#i cannot be reached by mortal means.

[jademint2581]

therapist: rizzeptionist doll gashu isn't real, he can't hurt you rizzeptionist doll gashu:

[shorthaltsjester]

Why are your children bound by rules you will not follow?

Critical Role, Campaign 3, Downfall Parts 1-3 // Commandments of The Prime Deities according to the Tal'Dorei Campaign Setting Reborn

[blujayonthewing]

SUPREMELY frustrating that we found something actually really cool and intriguing and plot relevant in tonight's session but I'm still so constantly preoccupied with whether the DM is going to 100% kill us with sheer poor game design that I barely have enough brainspace left over to even enjoy it

[aurumalatus]

𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 [𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞]

pairing. kinich x fem!reader

word count. 700

genre/warnings. childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, fluff and angst, drabble collection

summary.

in which kinich learns the value of all things: lives, friendship, and, of course, you. or, in which kinich realizes that you are the only priceless thing in this world.

author's note. this is just a short prologue to show how things end (yay happy endings!), but the two have a lot of trauma to go through before they reach endgame. i love kinich's character and design so i'm excited for this! interaction is highly appreciated :)

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 ↣

Kinich thinks he’s loved you since forever.

He has no way of proving that, of course; those years are long gone, and even if he had the opportunity to ask, he’s not sure his younger self would have a comprehensible answer. He can only see now that he’s come so far, when the memories are too murky to make sense of but the warmth remains—when he thinks of your smile and feels something akin to the weightlessness of grappling and flying through the trees.

He says “forever” because he really has no idea when it started—the realization came far after the feeling. He’d been before school age when he met you for the first time, and it’s been over a decade since then.

“Kinich!”

Your call interrupts his thoughts, and his gaze is drawn skyward—you’re standing somewhere far above him, on one of the walkways lining the cliffs of the Scions of the Canopy. You’re waving so wildly and ridiculously that it almost makes him smile.

“Are you coming down?” he calls through cupped hands, well-acquainted with this kind of long-distance communication. Sound tends to echo well between the cliffs here, and he’s sure you heard him when you offer an enthusiastic thumbs-up in return. 

“Yup! I bought a few things, so I was hoping you could help me carry them home!”

Kinich rolls his eyes teasingly. “Somehow I doubt that you have enough Mora left to afford my services.”

You pout in reply. Ajaw decides to appear then, a malicious puff of smoke over Kinich’s shoulder. “Of course not! You better not be making fun of me, letting some mortal treat you like a servant! The Almighty Dragonlord, K’uhul Ajaw, won’t take this kind of disrespect—”

Ignoring his wordy introduction, you call down to Kinich again. “I’m coming down! Think fast!”

“—Don’t make me lau—wait, what?!”

Even Ajaw yelps in surprise as you take a running leap off the walkway, freefalling fast down the plane of the cliff. If he were any younger, Kinich might’ve had a heart attack. But you’ve been pushing your luck with him for years, and it comes as instinct when Kinich grapples up, deftly catching you in his arms with a light ‘oof’.

You’re holding a few boxes in your arms, he notices, and you smile. 

“I bought some Puff Pops for us to share later. I was thinking we can do some climbing, or there’s this cave I’ve been meaning to explore.”

His heart does a sort of flip that cannot be attributed to the way you fly through the sky. It’s all so much: the sensation of your warmth pressed against him, the scent of the wind rushing past, and the laughter of his tribe members below. Their eyes shine as they watch the two of you pass above them, chuckling at the familiar sight. 

And really, he can’t remember ever being this happy. When he thinks of how much it took to reach this point, the heartbreak and trauma aren’t the first things to come to mind. Instead, it’s you. The way you held him, the way you cried for him, the way you chased him. Always laughing, always in love.

Too lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t notice your curious stare for a moment. You poke at his cheek, and he startles, nearly dropping you both.

“Is something wrong?” you ask shyly, suddenly self-conscious of the box in your hands. “We don’t have to do any of that. Really, if you have a high-value job or something, I understand.”

Ajaw decides to butt-in again, reddened with rage. “Yes, all of that sucks! I mean, seriously, don’t you have anything better to do—”

“No, it’s great,” Kinich murmurs in reply, flicking Ajaw away with a strong hand—the Saurian’s roar dissipates with the wind. He holds you tighter against his chest. There’s nothing worth more to him than you. “That all sounds really, really amazing.”

As the two of you burst through the trees, laughing the whole way, he thinks that it doesn’t really matter when he started to love you. All that matters is that he doesn’t stop.

Kinich thinks he’ll love you forever.

[nickmarini]

Hello Nick!! Your role in Downfall was so amazing and I love the extreme nuances and choices shown in your role playing.

Can you share any how you used terms like “child”, “son” and “father” when referring to the dawn father? Was it separately characteristics of the same god or more showing perspectives in those moments as the mortal avatar? I am fascinated and it make me scratch my brain thinking of possibilities.

Thank you so much!

#CR Downfall

Thank you for saying that, and great question!

This is a round about answer but a lot of that wordplay came from simply the name. Dawnfather is such a name rich in meaning. Both aspects of it have ties to time and new beginnings.

Dawn is the suns' rise each morning, born anew to herald the coming day. Its consistent return gives mortals the ability to track the weeks, the seasons, and the years. To even learn that the suns' patterns can allow one to divine the seasons takes years of thoughtful study. Dawn dispels the darkness and stimulates natures growth. It’s constantly new and also always constant.

Father. One cannot become a father without time. To be a father, one must have been a child, it is a stage of life that must be reached. It necessitates change and growth as much as the dawn does. A father knows what it is to have been a child, to have been the dawn, and now he watches over it, paving the way for the new. If I’m going to show a different side of the Dawnfather then showing that previous stage of life seemed interesting.

Within his name itself is this story of growth. His was the first light, he fathered the dawn, and he has kept watch through the ages as the keeper the time. Sun, summer, time, agriculture, harvest, he is a hands on god, consistent, dutiful, present, with his hands in the dirt, it is what he knows. To become mortal and not tend to the world is hard for him.

Ayden is young, he is new, he is the Dawn, but not yet the Father. He is an aspect, the Dawnfathers hope sent down to Exandria to aid his siblings. He has more abilities pertaining to agriculture than the sun because that is the Dawnfathers newest domain. He comes late because the Dawnfather wants to wait till the absolute last minute to abandon his post. He has yet to make the journey.

All this to say that I wanted to explicitly show him growing from this experience. Ayden is not the Dawnfather we know…yet, he is the Dawnchild, on his journey. He has not toiled for ages tending to the world. I believe that the Dawnfather pre and post divergence is quite different. I think the divine gate separates him from the hands on nature of his expressed divinity. I think Ayden was a way to show this dawning realization that to be a good father one must empathize with children but also sometimes make the hard decisions for them, something they do not always agree with.

I wanted to play with him being both a part of the greater whole of the Dawnfather, and something seperate. His literal age of 15 means he is not fully formed despite being infused with the divine soul of the Dawnfather. Getting to play with “child” “son” and “father” let me highlight the differences and illuminate the growth that happens during this time of mortal incarnation and explore the inner turmoil with the Dawnfather himself as his various aspects interact with one another.

There is also precedent in some belief systems of Sun gods birthing themselves or being replaced by their own mortal incarnations. I think for a diety that rises anew each day it’s natural to associate imagery of rebirth or the journey of child to father.

And lastly I think it shouldn’t be overstated how much effect the Everlight and Trist had on Ayden. Nearly half of his levels are devoted to her. I think that sort of reinforces his mortal shell in a unique way and gives him the opportunity to be two things at once more fully.

[mandalhoerian]

sacrosanct | leon kennedy x reader | 1

NEXT >

pairing: leon kennedy x f!reader

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

The god he abandoned has other plans for him.

word count: 14K (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.

[yandere-romanticaa]

It's 8 PM. I am listening to Frank Sinatra. And Jing Yuan makes me emotional therefore, I need to write some shit down. When will I ever write for any other HSR character that's not him???

Jing Yuan, a long living species, who falls for a regular human. A short living species.

He is a man who is able to play the waiting game, he is that kind of person who can and is willing to analyze every single possible move his enemy, or ally, can and is willing to make. Centuries of long and hard battles have desensitized him to certain brutality. Now, he is not some beast who is not capable of compassion but when you've lost so much, it's only natural for your heart to harden.

That is why the realization that he cannot play the waiting game with you dawns on him.

You may stand by his side now but where will you be in the next 10 years? The next 50 years? A century means nothing to him. It will all go away in the blink of an eye, forgotten and unnecessary.

His heart sinks at the thought of you not being with him. The way in which you coo after him, it gives him a reason to actually enter his office and leave it with a smile on his face. Who will be there for that cheeky little Cloud Knight of his when he's feeling pouty? Who will be there to smack Jing Yuan back to his senses as he takes yet another unnecessary nap?

One day, you will grow old and he will stay the same as he is. He will hold you in his arms and weep as he watches the life leave your eyes for good. Jing Yuan will be forced to watch the final piece of his heart be ripped away from him, stolen by cruel destiny. He could already taste the blood in his mouth as he bites back a scream of pain.

Curse the Abundance. Curse the entire Universe for taking you away from him. Curse your silly mortality, curse the fact that you were so perfect to begin with.

That is precisely why right now, he must have you. He takes you away and locks you in some private estate, where you can be safe. The thought of making you a long living species is tempting but he is not sure if he's willing to play that card.

You scream sometimes. You weep and cry to please let you go, that you love him but that this is not alright. And Jing Yuan can do nothing but to kiss your forehead and mumble sweet nothings in your ear.

He may perhaps even marry you in secret. If he does, his wedding ring would never come off his finger, not even after your passing. This sparks so many rumors on the Lofu but Jing Yuan does not acknowledge them. He is the only one who needs to know the true meaning of the ring.

Jing Yuan is not ready for your death. He may try to prepare but really, who is ever ready for something so painful?

He sits quietly next to you, the sheets beneath you all silk and perfection. The room reeks of medicine and flowers but it is missing the bright sound of your laughter. You are gone. Jing Yuan bites the inside of his cheek as he thinks of funeral arrangements.

But it's so hard to concentrate if his vision is filled with black spots.

Jing Yuan stands up, his feet shaky, his soul shattered. His heart is either dead or dying because you took it with you, wherever you may be. The General can feel the walls around him tightening, the air in his lungs knocked out as the floor is suddenly covered in golden leaves.

Ah, they look pretty. You would have liked those indeed. Jing Yuan reaches towards them, a long, ink black talon gently picks it off the marble floor as his long white hair covers his face.

Odd, he thinks to himself. His hands never looked so black before.

A nearby caw of a raven breaks him out of his trance as Jing Yuan looks to his left, where a massive mirror hangs. He is greeted with something that should horrify him, something that should make him weep but he has no tears left to shed.

The Mara is taking over him. It is too late to fix him.

Maybe, just maybe, the General of the Lofu does not want to be fixed. Perhaps he can be slain in battle and be reunited with you in the afterlife. Would you be happy to see him? Would you hold him in your arms, play with his hair and sing him songs in the quiet evening?

Perhaps you wouldn't show him such kindness. After all, he has hurt you in so many ways. He does not deserve your love. But he can't help but to reach out for it.

A final tear cascades down his pale cheek as Jing Yuan smiles at his reflection. A maid opens the door behind him and lets out a loud scream, her eyes shaking in fear as she witnesses the General transforming into the same kind monster he swore he would keep in check. Jing Yuan sighs as he feels his heart beat, for the final time.

He was coming to see you. He was going to see you again. He was ready to grovel and beg as much as necessary, if it meant that you would be by his side. Yes, that truly was a pleasant thought. You and him, together as the sun sets. He can still see the faint glimmer of the golden ring on his finger, his eternal promise to you. It shines like a lonely star in a massive galaxy, with no way to protect itself.

However, not even stars can live forever.

And just like that, the world goes dark.

[malcriada]

Help Alaa's and Bilal's family survive

in may of this year i started talking with Alaa @alaajshaat for the first time after she had written me on tumblr. we started texting on whatsapp and despite neither of us being fluent in the others language, we got by with emojis and google translate. she told me about her husband Bilal and their family. i witnessed displacement after displacement after displacement. at the time of writing this, they have been displaced more than 10 times. their beautiful house that they had lovingly decorated lays in rubble.

as the months went by, we started writing almost daily. sometimes i would go days without hearing from them though and while i tried to chuck it up to internet outages, my anxiety during this time was sky high.

lately, their campaign has been stagnating a lot, sometimes they go a few days without any donations at all, which worries me a lot. after the latest Khan Yunis massacre, Alaa wrote me that they had to be displaced again but this time they had lost their tent. not only that, they had witnessed family and friends be martyred right in front of their eyes. THEY STILL DO NOT HAVE ANY SAFE SHELTER AND ARE FORCED TO STAY IN A VERY UNSAFE LOCATION a single tent can cost as much as 1000 dollars. this is the reality of a lot of people in Gaza. not only are the prices for food and other necessities exorbitant, a simple nylon tent costs this much.

Alaa always mentions how i should not give to them if it means that i myself won't have enough to live and while i always appreciate her concern, i cannot look away while they face mortal danger.

this is why i need your help!

they are currently at:

$ 23.706 / $ 25.000 their fundraiser has not seen any changes since yesterday.

apologies for the tagging, please let me know if you'd like to be removed!

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@rhubarbspring @schoolhater @pcktknife @transmutationisms @sawasawako

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@vakarians-babe @wayneradiotv @paper-mario-wiki @rthko @decolonize-solidarity

[solarisfortuneia]

— 𝐣𝐚𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞.

even the sweetest of scents eventually turn bitter.

✦ featuring: zhongli.

✦ warnings: angst.

"why do you seem to adore this particular flower?" he remembers asking you, one still night, when even the moon has decided to go to sleep. for as long as he's known you, your entire life seemed to revolve around jasmines. 

he remembers you laughing as you hang a bunch of them from his horns mischievously. "i love its versatility, my dear morax. it can be a garland, an accessory, a perfume, it can be infused into tea; it's wonderful, really. and it smells and looks divine." you playfully add later, "in addition, you look absolutely fetching with them on, don't you think?"

it dawns on him that he's never seen you without a cluster of them nestled in your hair, he's never seen you drink anything but various varieties of jasmine tea; at this point, he cannot think of one without thinking of the other. he doesn't even remember what your name means. to his mind, all it invokes is vivid pictures of your smile and the fragrance that always surrounds you.

and when you stand in front of him, a determined aura about you, that memory swims to the surface and he knows. he knows exactly what you'll say.

morax dreads those words he knows will come out of your mouth, and for the first time in a long while, he's afraid. he's afraid of breaking your heart, when all he wants to do is cradle it in his palms— but he knows he must. 

"i cannot return your feelings," he says, steeling his gaze, lifting his chin and hardening the curve of his mouth. 

he watches the hope in your eyes break, shatter like glass. he watches passively as somewhere, deep within, your heart cracks, and he swears he could hear the sound reverberate throughout the stone hall the two of you stand in. he watches as your hands start to tremble, your voice shake the tiniest amount.

he almost reaches out with his pattern covered arms, desiring naught but to hold them still and whisper honey-glazed words in your ears, rock you in his embrace and offer you uncertain promises of a happy future, but he forces them down. there is no place for love in a war, he thinks. and my presence cannot make them smile more than my absence would make them cry.

"why?" he hears you ask, voice barely more than a breath. "i-" you seem to be frozen in place, only capable of moving your lips the tiniest amount. "i thought we had something."

he swallows, saliva scalding his throat. "i'm in love with another," he blurts, knowing this would stop you from chasing after him. every syllable stabs at him as it leaves his mouth. "i always have been."

"oh," that soft, silent, broken breath of yours cuts through his armor and pierces through his core. "i understand," you lower your eyes, displaying the same grace you've always shown, and he hates that he cannot be true to both himself and you. "i hope you will be happy. i wish you the best, morax." he nearly winces. morax. not 'dear morax', and not 'my dear morax.' just morax.

as you turn to leave, he gets a whiff of the flowers in your hair, and he retches at how absolutely acrid they smell. he takes a step backward, once again fighting the urge to reach his arms out. he plants his feet firmly on the ground and watches as your figure gets smaller and smaller before you start running. 

if doing it this way is how he must keep you safe, then he'd step on his own body, heart and soul, without hesitation. 

of what use is a god who cannot control his own destiny? who cannot promise happiness to those he cares for?

he will wait, he swears. he will wait for as long as it takes. after the war, he promises himself. when time is favorable, he promises. as long as it takes for him to see you again, meet you on the other side, where the future is bright. but he knows it, in all the possibilities of the world, is pointless. after all, you were just a mortal, with a life akin to the blink of an immortal's eye, were you not?

it is the unmistakable scent of jasmine that wafts through his nose, many, many, many years later. he is simply zhongli now, the funeral parlor consultant who frequents teahouses, nothing more, nothing less, but the bitterness still bites at his nose each and every single time, all the same. 

he smiles into his cup, a little sad, a little nostalgic and he absentmindedly wonders why he chose to order jasmine tea today, of all days. a cheerful lilt reaches his ears, and he laughs to himself.

why do you think of them now, after all these years?

the voice grows louder and he jolts uptight, not trusting his hearing. he stands up hesitantly, searching, scared all over again. and it is then he hears a laugh he never thought he'd hear again. he finds the same set of features, giggling at something the other person in front of you said.

impossible. people rarely reincarnate with the same face. but hope strikes to a flame nevertheless, and he sits back down again, looking for signs that it might be you. 

sharp amber eyes find a small jasmine flower nestled behind your ear, and he can't help but smile. 

perhaps, this time, he could try again?

[comicaurora]

A thought I just had regarding Legend of Zelda:

In BOTW we see that Zelda has a hard time with her powers and communicating with the Goddess. What is the reason for that is that the Goddess was already connected to her via the light dragon and the time shenanigans was messing with the connection?

I think it has more to do with the fact that Zelda is the Goddess in mortal form.

This isn't an explicitly canon thing in the game. Unlike Link, who is pretty much always an incarnation of the same guy, Zelda's status in the reincarnation cycle is a bit more wibbly and varies from game to game. The original Zelda in Skyward Sword was explicitly Hylia incarnated in mortal form, and every Zelda since then has been her descendant, carrying "the blood of the Goddess." In Tears of the Kingdom, that means Queen Sonia is Skyward Sword Zelda's distant descendant and the bloodline of Hyrule's royal family carries it through her. But Queen Sonia doesn't seem to be Hylia, and it's pretty clear that not every woman in Zelda's family has the same connection - they all have power, but they aren't all Hylia herself, and only the first Zelda is explicitly stated to be her incarnation. One of the memories in Breath of the Wild shows Zelda explaining that her grandmother could hear "the voices from the spirit realm" and her mother also seemed more spiritually connected to the power Zelda was told she'd be able to channel, but Zelda herself never hears or feels anything outside herself.

The thing is, I think that's because this Zelda is looking for power in exactly the wrong place. She's been told she's connected to a vast and vital power. Evidence suggests she isn't connected to anything. Visiting the springs and the statues does nothing for her; she reaches out and finds nobody waiting for her. How could they? She's already here.

The narrative tragedy of this girl seeking a higher power, begging and praying for divine intervention, knowing an entire kingdom is counting on her to make that connection when nobody else can, and receiving only silence - because she's praying to herself and cannot answer - is incredibly powerful. Zelda is essentially in the throes of a full-blown crisis of faith and a crisis of self for the entire lead-up to the Calamity, because she's been told her entire life she's Princess Zelda and that means she gets her power from praying to the Goddess. But none of the rituals work, nothing comes through, she hears no voices from the outside. It's like the Goddess just isn't there.

The thing is, we know she's there, because Link can roll up to any goddess statue in Hyrule and Hylia herself will shine down a sunbeam and shower us with praise and heart containers. When Link needs her, Hylia is always there. She exists, she has real and tangible power. So if she's always there for Link, why can't Zelda hear her voice?

Well-

Because she's already there.

[sscarletvenus]

GUN IN LOOKISM 506 ANALYSIS? WELL, SORT OF. mostly me yapping.

starting off with these Charles Choi lines said to Eugene...

during Kenta's backstory montage in the second affiliate, we see Gun as a child has already attained UI stage. physically, he has from the start (an interesting narrative choice i believe) been set apart as someone who has ascended mortal thresholds. no one in the story until now has his degree of UI proficiency, and the stage itself remained unseen or unheard of until Daniel reaches it.

in some ways, there is something eerily non-human about this particular manifestation of his strength. his existence is forever a pariah in the realm of humanity.

aside from the morphological louche qualities, Gun's ideals and thoughts have never aligned with the either the minds of his successor candidates or friends.

everyone in this story follows or strives to achieve certain purpose. revenge, romance, family, friends, self-preservation, money, power... all of which can ultimately be rounded off to humane desires and needs.

not Gun. Never. what he does have is, a morbid obsession with death, a frantic fascination to kill or be killed.

human nature is typically averse to the idea of death, which most perceive as an end. we know little about Gun's actual discernment of death. maybe it is linked to his yakuza upbringing, where death is matter of inches, everyday lived on knife's edge. to be subjected to a lifestyle of abject horror as a child irreversibly changes your psyche, after you have become so familiar with death, you associate some sentimentality with it. death is the only constant. so maybe, just maybe, he seeks it as comfort. as relief.

for him to kill is the greatest sincerity, and he displays this same sincerity to his master, i.e., Kenta's father. it's not cruel for him, battle is simply a means of honoring someone he respects. it's too terrifying to be comprehend by the mortal mind (Kenta cannot), but humans have never known the minds of gods or devils.

enacting violence is the most intimacy he can muster, as has been seen throughout the story. for all the atrocities he has inflicted upon the crewheads, he nurtures them because they show promise. he keeps them alive in hopes that someday they too can pay their respects to their master, kill him and reciprocate his outmost sincerity, show their devotion just like he has.

he is enraged and disappointed because they have another primary purpose that makes killing him secondary, he is infuriated because they fail to be sincere in annihilating him.

maybe this is why he's the way he is about UI Daniel, another inhumane creature of pure instinct who is not bound by man's fickleness towards death. hence the psychosexual infatuation.

"Let's kill each other," is what Gun says, upon meeting someone cursed by the same fate of never being human, such as himself.

Gun is insepreable from the idea of death in comic. perhaps i will make a more coherent and comprehensible post on the same some other day.

[mediumgayitalian]

Nico is pretty sure, at this point, that something has gone wrong. A chasm has opened up, a trap went haywire, an explosion went off and blew up half the camp. Something drastic has to have happened to make everyone go quiet.

But the rocks of Zeus’ fist are sun-warmed. A sweet-smelling breeze ruffles brand new leaves, musses his hair, although it’s hot enough that he’s rolled up the cuffs of his jeans and forgone a sweater. Will is on guard duty next to him, and no one has come to bother them in hours, and he cannot bring himself to care.

“Found one!”

“No way,” Nico protests, leaning over to see. “It’s been ten minutes!”

In the palm of the cupped hand Will holds out between them, held loose so as not to crush it, is a four-leaf clover. One of the more picturesque ones, too; emerald green, heart-shaped leaves, delicately crimped, and a thin curling stem tapered perfectly down the middle.

Will shrugs, smiling. There’s enough bitten-back teasing in his expression that it looks more like a smirk. “I guess I’m just lucky.”

“Lucky I don’t smite you, maybe,” Nico grumbles. “Go away. Your bad vibes are hindering my success.”

Snorting, Will does, shuffling back over to let Nico comb through the clover thatch in peace. He stretches out on the grass — he ditched his shoes and helmet and armour the literal second the rest of the team ran off, the dork — and shifts ‘til he’s comfortable, ankles crossed, hands behind his head, eyes closed. Nico pictures him with a piece of straw sticking out of his mouth and a cowboy hat resting over his eyes and giggles to himself. The image is so clear he’s half-certain it was a vision.

“Though you were tryin’ to focus,” Will mutters, cracking one eye open.

Nico sticks his tongue out. “I’m trying, derpface. All your shifting around is distracting.”

“I’ve moved maybe three times.”

“Yeah, in as many minutes.”

Will, without looking, plucks a blade of grass and flicks it at him. “Stay focused, Death Breath.” He stretches his arms above his head, sighing. “I’m gonna nap.”

He doesn’t move when Nico flings a handful of (regular) clovers at him, infuriatingly serene. He’s trained himself to fall asleep anywhere, anything to catch up on the sleep debt he’s been wracking up for years, and the sunny patch of clearing in the first they’re in is one of the nicer places Nico has found him passed out. At least here he can stretch out, sit in the sun — Nico found him tucked in between the camp washer and dryer, once, curled under a stack of laundry baskets. He’d made a valiant effort to hide himself from accident-prone younger siblings and best friends who invite mortal wrath, but his snoring had given him away. Nico’d heard him outside the building.

Here, though, no one is bothering them. Chiron’s playing field medic, the infirmary has been stocked, the Ares kids were cursed by Clovis and co. last week and have been asleep since. There haven’t been any echoing screams of agony. No desperate IMs. Nico, even, makes sure to keep his sword within reach, armour still firmly strapped, quietly on guard so Will doesn’t have to be. For once, he can take up as much space as he likes, bare skin absorbing the sun that has outshined the clouds perhaps for the express purpose of keeping him toasty even without a blanket.

Nico drags his eyes back towards the clovers, smiling. He’s cute when he sleeps. Sometimes he mumbles, nonsensical ramblings of the half-conscious, too slurred for Nico to make much sense of it. He catches bits and pieces of words and phrases as he picks through the soft leaves; lemme try, twice, as he watches a ladybug hop her way over a stone; careful with that, as he tosses a handful of regular, three-leaf clovers into the air; and notably diphenhydramine as he digs his hand through the soft dirt to yank out a worm.

Nico turns to face him. “You’re a nerd,” he says solemnly.

Will snores in response.

“Sleep quieter, why don’t you.”

The thing about Will is that he is like a tapeworm.

Nico means this in the best possible way. They start out invisible — sure, you might feel the irritation of something new burrowing its way into your person, but it’s not your most pressing concern. You’ve maybe got other things on your mind. You’re not focused, intensely, on how tiny changes are happening to you; you’re eating more, moving more, sleeping weird. Sometimes this happens. It’s nothing notable.

Slowly, though, you start to change. There’s this…cavern, inside of you, that you’re suddenly aware of. Maybe it was always there. You’re struck, more and more each day, with the need to fill yourself. To consume. You are aware, for the first time in years, that you have not had enough. There has been an emptiness inside you. And now there’s this driving force making home inside you instead, pushing you to take enough to not just survive but to thrive. You’re capable, now, in a way you weren’t before, to feel your needs, your wants. To listen to them. There is something that has worked it’s way inside you and grown and grown and grown and forced you, alongside it, to care about yourself enough to maintain its life inside you.

Will would probably not appreciate being compared to a parasite. It might be funny to tell him anyway, though. Watch his eye twitch as he tries to find a diplomatic way to ask Nico what the fuck his deal is. He’ll have to tell him when he wakes up.

A quiet groaning noise has him looking up again; the sound of rustling clothes and twisting grass.

“Y’r smirkin’.”

Speak of the devil. Or parasite.

Nico picks at a tangled stem. “What are your thoughts on tapeworms?”

“Generally bad,” Will says, yawning. He doesn’t seem fazed at all by the random question — he usually isn’t. People ask him a lot of strange things, generally. Like, how many consecutive concussions are medically unsound? (any, dude, please), or what is the recommended liquid amount of iron to swallow to fortify your blood? (none, please don’t fucking swallow liquid iron), or perhaps most notable are you up for learning how to un-do cerebral paralysis within the next ten seconds? (no, Jesus Christ, get off the fucking roof and set down the wax wings, do you people learn nothing ever).

“What about tapeworms as a metaphor for friendship?”

“…That’s a new one, I’ll give you that.”

Hell yes. Point to Nico.

“D’you find one, yet?”

Nico’s face drops into a scowl. “No.”

He doesn’t understand how Will found a four-leaf so quickly. Nico’s been looking for much longer, and the clover patch is huge — statistically, he should have found one by now, right? It just makes sense.

Will hums, dragging himself to his knees and then somersaulting over. He lands legs sprawled over a smattering of pebbles, head by Nico’s knees. Nico reaches out and flicks his temples, just to watch him wrinkle his nose in protest.

“Whattaya so bent on getting one for, anyway?”

Nico shrugs, looking away. “Luck.”

“Duh.” Will pokes his thigh. “What for?”

“None of your business, nosy.”

“Well, that just made me a thousand times more interested. I was going to let it go, before, but now —”

“You’re so full of shit,” Nico huffs, grinning. Will matches his look with a shameless smile, placing his hands under his chin in a caricature of cherubic innocence.

“Why, whatever do you mean.”

“I mean —” he punctuates every word with a pinch — “that you have to know every detail —”

“Ack! Stop!”

“— of everybody else’s lives —”

“Hey! Derek Hale! Put the claws away!”

“— at any given time —”

“I am going to scream!”

“— or you’ll die.”

He acquires, finally, to Will’s screeching and writhing, pushing him away with one last poke. He pouts, looking at Nico with round, wounded eyes.

“You’re so mean to me.”

“You invite it, honestly.”

“By caring about you, you butthead.”

Nico rolls his eyes, fighting back a smile. “Yeah, yeah.”

Looking for the four-leaf is different with Will watching him. Different, somehow, even though he’s quiet, chin resting on his knees, eyes following Nico’s searching hands. Every shift has Nico’s breath catching, fingers twitching at his minute hums, his tapping fingers. He’s distracting. If Nico was struggling to find the lucky clover before, it’s hopeless now. Will drags his attention like the core of the Earth drags everything towards it.

“Hey,” Will murmurs, poking Nico with his toe. “Take mine.”

Nico glances up to find his hand, again, outstretched between them, four-leaf clover centred in the palm of his wide hands. His eyes watch every minute shift of Nico’s form, his stuttered breath, sweating palms. Bitten lip, shifting eyes.

“…You don’t know what I need it for.”

“I don’t need to.” Blue, blue, blue eyes. Ridiculously so, really. An exact match for the sky no matter what time of day; olympic blue, now, an perfect reflection of the late afternoon. “Take it.”

He thrusts his hand out farther. Heart pounding, Nico does, lightly pinching the stem between his thumb and forefinger, keeping his hand curled on Will’s.

He promised himself. One to ten thousand chance — if he found one, he’d do it.

It counts.

“Hey, Will.”

Blue widely above him, encroached by the canopy. Blue flapping in the wind behind him, perched on Zeus’ fist. Blue on the plumes of his helmet. Blue in the lavender, in the grape hyacinth, in the cornflowers.

Blue, blue, blue eyes, meeting his, flicking down. Flicking hastily back up again.

Nico tugs, gently, on his wrist. He moves where Nico directs him. Easily.

Up. Down. Up again. Perfect rings, thinning against a growing expanse of black.

Nico darts forward and kisses him. He sighs into it, immediately, hand going limp in Nico’s hold. The clover flutters to the ground between them, disappearing once again in a sea of green.

“You didn’t need luck for this,” Will mumbles.

Nico tilts their heads to rest closer together and kisses him ‘til he’s quiet.

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Can i request follower!Narinder x follower!reader who's kind heart person? Like they always want to help other even tho they rude to them,and they forgive them eventually but Narinder cannot handle see​ing his spouse being disrespectful.

I want this to be oneshot angst/fluff pls thank you and have a nice day/night🥰

"How goes...your marriage..?"

"Hmph..hello to you too, sister." Narinder rolled his eyes as he sat by the pond with a bowl of stew, hoping for some peace and quiet.

But of course, ever since his siblings arrived into Lamb's cult and learned that he was betrothed to a mortal..he hasn't known such things.

He could tolerate Heket at the very least, since Kallamar was off flirting with gods-know-who, Leshy was on a missionary, and Shamura was reading their usual books.

"It fairs well. I sometimes find it funny.."

"Hm?"

"Shamura surely couldn't have predicted that I would become wedded to a measly mortal..let alone find myself in my vessel's cult. I was to sacrifice them and all of Lamb's followers. Yet when I ended up here..[y/n] was the first to reach out a hand and help me find my place." The black cat huffed. "When others mocked me..they defended my name day and night despite my past transgressions, willing to lookover the fact I once thought of them as nothing but a pawn in my game."

"You've..gotten soft..brother.." Heket lightly teased, earning her a scowl from him. However, something in the distance caught her eyes, and she tensed. "Go."

"What? Go away, you mean?" He blinked in confusion, taken aback by her command as he sneered. "I open my heart up to you, and you have the nerve to-?!"

"[Y/n]." She simply pointed, and he followed her gaze to the drinkhouse where you were trying to help a drunken follower stand on their own two feet.

While you could normally handle that sort of thing, something about it didn't sit right with Narinder. They were acting rather belligerent, babbling nonsense and causing a barrel to topple over, all while refusing to surrender their empty glass.

Only then he remember you were the bartender for today and were trying to close up shop.

He got up, deciding to let Heket finish his stew, and began walking over. His footsteps were silent as to not draw attention to himself.

He wanted to observe how you'd handle the situation.

"Please, go rest." You gently tried to urge the inebriated follower. "You've had enough."

"Don't touch meeeeeee...I ain't-" A hiccup interrupted them as their face became redder, words so slurred you could hardly understand them. "I ain't gonna..go anywherrre.."

"I'm afraid you must, I'm sorry-"

"Nooooo...I don't wanna be handled by some...idiot who slept with the One Who Waits!"

You froze. "Pardon?"

"Whatdya see in that guy anyway? He haaaates us all..he was..gonna kill us, right? And Lamby, too?" They grumbled, now sounding completely serious and irate. "Why don't you wanna be with Lamby? Or me? Or someone who isn't a monster...do ya hate us, too?"

"No, I don't hate anyone." You tried to reassure them. "But it's rude to speak of Narinder that way."

"But his stupid siblings..they...they hurt us so much because of him!" Tears began filling their eyes, their expression growing angrier. "Why did they have to come? What they did to us...was 'cuz of HIM! EVERYTHING is his fault!!!"

"I hear your pain, my friend. I really do. But Lamb believed-"

"WHAT ABOUT WHAT I BELIEVE?!" They raised their empty glass in a threatening manner, and you flinched, taking your hands off their robe in preparation for an attack.

But before anything could happen-

A black paw grabbed their wrist, claws digging into their flesh. Not enough to draw blood, but just enough to make it hurt and divert their attention to a certain angry feline.

"How irritating.." A trio of red eyes pierced through Narinder's veil as he scowled down at the follower. "I don't know whether you're more annoying now or when you're sober. You may scorn Lamb to your heart's content..but to threaten my spouse is a line you'll regret ever crossing. Now go lie down before I make you."

With a nod and a quiet whimper, they shakily set the glass down on the counter. And the moment he let their wrist go, they took off stumbling all the way to their shelter.

You frowned a little. "Darling, it's my job to lead them to-"

"They'll find their own way. Whatever they break can be fixed in no time." Narinder dismissed as he went to clean off the glass, while you plugged up the beer kegs for the night.

But as he rubbed and twisted the rag, he began thinking about what might've happened had he not intervened when he did..and it only made him angrier.

What if the glass was still full and they decided to spill it?

What if they threw it at your head?

What if they left tiny shards in your flesh and caused blood to pour down your face?

What if-?

*crack*

A sudden sharp pain in his paw pad made him wince slightly, realizing that the cup broke apart, a piece of glass now embedded in his own flesh.

Great.

"Oh no, let me take care of that for you, love."

He perked up at your voice, seeing you pull out a pair of tweezers and a roll of bandages from your robe pocket. "I can do it myself, you know."

"And risk getting more blood on the counter?" You pointed out the red splatters on the oak. "Heavens no."

Narinder chuffed, eventually turning his paw over and allowing you to tend to his injury. "Why do you allow them to speak to you that way? And being drunk is no excuse. They knew damn well what they were saying. They've disproved of our relationship from the start."

"So have plenty of others, including your own siblings, Nari. They'll come around eventually. I have all the faith in them."

"[Y/n]..they almost smashed a glass over your head. And I stopped them from doing so." He growled, frustrated at your lack of outrage. "You are content in letting such disrespect continue without punishment? Without consulting Lamb? If we cannot do anything about it, surely they can."

"I will let it go this one time. But only because I believe they won't do it again. I think they learned their lesson thanks to you." You simply reassured him, before you finished wrapping the gauze around his paw.

With a smile, you brought it up to your lips and kissed it, eyes flickering up to him. "You needn't worry, my darling. I am okay."

"...I'm not worrying about anything." Narinder scoffed, having difficulty hiding the blush beneath his fur. "I simply refuse to tolerate imbeciles who make obscene assumptions about us, thinking there'd be no repercussions."

"Of course, but in any case..thank you for coming to my defense."

"Hm.."

"Now come." You gently tugged him away from the drinkhouse, looping your arm around his. "I believe we have some farming plots to attend to. I promised Lamb I'd work on them in Leshy's steed, but what say...you pick out the seeds you wish to plant this time?"

Narinder's ears perked. "Hah. I thought you were about to tell me to gather fertilizer." He chuckled quietly. "You are too good to me sometimes."

"Well, I figured you could use a break. Come, come!"

And so he followed you to the farming area. While he could sense Heket still staring at him, knowing her grin was smug as ever, he didn't care about what she was thinking--or what anybody in the cult was thinking for that matter.

All that he cared about right now was vegetation would prosper best on this warm spring day.

[mcx7demonbros]

All Catholic References with Sunday (that I could find)

Well, for starter, I found lots of Catholic references with Sunday, and by extension, some elements in Penacony and even Xipe the Harmony. I feel like I have to write this down and post this. It's the reason this post exists.

Warning, this post will have extensive Bible quotes and religious references. If you are uncomfortable, please ignore this post.

Also, because I could only play the story only once and cannot go back to re-read the story, there will not be screenshots to everything.

Finally, spoilers of the newest Penacony trailblaze quest ofc

1. The name

Sunday's name is Sunday, and as you know, this is the day that is dedicated to God and most Christian (including Catholics) go to church to worship God. Sunday, right before he called upon the machine that he rode to become the weekly boss for the first time, he called it "Dominicus". This comes from the Latin word for Sunday "dominica", which means "the Lord's day". "Dominica" itself came from "Dominum, which means "Lord" or "the Lord". Even though the data bank calls the boss "Harmonious Choir" the Great Septimus, the detailed description of the boss still says "Dominicus".

If you search on the internet, you may find that the Latin word for Sunday is dies solis (which means the day of the sun). But that word was used in the pre-Christian era. Dies solis was changed to dominica after Christianity became the state religion of the Roman Empire in the 4th century. Till this day, English and other Germanic languages still call the first day of the week "day of the sun" in their respective languages, while other Romance/Latin languages call the first day of the week "the Lord's day", such as Portugese - domingo, Spanish - domingo, Italian - domenica, French - dimanche, etc.

2. Sunday's physical angelic features

Sunday was born a Halovian, a species in Star Rail universe well-known by their angelic iconography, having "halos" over their heads and white wings on the back of their heads. Although currently, only Sunday and Robin are shown to have wings, while other Halovian NPCs don't have them.

3. Confession

This one, I believe, is quite obvious, with Sunday acts like a priest hearing confessions of the people who came to him for guidance and a free-from-guilt conscience in what seems to be a confession booth.

4. "The creation of Adam"

Remember the cutscene with the boss in 3rd phrase reaching out the hand and touches another hand coming down from the sky.

It''s inspired by this

"The Creation of Adam" or "The Creation of Man" is a fresco painting by Michelangelo for the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in early 16th century. This painting depicts God outstretching his right hand and finger towards Adam, the first man. This is mirrored and reversed by Sunday outstretching his right hand and finger from below toward the hand appearing from the sky. It is mirrored because in the original fresco, it is God reaching out for human with his right hand and Adam reaching out with his left hand, while in the game, the mysterious hand is a left hand while Sunday reaches out with his right hand. It is reverse because in the fresco, it is God who reaches out for human, while in the game, it is Sunday, a mortal, reaching up for the deity. However, we still don't know to whom that hand in the cutscene belong, I have compared that hand with both Xipe's and Ena's in their models, and it doesn't seem to belong to either of them, although the hand looks more like Xipe's than Ena's.

5. And on the eighth day

"And on the eighth day" is the name of the last quest of the trailblaze mission/main story quest chain of Penacony that was released in version 2.2.

In the quest, we hear Sunday telling us what Ena the Order did within the first seven days of Their existence. This is based on the narrative in the first chapter of Genesis, the first book of the Bible, God created everything in six days and He rested on the seventh day. If you have done the side quest to find clues about Sunday's whereabouts for Robin, you will get a notebook with the account of what Ena did in the seven days, the notebook is also divided into numbered chapters and verses, like the Bible.

Now we come to "the eighth day". In the 3rd phrase of the boss fight, each time the boss's turn comes, it doesn't attack but count the 7 days with its turns, corresponding with the narrative of Ena's first 7 days. And even on the 7th turn, the boss doesn't attack. It attacks on its next/8th turn after the cutscene, representing the eighth day.

Now in Catholicism, the day that Jesus rose from the dead is Sunday, the first day of the week. But Sunday is after the seventh day of the week, Saturday, so it's also called the eighth day.

"The eighth day, that is, the first day after the Sabbath [loosely corresponding to Saturday], was to be that on which the Lord should rise again, and should quicken us, and give us circumcision of the spirit." St. Cyprian of Carthage

"God brought it about that Christ’s body rested from all His works on the Sabbath in the tomb, and that He rose from the dead on the third day, which we call the Lord’s Day, the day after the Sabbath, and therefore the eighth day." St. Augustine of Hippo

6. Penacony's Phonograph soundtracks

I said that I also found some religious elements with Penacony. And I found those references with many of Penacony's phonograph soundtracks.

City Upon a Hill - the name is deprived from Jesus's words in Sermon on the Mount. You are the light of the world. A city seated on a mountain cannot be hid. (Matthew 5:14)

The Strength of Sin is the Law and The Sting of Death is Sin - now both of these came from the words of St. Paul the Apostle in his first Epistle (letter) to the Corinthians in the Bible, words for words. The sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is the law. (1 Cor. 15:56)

Infirma Nostri Corporis - this is a phrase from traditional Catholic hymn Veni Creator Spiritus - Come, Holy Spirit, Creator. The phrase is an invocation of the Holy Spirit to strengthen our mortal body full of frailty and weaknesses.

Requiem Aeternam - eternal rest, this is a introit (hymn that is sung when the priest enters the church at the beginning of Mass). This introit is used at a Requiem Mass or Mass for the deceased or funeral Mass, a prayer to ask God to grand eternal rest to the deceased. Mozart wrote his own Requiem, which I believe to be the direct inspiration for this soundtrack and the next four. That means the original Catholic hymns are indirect inspirations.

Confutatis - confusion, this is a part of Sequence Dies Irae (Day of Wrath), which tells us about the Last Judgement. Confusion here means the confusion of the reprobate if you want the full context of this particular phrase. Also a part of Mozart's Requiem Mass.

Hosanna in Excelsis - Hosanna in the highest (hosanna is a word that expresses adoration, joy and praise). This originally came from the words of the crowd when they acclaimed Jesus at his Entrance into the city of Jerusalem. (Matt. 21:1-11; Mark 11:1-11; Luke 19:28-44; John 12:12-19). This was later incorporated into the praise Sanctus, which is sung at every Mass. Being an ordinary part of the Mass, the Sanctus is also a part of Mozart's Requiem.

Agnus Aeon - Lamb of Aeon, this is inspired by Agnus Dei - Lamb of God, another hymn that is present at every Mass. The hymn itself was inspired from the Bible, when St. John the Baptist called Jesus "the Lamb of God" (John 1:36). In Star Rail universe, when saying "god", the Aeons come to mind and the soundtrack's name was subsequently adopted to fit in the story. Also a part of Mozart's Requiem, same case with Sanctus.

Lux Aeterna - eternal light, the name comes from the hymn that is sung at the end of the Requiem Mass. The whole context is a prayer to God to let eternal light shine upon the departed.

7. Xipe - the Triple-Faced Soul

One of Xipe the Harmony's titles is the Triple-Faced Soul, and you can see They have three faces (or heads?) from Their model. They are also called "thousand faces", but here I'll be discussing the Triple-Faced only.

Now Xipe's three faces reminds me of the Holy Trinity, especially the depiction of the Trinity as Trifacial.

This kind of depiction of the Holy Trinity is not allowed anymore after the 1628 ban of Pope Urban VIII, who feared the depiction could make the people confused about the doctrine of the Trinity.

While the Trinity in Christianity is Three Distinct Persons but one God, one Divinity, Xipe is one person with three faces as symbolism.

I do know that gods in Hinduism have multiple heads, but I have only seen gods with 4 heads, 5 heads or even 8 heads. The only time I see a three-head god is when they depict Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva together as the Trimurti.

Well, those are all the Catholic references I could find and remember. Feel free to tell me if I missed something :3

[tabootoji]

"KISSIN' AND HOPE THEY CAUGHT US..."

LET'S DESCEND TO THE BOTTOM TOGETHER - PART 1 OF SELFISH DESIRES pt. 2 →

✰ - SYNOPSIS: suguru doesn't care whats going on around him when he's with you (or) you have to deal with suguru's high sex drive even when people are around. (ft. manami suda) ✰ - WC: 6.0k (got a lil excited, next parts might not be as long) ✰ - TAGS: reader is female, short, black and curvy, tongue kissing, nipple play, v. fingering, dry humping, dirty talk, praise, pet names, teasing, semi public, obsession/possessive, finger sucking, f. orgasm, impact play, size diff., groping, spitting (mentions of thigh riding, manhandling, dacryphilia, v. intercourse, cockwarming) no use of (y/n), all lower case ✰ - A/N: planning on making this 4 parts. this is my first fan fiction, so i hope you all enjoy :)

“you may enter.”

 you hear the tall buddhist priest next to you beckon in another wavering soul into the ‘restoration’ room of his monastery, where he helps those who cannot see the cursed spirits that torment them due to negative human emotion. geto suguru. with the low base of his soothing voice, he asks the human what troubles them, already gripping his hand out to extract the grotesque mass curled around their body like it's second nature to him, feigning interest in what the human has to say. 

 your sitting in a soft assortment of colorful patterned meditation cushions besides suguru, who lazily leans his muscular arm to rest his head on the tall bejeweled throne he sits on, long legs overstretch against the other arm of the royal seat. he turns the spirit into a small glinting black orb, flashing a beautiful smile on his angled face, giving the mortal the same teachings he gives all the others who come to his temple seeking help through his ‘rituals'. his smile doesn't quite reach his dark eyes, you notice. you're all too familiar with seeing the many facial expressions suguru fakes to the public eye, and the alluring ones he graces only you with.

 sugeru geto is a very busy man. throughout the day his schedule consists of leading worships, performing healing ceremonies, and ensuring that those occupying or taking care of his temple for his group were performing their roles dutifully. his soft spot for you is eminent - his heart can't bear being away from you for too long. so when he can, he integrates his pretty princess into his program. even if it means just having you sit with him during these dreary cleanses of monkeys that flock to the boat load into his home, he knew he could endure tending to whatever role he had to fulfill with you by his side. 

 as he took out his disinfecting deodorant to sanitize himself after the mortal exited the room, he snuck a glance at the ethereal being beside him.

 you sat cross legged on the arrangement of cushions on the floor alongside his throne. your kasaya and yukata robe that was similar in color to his hugged your round and curvy figure in a way that was so hypnotizing. you two are the only ones to wear these colors in the entire temple – a clear message to all on who you were and what you meant to him. your thick, tight curled strands of hair that usually cascaded the sides of your face down to your back were currently pulled into a slick and refined bun held together by an embellished hair comb clip. he admired this hairstyle on you – he had a better view of your illuminating melanated skin, your full lips, your cute button nose, and overall your captivating beauty. 

 his narrow eyes landed on your sweet wide ones, a slight blush cascading the canvas of your round cheeks. he smirks knowingly, realizing that both of you caught each other staring at one another. “are you doin’ alright little one? hope you're not too bored. are you comfortable?” he asks you. 

 “y-yes, i’m f-fine.” you stutter out. “please do not worry about me geto-sama.” you shift your gaze to the side, still slightly embarrassed at the fact he caught you eyeing him. but you can't help yourself. you have almost no choice but to gawk at the dashing man before you. the man that saved your life all those years ago. 

 you took note of the way his head laid on his hand, his long, luscious black hair covering his back. one strand that seemed to slip out of his top bun framed his handsome face. because of his height, his form draped completely across his seat. you are but in awe of his beauty, no wonder anyone who was blessed by his presence describes the man as charismatic, charming, godly

 suguru rolled his eyes, the thought of how he could try to make you gasp call out his given name briefly went through his mind before he chuckled lowly. “stubborn girl. how many times do i have to tell you – 's no need for honorifics between us. come, sit with me.” he holds his hand for you to take. you eye him hesitantly before placing your small hand in his large one, and he pulls you to him. 

 he guides your short frame to sit on his lap and you let out a shaky sigh, feeling his arms wrap around the swell of your hips, holding you closer to him as your thick thighs take perch onto his pelvis. he always initially asks you to sit on him when you stay during his sessions, and your bashful nature allows you to refuse him at first, giving him some minuscule excuse along the lines of not wanting to tire him out by carrying your heavy weight for too long. but you knew too well that you could not deny him of anything for too long. 

 “i apologize s-suguru…” you turn to say to him. you notice his large ears with protruding piercings perk up at your melodious voice slipping his name through your lips. the all consuming need he has for you courses through him yet again at the mere sound of your voice. he folds his hands together on your round stomach, leaning his head into the crook of your neck, feeling your nape get hotter to the touch as you continue, already making a mental note of his request. “...i always feel inclined to. after all, you are my savior.”

 suguru presses his lips to your shoulder, pecking it as he hums, thinking of that time all those years ago that he was blessed to have met you. in the first beginning years of his guise as a priest, you graced his presence by bowing at your feet, begging him to take you into his group. you had nowhere else to go - a rather weak sorcerer who spent your whole life abused by the mortals who raised you because of your divine gift of sight. you found a way to escape from your brutal environment and followed the rumors of a cleric who provided housing and leadership to those that can ‘see’ things others can't, while relinquishing those plagued by the manifestations of their own despair. 

 poor little one, suguru had thought when he first laid his eyes on you. you had presented battered and broken at the front of his door steps. it’s not your fault you were raised by dim witted monkeys. when you raised your head and bore your watery eyes from the ground to his, he looked deep into them and saw your potential. he saw the pain and turmoil you faced from your upbringing by those unlike you, and he could relate, having mortal parents himself. the dangerous path you took reminded him of why he himself broke away from jujutsu high.

 not only was he inspired by your gull, he was entranced by your delicate beauty that shined through your frayed outward appearance. he was overcome with the need to save you, shape you into the heavenly form of yourself he knew you could be, and in the back of his mind hoped he’d be lucky enough to one day call you a lifelong companion. 

 suguru took to you instantly, informing everyone in the monastery of their new member, and that all should treat you as they would treat him – or they would face his wrath. he had you reside in a room compounded with his, and while all others in the temple had clear and thorough roles to fulfill every day, the only thing suguru asked of you was to do whatever filled your heart with contentment and happiness. 

 and how else could you possibly do that without the kind and striking curse user who took you in with no questions asked, the first person in your life to ever show you such kindness, the man you practically fell in love with the first time meeting him, by your side as much as possible?

 after all this time you're still incredibly grateful that suguru not only allows you to cling to him, but that he still always seems pleased every time you're in his presence. little did you know, suguru was thrilled at the idea that you may feel the same way he does. the idea that the reason you're so attached to him was because you're as fond of him as he is of you made his heart skip.

 as more and more time passed, the both of you felt yourselves spiral into a never ending pool of emotions filled with passion, exhilaration, and most of all, desire.

 at first, suguru intended to respect your boundaries, never attempting to cross any dangerous lines when it came to you. but after some time, gentle and friendly gestures between companions became sensual and air stiffening tension between two budding lovers anytime you both were within close proximity of each other – which was almost all the time. hugs and cuddles turned into intimate embraces if you both clung to each other for too long. soft kisses on the hands and face turned intense when they lingered on the most sensitive spots of your bodies that only you two know of. 

 you both grew so close to one another, you eventually began asking suguru if you could stay in his room with him during the nights, which pretty much ended up with the both of you permanently living together in the same room. you both continued to muddle the borderlines of your relationship until the flooded gates opened that allowed both of you to indulge in each other to your hearts' content without having to feel guilty about it.

 that's all you can think about now when suguru begins trailing wet puckered kisses from your collarbone to your neck, stopping at the sweet spot below your earlobe and focusing his attention there, making you involuntarily squirm in his arms. suguru manages to pull you even closer to his hard lean body.

 “sometimes i wonder if you're the one who saved me, little one.” he whispers in your ear, before leaning down, blowing a puff of cold air from his mouth down the slight trail of saliva his lips left on your neck, causing you to shiver and turn your head to face him.

 suguru’s smile grows wider as he looks into your warmly rich colored eyes staring intently into him. “‘s there something you need from me, princess?” he asks teasingly, watching you glance down to his full sultry lips before quickly making eye contact again with his brown luminous ones again, swallowing harshly. 

 suguru is the highly esteemed leader of the sanctuary you call home, so you try to hold yourself to a respectful and reverent standard that should be held by anybody who could even think of being by his side. but it's as if your body betrays you when you're with him - especially this close. 

 your heart begins beating so fast it feels like it's banging against your chest. the temperature of your body increases till you feel like you're on fire. all the muscles in your body tighten up, your breathing quickens, and you're unable to ignore the pool of wetness that forms in between your legs that compels you to rub your thighs together for relief. 

 you get so caught up in your body going into overdrive that you almost forget that suguru had asked you a question. you blink once to remember, before scrunching your eyebrows together in a pout, too sheepish to express your feelings of lust out loud. 

 fortunately, suguru decides to have mercy on you - he knows how coy his girl can be - lifting one of the hands that gripped your waist and using it to cradle the side of your face, slotting his fingers to the back of your head to gently hold you in place. 

 “hm. it’s ok darling. know exactly what you need. stick your tongue out f’ me. need your lips. need to taste your mouth.”

 the words that roll off his tongue in his ravishing voice makes you audibly gasp out. suguru was never the type to beat around the bush, but him directing such inappropriate words to you with such ease always made your entire body tingle. 

 you listen obediently, slowly sticking out the wet mass in your mouth for him, closing your eyes as you feel your face heat up in anticipation.

 suguru smiles down at you. his docile, precious girl. his eyes darken with desire as you comply for him without question. always ready for me to make a mess of her. so cute. he thought, before sliding his own tongue out of his mouth to rub against yours, dancing and twirling them together, exchanging saliva with one another, making you moan out with your sweet voice while holding on to his robe for stability. he grips the back of your head tighter and pulls your face closer to his to deepen the kiss, sucking on your moist tongue and swallowing the rest of your pleasant noises into his mouth.

 for suguru, this is heaven on earth for him. having your bodies pressed against one another, groping at each other until one or both of you becomes undone in each other's arms. he’s almost embarrassed to admit that he’s already sporting a straining erection underneath his garments from just kissing you alone. 

 you both continue to explore each other's mouths with your tongues, sucking and biting where you can as you continue to share the same breath for some time. suguru begins to untie the string holding your yukata together, feverish to see if your body was expressing excitement just as much as his was.

 suguru releases your lips with a parting ‘mwah’, admiring the strings of saliva connecting your lips to his. he takes his thumb and swipes the bottom of your now swollen bottom lip, the result of his oh so greedy suckles during your mouth watering make out session. he takes note of how fast you’ve already turned putty in his hands from just fucking your mouth with his tongue. 

 he continues to undress you, pulling your attire enough for him to peer down at your stubby, erotic figure. your busty ample breasts bigger than the grips of his hands could hold were perky and well rounded. your taut brown nipples stood at attention the minute they were exposed to the cool air in the room, waiting for him to tweak at. your voluptuous stomach hung out, and suguru couldn't help but to salivate at your contours and rolls. his eyes finally wandered down to your puffy folds and thighs that glistened, already covered in your essence of messy slick. 

 suguru barely considered the possibility that another monkey may knock at the door anytime now to request for another one of his healings. because in his eyes you were a delicious dessert handed to him on a silver plate. 

 and right now, he had every intention to completely consume you. interruptions or not. 

 “s-suguru, someone might come in…” you voice out exasperatedly. it was almost frightening how you felt like prey that had finally been caught under his gaze, but it also sparked something inside of you. regardless, you tried your best to think logically. what would a mortal, a member of the group, or hell – even the maids or various service workers that constantly roamed and checked on every nook and cranny of the temple – think if they came into the room and saw you both like this?

 their superior, their god, roaming his fingertips against the arms of a half exposed, weakly curse user that squirmed in his lap with his every touch?

 your concerns slowly begin to fade the more lost you got in his persistent touches, feeling his mouth press against your ear as the pads of his fingers brush against your pebbled nipples, getting ready to tease and twist them till you jerk in his lap so much you leave a puddle of your own cum on his lap. only suguru was able to pull this primal urge from deep within you, making you lose all sense of reason from his caresses alone.

 “oh honey, don't think i’ll be able to stop myself anyway.” he murmured in your ear before licking up and down your earlobe, stopping at the lower spot behind it, and starting to swirl there with his hot wet tongue while he flicks his digits in swift movements against your erect nipples, proceeding to grope at your mounds while tightening the grip on his digits to rub and pull tightly at your responsive areola's that elicited the most adorable sobs of pleasure from you. 

 if suguru were being honest, he didn't care who or what was around him anytime he craved a taste of you. every time he got a look at your divine figure, blinding heat took over and before he knew it, he seemed to always have a bothersome hard on with you in his sights. distracting erections would refuse to go away even after he tried to relieve himself (multiple times), but to his surprise, you were all too willing to help him by not only giving your appetizing body, but your tender heart as well. of course for suguru it wasn't just all about the sex, even if he did choose to use it to express his devotion to you, alot. suguru derives the greatest pleasure from showing off your relationship to all. 

 so what if a useless monkey came in? 

 who cares if any of the staff members came to check on them and saw their leader's overbearing stature unraveling his pretty girl with only his calloused hands? 

 all the better for him. anyone could and should see with their own eyes how infatuated he was with you and only you.  

 suguru chuckles as he watches you whine and try not to buck your hips while he continues to fondle your stiff nubs. fussy girl. “s’ ok love. you don't have to hold yourself back. know how much you need this. oh … and you're not even wearing any panties. you can be so bad when you wanna be.” he teases you, letting go of your large tits to finally give attention to your increasingly soaking pussy. 

 he would have liked to have picked you up and turn you to face him, soothing his needy girl by letting you grind your twitching clit against his big thigh till you came, leaving a trail of your wetness on him as he slurps and tongues at your dark colored nipples. but with the way your glazed eyes looked up at him, eyebrows knitted together, lips parted, a bit of drool spilling out and sliding down the side of your jaw, he could tell you were getting desperate. shit – so was he. 

 he’ll give you exactly what you need – he’ll stuff his perfect girl's dripping cunt with his fingers till you explode all over him. 

 you flush at his accusation, quick to remind him that it was his suggestion for you not to wear underwear under your robe around the temple anymore so he could have “easier access to your sweetest spot wherever he wanted.” “s-suguru!”  you exclaim. “t-that's because...you told me not to –!” you jump in sugurus lap at the end of your sentence when he gently pinches the bundle of nerves between your thighs. 

 “i know sweet girl. ’s just so fun teasing you~” he practically purrs to you. suguru could be so mean sometimes! but you love him, even when he pokes fun at you. 

 you look up at him briefly to give him a small smile, before putting your attention to his fingers pulling apart your smooth lips that were already sticky with your arousal to get a better look at your pretty pink pussy. suguru can't help but whistle at the sight of your delicate flower. “look at her. isn't she just lovely?” hearing him refer to your cunt in the third person had you biting your lip to stop the moan that threatened to slip out, feeling yourself clench around nothing. 

 suguru drags a single one of his thick digits up and down the entrance of your drooling hole, picking up his pace a bit, enjoying the squelching noises your pussy makes as he strokes it. collecting enough of your juices on his finger, he slides it inside your rigged, tight walls and wiggles it deep inside you as his big palm kneads at your aching clit. “ always so fucking tight..” his voice rumbles out, and your eyes roll to the back of your head in pleasure. you arch your back while he continues to prod and poke inside of you.

 suguru busies his unoccupied hand by pushing away any part of your robe that touched his lap, then unties his own yukata to reveal his painfully stiff lower half. he had also decided to stop wearing underwear beneath his robe, thankful for his idea now as his angrily red cock begged for some kind of stimulation. he slits it upward in between your plump bottom, so now every time you pushed against him, your thick round ass cheeks would give his now full hard on some much needed friction.

 he slightly bends you forward briefly to admire the sight before him – his two toned, veiny, and ridiculously thick cock was enveloped in the cellulite of your fleshy rear end that involuntarily jiggled about with any slight movement. the obscene view made him let out a staggering groan. he lands a crisp ‘slap!’ down one of your big cheeks that makes you yelp in surprise. your eyes widened as the sting from the impact began mixing with your pleasure. 

 unbeknownst to you, suguru was in awe, watching the swell of your curved ass moving in ruptures that imitated moving water from the ‘thwack’ he gave it, enjoying the vibrating sensations to his aching length. he shudders, feeling himself twitch against your soft skin, his bulbous tip releasing a drop of precum out of his slit. 

 suguru had to seriously control himself before he threw you up in the air and fucked into you right then and there with his lengthy girth ruthlessly. he wanted to bury himself to the hilt in your wet cunt that was grasping his beefy finger so tightly. he wanted to see your twinkling eyes quiver as fat tears fell from them while you cried out on his cock. he could practically picture you bouncing on his lap, desperately trying to meet his thrusts like the good girl you were. 

 get ahold of yourself suguru, he muses, shaking his head, gritting his teeth and sucking in a harsh breathe. he needed to focus on stretching out your tense little hole first so you could take all of him properly. above all, he wanted to make sure you'd enjoy yourself just as much as he would.

 he pulls you back to his chest, holding the side of your hip with one hand as he begins a steady pace with the finger inside of you. “tsk, naughty girl. already sooo wet for me. was it ‘cause of our kiss? or have you been like this the whole time?” you moan out his name once he’s finished, indirectly answering his question. 

 “aww, my poor baby. 's my fault, i’ve spoiled you rotten. now when my pretty princess goes too long without me payin’ attention to her, she gets so needy, hm?” you open your big thighs wider to accommodate his rapidly moving hand, confirming his claims as his digits pump in and out of you. you feel his rough finger trace every inch of the ridges inside the slippery walls of your cunt. 

 your panting now as suguru continues to play with your body – the feeling quickly becoming an addiction you have come to crave at an unhealthy rate.

 “oh! oh y-yes! m’ sorry suguru, p-please, need you…to pay attention to me!” you squeal out, feeling him add another one of his fingers inside of you, because how could he refuse his baby's delightful request? he guides the hand on your wide hip to rock against him, and you move them in juicy circular movements as his fingertips continuously graze against your g spot, causing your pussy to gush all over his hand. 

 you can feel drops of his warm sticky precum dribble in between your ass, and suguru uses it as a lubricant while he humps behind you, grunting heavily in your ear. as he increases the speed his fingers surge into you, he matches it with the grinding of your bodies.

 “i know princess, i know.” suguru gasps out. “my little doll jus’ needed me to take care of her desperate pussy.” he pants. suguru just loved to watch his kind, quiet girl spasm out in ecstasy in front of him, because of him. he achieves so much satisfaction from knowing that he’s tinkered with your body so much, he’s practically trained your cunt to be his personal cock sleeve. you can't go mere moments around him without your pussy leaking down your legs. 

 “‘d-desperate…only for you, my love …” you breathe out in your angelically soft voice, causing suguru to moan at the dirty words you whispered to him. you both extract the same feelings of greed and unadulterated lust out of each other. you can dive into each other's darkest desires without any shame. 

 “are you feeling good, little one? talk to me gorgeous.” suguru hums, wanting to hear more of your seductive words and noises in your sultry voice.

 “ah...a-ah! oh god! mph…! feels so good sugu-suguru ! love it so much..” you cry out, thrashing around as an entertained suguru smiles at your words of affirmation, pressing a wet smooch on the side of your face. 

 your moans and pants now begin to increase in volume unapologetically. suguru is so happy when you let loose like this, it’s when you're the most confident in yourself. just looking at how exquisite you look as he fingers you, he pledges to find new ways to crack into your hard shelled exterior so he can see you like this more often. 

 maybe he could find out what extracurricular activities you're passionate about to keep yourself busy during the day. but suguru knows in his selfish heart that he wants you to spend all your time with only him, as you both continue to taint each other while you lose yourselves completely to your urges. right now, he’s determined to help you let go of the last strings of sanity you're clinging onto to keep yourself from descending to madness from the enthralling level of pleasure you're experiencing. he wants to hear you scream his name out so loud, the entire temple will know what he's doing to you. 

 so he adds another finger into you, now pushing three of his digits into your soppy cunt. the strong grip he has on your hip is bound to leave ghosts of his touch on your skin the next day as he helps you grind down on his lengthy fingers while you fuck yourself on them, babbling out broken sentences that get interrupted by your cries and hiccups. he’s pumping into your burning heat so fast now, that every thrust makes your huge breasts bounce around erotically. you are such a sight to behold in suguru’s eyes. he looks at your pupils practically glow with hearts as you turn into a puddle of mush.

 you're close – he can tell by the way your pulsating hole quivers around his digits, sucking them in so much he can barely pull them out, leaving his hand covered in your tasty fluids. the room is filled with the symphony of obnoxiously pornographic squelches your poor cunt makes.

 surguru leans his head over your shoulder and spits a fat glob of his warm spit onto your clit, presses his thumb against it, and rubs tight juicy circles into your love nub, making you start to see white. he grasps one of your small hands in his large ones and holds it against your squishy chest, pinching and pulling at your sensitive nipple again while he turns his face to you to lick up the drool still spilling out of your pink lips. 

 “my sweet, sweet girl. you're so damn beautiful, so gorgeous. ‘gonna come on my fingers? don't be shy, let yourself go. wanna hear my pretty bird sing. come for me, little one.” hearing his sweltering voice whisper such vulgar words to you was all it took for you to release the balloon threatening to burst inside of you. your orgasm hits you hard, disorienting you as your vision blurs. your fluttering cunt sprays down sugurus arm and lap, drenching them in your juices. your hips finally give out, suguru having to support your body as you fall back on to him, letting out a final loud moan. 

 you sit against him in exhaustion, your chest heaving as you try to catch the breath that was ripped out of your lungs. suguru pulls his fingers out of your gummy walls, watching in amazement as strings of your slick stay attached to his digits. he holds his hand soaked with your cum up as the bright light beaming in the room catches it, a sheeny glow that reflects all over his palm leaves him starving for your taste. 

 he begins licking his hand clean, rolling his eyes to the back of his head as he shudders at the rich taste of you on his tongue. not wanting to waste a single drop, he laps up your essence that's all over his palm. once he's finished, he looks down at your tired out face and laughs to himself. already fucked out, n’ i havent even put my cock in you yet. suguru wasn't complaining though. he enjoyed seeing your mind and body so blown from pleasure you can barely move or form coherent sentences.

 he leans his forehead against yours and presses your cheeks with his hand to pucker your lips for a kiss, entangling his tongue with yours yet again to swirl the taste of yourself in your mouths. suguru sucks on the fat of your bottom lip, nibbling on it softly before pulling away slightly to give you a dazzling smile. 

 “how’re feeling now, little one? all better?” you somehow find the strength to nod your head, closing your eyes as he peppers your face with more kisses. “yes…i feel…m-much better. thank you…suguru…” you murmur, still reeling from your powerful climax. 

 “‘s good my love, i'm glad. because now… 'm gonna make you feel even better.” his smile quickly turns into a mischievous smirk as he gently pushes you forward so you could feel his long shaft throb against your backside.

 suguru was just about to put his hands under your arms to lift you up and raise you down onto his pelvis, when there was a sudden knock at the entrance door of the room. you quickly sit yourself up on suguru's lap, wrapping your robe around your still exposed front, and tried to look as presentable as possible before the door slid open. suguru pouted. he was just about to fuck you silly on his dick.

 it was suguru's secretary, manami suda. she bowed her head briefly before strolling to the center of the room. the way she swished her hips as she walked showed off the fit her sleeveless dress had on her body. she turned her full attention to suguru as if you weren't even in the room and spoke. “geto-sama, you have one more healing ritual before the day ends. afterwards, there's a meeting you must attend with all the members…” manami trails off and raises an eyebrow at you when she notices you suddenly stiffen in the middle of her talking. 

 due to the placement of both of your robes and you hiding sugurus bottom half as you sat on him, manami was unaware of the movements of the jujutsu sorcerer she spoke to and how they were affecting you. during her drabbles about his upcoming schedule, suguru busied himself with grabbing your hips and grounding his stiff rod against your supple heat, your leftover cum assisting him with his desperate humping. while you tried (and failed) to keep as still as possible, suguru gave out a thoughtless, automatic response to his secretary. “thank you, manami. go ahead ‘n let the last one enter then.” 

 manami nods and gives a final bow, sashaying away and flipping her salmon colored hair to give you a skeptical glance before she exits the room. when the sliding doors slammed shut, you hide your now reddened face in your hands, suddenly feeling self conscious. you now realize that you must have been so loud before. what if manami, who already seems to detest you, or someone else in the temple had heard you? how would you be able to face them, you thought.

 clueless to the internal conflict you were facing with yourself, suguru wraps his arms around you and kisses the top of your head with a satisfied hum, before sitting both of you up properly on his pedestal while the two of you wait for the last pitiful mortal to come in. 

 “let’s get through the day as quickly as possible, hm? can't wait till we’re back inside our room.” he whispers seductively to you, contributing to the warmth rising in your cheeks. honestly if it were up to suguru, he’d still fuck you senseless infront of whatever monkey was coming in to complain about their problems. he’d have even continued what he wanted to initially do to you before manami came in, uncaring if anyone walked in on him filling his girl up.

 if others didn't get that he constantly needed intimate time with his woman, he had no problem satisfying their curiosity by showing them all the dirty things he does to you. the thought only manages to spur suguru on, and he decides that he wants to see you melt even more for him. however, suguru takes into consideration how modest you thrive to be in public settings with him, and decides to have some ‘pity’ on you.

 so while suguru continues to play his role as a kind hearted cleric during his final healing ritual of the day, he periodically raises his hips up to grind himself between your puffy folds, no barrier separating the two of you now, embracing you securely so you're constantly reminded of his longing for you.

 surguru gets so worked up from this, he changes his mind on being nice and asks you to at least cockwarm him, feeling his hard cock involuntarily twitch against you from the need to feel your cunt swallow him greedily. excuses for your refusal fall on deaf ears as you try to reason with him. after grumbling, suguru eventually realizes you may have been right after visualizing the risky idea: 

 the crown of suguru’s fat sensitive cockhead bumping against the squishy spot deep inside of you that pushes you over the edge, a spot only he can reach. unable to move, both of you falling to pieces at the guaranteed snug hold your pussy would have on his engorged length. his poor dick would have no choice but to release hot beads of his precum inside you that would only add to the mess of your sloppy pussy as you clenched, feeling your heartbeat from within.

 suguru almost thought he’d cum on the spot from just his filthy imagination alone, and you would no doubt follow suit as he feels your cunt spill more slick on him every time his bulb-shaped tip repeatedly catched on your abused clit, stimulating it with his agonizing thrusts. suguru will give you both what you need later, when he pounds into you mercilessly for hours in your shared bed, fucking you within an inch of your life. he can't wait to feel your pussy leave a mess down his heavy cock, milking him for everything he’s worth.

[alastorsfuckassuglyassbob]

Love Lute, but I hope whenever she comes back to exact vengeance or whatever, Vaggie and Charlie, or the rest. SHOW HER HELL. I know they can, cause together they can do it!

After Pentious got killed, Vaggie and Charlie got separated, and they tried SO HARD to reunite again, their reactions when either or was in mortal danger was so visceral, and heart wrenching. They both wanted to protect their loves, but couldn’t, because Adam and Lute were separating the two lovers, imagine how HORRIFIC, and gut wrenching to see the love of their lives in sheer pain?! 

I know they were doing their jobs, or whatever delulu ass Lulu land shit Adam and Lute were doing, but I got so pissed, whenever they separated one another, like when Lute pinned down Vaggie with her brute ass strength, before Vaggie could reach, and save her princess. Although…That was kind of a save on Lute’s part, much to Lute’s hatred, she wants her ASS DEAD “Destroy that ass!” Like Lute said. But it was kind of a save, cause of course. Vaggie isn’t stronger than Adam, not by a long shot.

I also got upset when Adam cut the hotel in half before Charlie could help Vaggie in the fight with Lute, like these ladies want each other. PLEASE stop tearing them apart! 😭 They just wanted to help one another.

And then, after the battle (masterless cattle) Nah, wtf am I doing? Shit’s dumb af, but seriously. After the fight, both Charlie and Vaggie couldn’t help but hold one another. They are NOT going to let anyone tear them apart again, not if they can help it. They are both each other’s armors, and they will move Heaven and Hell for one another, and protect each other, fighting for love like Carmilla said.

After the fight, they probably both hugged one another, so tenderly. And looked at each other's wounds, and told one another how much they MEAN to one another, how much they love one another with all their hearts, gave each other, gentle, delicate soft caresses. You know how soft, and kind they are to each other, as they should be treated! 😋👍

So, get fucked Lute. Ily but your next fight isn’t going to go as you think! For the princess and her angel can do ANYTHING, with each other by their sides. They shine brighter, and will do ANYTHING. To protect their home, and family…And most importantly, each other. ❤️🤍

(She ain’t coming back for season 2 though, she literally cannot. She may be scheming shit, because of course she is. She’s in it, without a doubt. But she isn’t going to be the next antagonist, it’s the Vees time to shine! And they better not touch Lucifer’s little girl, cause they are going to get PUMMELED to the CURB!! Like one punch it’s fucking over for them. Like shit’s all black, they GONE GONE. Like, where tf did I go? Double hell, damn…)