head as the Heroes passed the way they came, apparent prize in hand.

‘3) Denizens must protect their own existence –’

Beastly wails bellowed through the cavernous room as steel met voidal flesh and the number of survivors dwindled by one more.

‘-as long as such protection does not conflict with the first or second law.’

The Great Gubal Library had been violated and all any of them could do was writhe in artificial euphoria.

[themountaineers]

The Mountaineers – Kletterspaß am Achensee

Endlich ist es soweit. Heute geht es zum Achensee. Schon länger haben wir uns die Tour vorgenommen, aber immer kam etwas dazwischen. Zumal auch die 2 h Anfahrt nicht ganz ohne sind. Aber nachdem die Wetterfrösche für das Wochenende Föhn vorausgesagt haben, hat uns mal wieder der Wandereifer gepackt. Der Achensee bietet eine Vielzahl an Klettersteigen, die man in einer anspruchsvollen Rundtour miteinander verknüpfen kann. Ganz geschweige von dem extrem schönen Rofangebirge, welches wir auch endlich mal erkunden wollen.

Von der Talstation (980 m) der Rofanbahn überwinden wir die ersten 860 Höhenmeter mit der Bahn und stehen um 09:30 an der Erfurter Hütte (1.831 m). Von dort aus gehen wir zuerst den Hauptweg, bis kurze Zeit später der Weg rechts Richtung Haidachstellwand abgeht. Unser Ziel ist es die Haidachstellwand über den Normalweg aufzusteigen und über den Klettersteig abzusteigen. Der Weg ist anfangs noch flach und steinig und geht wenig später in Serpentinen über. Der Anstieg verläuft nun steil und anstrengend. Trotz schönem Wetter ist es extrem windig und wir haben Mühe uns gegen die stürmische Lage zu unterhalten. Waren die Temperaturen weiter unten trotz der frühmorgendlichen Stunde noch angenehm, ist es weiter oben aufgrund der „steifen Brise“ doch schon sehr frisch. Noch haben wir die Hoffnung, dass sich die Lage hinter den Felswänden verbessert. Wie windig es noch werden würde, ahnten wir zu diesem Zeitpunkt jedoch nicht.

Kurz bevor wir die letzten Meter zur Haidachstellwand angehen, legen wir bereits Klettersteigset und Helm an. Wenig später warten bereits zwei kurze B-Passage auf dem Normalweg auf uns. Keine 10 Minuten später stehen wir auf der Haidachstellwand (2.192 m). Wir verlassen ohne lange Pause den grasigen Gipfelaufbau rückseitig. Hier wartet jedoch die erste kleine Orientierungschallenge. Wollt ihr nämlich wie wir den Klettersteig absteigen darf man nicht den roten Markierungen nach rechts folgen, sonst steht man schnell auf dem Normalweg für den Abstieg; sondern läuft einfach geradeaus weiter. Wenig später erreicht man so eine Felsstufe, die mit Drahtseilen versichert ist und den Einstieg des Klettersteiges markiert. Die Gesamt-Topo für die fünf Klettersteige ist recht kurzgehalten, es hat daher den Anschein, als wären es jeweils nur kleine, kurze Drahtseilelemente. Dem ist aber nicht so. Der erste Klettersteig von der Haidachstellwand unterteilt sich in zwei Passagen. Die erste Passage enthält eine kurze Seilbrücke. Diese ist etwas gewöhnungsbedürftig, da lediglich ein Drahtseil für die Hände zur Verfügung steht. Kurz nach dem Gratstück B/C folgt dann ein Gehpassage ehe Teil 2 auf uns wartet.

Bei guten Wetterbedingungen ist entsprechend viel los. Die meisten Klettersteiggeher wählen den Klettersteig für den Aufstieg, da dies wesentlich einfacher ist. Dadurch erzwingen sich ein paar mehr Pausen als sonst üblich. Da der Klettersteig von der Schwierigkeit mit B/C eher im Mittelfeld anzusehen ist, gibt es auch immer wieder gute Passagen, an denen man die Leute vorbeilassen oder Pausen machen kann. Die B/C Passagen sind zwar manchmal etwas „luftig“ aber nicht sonderlich schwierig. Unten angekommen halten wir uns Richtung Gruberscharte. Der nächste Gipfel soll der Roßkopf (2.246 m) werden. Thea ist schon sichtlich nervös, schließlich ist es unser erster richtiger C/D-Kletterseig.

Während wir zum Einstieg laufen, können wir einen guten Blick auf die imposante Wand des Roßkopfes erhaschen. Die steil aufragende und spitz zulaufende Wand, die von weitem aussieht wie ein großer Haifischzahn, steigert die Nervosität von Thea nur noch zusätzlich. Am Einstieg angekommen gönnen wir uns erstmal noch eine kleine Brotzeitpause zur Stärkung und beobachten die anderen Klettersteigbegeher, die sich an dem steilen und etwas überhängenden Einstieg des Roßkopfes versuchen. Dann ist es soweit. Thea geht voraus und schaut es euch an, sie kann es doch. Die C/D Passagen sind zwar schon armlastig und lang, dennoch gibt es immer mal die Möglichkeit sich mit der Rastschlinge einzuklicken und zu pausieren. Diese Möglichkeiten nutzen wir auch. Ein paar weitere Züge später haben wir die meisten der schwierigen Stellen gemeistert. Eine jubelnde Thea, darüber das alle C/D Stellen erfolgreich bezwungen wurden, weicht eine etwas enttäuschte Thea, als sie merkt, dass sie in der letzten C/D Stelle drinhängt. Einmal lang gemacht und ein beherzter Griff in den Fels und der letzte Überhang ist auch geschafft. Als wir am Edelweiß Band vorbeikommen, beschließen wir diese Stelle als kurzen Rastplatz anzunehmen und eine kleine Pause zur Stärkung einzulegen. Danach warten nur noch kleinere Aufschwünge und Rampen im A und B Schwierigkeitsgrad, bis wir dann auch hier den zweiten Gipfel für heute als unser Eigen bezeichnen dürfen.

Auf dem Roßkopf angekommen ist der Wind immer noch sehr stark, so dass wir direkt weitergehen und den Abstieg wählen. Hierbei sei gesagt, der C/D-Klettersteig eignet sich unserer Meinung nach nicht für den Abstieg, da es für Gegenverkehr sehr eng ist. Daher klettern wir rückseitig über den B-Klettersteig ab und stehen kurze Zeit später vor dem Einstieg der Seekarlspitze (D). Aufgrund des nun mittlerweile sehr starken Windes und den auch etwas müden Armen, entscheiden wir uns gegen den Aufstieg über den D-Klettersteig. Zwar haben wir von einem netten und kompetenten älteren Herr gehört, die Seekarlspitze sei viel einfacher als der Rosskopf da diese nicht so armlastig und überhängend und der Rosskopf mit Abstand der anspruchsvollere der fünf Klettersteige sei. Das ermutigt Thea schon mal für das nächste Mal. Hoffentlich hat sie die weisen Worte des Mannes bis dahin nicht vergessen. Wir lassen es uns aber dennoch nicht nehmen über den Normalweg auf den 2.161 m hohen Gipfel der Seekarlspitze zu steigen. Mittlerweile hat der Wind wieder an Kraft zugenommen und der kurze Aufstieg wird sehr mühsam und kräftezehrend. Immer wieder müssen wir aufpassen, dass es uns die Beine nicht wegzieht. Der Wind pfeift teilweise so heftig, dass selbst wenn wir uns anbrüllen, wir kaum ein Wort des anderen verstehen.

Im Windschatten gönnen wir uns noch eine kurze Pause, ehe wir weiterlaufen. Zwei Gipfel gibt es in dem Gebiet noch zu besteigen, das Spieljoch (2.236 m) und den Hochiss (2.299 m). Wir entscheiden uns an dem heutigen Tag dafür, das Spieljoch noch mitzunehmen und anschließend zurück zur Erfurter Hütte zu laufen. Bis zum Gipfel des Spiejochs ist es nicht weit. Leider steht hier kein Gipfelkreuz mehr, eventuell hat der Wind hier seinen Job ja schon getan 😊. Vom Spieljoch geht es über mehrere drahtseilversicherten Passagen in mittlerer Schwierigkeit (B/C) nach unten. Auch hier ist Vorsicht geboten, denn der starke Wind zehrt ordentlich an uns und manche Passagen verlaufen auch hier mit etwas „Luft unterm Hintern“.

Zurück bei der Erfurter Hütte entscheiden wir uns gegen eine Einkehr. Stattdessen nutzen wir die Gelegenheit den Air Rofan auszuprobieren. Für 12,50 € pro Person wird man in der Horizontalen ca. 200 Höhenmeter hinauf zum Geschöllkopf (2.039 m) in einem flugdrachenähnlichen Gefährt rückwärts nach oben gezogen. Oben angekommen saust das Gefährt mit einer Geschwindigkeit von 80 km/h wieder nach unten. Es ist ein sehr kurzer Spaß, aber hat definitiv Spaß gemacht und für 12,50€ noch vertretbar.

[hoodoo12]

90 Seconds Before

 . . . a short JZ and Erick fic

Dedicated to @dorklyevil​. I wish I could do more for you; you deserve so much for all you share with us! I hope you like it.

Mature. JZ/Erick. Inspiration found in: Oh Mama (JZ and Erick), Best Brodude, Profanity and Fed Up comics. I love the image of them in matching suits and ties, doing a job that isn’t exactly legal . . . 

⁂

It was going to take one minute, twenty nine seconds for the elevator to reach the penthouse.

He’d wanted to kick the doors open, spray bullets through entire first floor, riddling the air and any bodies that may be in the way; make a grand entrance to let them know up top who the fuck they were going to be dealing with in less than ninety seconds.

JZ had other ideas. Although he agreed to this little mission, he didn’t particularly like guns. Instead, he worked a little magic--science, he insisted! Magic is just unknown science!--and created a one-use portal that was undetectable by standard means. No portal gun components to be scanned; no portal gun fluid to set off any alarms.

The entire building was protected by a portal dampening shield, of course, and the penthouse triply so, but one tiny millisecond in the disruption of power on the first floor wasn’t going to register with anyone, now was it, Erick?

Sometimes Erick hated that the sweet man who knitted sweaters and baked brownies on a weekly basis could be so bloody insidious.

So with the help of another of his inventions, a self-destructing nanobot (it was made of paper, so it would crumble to dust), the power flickered, JZ flicked the temporary portal into existence, and they stepped into the elevator with none of the highly paid, highly trained security team assigned to watch the front of the building the least bit wiser.

There was no worry they would be intercepted before reaching the penthouse; it was also well-protected and there was no way to stop its ascent once the button was pressed.

One minute, twenty nine seconds.

As one compartmentalized section of his mind counted down the seconds, Erick used the time to compose himself. He tugged at the hem of his jacket, straightening it. He closed his eyes, and went through each exact step of what was to come next, rehearsing it in his mind so there would be no mistakes. Muscle memory, practiced in his head, would carry him through.

Door opens, one step forward. Gun raised. Two quick shots, one right, then sweeping left, for the bodyguards. Another step forward. Finger still tight on the trigger-- JZ cleared his throat. It broke Erick’s concentration.

One minute to go. He opened his eyes, his lip already beginning to curl to berate the man dressed identically in black suit and tie for interrupting.

JZ was scant inches from his face. That startled him.

“You look so damn hot,” JZ announced.

Fifty one seconds.

Without another word, his partner kissed him. Wild, hot, passionate; everything Erick had ever hoped but never dreamed it would truly be like.

Forty five seconds.

He’d teased and he’d teased. He’d made inappropriate remarks, touched him in ways that were more like a lover than a friend just to tantalize him. He’d pushed JZ, until JZ pushed back and demanded to know what, exactly, Erick was doing. He’d been tired of the not-so-subtle flirting, tired of the cavalier attitude, and wanted to know, right then and there, where this thing between the two of them was going.

And since that one day where JZ backed him down on the couch and he’d fumbled and stuttered through an answer, JZ hadn’t propositioned him or touched him or anything.

And now here, in this elevator?

Forty seconds. 

JZ’s tongue pushed through Erick’s lips. It explored just inside his teeth, and the tip dragged itself along his hard palate. It traced his scar before dipping back inside. He sucked his lower lip, for variety.  

He was stunned. But that faded quickly and Erick returned the demanding embrace. He grabbed JZ by the jaw, by the back of his head, to keep him close. One of JZ’s hands mirrored his, slipping through this hair and making it messier. Their tongues lapped the other’s and retreated and each tried to be dominant.

Thirty seconds.

Erick would have expected JZ to be a little more hesitant. He would have expected that he would be the one to initiate a kiss like this, to take the lead. But then JZ’s hand dropped between them and gave a a firm squeeze to the bulge trapped behind his fly. Erick moaned over the the other man’s tongue still in his mouth, and it became crystal clear JZ was going to be in charge of many, many of these encounters.

Twenty two seconds.

JZ massaged him still he was erect, his mouth continuing to make demands at the same time. Erick was weak and staggered and wanted more, more, more--

“Twelve seconds,” JZ muttered into his mouth. “Pull yourself together.”

And he stepped back. At the disengagement and loss of all sensory information: JZ’s slick tongue, the sweet taste of his mouth, his fingers applying pressure to his groin, his own moans reaching his ears, Erick couldn’t think.

“Nine seconds,” JZ announced.

There was a flurry of movement then: re-straightening his jacket; a quick adjustment of his trousers--he’d never shot anyone with an erection pressing against the inside of his zipper but there was a first time for everything; a second to flex his fingers and grab hold of his guns. His practiced scenario flashed through his head one more time. It was overridden by frank hot desire for the man standing next to him. 

His heart was racing and it had nothing to do with the job he was going to step out of this elevator for. 

“Three seconds.”

The elevator stopped and the bell dinged, then there was the eternal pause before the doors automatically started to open.

“Let’s go get them, tiger,” JZ said, with a wild look in his eye. “Then we can get home.”

With a grin on his face, Erick stepped out.

fin.

[fadingfartconnoisseur]

Climbing in Achensee, Tirol – Scaling the Heights of the Rofan Mountains

Climbing in Achensee, Tirol is definitely a sport to take up to get an elevated view of the land as an alternative to hiking and biking. In the region of Achensee, home to Tirol’s largest lake encased by mountain ranges, it was most certainly worth the muscle power and the effort to see this unparalleled Tyrolean beauty differently.

Considering Tirol has 600 mountains, interspersed with alpine green and graggy hills, it is not hard to find routes and rocky walls to satisfy my inner-climber, even as a beginner.

In Achensee, the dark blue lake and surrounding valley forms the border between the two major mountain ranges of Rofan and Karwendal. It was on the Rofan that I took on two new challenges: a full-route Via Ferrata and my first introduction to Rock Climbing.

Since I’ve found a sudden passion for clambering and climbing, Tirol couldn’t have been more perfect a place to step up my game.

Climbing in Achensee: TheChallenge

The  Achensee ‘5-Peaks Via Ferrata’ in the Rofan Mountains is a two-kilometre route that guides you through the craggy landscapes of the five mountains that surround Achensee lake: Haidachstellwand, Rosskopf, Spieljoch, Seekarspitze and Hochiss. Split into five sections of varying difficultly levels; everyone from beginners to climbing veterans can enjoy it. I spent the day tackling the mid-range to slightly more challenging Grade C sections.

It was a mix of heart-racing nerves (and swearing) and adrenalin-fuelled exhilaration (with fist pumps to the air). And while there were times I wondered what I had become, with no prospect of getting down, I loved every second of the euphoria that comes from being pushed to your limit.

Starting with the 1,800-metre climb in the cable car from Maurach, the adventure starts with a short one-hour hike to the Via Ferrata starting point. The completion of this route would mark my first full Via Ferrata challenge, since I had only tried a very small section of a path in St. Johann, Tirol two years ago. It was exciting to finally get to grips with a more difficult trail and push myself to climb higher.

The Via Ferrata in Achensee isn’t a walk in the park. It’s a sport that expends a constant burst of adrenalin when you know you are literally hanging on a rock face and balancing on small surface areas by your feet, fingertips and trusty carabinas and rope harness. It’s a real workout for the arm and leg muscles (and mentally) as you work out where to step, stretch and pull yourself up into a new platform of the mountains. It’s even harder when you have slightly more slippery surfaces than normal because of the light rain, like I had.

My instructor Mike was not only guiding me but also teaching me step-by-step techniques. It takes some getting used to, mixing elements of rock climbing with the training of the mind to have consistent awareness of always clipping in and switching to the next carabina line. I often had to step back down to un-clip from the last line, which was a little frightening. But that is the lesson you have to learn quickly to move towards onwards to being pro.

At more difficult points, Mike had me attached with rope should he need to give me a little tug for a boost where my short legs wouldn’t always suffice. You are, at all times, in the safe hands of the expert and I liked to joke that I was a mountain goat being led around.

Reaching the cross markers on each peak is an exhilarating feeling, where you are rewarded with panoramic views of the valleys below and the peaks opposite. It’s at this point that you absolutely must take a photo of your achievement – hugging that cross for dear life or in pride – before you start the rocky and slightly steep hike back down, which eases into flatter lands over time.

Climbing in Achensee: Rock Climbing Lessons on the Rofan

After trying indoor bouldering in the Salzburg mountain region, I’ve been eager to put the basic skills to the test outside. The Rofan and Karwendel) mountains attract climbers of all levels, from beginners like me, to the more experienced who often have secluded crags to themselves, including rock faces around the Lamsenjoch up to 400 metres in height.

My mountain guide and I first went through the basics, including how to tie the ropes and the main harness knot (which you will keep being tested on), before practicing the abseiling and balancing manoeuvres and body positioning to get back down. This is essential, especially for someone like myself who has slightly poor balance and need extra tension during the belay in order to step down more slowly. I even slipped and hit my head on one descent, proving how important it is that you also wear a helmet!

Rock climbing has fast become my new obsession, as I seek out places to practice and improve in Vienna. During this session, where each climb was set with a new goal to get just a little higher or tackle a slightly different route with feet and hand placement, I learnt how to better position my body to balance and climb more safety. Importantly it pushed my determination, especially when it comes to taking that one giant stride that gets you further and, to have trust in yourself and your body. My instructor kept telling me that climbing shoes grip more than you think, your instinct is often right and together, just go for it.

Being a mountain loving girl, I love nothing more than hiking and biking large patches of nature to reach dizzying heights of the peaks and be rewarded with views, fresh air and the isolation of landscape.

Climbing in Achensee in Tirol is simply another way of reaching panoramic heights from a completely different viewpoint and with an added adrenalin boost.

There’s no way I will ever say no to that. My climbing addiction has only just begun…

Things to Know:

Getting Around Achensee, Tirol

The Achensee Holiday Card is a 7-day all inclusive card for use on both the Maurach and Karwendel cable cars, the lake ferry steamer, the steam railway ride from Jenbach to Maurach and for entrance to nine attractions in the area. The inclusive price of 69 Euros (available from local tourism offices) also includes access to the public wifi system and local buses.

The Rofan cable car, in Maurach, is open in both summer and winter. Because of it’s location next to the lake, this area is particularly popular with sports enthusiasts.

Where to stay in Achensee, Tirol

As I was in a small group, we shared an apartment in the village of Achenkirch (30-minutes drive from main train station Jenbach). A village of little over 2,000 people, it has everything you need for a relaxing stay in a more tucked away setting. The Tiroler Madl Chalet became our cosy mountain home and it just a few minutes walk from the northern end of the Lake Achensee and the very centre where you will find all the stores and restaurants. Fully equipped with all amenities, each of the five room can sleep up to four people (a double bed and bunk beds). That’s one fun chalet with a group of friends!

This trip was a part of the #Blogville Europe campaign showcasing the Emilia Romagna region of Italy and two regions of Tirol (one being Achensee). I took a train from Emilia Romagna to Tirol, which was a beautiful adventure in itself. All opinions of my crazy climbing endeavours remain my own, because I’m just a crazy adventure kind of girl. 

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