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[mccnhime]

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Castlevania Fanfics - tagged as #fic: castlevania and usually with either #lament of innocence followed after or with specific characters in the tags (such as leon, sara etc). These are mostly drabbles and one shots/two shots or sometimes three-shots of various aspects of the Lament of Innocence game and other games exploring the past, present and future.

Stories that take place within the castlevania universe will also be tagged as such, but with a dash followed by AU to separate from the main games.

Something Dangerous - Story set to follow doomed yaoi and explore consequences to actions and the like. Very triggering in later chapters and will contain many DD elements and themes that will be explicit. tagged as #fic: something dangerous

Bullet Proof - A story once requested by @jinkirella and was posted on my AFF.net. It is on hiatus because for a long time now my brain has been falling short. I started to re-write it here, but it is on hiatus. I have been, however, making small little notes and annotations when ideas hit and I hope to start this back up again by Christimas. This story is tagged as #fic: bullet proof

Slice of Life, but hard mode - A set of silly drabbles and stories based off an idea of @one-in-a-million-fishsticks tagged as #fic: slice of life but hard mode. This story is about Soma trying to live a normal life post Dawn of Sorrow and never getting a moments rest. This story involves Genya as Soma's history professor and involves wholesome fluff and undercurrents of eldritch bs horror because Soma is not allowed a moments peace and when you think about the whole premise of castlevania and the bs soma must go through in dawn? its traumatizing. so soma gonna do his best to survive college as a fashion major.

As of current these are the stories/drabbles I will be working with/on and take priority. I will be posting of course drabbles of my OCs or other fandoms, but as of current Castlevania brainrot is real.

I take requests!

Please note I have no real hard limits or triggers, but there are still some topics that do make me uncomfortable, even if it is fiction but that being said: If something you request does make me uncomfy I will politely turn it down.

My name is Anzelia Mint~ but you may call me Anzy or Mint. I am 34 and will have dark and triggering content at times on this writing blog. These are tagged accordingly and will be given a mature label + read more when needed. I hope you enjoy my silly little writings!

[mccnhime]

Something Dangers Update

Chapters 7 and 8 will be posted at the same time. I am almost done editing them.

Chapter 8 is very much filled with beautiful, lovely Sara x Leon and I get to introduce more of Elisabetha (and i cannot wait to have her and Sara meet and Elisa learn more of Leon through her and maybe develop a crush on Sara because what a precious darling. this will be one sided ofc)

Anyway I do plan to write some little one off drabbles for this fic. Mostly I wanna explore Leon and Gabrijel a bit more and their friendship. I have plans to also include the game's plot, because my friend @floral-infection gave me the best ideas for the haunted theater and such and how we can bring in the horror factor of this supernatural game. Cause at its core its supernatural and horror and i just wanna play around <3

To those who have been leaving kudos and or comments here and on AO3 thank you so much! I appreciate it, even if some people think it's a piece of trash (I tend to delete hate/bad reviews and comments that do not offer some constructive feedback).

Like on that note I understand my canon I am writing, my world I am building may not be what you like. My one shots and drabbles may not be what you like either, and that's fine. We all have our own headcanons and ideas and you are entitled to them.

I simply ask u don't needless send hate because it is 2026 don't like, don't read. simple as that. Besides there are plenty of better writers than me who can probably give you what want. You do not need to have a hate boner for my work (and trust me i have gotten some uuhhh DMs and asks that have left me going "Alexa, play Calm Down by Taylor Swift" Cause its like 7 in the morning and y'all taking shots at me like its patron)

Anyway just a small update to expect the next two chapters within the next week or so.

[mccnhime]

Afternoon Fields - Interlude

A small little thing! @brainnoworketh has me crying over these two dumb good boys. So have some cute domestic Gabrijel x Leon :D this is a stand alone and does not need to be read with "Something Dangerous" but you can also slot it into the idea that after meeting Gabrijel he takes his free time to visit his new friend! Can also be read when Leon is an established Knight as well.

The field is still warm from the day’s sun, the tall grass bowing softly in the evening breeze. Leon lay on his back, staring up at the sky like it might answer something for him and Gabrijel sat beside him. That was how it always started. Their talks.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Gabrijel murmurs. Leon huffed gently in denial.

“How does one even think too loud?”

“You just do.”

Leon turned his head slightly, just enough to look at him. He looked so…

Leon frowned, thoughtful.

“What?” Gabrijel asked, catching the look. “…Nothing.”

Gabrijel shifted, lowering himself fully into the grass beside him and Leon went still.

“…You’re warm,” Leon said after a moment and then shifted to lay half his torso on top of them.

Gabrijel snorted softly. “That’s usually how bodies work.”

The silence was comfortable and like so often Leon had noted since befriending the other: enjoyable.

“…Roland said this is friendship,” Leon said eventually.

Gabrijel blinked. “Is that so?”

“The feeling.” Leon hesitated, brows knitting faintly. “Wanting to be near someone and wanting them to stay.”

Ah.

Gabrijel turned his head to glance at his shorter friend.

“And do you think he’s right?”

Leon didn’t answer immediately. His hand shifted instead from resting on his chest and moving to play with the long locks of hair.

“…I don’t know,” Leon admitted quietly.

Now it was Gabrijel’s hand that lifted, slow and deliberate, until his fingers laced with Leon’s. This, of course, made Leon breathe in sharply before he let out a small sigh.

“…We don’t have to name it,” Gabrijel says softly.

“…Alright.”

Another stretch of quiet as he sky deepened overhead now, gold bleeding into violet.

After a while, Leon shifted again so he was now half straddling and half clinging to the broad man under him. There was a pause as they both stilled and then Gabrijel relaxed once he adjusted to the weight of the other on him.

Leon let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “…Stay,” he murmured, barely audible.

Gabrijel’s arm comes to wrap around the blonde’s waist and then shift so the other was now fully on top. Leon rested his head on the man’s chest and listened to the steady heart beat—despite the fact he was blushing terribly.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Thank you…”

[mccnhime]

Winter Hunt

Summary:

Hunor (who would late rename themselves Elijah and then later on Erzsébet) shares a moment with Ancient Magyar (their father). The idea is that while nations simply can pop into existence with enough people gathering, after time some nations can have relations. the mother will die most times and the child, an immortal, will become the next incarnation of that nation when it dies by consuming their essence. AKA this is a very cute, very silly little headcanon I remember seeing and wanted to write about young hungary as a kiddo with their papa and just in general make myself soft.

Akos is the personification of ancient magyar. he was an oc that belonged to my dear friend. i make no claim to them. Every now and then one finds amazing people in this shit fandom. LOL

-----

Dawn came pale and cold, winter not far off now. This was the season for hunting en masse—ensuring they themselves, and their village, would have enough to last through the long months ahead. Hunor was awake before the horses shifted. They moved quietly, careful not to wake Miklós or Ilona by the dying embers, and followed Akos out into the grass where frost sparkled beneath the morning sun. The steppe stretched endlessly, it seemed, and Hunor—much like always—was entranced by it. Akos found it amusing how this child, this young immortal, had grown into such a darling, attentive presence. They had grown well. Very well. Akos checked the wind, wetting two fingers and lifting them. There was no real need—not when one could feel the air break against skin and pass around them—but Akos had done it forever, and old habits died hard.

“Deer,” he finally said. “Three. Moving south.”

Hunor nodded, already adjusting their bow. They often wondered how such a simple action could determine what creature was nearby, but Hunor also decided they did not care for another long-winded explanation from the hunter. They rode until the sun edged higher, horses breathing white. When they dismounted, Akos handed Hunor a spear.

“You take the left,” he said. “Remember to strike clean. A quick death is a merciful one.” Hunor’s mouth twitched in a half-smile before they obeyed.

They moved quietly, leather-bound boots soaked through from the melted frost. The deer were there—but like all prey, they felt danger before they saw it. So Hunor waited. When the moment came, the spear flew clean and true. The animal fell fast. Hunor approached slowly, pressing their forehead briefly to the cooling flank as they gave thanks. Akos emerged from the brush moments later, dragging his own kill.

“Good,” he said simply. “Come. Let’s return and prepare our gifts for the village.”

They returned by midmorning. The family stirred at the sound of hooves, and Miklós nearly tripped over himself running forward, eyes wide.

“You got two!” he exclaimed.

Ilona clicked her tongue. “Of course they did.”

Réka was already moving, sleeves pushed up, knife in hand. Béla followed more slowly, settling himself near the work area with a grunt.

“No wasting time,” Réka said. “Cold keeps the meat fresh—but not forever.” They worked as one. Akos and Hunor strung the deer by the hind legs, showing Miklós how to cut cleanly along the belly without piercing the organs.

“Slow,” Akos corrected gently, guiding the boy’s hand. Hunor demonstrated the next step of skinning the animal. It proved difficult for both of them, and Ilona stepped in to help—because while the struggle was amusing, time was everything.

Daylight was limited, and even if winter itself helped preserve the meat better than the warmer months, speed mattered far more because there was a small window before the meat would not be good enough. By the time dusk fell, their small makeshift village had gathered at the largest of the homes—Hunor’s. They ate together, sharing what they had prepared. Miklós leaned against Hunor’s side, content in his sibling’s presence.

Akos sat back, hands resting on his knees, eyes moving over them—his family.

Most were orphans he had taken in, and all of them looked to him as both father and leader. Hunor did too. They leaned against him now, tired and full, much like Miklós was leaning on Hunor. Akos looked down at Hunor as they rested against his side. His son. His daughter. His child. Soon enough, he thought, this would end—and it would be Hunor in charge. He both awaited and feared that day. For now, he would have this. And he would take it.

“You did well today,” he said. Hunor grinned at the praise.

“I learned from you,” they replied, and Akos smiled. The fire burned on.

[mccnhime]

Glass Dream 2.0

Summary:

France x Hungary self indulgent. I remember finding one small thread for WW1 France and Hungary and ran with it. Inspired by an old collab with my ex. Re-Written.

-------

Hungary had her eyes closed as they danced—a slow, mournful waltz drifting through the air. She could scarcely believe this was happening. Already, her dear Austria was beginning to fall, and she would follow if she did not leave him. The man guiding her across the floor did not seem to mind her distraction, but the numbing rhythm of the dance did little to quiet her mind.

Francis hummed softly, well acquainted with the tune, as they spun together. Erzsébet rested in his arms, quiet. Her steps were precise, flawless even—but something essential was missing: a connection to the dance. Her thoughts were elsewhere, tangled and heavy.

“Ma chère?”

“Hm?” Her eyes opened, meeting his. She forced the storm inside her back, refusing to let him see how deeply this decision cut.

“What is it?” Her voice remained carefully even. The swelling violins sent a shiver down her spine as the tempo quickened slightly, their movements adjusting in kind.

“You were quiet… as though something were troubling you.” He turned her gently, watching her with curious blue eyes. “What is on your mind, ma chère? I cannot claim to read you, but I imagine, if I could, you would rival the most fascinating book in my library.”

“I’m just thinking, that’s all,” she replied softly, letting him guide her through the turn. Better not to think too deeply. It was better not to dwell on how it would break him. Her dear Roderich, but how could she stand by him when her government crumbled, when her own people demanded separation?

“It is nothing.” The finality in her tone should have been enough.

Francis studied her. “I see. If that is what you say, Erzsébet.” He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her cheek. It was not enough to convince him for there was more beneath the surface, far more than she allowed him to see. “But know this… if you need someone to talk to, I am here.”

“Talk?” The word came sharp, sudden, laced with anger that rose like poison. “How can I talk when I am betraying someone I love?” Her voice lifted—not quite a shout, but close—as her grip tightened on him, gloved hand clutching his shoulder as they came to a halt.

Her green dress shimmered beneath the chandelier light, familiar in a way that ached. She had worn it once before, long ago. The memory clung to the fabric, intensifying everything she felt now. 

The music continued, swirling around them as they stood still.

Francis raised an eyebrow, caught off guard. “You have chosen to betray Roderich—the man you are married to?” he asked carefully, as if confirming he had heard her correctly. “On what grounds?”

“My people…” Her voice faltered. “I… I cannot support him and them at the same time. They want to break away, and…” She trailed off, gaze dropping as she fought back tears. “I don’t know if he’ll recover from this—but we cannot win this war. We’re losing. I don’t want to watch him fall. Besides… we’re not on the best terms either…”

Francis nodded slowly. “I see… but if you leave him while he is weak, then whatever strength he offers you—however small—is gone. You will be alone. What will you do then, ma chère?”

“I will align with you.” She rested her head against his chest. “I will join the Allies. I just want this war to end. I cannot bear the strain any longer. Even if…” Her voice wavered, her body trembling. The thought of changing sides terrified her, but not as much as the pain she imagined in his eyes. “…even if I never see him again.”

“Oh, ma chère…” He stepped out of the formal hold, drawing her into a true embrace. She did not need elegance now. What she needed comfort, and he would give it. “Do not speak as though it is final. No matter what you choose, I am certain he will understand. You will see one another again. God works in mysterious ways.”

“You have no idea…” she whispered, heat and grief spilling together as tears fell. “You don’t understand…” She clung to him tighter as the music surged around them like a rising tide.

“I do not understand?” he repeated, something sharp flickering beneath his calm.

“Non… perhaps you are right,” he continued, voice controlled but edged. “I watched the woman I loved most be murdered by the man I hate most. I am treated as expendable in matters of war. My country and my people are trampled daily at others’ whims, and I have no one with whom to share that burden. No, ma chère… I do not understand.”

Erzsébet looked up at him, her expression softening into regret. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.” She pulled away slightly. “Forgive me…”

He sighed, glancing aside. The memory of Jeanne lingered heavier than he wished. “Oui… In turmoil, one says things one does not mean.” Though, in truth, he meant every word.

“I know…” she murmured, looking away. “We’re both hurting, aren’t we?”

“Unfortunately.” He looked at her again, though she avoided his gaze. For a moment, he could not bring himself to meet her eyes. “We are.”

“Will you wait for me… when I tell him?” Fear crept back into her voice as she grasped his hand, searching his face. “Please…” Rising onto her toes, she brushed her lips against his. “Please…”

He knew the answer before she asked. “Oui…” Francis breathed, closing the distance fully. There was no denying her. There never had been. “I will be waiting for you.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, returning the kiss before burying her face against his neck. “Thank you…”

“Non, ma chère… merci beaucoup…” he murmured into her hair, closing his eyes so that, for a fleeting moment, nothing existed but them and the music. No war. No loss. Only this. “You are the one who deserves thanks.”

“Why?” she asked, pulling back, confusion in her green eyes. “Why do I?”

“Because, Erzsébet… you could have been like the others. You could have let me believe I mattered, only to disappear, but you didn’t. You asked me to wait.” His voice softened. “You have no idea what that means to me.”

“I’m afraid to be alone.” Her voice trembled. “You… you won’t tell, will you?” Desperation flickered in her gaze. “What I’m about to do… it won’t be easy.”

He nodded. “Oui, it will not, but I will be with you, every step of the way. And I will not tell.” He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. “I will stay by your side.”

Green met blue in the quiet that followed.

-–000—

Erzsébet lay curled against him now, far from the ballroom’s glitter and music. The world had narrowed to the soft hush of a dim room, to the warmth of his body beneath her cheek. Her arm draped over him, fingers laced with his, while the covers rested low at their waists, leaving their upper bodies bare to the cool air.

Tears slipped free despite her efforts to stop them.

She knew this was wrong, but she had been of no use to the Axis—not in this war. She had tried to support Roderich, truly she had… yet her people…

“A nation’s people must always come before oneself, mon chérie Erzsébet.”

She looked up at him, then gave a small, defeated nod before resting her head back against his chest. Her gaze drifted to the ring on her finger: two slender silver bands woven into a trinity knot. She smiled faintly. They could be tugged, twisted… but never truly separated.

“You will have to choose,” Francis murmured, his fingers threading gently through her soft brown hair.

“I know.” Her voice was quiet. “It’s just… it’s hard, choosing between my heart… and my people.”

“Love is something to cherish,” he said softly. “But you understand that, for this war to end, a choice must be made.”

“I know… I know…” The words came hollow now, as if something inside her had already begun to fracture—had already decided.

—000—

It was harder than she had imagined to face him like this.

Roderich lay in bed, motionless from the waist down, his breathing slow and even in sleep. For a moment—just a moment—she almost lost her resolve.

Almost.

Her hand trembled as she reached toward him, tears spilling freely now, no longer held back. The mere thought of what she was about to do felt like it was tearing her apart.

A soft groan stirred the silence. Violet eyes opened, meeting hers.

He knew.

“Rod—”

“Nein, mein Liebling,” he murmured gently. “Do not say anything.”

“Igen…” she whispered, sinking down beside him, wrapping her arms around him as she buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing.

Why was this so hard?

Why did they have to be nations?

His hand found her hair, stroking it gently, soothingly. He wanted to hold her properly, to pull her close, but pain flared when he tried to move. Still, he would not bind her to him now. Not like this.

“Your people need you, mein Liebling,” he said at last, each word clearly forced past the ache in his throat. “I… I cannot hold you to me any longer. As nations, our marriage is over. As humans… we chose each other, but…” His voice faltered. “To sever one bond… we must sever them all.”

“Igen…” Her voice was barely more than breath.

“The marriage documents… of Erzsébet Héderváry and Roderich Edelstein.” His gaze softened, even as it broke. “Burn them.”

Her eyes widened. Slowly, she sat upright, then gave a faint, fragile smile. With trembling hands, she slipped the ring from her finger—the one he had given her—and placed it into his palm, folding his fingers around it.

The last bond, save one.

“I do not wish to…” she admitted softly.

“Neither do I, mein Liebling,” he replied. “But we must. Your people need you. Do not let me be what holds you back.”

“…Of course.” She drew in a shaky breath. “Goodbye, then… Austria. Roderich…”

“Goodbye, Erzsébet… Hungary.”

No more words. They both knew that if either of them spoke again, everything would unravel.

She leaned down, pressing one last lingering kiss to his lips before turning away. Her steps felt impossibly heavy as she crossed to the small safe, retrieving the document that bound them as husband and wife.

“I love you…” she whispered, barely audible.

The paper caught flame quickly when she held it over the candle. She watched it burn—watched the life they had built together curl into ash.

—000—

“Mon chérie Erzsébet…”

The voice was warm, honey-soft and soothing in a way that almost hurt.

For a fleeting, dangerous moment, she almost imagined it was him, but it wasn’t.

“Françis.”

“Come here, mon chérie.”

She obeyed without hesitation, stepping into his arms and then she broke. Completely. The composure she had clung to shattered as she clutched him, sobbing into his chest.

Francis held her gently, rocking her as he murmured quiet reassurances. Somewhere, he thought of Jeanne—offered a silent apology to the woman he still loved, even now. Every nation carried a human love like that… and he was no exception.

Still, his arms tightened around Erzsébet.

“It will be all right,” he whispered into her hair. “I promise.”

[mccnhime]

Early Mornings

Summary:

An early morning during the Spring finds AusHun enjoying an intimate moment. For in this moment they are not nations, simply two people in love. Non graphic-sex

Warnings: None.

----

The sun’s rays slipped through the window, gently rousing the Hungarian from sleep. It had to be past seven, she thought blearily. She stretched beneath the sheets, her back arching before she turned onto her side, sleepy green eyes settling on her beloved.

She couldn’t help but admire him and how regal he looked even in rest, how innocent and yet… when he spoke, fresh from sleep… oh, yes.

A soft hum left her lips as she let the memory of his voice linger in her mind: low, thick and deliciously slurred. She could almost hear it now, see those violet eyes half-lidded with sleep, that faint smile, that look that seemed to invite her to take him.

She tried to quiet the feelings stirring within her, but how could she? Not when he lay there before her, bare and unaware, so beautiful in his blissful ignorance of her thoughts.

Her hand drifted down her side, over her stomach, brushing lightly against her core. A quiet, pleased sound escaped her, and she repeated the motion, slow and deliberate, imagining his voice, his touch. Her breathing deepened as one finger became two, then three, moving with increasing urgency, drawing soft, broken hums of pleasure from her lips.

Roderich stirred, his mind surfacing from gentle sleep though his eyes remained closed. He had rested well, Erzsébet beside him, sharing his bed. Truly, he loved her—his remarkable, fierce, wonderful woman.

His senses returned one by one: the faint scent of clean silk, the warmth at his side… and then…

Sound.

His eyes opened slowly, violet still hazy with sleep. She was… humming. Not melodicly, of course , but undeniably beautiful. Familiar. Intimate. The kind of sound that stirred something deeper than music ever could.

A small, knowing smile touched his lips.

“Guten Morgen… mein Liebling…”

“R-Roderich…” she squeaked, her fingers faltering as his voice reached her. A shiver ran through her.

Dear God, why did he have to sound like that?

Another tremor followed as her imagination betrayed her, conjuring what he might sound like under different circumstances. The thought alone made her fingers resume their slow, teasing rhythm, soft moans slipping free once more.

Her reaction, though expected, deepened his smile. She likely didn’t realize how she looked in that moment to him: flushed, disheveled and so utterly radiant. The quiet bliss on her face, the sounds she made… all of it stirred something in him.

“Liebling…” he murmured softly, imagining what unfolded beneath the sheets.

“Ah?” she breathed, trying—and failing—to still her movements. “R-Roderich~…”

Her voice wavered, soft and unguarded, her fingers skilled even in their distraction.

“Ja?” he replied, the word more breathed than spoken. Curiosity laced with something warmer crept into his tone as he watched her.

So beautiful. So captivating.

One hand emerged from the sheets, brushing gently along her cheek, tender as if touching something fragile.

Oh…

“N-nothing…” she whispered, breathless as her movements stilled at last. The tension unraveled through her, leaving her trembling. She withdrew her hand slowly, bringing her fingers to her lips, eyes lifting to meet him with feigned innocence.

She knew what she was doing.

He caught her hand before she could continue, guiding her fingers instead to his own lips. Slowly, deliberately, he cleaned them, his tongue tracing each digit with quiet precision. His eyes closed briefly, a fleeting mirror of her feigned innocence, before opening again to meet hers.

She shivered, eyes fluttering closed as her breathing deepened again. His touch and his mouth sent her thoughts spiraling by this point.

Her free hand traced along his chest as she pushed herself upright, drifting lower, mapping his body with slow, deliberate intent until she reached her goal, her touch light but unmistakable.

The air between them thickened.

A soft sound escaped him at her touch, her hand still held close even as he leaned nearer. He released her fingers at last, closing the distance between them and kissing her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks… and finally her lips.

This kiss lingered—deep, unguarded, unmistakable in its intent.

She responded instantly, pulling him closer, her body pressing against his.

“Roderich…” she breathed against his lips, eyes half-lidded. “Do you want to take the lead this time?”

A small smile flickered across his lips at that. So considerate… and yet, he knew well that control was not defined by position alone.

He answered with no real words besides a “Ja, mein Libeling” and guiding her back, settling above her with fluid grace.

“Mmm…” Her gaze softened with affection, though desire clouded it quickly. Her hand rose to his cheek, thumb brushing lightly.

“Yours,” she whispered, her breath uneven with anticipation.

“Ja…” His voice deepened, quiet but certain. “Mein.”

He lowered himself, trailing kisses down her neck, between her collarbones, savoring every inch of her. She responded in kind, her hands roaming, her touch growing bolder, more certain.

“Yours… mein Roderich…”

A soft sound escaped him at the way she said his name, and he returned to her lips, drawing her into another kiss—closer, deeper, leaving no doubt in his intent.

The world beyond the room faded.

Morning light climbed the walls, indifferent to the quiet intensity unfolding behind drawn curtains. Inside, there was only warmth, breath, and the slow unraveling of restraint.

And in that space—between touch and between want and something deeper—they found exactly where they belonged.

For now, that was enough.

[mccnhime]

Tango

Tango Lessons

Summary:

Spain and Ukraine bonding because she deserves to be loved, even if only in this moment.

Notes:

based off an idea from an old roleplay. \o/ I like this one better than the original I had posted on deviantart many a moon ago.

-------------------

Things, since arriving in Spain had played out fine enough. There was nothing awkward or heavy or…uncomfortable. With him, in his own country, she felt more free than she had in years. That was when he sprung upon her the craziest idea:

“T-Tango?” Irina’s voice echoed.

Antonio only smiled wider.

It wasn’t the first time he had looked at her like that. Since her arrival, he had taken it upon himself to introduce her to pieces of his world: long afternoons filled with music drifting through open windows, late dinners that stretched into laughter, stories told with animated hands and brighter eyes. Each day, he nudged her just a little further beyond the careful, contained version of herself she crafted and Irina? She had let him.

At first, it was small things. A different dish. A longer walk. Sitting closer than she normally would, but somewhere along the way, those little steps began to feel less like risks and more like quiet invitations—ones she found herself accepting before she could overthink them.

Still… this?

Dance had always been something distant to her. It was something meant for others,but not her. Folk dances perhaps, but this? No.

Antonio knew that. Of course he did. Which was exactly why he suggested it.

“Si, I cannot let you leave without at least learning it,” he repeated, softer now, as if sensing her hesitation. 

Irina swallowed, her gaze flickering anywhere but his face.

“I’ve never danced before though…”

“And I have danced enough for the both of us,” he replied easily, stepping closer with a slow certainty that made it feel less like he was approaching her and more like she was being drawn in.

When his hands found hers, they were warm and she feels her cheeks flush. 

“It’s not about perfection,” he added, guiding her gently toward the center of the room. “It’s about listening. Feeling. Letting yourself move.”

Her heart was already racing.

The first attempt was… awkward.

Irina missed steps, hesitated too long, nearly stepped on his foot more than once. Every time she faltered, her instinct was to apologize, to retreat, to laugh it off and escape the moment before she could embarrass herself anymore than she was already. 

Antonio wouldn’t let her.

“Again,” he would murmur, adjusting her hand, guiding her step, steadying her when she lost rhythm. “You are thinking too much.”

“I don’t know how not to,” she admitted under her breath, though a small, nervous smile tugged at her lips.

“Then don’t think,” he said simply.

Easier said than done and yet… slowly, something shifted.

Maybe it was the music he had put on—low and rhythmic, wrapping around them like a pulse. Maybe it was the way he moved, confident but never overwhelming, giving her just enough structure to follow without feeling trapped within it.

Or maybe it was the way he looked at her.

The space between them grew smaller gradually, naturally, until she barely noticed the moment it happened.Their steps began to align, imperfect but connected, her movements no longer entirely her own but not entirely his either.

Something shared.

Irina exhaled softly, a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“Oh…”

“There,” Antonio murmured, quieter now.

The way each movement led into the next. The way she didn’t have to anticipate everything, didn’t have to control every second. For once, she could simply… follow.

By the time the music slowed, neither of them had noticed how long they’d been at it.

Irina’s cheeks were flushed—not just from embarrassment now, but from exertion, from the strange thrill of having done something she once thought she never would. A quiet laugh slipped from her lips, breathless, but genuine as her fingers still loosely curled against his.

“I didn’t fall,” she said, almost surprised.

Antonio chuckled, his grip easing but not fully releasing her just yet.

“No,” he agreed, his voice warm with something softer than teasing. 

For a moment, neither of them moved.

The air between them lingered,  filled with something unspoken that neither seemed in a hurry to break.

Then, slowly, Irina withdrew her hands, though the warmth of his touch seemed to remain.

“…Maybe,” she said, smoothing her dress as if to steady herself, though the small smile on her lips gave her away, “I wouldn’t mind learning a little more.”

Antonio’s grin returned pleased.

“I was hoping you would say that.”

And as the evening stretched on, the music starting again in the background, it became clear that the tango had never just been about the dance.

It was about the space between them and how, step by step, Irina was no longer afraid to close it.

[mccnhime]

I apologize now for the spam of hetalia fanfics. i found a bunch i wrote back in the day and i have spent most of my downtime between my shift fixing them up. i will be posting them up in a bit. you can find them on my ao3

[mccnhime]

Hi,

I just wanted to say that I really enjoy the way portray female characters in your stories,. It is unfortunate that the value of many female characters in video games often goes unrecognized. I enjoyed reading your stories and am pleased to know that you and other writers dedicate time to developing female characters. However, I was quite disappointed by the Netflix adaptation;   particularly in the way the writers chose to portray Lisa and  Sypha who I felt became rather one-dimensional by the end of the series, which is regrettable given her importance to the lore overall.

YOU ARE SO FUCKING CORRECT. I HAVE SO MANY FUCKING FEELINGS ABOUT THIS. I WILL GIVE THESE GIRLIES ALL THE LOVE THEY DESERVE FUCKING BET.

[mccnhime]

taking a break from this dumb fic to write out mathias and elisabetha's wedding. asked a very good friend of mine how they think it would go, and she did not fail me.

also for the record events in my fic are not related to drabbles already written previously. So that one fic of him (Leon) finding out about Elisabetha's death that made Mathias abandon everyone might be handled differently in this novel. Likewise some events might reflect drabbles/oneshots I've written before.

As such i think it's good to know that just cause i wrote one thing, does not mean i will not write that same thing again, but from a different perspective or with a diff idea. cause ive had a few people ask me if the novel and the one shots i have written are related. so uuhhh hope that clears it up XD

now given that, I think im gonna work on writing a very fluffy and cute Mathias x Elisabetha one shot of their wedding (and maybe their wedding night~) hehehe

[mccnhime]

Chapter 7

THE CHURCH IS BAD TM.

Roland hates Renato, Renato doesn't like Leon being obsessed with Mathias and Mathias has no idea wtf is going on when he comes back.

---000---

A few days had passed and though Leon was adjusting to Roland and his familiar trips to see Gabrijel between everything, the young man still felt a way. He felt empty and confused and who better to calm these thoughts and make sense of these feelings than the Father? 

So he goes to confession late after morning drills, skipping brunch. 

Leon had knelt so many times that the floor beneath his knees felt familiar, almost comforting. The chapel was dim with candles flickering softly and incense clinging to the air like a held breath. He did not know why his chest felt so tight tonight—only that Mathias had been gone three weeks, and the silence left behind was louder than any reprimand.

The screen slid closed.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

His voice was steady at first.

There was no immediate response from the other side. No clearing of the throat, no murmured prompting.

Leon swallowed.

“And I do not know how to stop it,” he added, more quietly now. “The thoughts. The pull of them.” With each word, his voice wavered. 

At last, a voice—low, calm, and unfamiliar answers him:

“Tell me what you fear, my son.”

Leon stiffened. This was not how Father Ulrich spoke, and yet, unlike the other, this voice did not rush him, and for this Leon felt grateful.

“I fear,” Leon said slowly, choosing each word as though stepping onto ice that could break below him at any moment, “that my devotion is… misplaced.”

A pause. Long enough that Leon wondered if he had spoken too plainly.

“And who do you serve, child?” the voice asked.

“God,” Leon answered at once.

“And no one else?”

Leon’s fingers curled into the wool of his trousers.

“.....” he said nothing. 

The man on the other side did not press him further. 

“You are tired,” the voice said at last. “However, do know this, my son: Attachment can be… misunderstood. It can be used to lead one astray. You must never let affection sway you from God’s light, no matter how brilliant the light of another is… do you understand?”

When Leon rose from the confessional, his legs trembled. He did not get the clear to move or to stand, but the walls felt as if they were closing in, and he could not handle it. 

So he moved without thinking, through the doors and into the courtyard, where winter light spilled pale and thin across the stone. The air was cold enough to sting his lungs as he forced his thoughts to center.

Sara was not there.

The bench beneath the old elm was empty, and the place where she sometimes sat with her sewing basket was abandoned to frost. Leon sank onto the stone, shoulders slumping. 

He did not hear the footsteps at first.

“May I sit?”

Leon looked up and felt a sudden anxiety that he couldn't place bloom in his chest. The man from the confessional stood before him, robes darker than the others, posture relaxed, but deliberate. His hair was touched with silver, his eyes keen without being unkind. Leon knew this was the man who talked to him.

“Yes,” Leon said all too quickly.

Renato sat beside him, close enough that Leon could feel the warmth of them. It was not intimate, and yet Leon’s body reacted all the same—an instinctive lean, followed immediately by fear. He felt comforted as he was afraid, but why? What did a priest need to make him fear for? He was a good man, he was loyal to God and his masters, was he not? Yet…

“You carry yourself with the same withered look I have seen among men twice your age,” Renato observed. “But you are still young; no one your age should look as if he is carrying too heavy a burden alone.”

Leon huffed a soft, humorless breath. “I am almost sixteen. I am not that young—”

“Of course not,” Renato echoed. “Yet you are at an age where you now straddle a clear line between a boy and a man.” A pause. “You remind me of someone,” Renato continued. “Someone who learned early that strength is nothing without resolve. You are adrift, you do not know who you are outside of them, is that not so?”

Leon’s heart stuttered. The words landed too close to home, echoing things he had been told once on sleepless nights: “You must learn where you start and end, my son. You cannot let yourself be led astray.”

Renato adjusted the fall of his sleeve, the motion slow, deliberate. His hand then brushed Leon’s knuckles, and Leon inhaled sharply at the brief contact. How often did Mathias do that in passing as they walked or sat? In the church, in the privacy of their room, when he was going over psalms—

Leon wanted to panic, but he, somehow, managed to remain calm, calm enough to at least hear what was being said.

“My apologies,” Renato said softly, as if sensing the reaction, hand falling into his own lap. 

Leon’s desire—to stay, to listen, to understand—warred violently with the urge to flee. Footsteps sounding across the courtyard chose for him, especially when he heard a familiar voice.

“Leon!”

Leon stood abruptly. He did not look back, not at Renato’s calm expression nor at the woman approaching from the far arch.

Leon barely made it through the corridor before Roland caught up to him.

“Leon.”

The single word stopped him, causing him to almost trip over his own feet as he struggled to stop. Leon turned slowly when he got his footing. His pulse still thudded hard in his ears.

 “Sir?”

“You are in a hurry.”

“I remembered I had training,” Leon said quickly.

“With whom?”

Leon hesitated, and Roland did not miss it. There was nothing that could be hidden from him. 

“Who was in the courtyard?”

The question was neutral. Too neutral.

Leon swallowed. “A priest.”

“I am aware of that.” Roland’s voice remained level. “Which one?”

“…Father Renato.”

The faintest shift in Roland’s expression causes Leon to worry more, biting his inner cheek. Was that bad? 

“I see.”

They stood in the long stretch of stone hallway where the light never fully reached. A draft slipped through unseen cracks, cool against the skin.

“Did he summon you?” Roland asked.

“No.”

“Did you request him?”

Leon shook his head.

Roland’s jaw tightened slightly.

“What did he ask?”

“He asked what I feared losing.”

Silence.

Roland exhaled slowly through his nose.

“And what did you answer?”

Leon’s throat tightened. “My devotion to God.”

Roland stepped closer, pulling the young man into his arms. A hand gently brushes back golden curls in a fatherly gesture as his voice quiets.

“Listen to me carefully,” he said. Leon forced himself to meet his eyes. “There are men in these halls who believe they are shepherds, and there are some who prefer to test which lamb is loyal and which one must be made to kneel.”

Leon blinked.

“I do not understand.”

“You do not need to.” Roland’s gaze hardened. “You only need to understand this: you are not to be alone with him again.”

Leon stiffened. “Sir—”

“That is not a request.”

The firmness of it startled him.

Roland’s tone softened slightly after a beat. “You are being watched more closely than you realize.”

A pause.

“I only went to confession,” he said quietly.

“And you received counsel.”

He’s heard of Renato, never bad things of course, because who would talk bad about one of the most respected of priests within the church? Yet the way Renato reminded him of Mathias was concerning, and the last thing he wants is Leon to be swayed and pulled by the church in the same fashion as Mathias had manipulated Leon.

“Did he do anything to you? Say anything to you?”

Leon’s head snapped up.

“No.”

A beat. They did, but it was merely a brush, nothing more and nothing less. A simple brush of his knuckles. Roland’s expression did not change, but he sees a losing battle when it presents itself. Instead, he decides to give them one piece of advice instead. 

“Leon,” he said evenly, “there is a difference between kindness and manipulation. Learn it.”

Leon nodded, though his thoughts churned.

Roland stepped back. “Now then, you said you had training, and this is true, but it is with me, and if you wish to use that excuse to explain why you ran, then let us do so. I do not want you in trouble, my boy.”

As they walked, Leon could not shake the sensation that something had shifted—not in himself this time, but around him.

—-000—

The chamber was warmer than the rest of the manor attached to the cathedral, though no fire burned.

Heavy drapery muted the draft that forever haunted the stone corridors as candlelight pooled low and steady, throwing soft gold across carved shelves and ancient spines.

Renato stood with his hands folded behind his back.

Across from him sat his other half—Maria. Her posture was impeccable. She had long ago perfected the art of stillness.

“Well?” she asked.

Renato did not rush to answer.

“He is devout,” he said at last. “Yet his heart lies elsewhere,”

“Meaning?”

“He seeks structure through attachment.”

A subtle narrowing of her eyes. “And who does he attach to?”

“Whoever offers certainty.”

Maria rose and moved toward the narrow window. Outside, the courtyard lay quiet in the evening shadow.

“And at present?”

Renato’s voice remained mild.

“Cronqvist’s absence has left a fracture. Though it is clear an older knight has taken his place for now, he is…unmoored. Adrift, if you will, and the church has had their eye on him for some time: a prodigy in swordsmanship and he is being swayed by one who practices the dark arts of Alchemy.”

“So, what shall you do to bring him back to us?” she asked, brow lifted in questioning manner.

“His devotion,” he said. “Specifically, that is, I will find a way to attach him to myself. He will learn to come to me. He will seek it out, and we can sway him back to being loyal to the church. He is destined for greatness and would be a valuable asset.”

The room grew still as Maria considered that with interest.

“Good,” she murmured.

Renato did not smile this time.

“He responds quickly to affirmation. There is intensity beneath the restraint. If guided carefully, he would be our most ruthless of weapons. Bringing God’s divine light to all who wander the darkness, to all who dare turn against the church and all the blessings offered.”

“And if you cannot win him over? What if another comes in and does it first? Are you prepared for this? 

“Yes. The church is interested in him. There is nothing else to it.” Renato inclined his head. “The boy does not realize how transparent he is. He seeks Cronqvist in a way that is unholy, and we can use that. What of the man, have you spoken to him?” 

“No, he seems to be away for now, but I met his wife. Poor thing, consumption has taken her, but the man is an alchemist, and it seems he has been playing God, doing his best to negate the fate already given to her. However, she has sought counsel from me, and so I do believe we might be staying quite a bit longer than expected.” 

“I see, then let us turn in for the night.” 

—000—

The seal was unbroken when it reached Leon and was delivered without comment the following evening.

He stared at it for a long time before breaking it open. The paper inside was heavy and expensive, and he felt so unworthy and worried he would ruin it.

He unfolded it carefully.

Leon,

I trust your progress continues as expected. I am sorry it has taken me so long to write, but my business keeps me longer than I hoped. I hope you are well. Do be nice to Roland. He cares a lot for you. I shall hopefully return before the next fortnight. Be well, Leon.

— M.

He folded the letter. Ah, how his heart sang~

He steps into the outer corridor. The courtyard was dim now. Evening had settled now, and that was when he saw him.

Renato stood beneath the archway — not near enough to intrude, but not distant enough to be accidental either.

Watching.

Waiting.

Leon’s pulse beat hard in his throat. He slipped the folded letter into his pocket as Renato approached.

“You received a letter, I take it?”

“Yes, Father.”

“And?” Leon forces himself to remain calm, something that does not escape the Priest as he follows up: “Does it comfort you?”

The question takes him off guard as Leon hesitates.

“…It does not.”

“Absence can make the heart grow fonder,” he said softly. “Especially when we find ourselves so deeply attached to another…”

Leon’s jaw tightened.

“I am not—”

Renato tilted his head slightly.

“No,” he agreed gently. “You are not, are you?” A pause. “You are trying very hard not to be, and that is admirable. God will never lead you astray, Leon.”

The words took Leon off guard before he could stop them. His breath falters.

“There is strength in seeking counsel,” Renato said. “It does not diminish you. I will be staying for a spell; my chambers are always open for you. Should you need guidance…or an escape.”

Leon’s fingers pressed against his sleeve.

“Might I ask why you are not at the grand hall with the others ?” Renato had rarely come across many like Leon, and so he was fascinated. 

Leon doesn’t quite realize what he is doing until the space between them disappears and his forehead rests against their chest. His whole body was rigid in the way one would be while trying to hold back tears.

“I…” a shuddering breath, shoulders trembling. “I don’t…I cannot stand being around others right now. I feel…I feel like I’m going insane, Father. Sir Roland is so kind, so gentle…he does not look at me with the same burning intensity as Mathias. He is very careful of how he interacts, how he talks—” 

A tear, singular at first, before more follow. 

“It hurts, Father. I wish for the fire of Mathias’s passion, I wish for his arms to hold me, I wish for his—” 

Renato does not move to step back, nor does he move to comfort. He simply remains. 

“You wish for his love, and yet you know that is wrong. What you desire, Leon, is not healthy. What you should desire is the love of God.” 

….

“I…” 

“Come, let us retire to my chambers; it will offer you comfort and privacy away from prying eyes and ears.” There is a kindness so sincere in his eyes, although he remained detached as he always did, Leon did not notice. “We shall pray together, for God to give you clarity and counsel.” 

[mccnhime]

Why do you keep incorporating Sara or Elisabetha in your drabbles? They're really not that special and I fail to really understand why they are the driving force of everything. It's clearly obvious Konami and Igarashi do not care for the female characters. I think the only good thing about them is whatever life you put into their otherwise useless husks. I just wish they wouldn't be such a big thing is all. I think it's fine if they just fade into obscurity, besides Lisa is 10x better than Elisabetha.

First of all wtf kind of mental gymnastics did I just read? Second thank you for saying I do well making the girls more alive? Third, most women in Castlevania are frigid, that's just a thing. I think the reason why I write them both in drabbles and stuff is because they deserve to be loved.

Also they need to be a big deal because otherwise we wouldn't have the Belmonts? The vampire killer??? the games? the lore????

Friend touch grass. I promise you it's just fiction. There is no need to have this much hate in your heart. Also Lisa's just as important as Elisabetha. Like she's the reason we have CV3????

I'm so confused at all this mental gymnastics, my guy. Also we wanna talk about girlies who need more love? Mina, Yoko, Shanoa, Maria and Sypha---like I am hoping with the new game people wanna go back and give love to these girlies. Not to mention Hector's wife, Issac's sister...so many lovely girlies who are frigid, but if you want more life to them, you can always write them yourself. or ask people. i know i love them and have a few WIPs and ideas for them all.

Still I think you might be better off with the Netflixvania show, because while yes a fanfiction to the original lore, it might be more up your alley! Since it basically erases all but Lisa.

[mccnhime]

"She was concerned about only me until the end" -Mathias, Lament of Innocence

[mccnhime]

chapter 7 of Something Dangerous is done. I need to do some smol editing and then we will post it! Chapter 8 is our first Sara x Leon interaction and also I'll be bringing in Elisabetha!!! She's going to befriend Sara because she wants to know more about Leon!!

Also a nod to the lost media that is the Lament of Innocence Manga for the cellphone. A friend found a link of someone's posts as they read it in real time when it was around, and it was implied that Sara and Elisabetha knew each other.

It is also implied the crimson stone showed up on her pillow (elisabetha) after death so I'm gonna use that in this story too. Bro the way I have this plotted out to be at least 30+ chapters---

I need help. I need so much help who fucking lets me?

[mccnhime]

Chapter 6

Leon meets Gabrijel van Hellsing! Roland seems to know the kid and his family well. Leon makes a friend :D can't see how this will bite his ass later when Mathias comes back in \o/ Gabrijel belongs to @brainnoworketh and has been used with permission.

The following day found Leon having not slept long enough to call it rest, but he rose when summoned, dressed without complaint, and followed Roland through the quiet corridors of the Church. The halls still held the hush of the early hour.

Outside, the stables were already stirring as stable boys began their work.

Roland did not explain their destination when Leon asked. Instead, when they arrived at the stables and began to hitch the horses, Roland simply said:

“A surprise, so just trust me on this and do not ask where we are going.”

Leon did not question it. He doesn’t question Roland as much as he did Mathias or the fathers now that he thinks of it. They soon enough saddled up and off they went. 

They passed beyond the stone boundaries of the Church grounds, hooves striking cobbled roads before giving way to packed earth. The farther they rode, the lighter the air felt as the weight of vaulted ceilings and watchful eyes fell away behind them open fields stretched outward.

Leon let his horse move into a faster gait, wind tugging loose curls free around his face. The rhythm steadied him and the ache from the night’s dreams dulled beneath the pounding of hooves and the cold bite of air in his lungs.

Roland watched with the fondest of smiles.

They rode for some time before the land began to change as rolling hills gave way to old forests until a building came into focus. 

Roland slowed his horse by this point and Leon followed suit, eyes widening as they got closer.

The crest on the nearest banner bore a familiar name—one Leon had heard only in passing, spoken with a mixture of respect – or –irritation depending on the speaker.

Van Helsing. 

The estate sprawled further than Leon expected. Not ostentatious in the way of certain nobles, however, it still left an impression… at least to Leon. The outer yard was wide and scarred with the marks of use from wagons and horses.

Before they even reached the main courtyard, Leon heard it.

Steel.

The sharp, ringing clash carried clean across the fields.

A fight.

Roland’s mouth curved faintly. “Good. He’s awake.”

They entered the yard without much fanfare with Roland leading Leon to the stable. Their horses attended to he leads them to where the sounds of battle were and then had him wait. 

—0000—-

The clang of steel rang across the training grounds as Leon approached, sharp and rhythmic, punctuated by shouts of exertion that sounded barely older than his own. Roland slowed beside him as they rounded the corner and Leon stopped short.

A young man, perhaps a year his senior, was sparring against two armored warriors at once.

The disparity was immediate and striking. His opponents wore full plate and wielded broadswords. He wore no armor at all—only simple training clothes—and swung a claymore nearly as tall as he was. The blade moved as if it weighed nothing.

Coal-black hair whipped loose around his shoulders as he spun, slashed, jabbed, and parried with ferocious precision. Blue eyes burned with focused intensity, teetering on the edge of battle frenzy. He met every strike, redirected every blow, never overextending, never hesitating.

Leon stared, utterly transfixed.

Roland chuckled quietly beside him. He let the bout run its course. He had learned better.

“That’s Gabrijel,” Roland said, gesturing toward the young warrior. “Watch him.”

Leon nodded without looking away. He didn’t need to be told twice.

Roland observed him with an amused smile. Much of Leon was undeniably Mathias’s influence—but what he saw now was purely Leon. The boy’s gaze tracked every movement, cataloging angles, weight shifts, patterns. Mathias had passed on tactical brilliance, yes—but Leon had sharpened it himself, honed through the training he received as a youth and tempered by Mathia’s care where needed.

His fingers flexed, barely restrained. He wanted to leap into the fray—but he recognized the look on Gabrijel’s face.

Some fighters reached a point of perfect focus. Breaking it could be disastrous.

“He’s so cool,” Leon whined under his breath. “Roland, introduce usssss.”

A few moments later, the bout ended decisively.

Gabrijel parried an incoming strike, pinned the blade beneath his own, and vaulted upward—his boot cracked against steel as he kicked the first opponent square in the helm. The man went down hard. Gabrijel spun immediately, ducking beneath a downward slash from the second attacker and struck him cleanly in the side of the head with the pommel of his greatsword.

Both warriors collapsed, groaning.

Gabrijel stood there a moment, chest heaving, adrenaline still coursing—then his gaze lifted, catching sight of Roland and the stranger beside him.

“A good match,” he said lightly. “Perhaps another time?”

“Not on your life, Van Helsing,” one of the fallen men groaned.

Gabrijel laughed as  stepped closer. He tilted his head slightly as he studied Leon—then smiled and offered a hand.

“I don’t believe we’ve met. Gabrijel Van Helsing. A pleasure.”

Leon nearly bolted forward.

Roland watched him physically rein himself in before shaking his hand

“Leon Belmont. A pleasure.” 

Roland chuckled. “This is the young ward Cronqvist took on—the one I told you about.”

Leon nodded, suddenly shy now that his excitement had caught up with him.

Gabrijel’s grin only  widened. “Always trying to set me up with new battle brothers, eh, Roland? What—getting tired of me already?” He laughed warmly; the familiarity between them was clear as day and somewhere, deep inside of Leon, he recognizes this is what true mentorship was supposed to be. 

Turning back to Leon, Gabrijel’s demeanor softened. Despite being built like an ox, he was open and friendly, radiating easy confidence. “It’s an honor to meet you, Leon Belmont.”

His concern about Mathias had been expressed before—and Roland knew Gabrijel could read between the lines. It was something of a miracle that Leon, outside of battle and tactics, remained blissfully unaware of such undercurrents. “With Mathias gone for a few weeks, I have taken it upon myself in his absence to continue his training.”

He hadn’t been asked, but as one of the senior knights, deferring to him was inevitable and Roland would be damned before letting another knight or lord get their grubby,corrupt blood covered hands on this precious youth who still had so much to give. They would only squander the talent that has been cultivated. 

Gabrijel hummed thoughtfully.

“I… don’t have many friends,” Leon admitted, words tumbling out now. “And when I spar, no one seems to want to. I think they don’t like that I keep beating them.” Or that he used their own tricks against them. 

“You were incredible, though! The way you parried and the way you wielded your claymore! That is a claymore, right? And how you read their movements—your footwork was flawless! You left no openings!”

Personal space ceased to exist as Leon was now, quite literally, in front of them, arms pulled up, fists clenched as they lean forward not so subtly, like an excited puppy. It was truly endearing and the way his arms and body moved as he imitated them— 

Roland watched, deeply amused.

Gabrijel blinked, then laughed, genuinely surprised by how accurately Leon had dissected his technique. He nodded along, smile growing. 

“You’re too kind. Say—you mentioned not having many people to spar with? I’m always looking for a new partner. Sounds like we’ve got the same problem.”

He draped an arm over Leon’s shoulders in a brotherly gesture. “And yes, I favor the claymore. Awful in corridors, but the weight and reach suit me better than a shorter blade.”

“I see.” Leon’s eyes shone. “If you’re not too tired… may we spar? Besides Mathias, and a few older knights like Sir Roland,I feel stifled. They either underestimate me or they cheat or they ignore me.”

He looked up at Gabrijel with unmistakable puppy-eyed eagerness.

Gabrijel chuckled and patted his shoulder. It was clear he would be no match against those lethal baby blues. “I wouldn’t mind at all. That was just a warm-up anyway.”

Leon grinned.

He chose his usual blade. The broadsword was modest compared to the claymore, but it suited his style..

“Perfect,” Leon said brightly. “Then I won’t hold back. Please go all out.”

Roland nodded. “That is fine. Go.”

Leon practically glowed as he dashed onto the field, sword drawn, waiting. Finally, someone worthy.

Gabrijel calmly lifted his claymore, took a ready stance, then charged, thrusting forward before spinning into a brutal overhead slash.

Leon’s grin vanished. 

‘Oh shi—’

He dodged sideways just in time, barely clearing the blade, letting out a startled squeak before pivoting into a counter-slash aimed at Gabrijel’s exposed flank. He repositioned swiftly, trying to get behind him.

Staying clear of that blade was going to be work. Gabrijel wielded it far too easily.

Leon was light enough to evade—but unarmored, one solid hit would be devastating and Gabrijel had to admit that it was impressive how Leon seemed to read him. He pressed the attack, swinging with relentless strength and precision as the fight settled into a tense stalemate: Leon’s speed against Gabrijel’s immovable force.

There were glancing hits, narrow escapes, near-misses that stung, but didn’t slow either of them down. Leon stayed aggressive, refusing to give ground, constantly calculating the next best move, cataloging each attack thus far and looking for patterns. One thing Mathias made sure he knew was to wait before making any real moves unless an opening presented itself. From there he had to be ready to counter or dodge after, but reading his opponent was essential: How they move, how they breathe, are their moves impulsive or calculated? Do they have one side they favor more? 

It was this that Roland noticed and a proud smirk plays along his lips. Gabrijel may have met his match.

Leon was having fun despite it all, but stalemates didn’t end on their own and Leon’s pride would never allow him to call it.

He slipped sideways and cut low, aiming for the thigh.

Gabrijel hadn’t expected the boldness. He hissed as steel bit flesh, a thin red line opening along his leg. He twisted with the momentum, rolled, and rose into a crouch, glancing at the wound before grinning up at Leon.

“Good move.”

The praise made Leon beam—but he didn’t relax. His arm was still extended from the follow-through, blade held ready.

“You’re not bad yourself,” Leon said breathlessly. “You almost got me a few times. That pressure from your swings—that hurts, but you should think fast.”

He shifted his footing, eyes alight.

“I’m not finished,” and with that, Leon launched himself forward once more.

Gabrijel laughed under his breath. “Good.”

He pushed off hard from his own crouch and this time he did not charge headlong. He adjusted.

Leon saw it instantly—the shift in weight, the subtle narrowing of stance. Gabrijel shortened his grip on the claymore, sacrificing reach for control. The massive blade no longer carved wide, theatrical arcs. Leon’s pulse quickened with adrenaline and fear. 

He darted in with a feint high, testing the other, but Gabrijel didn’t bite.

Steel rang as their blades met, close and brutal. The impact shuddered up Leon’s arms, forcing him to pivot with the force rather than fight it. He slipped to the side, boots sliding in the churned dirt, and angled for Gabrijel’s shoulder—

Blocked.

Gabrijel twisted his wrists, locking Leon’s broadsword against the flat of the claymore and driving forward. The sheer strength behind it forced Leon back two steps before he ducked low and rolled free, coming up behind him.

Gabrijel moved faster than someone that size had any right to. He spun, elbow snapping backward. Leon barely slipped under it, feeling the rush of displaced air brush his curls.

They separated for a breath.

Dirt clung to Leon’s sleeve. Gabrijel’s thigh bled in a thin, bright line. Both were smiling now and it was the first time Roland had seen Leon smile like that. From the edge of the field, Roland watched in silence.

Leon lunged again, blade flashing in a rapid series of strikes—left shoulder, right hip, center thrust. He was trying to watch for any minute delay in Gabrijel’s injured leg when he shifted weight.

His patience was rewarded.

Leon dropped low as if to repeat the thigh cut and instead surged upward, reversing his grip mid-motion and driving his pommel toward Gabrijel’s ribs. It was risky, to be certain, because reverse gripping a broadsword mid swing was stupid and asinine. 

Gabrijel barked a surprised laugh even as he twisted, the blow glancing but solid enough to thud against muscle. He retaliated instantly, sweeping the claymore in a low arc meant to force distance.

Leon jumped it.

For a fleeting, reckless heartbeat, he was airborne.

Gabrijel saw the opening.

So did Leon.

The claymore rose in a punishing upward cut and Leon abandoned his attack entirely.

He let himself fall inward instead of away, crashing shoulder-first into Gabrijel’s center and knocking the larger man off balance. They hit the ground hard in a spray of dirt, Leon rolling immediately to avoid the claymore’s weight as it slammed harmlessly into the earth beside them.

Silence.

Then—

Gabrijel burst out laughing. Full-bodied and unrestrained.

Leon lay on his back, chest heaving, staring up at the bright morning sky before he started laughing too. The sound startled even him—loose and boyish and utterly unguarded.

Gabrijel pushed himself upright, offering a hand. “You’re insane.”

Leon accepted it without hesitation, allowing himself to be hauled to his feet. “You nearly cut me in half.”

“You jumped at an ascending claymore.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Well,” he said at last, wiping a smear of blood from his thigh with the heel of his palm, “that explains why Roland dragged you all the way out here.”

Leon flushed faintly, suddenly aware of Roland’s presence again.

Roland approached at an unhurried pace, boots steady against the dirt. His gaze flicked once over Leon—checking for injury—before settling on Gabrijel.

“Thoughts?” Roland asked.

Gabrijel didn’t hesitate. “He fights like someone who’s been told losing isn’t an option,” Gabrijel continued, tone thoughtful rather than accusatory. “He’s adaptable and very reckless in interesting ways.”

Roland hummed.

Leon opened his mouth, then closed it again, unsure whether he’d been praised or not. Gabrijel nudged him lightly with his elbow. 

“You’re holding back a bit still.”

“I wasn’t holding back,” Leon protested automatically.

Gabrijel arched his brow.

Leon paused.

“…Maybe….”

That earned him another laugh.

“All well and good, but don’t,” Gabrijel said. “Because I don’t intend to ever. Never get better if you don’t give it your all.” He bent to retrieve his claymore, lifting it with casual ease before glancing back over his shoulder.

 “Again?”

Leon’s answering smile was immediate.

“Again.”

They did not spar again immediately, actually. 

Roland had ended it there with a quiet, “Enough,” before momentum could turn foolish. 

Leon protested—of course he did—but there was no real heat in it. His chest still rose and fell too fast and his arms still trembled faintly from the repeated shocks of steel meeting steel.

Gabrijel noticed.

“There’s always tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

He sheathed his broadsword once standing again, forcing his breathing into something steadier. Dirt clung to his boots, to the hem of his tunic, to the sweat at his throat. He felt alive in a way that had nothing to do with scripture for once or the hands and words of another—

Gabrijel limped only slightly as they walked toward the well at the edge of the yard. He poured water over the thin cut at his thigh without ceremony, hissing once before shrugging it off.

Leon hovered closer than necessary, as he normally did. The cut itself was deeper than initially thought of.

“I can stitch that,” he offered quickly. “Or at least wrap it properly. It’ll split if you strain it again.”

Gabrijel glanced at him sideways. “Worried?”

“It was my fault.”

“No, it was mine for not seeing the clever trick you pulled.”

Leon frowned at that, then knelt anyway, tearing a clean strip from the lining of his sleeve before he could second-guess himself. His hands were steady as he bound the wound.

Gabrijel watched him with open curiosity.

When he rose, brushing dirt from his knees, something in his posture had shifted. The tightness that had clung to him that morning—subtle but constant—had eased. His gaze no longer searched the horizon for something absent.

Roland stepped forward at last. “We should return before dusk.”

Leon nodded, though his eyes lingered on the training grounds, on the churned earth and bright sky that would soon become dim and the place where their blades had crossed.

Gabrijel extended his hand once more.

“Until next time, Leon.”

Leon clasped it without hesitation. “Until next time.”

As Roland and Leon rode away from the estate, the wind cut across the fields. The Church spires would come back into view soon enough, but for once, Leon did not dread their outline against the sky.

He replayed the fight in his mind instead. The laugh. The promise of tomorrow.

Roland watched him from the corner of his eye.

The boy seemed in better spirits and that’s all he could ask.

[mccnhime]

Might re-write chp 3 of something dangerous cause i realized i was trying to push it out so i didn't fall behind on my own schedule i gave myself, so I'm gonna probably do that.

Re-write but more like go back and fix stuff cause I also wanted to add more and fix a thing there so ill post the rewrite and then replace it on ao3.

I was re-reading to see where to go and went "wait".

Anywayb just know this story i have plotted out to be at least 30 chapters. Also someone had asked once if my one shots were part of this story. The answer is no, simply because some of them are the same events but a different outcome. However they can be seen as such if to try. (I also take inspo from them too lol).

[mccnhime]

I'm re-writing Chapter 3 and so I will be re-posting it soon here.

[mccnhime]

AYO

Originally I was gonna re-write this old story from the ground up, but now I decided I am just going to edit it, and call it a day. The full, original story can be found here. <- Bullet Proof 1.0

I have also found my original TaeKai ABO story called "we're just friends" and I plan to just re-do that one and fix it up.

So expect to see these two stories cross-posted to here and then probs AO3 once they been fixed up and stuff. Cause these need some nice polishing and I think I've come a long way.