#🗡️: daggers and all
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the new ask game 👁️👁️
-my fangs kept growing and i had to file them down
-i hadn’t lied about being a magistrate, that was real
-i had my eyes on wyll before coming across and remembering who my wife was
#🦇🩸🗡️
#baldur's gate kin#baldursgatekin#bgkin#kinfession#fictionkin#fickin#confessions#mod dagger#🦇🩸🗡️#astarionkin#wyll#ask game#Anonymous#:D i find this so fun omg. i hope it's just as fun for you all as well#this format is preferred! i may sometimes summarize points#or outright copy-paste your 3 “facts”
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just in case anyone was still unconvinced that the government is a joke all the way down to the municipal level today i watched a city council commend the trash pickup initiative for negotiating to create an "alternate plan c" where they only got $750 000 to clean up trash and other debris in public spaces and as such would not be able to meet their original goal of regular trash pickup, and then about an hour later vote 10-6 to give more money to the police immediately instead of holding off on giving more money so they could potentially negotiate things like disbanding the $900 000 non-mandated mounted police unit because, and i kid you not this was their reasoning, kids love horsies
#🗡️#just so we're clear i tag all my original posts with dagger emoji i am not threatening to knife my local municipal government
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Cranky doll
Summary: He’s getting on your nerves.
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Grumpy!Reader
Warnings: sunshine & grumpy trope, cranky reader, language, a hint of naughtiness
Written for @yenzys-lucky-charm Cranky, Grumpy, Stabby! Oh, My! Challenge
Trope: Cranky + Stabby + Chaotic + Sleazy
Prompts: 🗡️ “Oh, what the fuck…” + 🗡️ “Stop talking.” + 🗡️ “I’m not smooth. I’m just trying to impress you. OK?” + 🗡️ "If you were a door I'd bang you."
You should have totally stabbed him.
I mean, he came to your bakery, uninvited, and it was almost the Ides of March—death to the patriarchy and shit.
You were never the one starting a fight, but you’re not a little miss sunshine either.
Steven Grant Rogers. Captain fucking America, dared to storm into your little world, demanding your attention, only to order you around.
All he did was tell you what not to do for almost half an hour.
“Don’t talk like that to people.” “You shouldn’t be angry and unfriendly all the time.” “A smile costs nothing.” “I know you’re not a bad person.���
You recall all the stupid things he said while standing in front of you, his hands on his ridiculously perfect waist.
While he talked, you took your time to look at him. Steve Rogers wasn’t too bad to look at. He had the looks and even carried a huge package in his pants, you were sure about it. – Talking about big-dick energy.
He lectured you for what felt like an eternity until you finally snapped.
“Oh, what the fuck…” You groaned loudly, stopping Steve from saying another stupid line. (You bet he memorized them all to lecture people here and there.) “Stop talking!” You harrumphed and glared at Steve. “I threw a cupcake at that bitch for telling me it tastes like old socks.”
“Exactly,” he said and nodded eagerly while pointing at the bitch standing a few feet away from you and Captain too-tight-pants. “We do not throw food at people in this town.”
You snorted. “Dude, I threw food at people all my life. If you come here, to my bakery and tell me my cupcakes taste like old socks, you will get punished. If anyone should hear your ass-long speech, it’s her. She refused to pay after wolfing down five cupcakes.”
“She ate five and refused to pay?” Steve turned his head to look at the bitch, who chuckled nervously. “Miss, is that true?”
“Well…at first I believed they taste good,” she lied to Captain fucking America’s face. “After I ate five, they started to taste odd.”
“It’s called food coma, bitch,” you snapped at her. “Pay or I’ll call the cops. Captain America won’t save you from my wrath.”
“Whoa, whoa—” Steve raised his hands to stop you from attacking the woman. “How about she pays for the cupcakes, and you apologize for throwing food at her?”
You gritted your teeth and glared daggers into his skull. If only you had a knife to stab his perfect face. “Free food.” You said instead of knifing him.
“What?” He asked.
“She got free food,” you repeated a little louder. “She should thank me for giving her another cupcake for free.”
Steve laughed at your comeback. Somehow, he liked your attitude and cranky personality.
“You’re something else,” he said, earning a grunt from you. “What if I pay for her cupcakes, and you can tell me everything about your bakery and the incident while we share a slice of cake?”
You hummed; eyes glued to his stupidly perfect face. “Smooth.”
“I’m not smooth. I’m just trying to impress you. OK?” He gave you a half-smile before turning toward the woman. “And you, pay for the cupcake and never come back here.”
You watched him grab the money from the woman and chase her away. Maybe, you didn’t have to stab him after all.
“You know,” you said when he handed you the money. "If you were a door I'd bang you..."
Steve looked flustered, but there was something in his eyes telling you he wouldn’t mind.
You locked the door, turning the little sign, telling everyone you’ll be busy for an hour – or in Steve’s words, all day…
Part 2
Tags in reblog.
#Cranky doll#CrankyGrumpyStabby!#steve rogers#steve rogers x reader#steve rogers x y/n#steve rogers x you
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COLD STEEL
the shadowsinger and the traitor .ˊˎ 🗡️

Azriel x Fem! Reader
Words: 2,674
Warnings: takes place in acowar so it may contain SPOILERS from previous books, archeron sister reader, use of a dagger, reader is tied up, angst, betrayal, no use of y/n, mating bond, fluff, images above do not depict reader’s appearance it’s just for aesthetic and I think that’s it
Summary: When your real intentions are discovered by the Inner Circle of the Night Court, you have to face the consequences. Your mate and the cold steel of Truth Teller.
A/N: friendly reminder that english isn’t my first language so please feel free to correct me <3 this is my first one shot for acotar so of course it had to be about azriel
Masterlist
•••
Gods, how did you end up in this situation? Wrists tied behind your back and a rope that served as a muzzle inside your mouth to prevent yourself from making any sound… Any sound that could mess up with your mate's closed-up mind.
No. You knew exactly why you were there. It was all your fault and because of what? A blinding desire for revenge? Or perhaps it was childish behavior that had made you reach out to the wrong person?
But you were young. Immature. Compared to all those creatures you had sworn once in your life to hate and that now your sister considered a family. They were centuries old, you were just turned twenty-one when it happened.
Twenty-one before your mortality had been taken away from you, in front of your eyes, while you were slowly sunk inside that turbid water of what they had called "The Caldroun"... A powerful source of magic, creator of the world known and theft of yours and your sisters' mortality.
But as theft, as The Cauldron was, it was also generous. So it gifted powerful abilities that seemed to differ from others in that magical end of The Wall.
As a mortal, your impulsivity sometimes took a thick control over your logical sense. And when you were turned High Fae, that only increased. The process of adaptation was hard. You could hear, see, and feel everything. Everything you had ignored before. And the desperation of not knowing how to stop it made you act.
And the King of Hybern was the only solution.
Or so you thought, less than a year as an immortal and you had already made your biggest mistake. He promised he would help you with the emerging powers. You believed him. He swore that if you desired it, he would return your mortality. You believed him. He convinced you it was all Feyre's fault. You believed him.
And the only requirement? You would become his spy. All you had to do was watch and tell. And you stupidly agreed.
Easy job. You already hated all of them... It was their fault you had ended up being swallowed by the Cauldron and resurfaced as one of them. You just had to do as the King said, keep Nesta and Elain protected until the King would turn the three of you mortal again, and then... Then you would figure it out. It was easy, right?
It was easy knowing that you were working with the male who plotted to kill the sister who had saved you from starvation. Even easier witnessing the love they shared, the love of a family... A family bonded by the drawbacks of time and the burdens they had fought together.
Gods...
And it was even easier to betray the male who had silently been by your side, wanting to help and protect you without being invasive. His quiet and cold presence was even more reassuring than a gentle caress or a hug and before you realized, you desired to spend more time with him... Not only in silence.
When the bond snapped, it wasn't a surprise but a relief for Azriel to be able to call you his mate... On the other hand, for you, it was what changed everything.
You were trapped, being suffocated by the feeling of betrayal and consternation. And every time you slept by his side when you were in the comfort of being surrounded by him and him only, silent tears escaped your eyes.
Said eyes widened slightly when he entered the stance where you had been tied up. Azriel was silent, but not his usual comforting silence. The male that looked at you now was someone completely different from the male that held you through the nights, wings wrapped around your body to shield you from any harm.
Your eyes moved lower to his scarred hands, eyes closing tightly as you noticed that Azriel was gripping Truth Teller. The dagger's blade caught the only traces of light that filtered through the darkness of the room and your throat closed as the tears began to pool in your closed eyes, dropping down your cheeks into the muzzle.
Azriel didn't say a word as he approached you. He didn't even flinch when he saw your tears as he usually did every time you cried in front of him. No, he just moved to free you from the muzzle around your lips.
He was determined to make you talk. Your mate seemed willing to torture you until he got any valuable information out of you... Or, at least, an explanation.
Your heart ached at the thought and unconsciously your pain traveled through the bond making Azriel's breath hitch before he shook his head.
‘Azriel...’ You mumbled beggingly, your voice sounding strained with emotion. But not because of the muzzle, the rope around your wrists, or the thought of being tortured... Those were the least of your concerns as you observed the male before you.
He didn't answer. ‘Azriel, please...’ You tried again and he looked into your eyes, no emotions visible in his hazel irises. Almost as if he had shut them down. A sob escaped your lips. ‘Please, please... Just—’
Azriel interrupted you. ‘You are not going to trick me anymore.’
The coldness in his words made you fight against the ropes that were wrapped around your wrists. ‘I didn't—!’ Lie. You did trick everyone into thinking you were harmless. ‘Please, Azriel... I swear I—’
‘Were you forcefully compelled to work with Hybern?’
‘No, but—’
His firm voice interrupted you before you could try to justify yourself. ‘Did you not spy on us... On me and shared that information with Hybern?’
‘Azriel, please—’
‘Were you not condemning us to a certain death by sharing that information?’
A sob escaped your lips and you couldn't hold his gaze anymore, looking down at the ground before yelping when his scarred hands roughly held your chin and forced you to look at him. His fingers squeezing your cheeks.
‘Were you not condemning me to death?’ Azriel asked again.
‘I didn't know what else to do.’ You mumbled and then the cold steel of Truth Teller pressed against your trembling throat. Holding back the need to sob, your gaze locked with his.
‘And betraying your family and your mate was the best option?’
‘The bond hadn't snapped when I...’ Azriel pressed the blade closer to your throat but despite his threat, you noticed he was being gentle... The blade was raised upwards to prevent it from slicing your throat and even if he was gripping it tightly, the pressure against your neck was minimal.
You looked behind him and noticed how his own shadows were trying to move him away from you. The dark tendrils were trying to protect you.
‘Look. At. Me.’ He spoke coldly, fingers squeezing your cheeks again. ‘You still betrayed your sisters... And then betrayed me when you kept going.’
‘What did you expect me to do? To suddenly cut connections with Hybern? Yeah, that probably wouldn't raise suspicions, Azriel.’ You managed to mumble, a small frown of frustration over your features as you looked at him through the blur of your tear-filled eyes.
He held his breath as he analyzed you, his eyes scanning the tears that stained your cheeks and how your brows furrowed together. ‘You could have told me.’
‘And then what? The same damn situation we're dealing with now.’ His fingers around your chin squeezed tightly pulling you forward to him. His nose brushed against yours as breaths mingled together. Gods, his turmoil was so tangible that you could smell the inner fight he was struggling with.
He breathed in your scent. ‘I would have helped you... I would have understood you.’
‘Are you understanding me? Are you helping me?’
Azriel called your name in frustration before he roughly shoved your head back. Desperately needing to create some distance between you, he held your chin so that you couldn't lean in closer. ‘Don't say that as if that's not the only thing I long for. Help you, protect you, shield you.’
Hearing the desperation in his voice had you holding your breath. The guilt invades your lungs in a choking sensation instead of the so-desired oxygen. But that's what you deserved, after everything.
‘I...’ Your strained voice broke the silence as you finally looked into his eyes. ‘I just wanted my mortality back, Azriel...’ He sighed shakily before his hand holding Truth Teller moved down. ‘Everything's been so...’ Your voice broke and his other hand moved up to cup your cheek.
‘I know, I know...’ He mumbled and his eyes met you, the same warmth in which he usually held your gaze.
‘I didn't know what else to do... I was so furious with Feyre and I—... I just thought about bringing our mortality back.’ You admitted referring to your sisters before Azriel shushed you, the hand holding Truth Tuller moving down to cut the ropes that held your shoulders to the pole so that at least you could rest your weight against him. However, he kept the ropes around your wrists and legs.
When your head gently hit his shoulder resting against him, his hand moved up to cup the back of your head. Whispering sweet words to reassure you as he held you in his arms, trying to silence your tears as he brushed his lips along your temple.
‘If I could go back, I swear I'll do it... I—’ You trailed off when he began massaging your scalp bringing a sense of calm to your trembling body. ‘Ever since the bond snapped, I've been giving him confusing information. Half-lies... Or entirely nothing. I swear...’
‘I know, baby, I know.’
His words made you nuzzle your nose more against his shoulder. ‘Please, you have to believe me... Please.’
His hand over your cheek pulled you back so you could look into his hazel eyes. Gods, those irises... You could sink into them and get lost in that pool of golden brown. And you would do it willingly. They were your anchor. He was your anchor. Your strength and your liability, both at the same time.
‘I believe you.’ Azriel assured you. Then, the strength of your bond hit you so hard that it caught your breath away. The golden thread looked tangible as it swirled as a bridge between your souls and there you could feel his honesty and concern.
‘I don't know what to do.’ You confessed in a shaky whisper and he rested his forehead against yours. ‘Gods, please hate me. It's way easier than this... Hate me, Az...’ You begged him.
Azriel shook his head before his lips pressed a gentle kiss against your forehead. Rejoicing the feeling, a soft sigh escaped your lips. ‘I don't hate you. I could never hate you.’
‘You should.’
‘I don't want to,’ Azriel repeated before he gently called your name. The word rolled off his tongue with a soothing tone to it. ‘I don't hate you, baby... And neither does Feyre, nor either of the others.’
When a small sob escaped your lips, his dagger swiftly cut the rope that held your arms and wrists and you were able to wrap your arms around him in a tight embrace.
Finally.
Your torso was pressed against his, the soft flesh in your body caressing the hardness of the centuries-trained muscles over his chest and abdomen. Azriel immediately encircled your waist. He needed this. To feel you closer. To know you weren't a threat.
‘No one hates you.’ He assured you gently ‘Elain... She saw your intentions through one of her... Visions,’ Azriel's face contorted into discomfort at the thought of your younger sister having such a powerful ability that she didn't know how to control ‘She defended you and I... I wanted to see it for myself, see that you... That you at least had some regret.’
He loathed the thought of what he had planned to do before entering that room.
‘I wanted to torture you until you would give me something... Anything.’ Azriel admitted and you felt his pain and self-hatred through the bond. ‘But I... Seeing you like this, I can't— I don't...’ His grip on you tightened.
‘Azriel...’ You mumbled but he interrupted you.
‘I know you regret it.’ The Shadowsinger mumbled and his dark tendrils roamed down to free you from the rope around your legs. The minute you were free you wrapped one leg around him bringing the male closer to you. ‘Now I see it.’
You two fell into a comfortable silence. He brought you comfort and so did you to him. It was as simple as that.
‘If I hadn't felt any regret...’ You began gently only stopping for a second when the male growled. His chest vibrated roughly, so you placed one hand over the hard tattooed flesh. ‘Would you have done it? Torture me?’
The Ilyrian male froze under the weight of your question. Was that what you believed of him? Did you think he would do you any harm? The mere idea made Azriel want to go through every single torture himself.
‘No.’ He spoke firmly and his eyes met yours again when he pulled away. ‘No. Never...’ Azriel shook his head and then it seemed as if something broke inside him. ‘Never... never...’
He repeated over and over again as he slowly closed the distance between your lips. Lazily, his lips crashed against yours tasting the saltiness of your lips. ‘Never...’ He repeated over your lips. ‘Don't ever suggest it again.’ Azriel mumbled with pain.
His hand moved up to tangle around your hair as he kissed you again, this time it was messier... The male was shaking as he captured your lips with his and he gently pulled away when you choked one of your sobs against his mouth, more tears silently falling and making the kiss even messier if it was possible. A small frown adorned his face as he pulled you closer by the waist after backing away.
‘What can I do?’ You asked, voice strained and tears falling down your cheek until they would wet the dark fabric of his shirt. ‘Please, Azriel, what can I do to amend it?’
His sigh was warm against the skin of your neck and his lips pressed a gentle kiss against the sensitive skin provoking a shiver that ran down your spine. ‘Nothing. You don't need to do anything...’
‘I do.’ You insisted and he shook his head, burying his nose even more into the crook of your neck.
‘You don't.’
‘Azriel...’
‘I... Cassian may have said something earlier that could not be a terrible idea.’ Azriel mumbled against your skin before he moved backward to look into your eyes and seeing your raised brow he sighed. ‘But I don't want you to get in danger just to...’
‘Just to make it up for you? Enough reason.’ You whispered, chin tilted backward to brush your lips against his. ‘I am capable of making my own decisions, Azriel.’
His small grin widened as he answered, ‘I know that,’ when your lips pressed against his in small, gentle pecks. Yet, he couldn't help but keep talking. ‘This shouldn't be allowed… You're compelling me with your kisses.’
‘Am I now? What a shame... Poor Spymaster can't handle some kisses?’
The moment he confessed, ‘Not when they're yours,’ you couldn't help but stifle a giggle. You paused your kisses and instead nestled your nose against his, savoring the intimacy of the moment.
‘Please, Azriel... Just tell me what I can do.’
He groaned under his breath when your presence clouded his thoughts. ‘Cassian mentioned that you could gather information for us… Misinform Hybern and extract intel from him.’
Your brow raised with interest.
‘Perhaps I could teach you the art of espionage, my mate... Be one of my spies… What do you think?’ Azriel mused, his gaze penetrating as he locked his gaze with yours.
Oh, how the tables had turned on Hybern.
#acotar#acotar x reader#azriel#azriel x reader#azriel x you#azriel x female!reader#requests open#azriel acotar#acotar x you#a court of thorns and roses#azriel fic#acotar fic#cassian#batboys#rhysand#feyre#archeron sisters
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「「 DIVIDERS MASTERLIST 」」
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CHERRY DIVIDER SET - Dividers 🍒
PURPLE/CREAM - Divider Set 💜
RED DRAGON - Divider Set 🐉
RAINBOW LACE DIVIDERS - Divider Set 🌈
RED PANDA DIVIDERS - Divider Set (NEW)
ORANGE FOX DIVIDERS - Divider Set (NEW)🦊
── .✦ 𝘓𝘐𝘕𝘌 𝘋𝘐𝘝𝘐𝘋𝘌𝘙 𝘚𝘌𝘛𝘚 :
COLOR PALETTE DIVIDERS - Mono Shades & Hues - Dividers
BASIC LINES - |PART 1| Basic/Dashed/Curvy - Dividers
BASIC LINES - |PART 2 : GIF VERSION| -Animated Lines- Hearts/Curvy Vintage/Waves - Dividers
BASIC LINES - |PART 3| Fading Lines, Swirls & Dots - Dividers
BASIC LINES - |PART 4| Flowers & Fading Curves - Dividers
BASIC LINES - |PART 5| Neon Colored Lines - Dividers (NEW)
── .✦ 𝘖𝘛𝘏𝘌𝘙 𝘗𝘖𝘚𝘛𝘚 :
ᴅᴇᴛᴀɪʟᴇᴅ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇꜱꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜᴏᴡ ɪ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴄᴜꜱᴛᴏᴍɪꜱᴇᴅ ɢʀᴀᴅɪᴇɴᴛ ᴛᴇxᴛ ᴏɴ ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ
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🗡️ | Relics and Ruins | 1
[Series masterlist] [acotar masterlist] Summary: you come from a long line of healers in the dawn court, but it seemed to have skipped you completely. So you find that your mind is more equipped to read magical objects, fixing broken or cursed relics. What you don’t expect is an Illyrian warrior seeking your expertise on his favourite broken dagger. 1455words

The blade on the table rattled to a stop, whatever secrets it whispered, you did not understand the language it spoke.
A shadow lurked over the table, you glanced to the night courts high lord, Rhys opposite you, a smirk pulling his lips as his eyes flicked from you and his friend behind you.
“Are you going to stand over me whilst I work?” You raised a brow, neck aching as you twisted in your seat and looked to the Shadowsinger.
Rhys muttered an apology on behalf of his friend. Azriel stepped back from your desk, allowing the light to creep back in. You swatted one of the stray shadows still lingering, it rolled over your finger like the curl of smoke.
The small studio space you rented, barely allowed enough room for you to navigate. Tables and shelves filled with an assortment of objects still screaming at you to fix. You were sentimental when it came to the place, the first and only part of the court that was yours. Knew the layout like the back of your hand, large windows that bathed the area in light that no dark corner could be found. And you hated the dark.
You bit your lip trying to suppress the smile at the awkward Illyrian’s taking up the space. Their Highlord’s wings vanished before he entered the confined space, the other two however had tucked their wings in tightly and tried not to move too much within the organised mess.
The longhaired one, Cassian had given you some valuable information on a shield you’d given up on decades ago. You couldn’t help but mirror his smile whenever he offered you one, brows scrunching as he translated the text engraved on the metal.
The other winged male did not speak to you, he hung back clouded by shadows. Every now and then, little black wisps brushed against the tip of your short hair, a breeze ghosting over your shoulders.
But when he did finally speak, you found yourself wanting to look at him. The knot in your stomach twisting, his smooth voice called to you and it felt familiar, comforting. You wanted to hear it again.
“How long do you think it will take to mend?” Azriel leant on the desk, gloved hands supporting him as he gazed down at you. His attention solely on you, even up close he was breathtaking.
You blinked, hands fumbling over the desk as you knocked a pile of ancient tomes over. Dust settling in the air, the action kept going on like dominoes. A cannon ball hitting the mannequin of ancient armour into the hoards of Elven bows stacked up high.
Cassian tried to catch the next thing falling, but his wings flared ever so slightly as he tried to keep his balance. Forgetting about the tight space, his wings swiped the entire contents as well as the shelf off the wall. Metal clanged to the floor and he froze.
“Do not touch that,” you snapped, running to Cassian, your fast movement making him step back. “Unless you want it to haunt your dreams for the next hundred years.” You nudged the fallen contents with your boot, keeping them all together.
“We would not want that,” Rhys paused, glancing around the studio and the mess scattering what was left of the floor. “Perhaps we should allow you the time to do your work.” He flicked his wrist, the Elven bows stacking on top of one another.
You couldn’t help but gasp, it would have taken you hours to sort out the mess, but Rhys had put most of it back in its original place. Except the items you warned them not to touch, even that being extended to another persons magic.
The three men walked through the studio, you following closely behind them. Your hands hovering behind their wings as if waiting for them to knock into more things as they went.
Cassian doesn’t meet your eyes as you stand in the doorway, the three of them tense as if waiting for one of them to speak. You turn to Rhys expecting him to say something.
“We have business with your Highlord, so we will be around if you need anything,” Azriel said, bowing his head slightly. His shadows twirled in frenzy, black wisps tangling in your hair one more time.
You shook your head, trying to rid yourself of the pesky wisps.
Azriel cleared his throat, shadows returning to curl round his ear as if to tell him a secret. “How long do you think it’ll take to mend the truth-teller?”
“It will take me a while, I need to familiarise with the energy surrounding the blade.” You could already hear truth-teller beckoning you. A broken echo, the voice not quite pronouncing your name properly. But it called.
They bid you goodbye and you returned to the room of relics. The noise always a welcome distraction than listening to your own thoughts.
*🦇*
Azriel’s shadows had not stopped mumbling of the girl of sunlight. He kept swatting them away, the text he was trying to read in front him blurring at their constant interrupting.
“You think she knows?” Rhys asked, his hands in his pockets as he watched the sun bathe the sky in dusky pinks and orange hues.
The thought crossed Azriel’s mind, part of him thinking there was a moment when their eyes met, but the way she retreated from his shadows made him think otherwise.
“Nah, there’s no way. Too much energy in that room. Don’t know how she can surround herself with all those relics,” Cassian said, his fingers rubbing his temple.
Relics kept their energy and magical properties forever, outliving the ones that created them. They might not be able to wielded again, but if one was worthy enough to channel that power the object would call for whoever it could hear. Most times it was a distant mumble, only a trained ear or shadow could hear it.
“Now you know how we feel brother, when we spend too much time with you.”
Cassian pulled up the chair opposite Azriel, smirking as he got himself comfortable. “Maybe I should help her, you know familiarise that energy surrounding truth-teller. I do know some riveting tales…”
“The only thing snapping will be your neck if you meddle,” Azriel spat, he slammed his book shut as if closing anymore discussion on the mender in the dawn court.
The anger spread like wildfire in his chest, ever since the bond snapped he’d been overwhelmed with emotions. His shadows were equally as messy, not sure whether to follow him or stick behind with her. A few stray wisps fell back, hiding between the relics in her studio and keeping a safe distance.
Azriel couldn’t get her off his mind, he wondered if she’d ever been beyond her home or stepped into the darkness. He knew that his life wasn’t for everyone and didn’t want to subject someone full of so much light, to something so cold.
“Did you sense it whilst we were there?”
Cassian’s question dragged Azriel back to why they were truly there, the matter of his mate paused until they got what they were looking for. But Azriel didn’t realise that the one thing he’d be looking for was her.
“No, nothing.” Rhys turned as the doors opened, the dawn courts high lord entering.
“Well why didn’t you ask my favourite mender?” Thesan asked, but he waved his hand as if answering his own question. “She did let you in, did she not?”
“I fear that our missing relic is still under the mountain, her collection did not give us any clues,” Rhysand said glancing to Thesan, the warmth in his eyes dulled at the mention of the mountain. He too had been trapped beneath it, the last resort of returning was changing to a definite return.
“Ah,” Thesan paused, a strained smile twitched his lips. “ You see the mender is a relic herself. She too survived under the mountain and is the reason we have so much knowledge on the subject.”
Azriel felt the tight pull in his chest, so she had known darkness. He rubbed his chest, wondering if she felt the same jolt there too. His shadows being a reminder of her time there, maybe that’s why she preferred the light glaring down upon her. No curtains or furniture blocking the large windows that dominated the small studio she worked in.
“Would she be able to show us the way without actually going there?” Cassian asked. Azriel thankful that he had spoken up first. His thoughts were tangled, but they all led to her and her safety.
“You would have to ask her.”

[Part two]
I wrote this on my phone and not edited so might be some errors
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User: "I’m so torn between my precious rogues and the fact that I started DA as a mage, so nostalgia… Shadow Dragons sound so cool, so I think a mage SD? But but but rogue gameplay looks sooo good so maybe AC rogue? Yall are making my head spin with all these goodiessss" Corinne: "The Mage Spellblade specialization is rad if you want an agile frontline mage with daggers and parries. It’s kind of like a hybrid of the two. 🔮🗡️" [source] User: "You’re speaking my language! KE was my favorite one in DAI, I thought they sounded similarly awesome." Corinne: "KE was our inspiration! My fav from DAI too 😊" [source]
Some info on the Spellblade spec. :)
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An Exercise in Trust 🗡️🩸 | AO3
Pairing: Abysswalker Rafayel x Princess MC Summary: The Sea demands a follower. Lemuria demands a sacrifice. Rafayel wonders when it will be his turn to make demands instead. Rating: Explicit 🔞 Words: 7,857 Tags: POV Third Person, POV Rafayel, Unnamed Main Character, AFAB Main Character, MC uses she/her pronouns, Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Language, PIV Sex, Unprotected Sex, Creampie, Oral Sex, Cunnilingus, Fighting As Foreplay, Knifeplay, Bloodplay (kinda), Under-negotiated Kink (i.e. the aforementioned knife and blood play are not discussed beforehand but they're both little freaks on the same wavelength), Soul Bond, Mildly Dubious Consent (she compels him with the soul bond but make no mistake he wants her lol), Rafayel speaks Lemurian (but it's like four words and i made up three of them lol), Mild Gore (it's a brief line and does not actually happen) Notes: Originally posted to AO3 on March 7, 2025. I have the biggest heart eyes for Abysswalker, so here I am! I probably-maybe-definitely took some accidental liberties with the lore because all the different timelines confuse me, so I interpreted it as best I can. There's also some made-up Lemurian language. I tried my best based on the few phrases we've heard in the game. Endless thanks to my friend Sepia for beta-reading this and for hyping me up ever since this was still just an idea in my brain! And additional thanks to Sepia, Maz, and Belle for all giving me feedback when I was stuck. This fic wouldn't exist without you <3 Lemurian Translations: "Huerte mea" → "My heart" and "Vesta mea" → "My bride"
“I will cut out your heart with a dagger honed, my darling. And in Love’s name, your heart will become my faith.
Your body will be washed clean, shine like a pearl.
I will care for your heart. Till we meet again. And you reclaim it for yourself.”
– Siren’s Ballad, Act III: Muia
The desert winds tonight are punishing, noisily rattling the structure of their tent, and the Princess of Philos shivers as she peers outside. She pulls the blanket draped across her form tighter around her shoulders and cranes her neck, turning her gaze up to the sky.
Rafayel watches her from the corner of his eye. He has spent the previous half-hour sitting cross-legged on his bedroll, tending to his garb and attempting to mend a tear in the seams. But his fingers now idle, and the leathers are long forgotten across his lap, only half-sewn, as he finds himself too distracted to continue.
It is, perhaps, the longest Her Highness has ever gone without saying a single word in his presence. Rafayel is accustomed to the sound of her continuous chatter as she flits from subject to subject like a hummingbird searches for nectar, so much so that her sudden silence is a void by comparison. It is almost like she has forgotten he is even there. He wonders what it is that has stolen her attention and has her so captivated.
Even with her back turned toward him, Rafayel still cannot help but stare. His gaze sweeps over her form, following the shape of her hair, held in place with pins made of diamonds and gold. The drab, tattered blanket that surrounds her is unbecoming of a princess, a stark contrast to the rest of her elegance.
He longs to reach out for her and replace the blanket with the warmth of his embrace. To banish whatever thoughts have been keeping her mind so otherwise occupied. It is an old yet familiar twinge of jealousy that has followed him through the ages. He wants to be the sole object of her focus.
But Rafayel stays his hand, tightening his grip on the needle between his fingertips, and desperately tries to silence the yearning in his chest. He cannot allow himself to go down this path—not again, not when he has already strayed too far simply by being here with her in the first place.
A particularly strong breeze blows through the gap in the tent’s opening, strong enough that Rafayel can feel it from where he sits. The Princess draws in a sharp breath, turning away as the wind hits her face. She shivers again and mutters a low curse beneath her breath, wrinkling her nose in a way that is so unbearably endearing.
Rafayel lowers his gaze. A faint smile touches his mouth.
“Your Highness should not linger so close to the entrance,” he says, finally breaking the silence.
He hears the sound of fabric rustling as she closes the flap to the tent, then soft footfalls. Her shadow enters his peripheral, morphing with his into a single, exaggerated shape, and Rafayel looks up when she finally stands in front of him. She kneels onto her bedroll that is laid out opposite of his, clutching the blanket close to her chest.
“I wanted to look at the stars,” she replies.
Flickering flames from the oil lamp that illuminates their tent cast shadows over her face and dance across her delicate features. The subtle pout of her lip indicates her disappointment, and her eyes shine even in the low light, as if the stars themselves have made their home within.
A knot forms in the pit of Rafayel’s stomach. He sets his armor aside and sticks the sewing needle into it, marking his place.
“Your Highness has seen the stars before,” he says.
“Not like these.”
“Are these same stars not visible from the palace?”
“They are much prettier out here than in the city.” Her Highness looks down as another chill runs through her body. She picks at the fraying edges of her blanket. “I wanted to admire them during our last trip out here, but the sandstorm prevented us from doing so.”
Rafayel sighs quietly. Before he can think better of it, he reaches across the short distance between them and covers her hands with his. Her fingers are cool to the touch from the night air, so he brings them to his lips and warms them with his breath.
The Princess’ eyes widen. A soft, surprised sound sticks in her throat. But then, she smiles, and the faint, melodic lilt of her laughter makes the knot in Rafayel’s stomach twist and tighten.
She leans toward him. The blanket slips from her shoulders, falling to the ground behind her, and Rafayel stares at her over the tops of their hands. The gold embroidery of her tunic glitters in the dim light against lavender and black fabric, forming an endless web of intricate patterns that draw his gaze downward—over the swell of her chest, the dip in her waist, the sloping rise of her hips.
“Won’t you look at the stars with me, Rafayel?” she asks him, breaking his reverie.
Reluctantly, Rafayel releases her with a sudden pang of guilt, wishing so badly to tell her that he would give her the stars if he could. Instead, he pulls back, ignoring the look of disappointment that flashes through her eyes.
“Your Highness… should retire for the night,” he says.
The Princess lowers her gaze, watching as Rafayel lays his hands across his lap, then looks back into his eyes.
“But I’m not tired yet,” she says. “Also, you promised we would spar tonight.”
A flush creeps up the back of Rafayel’s neck and warms his ears. He clears his throat and shakes his head, recalling what transpired after their last training session. A repeat of events would not be appropriate.
“It is late, and the wind is too strong,” he says. Raising an eyebrow, he regards her with a look of amusement, unable to resist the urge to tease her. “And someone wanted to stay up to look at the stars.”
Stubborn as ever, the Princess leans in even closer. “But someone else gave me his word.”
“We have a long journey ahead of us come morning. I must ensure Your Highness’ safe return to the city.”
The Princess scowls at him, and Rafayel frowns when she shifts subtly over to her left, her hand twitching. Faster than he expects, she snatches his dagger from its place beside his pillow, clumsily twirling it in her hand before she jabs it in his direction.
Rafayel flinches, eyes widening, and raises his hands in front of him in self-defense.
“What—”
“One lesson,” she says, interrupting him.
He eyes the dagger, then her. “Your Highness—”
“Your Princess has given you a command.”
Rafayel blinks in surprise. Then, he laughs—at himself, at her request, and the absurdity of the circumstances he finds himself in. If only Her Highness realized the true power she holds, her words sharper than any blade could ever be.
“Fine,” he agrees through a sigh. As if he even has the choice. “One lesson. Your Highness must rest after that.”
Rafayel relaxes his posture and holds out one of his hands, reassuring her with a nod and a practiced, boyish smile. Satisfied, the Princess smiles back, then moves to place the dagger in his palm.
It is exactly the opening Rafayel needs. Leaning forward, he clasps her wrist and pulls hard, twisting her arm so the dagger’s blade points away from them both. The Princess loses her balance and falls with a gasp, and Rafayel uses the momentum he created to spin her around and yank her down onto his lap. He wraps his arm around her stomach, holding her in place as she tries to squirm away. Once sure that she is suitably restrained, he wrenches the dagger free from her hand.
“Rafayel!”
The Princess continues to struggle, clawing at his arm and desperately trying to escape his grasp. Rafayel tightens his hold on her and overpowers each attempt to break free. She finally goes completely still, holding her breath, when he presses the flat edge of the dagger against her cheek.
He lowers his lips to her ear, his breath ghosting over the shell of it. He feels her responding shudder against him and holds her even tighter. She winces at the discomfort of his tight grip, but dares not move otherwise.
“Tonight’s lesson,” Rafayel says, soft and quiet, “shall be an exercise in trust.”
Slowly, he moves the dagger down the side of her face. The Princess releases the air from her lungs in a shaky exhale, watching him from the corner of her eye.
“Your Highness has failed the first test,” he goes on. “An assassin must never relinquish their weapon so freely.”
The Princess scoffs. “Then you also failed by letting me take it from you to begin with.”
“A bold assertion.” Rafayel laughs and brings the tip of the blade to her chin, turning her face toward him. “I do not believe Your Highness is in the position to argue.”
It is, of course, a mistake, because without another word, looking straight into his eyes, Her Highness lifts her leg and brings her heel down onto his toes—hard.
Rafayel clenches his teeth as the pain spreads throughout his foot. When that is not enough to break free, the Princess elbows him in the ribs. Rafayel accepts the blow, doubling over with a grunt, and only then does she manage to slip out of his arms. Panic rises to Rafayel’s chest as he just narrowly avoids slicing her cheek. She falls forward onto her bedroll, crawling on hands and knees, and pulls something out from under her pillow. Whirling around, she unsheaths the simple dagger he gave her weeks prior.
Rafayel jumps to his feet and holds his blade out in front of him. Pleased with herself, the Princess grins.
“And now?” she asks him. Taunts him.
Narrowing his eyes, Rafayel moves to strike, lunging toward her with his dagger raised above his head. The Princess stumbles backward, but she manages to catch his wrist and block his advance. Rafayel eases off, giving her a moment to reposition.
“Faster,” he growls, and charges at her again.
Her Highness reacts quicker than before. She crosses her arms and catches his wrist between them, trapping him in place with her dagger. When Rafayel does not break free on his own, she releases him.
“Again,” Rafayel says.
The sound of metal cutting through the air and the shallow puffs of their breaths echo throughout the tent as they perform each exercise multiple times. With limited space around them, Rafayel adjusts his maneuvers accordingly, taking care not to lead her too close to the supporting poles of the tent or the dwindling fire of the oil lamp. Their lack of armor poses another challenge. He will have to be especially careful not to injure her.
The air quickly grows warmer within the small space as a result of their spar, and the sound of their breathing grows harsher and more ragged along with it. Sweat glistens along the Princess’ brow, small strands of hair loosening around her temples and clinging to her skin.
“Your Highness is still too slow,” he says. “Each movement must be decisive and swift.”
He changes directions, aiming his dagger lower. The Princess blocks it effortlessly.
“An assassin must never hesitate.” He attacks her again. He nods in approval when she blocks him a second time. “Do not ever show an opponent mercy.”
“Even you?” the Princess asks.
She said it so casually, her tone light-hearted, but those mere two words make Rafayel’s steps falter as if she just punched the air out of him.
“Especially me,” he answers quietly.
They repeat the sequence several more times, settling into a familiar rhythm. Rafayel quiets his mind and wills himself to focus. Attack, block, reset. Attack, block, reset. Again and again, around and around. After the last cycle, he backs off, raising his hand to signal his retreat and taking several steps away from her. He wipes his brow with the back of his sleeve, catching his breath.
The Princess maintains their distance, holding her dagger in front of her, ready for anything.
“Not bad,” Rafayel says. “However, Your Highness still has much to learn in the art of combat.”
He lowers his attack arm, pointing the dagger away from her.
“A weapon must be a natural extension of one’s self,” he adds. He demonstrates by twirling his dagger, fluid and swift, seamlessly cutting through the air. “Your Highness holds a dagger like it is made of burning coals.”
She immediately tightens her grip around the hilt, wrinkling her nose in response to his teasing, but she remains firmly in place. Rafayel smiles and holds out his free hand.
“Come,” he offers. “Let me remind Your Highness how to wield it properly.”
The Princess does not hesitate: she crosses the distance between them and aims her dagger at his face with a shout. Rafayel quickly brings his own dagger up to block her, and their blades clash with a deafening, metallic clang. His smile stretches into a proper grin.
“Good,” he says. “Your Highness has passed the second test.”
The Princess snarls, baring her teeth, and attacks him again. There is a lethal edge present in her subsequent movements that was not there before. She is faster, harsher, more decisive, and what she still lacks in finesse and experience she makes up for in sheer tenacity. Rafayel blocks and dodges, over and over, letting her maintain the offensive.
She is quickly backing him into a corner, leading him toward the other end of the tent. Rafayel moves from side to side, even more careful not to disturb their surroundings the more aggressive the Princess becomes.
Anger flashes through Her Highness’ eyes, her mouth twisting into a grimace.
“You’re holding back,” she accuses him.
She moves to strike him. Rafayel catches both of her wrists, then resets, frowning at her in confusion.
“Of course I am,” he replies. “This is a spar, not actual combat.”
Her scowl deepens. “I don’t care.”
“Your Highness—”
She does not let him finish, recklessly lunging at him again, her movements sloppy and unrefined. Rafayel lets out a huff as her blade comes down toward his face. He grabs her by the wrists once more and shoves her away. The Princess sways on her feet as she loses balance, but she manages to reorient herself before she falls.
Rafayel’s gaze softens as he regards her with no small amount of concern, fearing he has pushed her too far.
“You tell me not to hesitate,” she says. “You tell me not to show you any mercy. Yet here you are—hesitating.”
She attacks him again.
“Showing me mercy.”
And again.
“Treating me like a helpless child.”
And again.
“Fight me”—and again—“like you”—and again—“mean it!”
Rafayel ducks as she slashes the dagger over the top of his head, snipping off a small lock of his hair. He sidesteps, barely managing to dodge another swing.
He needs to put a stop to this.
No longer holding back, Rafayel moves in on her quickly, not giving her even the slightest chance to react. The Princess gasps when he disarms her, forcing her dagger out of her grasp, sending it flying and clattering to the ground. He kicks her leg out from under her, watching as she falls unceremoniously onto her backside, landing on her bedroll.
With a frustrated growl, Her Highness wraps her legs around his and pulls him forward. Rafayel steadies himself as best as he can on the way down, but there is no use stopping it. He winces as he lands on hands and knees with a grunt, absorbing the impact, hovering over her.
He sits up and wrestles his arms free from the Princess’ hands after she reaches out to grab him. She is bold, he will give her that, and fast. But he is still faster—and stronger.
He straddles her hips and points his dagger to her throat. The Princess seizes him by his wrists and steadies his blade, holding on so tightly her knuckles turn white. She digs her nails into his skin until it stings, making Rafayel hiss through his teeth.
“Enough,” he grits out.
Her Highness gazes up at him with a defiant tilt of her chin, clenching her jaw from the effort of keeping him at bay.
“No.”
Despite the circumstances, Rafayel huffs out a laugh. “Even when faced with certain death, Your Highness does not surrender,” he says, each word laced with amusement. He tilts his head, curious. “That is unwise.”
A flicker of recognition crosses her gaze that gives Rafayel pause. She has looked at him that way before, whenever he would sneak into her bedchamber at night and find her with the fishtail beacon clutched tightly between her fingers. She has looked at him that way countless other times, in another life. In many other lives.
She looks at him like she remembers.
“You would never hurt me,” she replies. “Not really.”
The certainty in her voice pains him, a familiar ache that echoes deep within his chest. Rafayel frowns as fragmented memories of many distant pasts coalesce in his mind like raindrops on glass, some indiscernible from others, overlapping moments across lifetimes.
The God of the Sea and His bride…
Memories that occupy his dreams and every waking thought.
…a Lemurian and the fearsome Witch of the Abyssal Rift…
Memories she will never remember.
…an artist and his bodyguard…
Memories he can never forget.
Rafayel wants so badly to believe that he will never hurt her, but fate has always been cruel to him, and the universe who wields it even more so. His eyes darken, clouded by the once-raging seas of Lemuria that now only thrash behind his gaze.
“Would I not?” he asks. He lets out a low chuckle at the way she tightens her fingers around his wrists. “How can Your Highness be so certain? There is no one around to hear Your Highness’ cries for help. Even if there was…”
Rafayel pauses, searching her face, her eyes. He waits for her reaction—something, anything at all.
“It would be too late.”
The Princess goes to speak, but the words seem to die on her lips, and she promptly snaps her mouth shut. Rafayel smirks, prepared to relish in his victory.
But then, slowly, she loosens her hold on him, until her hands fall away entirely.
A prolonged silence wedges uncomfortably between them, surpassed only by the wailing desert winds beyond their tent.
“Do it, then,” she says.
Rafayel holds her gaze. He expects her to look smug, but her expression remains deliberately neutral, a carefully constructed mask.
“Do it,” she repeats. “Kill me.”
Rafayel keeps his hand steady, so steady that his wrist aches in protest. He very well could kill her right here and now, take back his heart, and fulfill his duty to his people—just like that. She does not realize what she is risking by offering herself to him so willingly.
Or perhaps she does.
She knows. She cannot remember, but she knows.
She knows him. All of him. She has always known, even though she may never come to know it herself. In this moment, as Rafayel stares her down over the curved edge of his dagger, he truly believes that she does.
He almost forgot what it is like to be known.
But here they are once again, bound to one another in this life, and the next, and the many others that have come before. Despite everything, that has never changed. Their love is inevitable, their fate intertwined in a prophecy written in blood and stone—a fate he himself doomed them to long, long ago.
For years beyond his comprehension, he has fought an uphill battle: desire at war with destiny, his pleasure versus his purpose, his love for her perpetually at odds with the love he holds for his people. The Sea demands a follower. Lemuria demands a sacrifice. Rafayel wonders when it will be his turn to make demands instead.
It would be so, so easy to kill her…
She should be afraid of him.
He will teach her to be afraid.
With a wave of his hand, Rafayel extinguishes the flame in the oil lamp. The Princess lets loose a gasp as they are plunged into darkness.
“Does Your Highness not remember our previous lessons?”
His eyes adjust quickly. The outline of her form comes back into view, followed by her face, bathed in shadow. Before she can answer him, Rafayel lazily begins to drag the tip of his dagger down her throat.
Though she tries to suppress it, he does not miss the subtle shift in the Princess’ expression—the way her eyes widen almost imperceptibly—nor the hitch of her breath. Her body tenses beneath him, but even so, her quiet determination remains, made evident by the firm set of her jaw and the slight crease in her brow. Her resolve will not be broken so easily.
He waits for her to stop him, to beg him to stop, to surrender. The Princess remains silent.
“An assassin must kill quickly, before they are killed first,” he says. “As Your Highness may recall, that is what makes the throat a favorable choice. One cut…”
Rafayel turns the dagger with a flourish, holding it horizontally against her neck.
“That is all it takes.”
Her throat moves as she swallows. Rafayel watches, transfixed, as the dagger moves along with it.
He blinks. He blinks again. His mind is slipping, thoughts passing like sand through his fingers. Images flash behind his eyes of the Princess laid out beneath him, blood pooling under her body, her heart carved out of her chest yet still beating in the palm of his hand.
Rafayel shakes his head, pushing the thoughts away, and points the sharp tip of the blade at her throat once more. Though not enough to break skin, he presses down just hard enough to leave a mark. A single line, raised and puffy against her otherwise unblemished complexion, follows his dagger from her throat to the top of her chest.
If she feels any pain, Her Highness does not show it. Rafayel wonders just how far she will trust him to go.
He recalls a time, long before, when the artist left his mark upon her skin in a similar fashion, with red paint instead of a blade. He wants to leave his mark on her again now.
It comes to him as easy as breathing. Rafayel turns the dagger carefully and begins to draw a familiar shape into her chest, watching the way her skin reacts the same way as before. For those precious few moments, the world around them falls away. He grows more and more mesmerized at the sight of angry welts forming the shape that mirrors his own mark—the brand on his chest that binds his soul to hers and burns whenever she speaks.
When he finishes the final line, completing the elegant curve of a Lemurian tail, he flicks the dagger upright and roughly scrapes it against her delicate flesh. This time, he can tell it hurts from the way Her Highness’ eye twitches, but it is the only acknowledgment she deigns to give the pain. Tiny droplets of blood bloom from the small cut, trickling down her chest and disappearing underneath the scooped neckline of her tunic.
She is truly a sight to behold—her skin marked by his blade, her life in his hands. She trusts him implicitly, and it stirs something deep within him, like oil being thrown into a fire, an intense longing the likes of which he has never felt before. Heat rises steadily throughout his entire body, making the flush on his cheeks deepen and his ears burn as he averts his gaze.
Rafayel follows the blood trail with the point of his dagger. The sound of metal dragging against fabric, but not ripping, is nearly deafening.
“Bone is a troublesome obstacle.”
His voice sounds so far away, unfamiliar even to his own ears, rough and hollow like the sea of golden sand outside blowing in the wind. He moves the dagger between her breasts, then lower, prodding at her sternum for emphasis. He watches the steady rise and fall of her chest as the Princess meticulously measures and counts each breath.
“To reach the heart,” he continues, “one must…”
He angles the dagger upward, notching it between her ribs on her left side, and points it at her heart.
His heart.
Rafayel narrows his eyes. He pushes her down harder into the bedroll, but still, she does not react—barely even winces. He feels dizzy and drunk, blood roaring in his ears, as if his mind is no longer his own. No matter what he does, she does not flinch. No matter what he says, she does not answer.
The silence stretches between them, tormenting him. Mocking him.
“Does Your Highness truly not fear death?”
Finally, the mask slips. The Princess’ gaze softens.
“Are you afraid, Rafayel?” she asks him.
For a moment, his grip slackens around the hilt of his dagger. She is trying to disorient him. He chuckles again, a low and bitter sound.
“There is nothing I fear,” he says.
She frowns. “You’re lying.”
Rafayel presses the blade against her ribs. Though not strong enough to break skin, she goes tense beneath him once more.
“Everything I have ever feared has already come true.”
He lays his hand over her stomach, pointing the dagger in the direction of her womb.
“The worst nightmares that have ever haunted me, I have experienced firsthand, time and time again,” he continues, recalling every time he has loved her, lost her, never forgotten her. “But Your Highness…”
With a shake of his head, Rafayel grins.
“Your Highness still has not answered my question.”
Beneath his palm, her heartbeat is strong, growing stronger by the second.
“No,” the Princess says.
Rafayel looks up. “Your Highness refuses to answer?”
“No,” she repeats firmly. “As in, no, I do not fear death.”
To his surprise, she lifts her hand. He tries not to react as she draws near, but he has always been so helpless against her, and a short gasp escapes him before he can stifle it. She gently lays her hand against his cheek. Her fingers, cool once more, bring a modicum of relief to his flushed skin. Rafayel turns his face into her palm on impulse with a ragged exhale. Her touch is so tender, far more tender than he deserves.
“I do not fear death,” she says, without a single note of uncertainty in her voice, “because I do not fear you.”
There is a sinking feeling in Rafayel’s stomach, heavier than stone. He looks into her eyes, and for that moment, she is no longer a princess; she is a bride, a queen, a witch, a bodyguard, a muse, a lover…
She is everything. She is his, and he is hers. He has always been hers.
He reaches for her in return, cradling her face so gently, almost reverently.
“You should,” he says. His voice is quiet, choked with regret. “You really… really should.”
In the span of a single breath, the distance between them closes. Rafayel is not sure who moves first, but in the end, it simply does not matter—not when Her Highness’ lips are so soft and inviting beneath his, and the taste of honey and rosewater lingers on her tongue, and she clings to him like she has been starved, deprived, kissing him so deeply it steals the air from his lungs.
He groans against her lips as she pulls him closer. Still holding his dagger, his dominant hand remains trapped between their bodies. The other trembles as he slides his fingers into her hair and pulls her forward.
A quiet moan vibrates in her throat. The Princess runs her hands down the length of his back and then up the sides of his shirt. Rafayel presses himself even closer, wanting to feel the entirety of her body molded against his. The single thread of self-control he has left quickly unravels into nothingness, and he struggles to hold onto a solid thought, his mind utterly consumed by her. She is so warm, trapped under his weight the way she is—so close yet still not close enough. He longs to touch her, to feel her skin against his, to watch her come undone so beautifully as he moves within her.
Rafayel tears his lips away from hers and trails wet kisses down the side of her face instead, then along her jaw. He pulls her head to the side by her hair, groaning softly as she draws in a shaky breath in response. He sucks a greedy bruise over her hammering pulse, every beat of her heart spurring him on more and more.
The Princess’ hands continue to wander. She traces meaningless shapes against his shirt. She bunches the fabric within her grasp. Twists. Pulls. She ventures upward, threading her fingers through his hair and holding him against her, while the other hand lingers in the middle of his back.
Rafayel pauses once he reaches her chest. The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickle.
“If I truly am to die by your hand,” the Princess says suddenly, and Rafayel shudders at the unmistakable feeling of cold steel pressed against his spine, “your own demise will be just as swift.”
He freezes. Her Highness pushes the tip of an entirely new dagger between his vertebrae. His thighs go tense around her hips, locking them both in place. One wrong move and he will never walk again.
Perhaps, he realizes, it is still he who should be afraid of her.
He lifts his head and stares at her in disbelief. “When did—”
She cuts him off with her laughter, clear and vibrant, giddy from her victory. Rafayel sputters, completely dumbstruck. He did not even hear her draw the weapon from its sheath, nor does he know where she even could have hidden it. The kiss was a total distraction. He cannot help but feel a little disappointed.
But her joy is too infectious, and a smirk slowly spreads across Rafayel’s lips. “It seems I have taught Your Highness well.”
She grins back at him, eyes glittering with mischief and starlight even in the surrounding darkness.
“An assassin must kill quickly,” she says, echoing his previous words, “before they are killed first.”
Rafayel hisses when the small blade scrapes against his skin, tearing through his shirt. Pleasure twists with pain and forces an involuntary groan out of him.
Her Highness brings the dagger between them. It is tiny, small enough to hide in her boot or tuck into her belt. His blood glimmers at the pointed end, a single drop of crimson dipping onto the rumpled fabric of her tunic. Rafayel follows the droplet with his eyes as it falls.
The Princess sits up slowly, making him sit up with her. His arms return to his sides, and he allows his own blade to fall from his grasp.
“Do you trust me?” she asks him.
The cord of restraint holding him back finally snaps, and something else inside of him withers and dies along with it. Regret. Shame. Guilt. Emotions he cannot even name, all of which no longer matter.
None of it matters anymore. And all Rafayel can do is laugh.
“My princess,” he whispers, low and rough like gravel. He bows his head. “I am at Your Highness’ mercy.”
She places the tip of her dagger beneath his chin, lifting his gaze back to hers.
“Rafayel.” Her voice wavers slightly as she speaks his name. “Kiss me.”
Their bond resonates from the depths of his very being, tendrils of agony that spread through his body, constricting him, punishing him for daring to ever deny himself the ecstasy of her touch. But even as he feels himself drawn to her, compelled by her, he does not need it. Not for this. Never for this.
He takes her hand and squeezes, guiding the pitiful little dagger to his chest. The blade harmoniously cuts into his palm and hers, their blood mixing together and trickling down their wrists. The Princess whimpers in pain. Rafayel leans in to kiss her again, deliberate and deep, swallowing down her cries.
She writhes underneath him and tries to push him off her lap. When he does not budge, she draws his bottom lip in between her teeth and bites down in retaliation, soothing it afterward with her tongue. Rafayel gasps, a broken moan escaping him, pleasure coiling tightly in his gut. Letting go of her hand, he pushes her down against the bedroll once more, bending at the waist and leaning over her. A reawakened hunger flows through him, and his touch becomes frantic as he slips his hands beneath her tunic and lifts it over her head.
The Princess is beautiful. Rafayel stops to look at her, really look at her, his breath catching at the sight of her bare skin—skin that has been marked by his blade and now begs to be savored beneath his lips. He starts at her shoulder first, then moves to her neck, mouthing along the hollow of her throat. He moves lower and lower still, until he finds the trail of blood he left behind before, messily smeared across her chest. He flattens his tongue against her skin and laps up the blood with a moan like it is the sweetest ambrosia, and he relishes the pleasurable sounds that slip past her lips, the breathless way she whispers his name.
She slides her fingers through his hair and pulls, and Rafayel groans, closing his teeth around the soft mound of her breast. He kneads the other with his hand, ignoring the stinging pain of the cut across his palm as his own blood transfers onto her skin. Her answering moan is so divine, so unguarded, that it goes straight to his cock, and the front of his pants tighten uncomfortably.
“Rafayel,” she says again, louder than before, arching up into his eager mouth. Rafayel lifts his eyes to watch her. Hot, urgent arousal curls in his stomach at the sight of her already so lost in pleasure, with her head thrown back and hair strewn about. One hand shields her face, her index finger wedged between her teeth, dagger pointed away from her.
He finally moves off of her lap and kneels between her legs, then reaches up to pull the dagger from her grasp. The Princess gasps as Rafayel slides the tip of the blade down her stomach, creating another faint but angry line. He follows it with his lips and soothes it with more kisses.
“Up,” he says, tucking his free hand under the small of her back.
She complies and lifts her hips. He undresses her quickly, tugging her pants and undergarments down her legs, and then reaches behind his back to pull his own shirt over his head. He lowers himself down onto his elbows and holds her gaze as he trails fleeting kisses past her navel. Her legs fall open for him, and Rafayel moans at the mere sight of her.
One hand comes to rest against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Rafayel nuzzles against her and turns to press a kiss there. She continues to play with his hair, pulling gently, nails scratching against his scalp and sending a shiver down his spine. He looks up again and slowly brings the dagger up between her legs.
“Your Highness tricked me,” he whispers, poking her thigh with the tip of the blade.
The Princess jumps in surprise, but she laughs under her breath, and some of the tension in her body ebbs away. Her eyes soften around the edges, and her smile melts into something more serene—more sincere.
“All you ever do is hold back,” she says. Her gaze flicks between him and the dagger. “I don’t want you to hold back anymore. Not from me.”
Rafayel’s breath catches as her words settle over him. Slowly, he presses the flat edge of the blade into her thigh, then the tip. He draws swirls and shapes as he continues to transform her skin into a masterpiece of his own making. A twist of the wrist, and he guides the sharp edge along her supple skin to create a fine cut. Her Highness hisses through her teeth, muscles twitching.
Setting the dagger aside, Rafayel chases the blood as it trickles down, catching it with his lips. He breathes in the heady scent of her as he noses the wiry curls between her thighs and parts her with his fingertips. He moans at the first taste of her, the mixture of her arousal and the coppery aftertaste of her blood on his tongue nearly driving him to the brink of total oblivion.
The Princess sighs with pleasure and tightens her fingers through his hair when she begins to move, her back bowing. Rafayel allows her to set their pace and supports her weight with his hands, following each steady, sensual roll of her hips as she chases the heat of his mouth.
“Oh,” she breathes. “Rafayel…”
He groans when her thighs clamp around him, and he imagines himself sheathed inside her, the urge to take her stronger than before. He pushes his own hips into the bedroll in search of more friction, clinging to any sense of relief he can find, determined to taste her release before he seeks his own.
It does not take long, wound up as she is. The Princess lets out a sharp cry, hips flexing and thighs trembling as she comes. Whispered pleas tumble from her lips that grow louder and louder as Rafayel works her through her release, licking into her relentlessly, not pulling away until she is whining in protest from the overstimulation.
“My beloved.” His voice is breathy, soft. A whisper against her thigh. “Huerte mea… vesta mea…”
She collapses against the bedroll, her body going lax. Rafayel straightens, wiping the slick off his chin with the back of his hand as he gazes down at her prone form.
He kneels between her still-trembling legs, pushing her knees even further apart, and shoves his pants down just far enough. Taking his cock into his hand, he gives himself one stroke, then another, before he carefully guides himself forward. The heat between her thighs envelops him, welcoming him, and he lets out a reflexive sigh as he sinks deeper. He bites his lip and struggles not to close his eyes, wanting to watch himself disappear into her cunt.
His mind goes blank—whiting out for one long, blissful moment—once he is fully seated. Rafayel holds himself still, so still, even though he is all but coming apart at the seams, muscles twitching restlessly in anticipation, his own need desperate to be sated.
She holds him close, arms and legs wrapped around him in a sacred geometry that makes him feel more worshiped than any other offering or prayer or devotion ever has. Rafayel leans into her, his hips nestled within the cradle of her thighs. So long as he lives, reborn anew as many times as fate demands it, nothing else will ever be able to compare. Lemuria could fall a thousand times more, damning his soul for all eternity. He will do it all over, again and again, if it means coming home to her even just one more time, saving her just one more time—
And he does not know how much longer he will be able to hold back.
Her Highness moves her hands, fingers at his sides. He shudders beneath her touch, gentle and explorative, as she traces the faint, jagged lines of old scars etched into his skin. Rafayel bends to kiss her brow, but the Princess nudges him with her nose and searches for his lips, finding them in another needy kiss.
“Rafayel,” she whimpers. She wriggles her hips beneath him, urging him to move.
He answers her with a languid thrust that has her head lolling back.
“As my princess wishes,” he says, and then he kisses his way back down, smiling against the side of her neck.
Rafayel gives her time to adjust, moving with short, steady strokes that roll into one another before he settles into a familiar rhythm. When she begins to move with him, he pulls her even closer—lifts her legs higher along his sides so she can cross them at the middle of his back.
The Princess fucks like she fights, breathless and eager, gradually moving with more confidence than she started with. She holds onto him tightly and takes what she needs, works her hips against his with determination as they rock together. Rafayel’s entire body thrums with pleasure, a heartbeat all its own, and he wishes he could spend all of eternity in this moment, drowning in her depths.
She sucks in air when he nips at the delicate skin below her ear. His mouth gentles in apology, his next few kisses more tender, his tongue tasting the sweat on her skin. Rafayel presses himself closer, pushes himself deeper inside on every thrust. He is unable to resist for long, catching her earlobe between his teeth, biting down once more. Her Highness runs her nails down his back, and he nearly crumbles, pleasure and pain twisting and unwinding, consuming him whole—
“Fuck,” he sighs into her neck, kissing it again. “So soft… so warm…”
Rafayel props himself up on one hand and lowers the other to where they are joined to circle his fingers over her clit. He groans at the responding clench of her cunt, and the moan she gifts him with in return makes his blood run hot as her hips arch upward into his touch.
“Your Highness always sings so sweetly for me,” he says, an urgent need threaded through every word. “Let me hear it again.”
He gazes down at her, taken with the way her body slides up, up, up against the bedroll with every snap of his hips. Rising to his knees, he settles his free hand at her waist, holding her there as he meets her with another powerful thrust, then draws her down even harder against him.
“Please,” he rasps. “Please let me hear it again—”
The Princess keens, lashes fluttering as her eyes slip shut. Rafayel does it again, driving forward harder than the first time, and then again, determined to hear her cry his name even just one more time. He cannot look away, never wants to look away, utterly hypnotized by the way her body moves, the way the muscles in her stomach flex and flutter.
Curious, he releases her waist, then lays his palm flat against her lower abdomen and presses down—
“Rafayel!” the Princess cries out, and his name has truly never sounded sweeter.
He feels it when she reaches her end, wave after wave, bearing down on him and clenching rhythmically around his cock and bringing him to the very precipice of his undoing. His eyes never leave her face, watching the kaleidoscope of emotion playing out across her features as she continues to writhe, as her already bruising grip on him tightens to the point of pain.
Desperation claws at him from within. Rafayel chases after the exquisite pressure low in his belly that grows stronger with each thrust. His rhythm falters as he pushes himself to move harder, faster, no longer able to contain it. He plants his hands back on the ground on either side of her hips for leverage as he drives into her, and gods, he is close, so close, each cry that escapes her bringing him closer, closer, closer—
“Your—Your Highness,” he stammers, voice cracking around the words. He lets out a low whine. “I’m—”
Helpless against the inevitability of his own completion, Rafayel surrenders to it—a pleasure so intense it nearly pains him, makes his limbs spasm, makes his heartbeat even more erratic. He squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth, broken little sounds spilling from his lips as he spills inside her, until he has nothing more left to give.
When he opens his eyes once more, the Princess is smiling. Her gaze is serene, almost dreamlike, and for a moment Rafayel wonders if he is, in fact, dreaming.
The world falls away. Time stands still. There is only him and her.
Arms shaking, he nearly collapses as he lies down next to her and curls up at her side. The Princess wraps him up in her embrace and holds him close, and he burrows into the junction between her neck and shoulder. Later, he will clean their bodies and tend to their wounds, then hold her throughout the night as they sleep. But right now, he needs only this.
The softness of her voice soon draws him from his thoughts: “Rafayel?”
“Mm?”
“Do you want to know what I fear?”
Rafayel’s pulse jumps against his throat. He lifts his head from her shoulder, and she reaches for him, gently guiding his gaze to hers with a finger under his chin. She runs her thumb over his bottom lip in a way that is heartbreakingly familiar.
“I fear that one day, I will call for you,” she says, “and you will not answer.”
Guilt runs through him like an arrow to the chest. The knot in his stomach returns, now a noose.
“I fear that I will one day know a life without you in it,” she continues, dropping her voice to a whisper. “That is a fate worse than death.”
He shifts onto his side, pulling her along with him, and touches his forehead to hers. Their noses brush, and Rafayel holds her cheek as he kisses her, even though his throat feels tight and he wants to weep at the mere notion of being without her.
“I have always looked for you,” he whispers back, and though she cannot comprehend the full weight of his words, he wants her to hear them. “And I have always found you.”
The Princess smiles again, saying nothing. Her touch is gentle against his cheeks as she brings his lips back to hers for another longer, softer kiss.
She knows. She knows, but she does not remember. Cannot remember. And for the first time across his many, many lives, Rafayel wonders if maybe it is for the best.
But he will. And should a day ever come where he is not able to find her, he will still remember.
It will not be enough, but he will always, always remember.
#love and deepspace#love and deepspace smut#lnds smut#lads rafayel#rafayelmc#l&ds#l&ds rafayel#lads smut#rafayel love and deepspace#abysswalker rafayel#lnds rafayel#rafayel smut#rafayel x mc#stellarfics
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Everything Kayne does so specifically affects Arthur and John's relationship. It makes me think the Black Stone isn't the final goal. He wants the Day of Wrath. To do that he needs John and Arthur to be in very specific headspace in regards to their friendship.
He needs John to want them to stay together and he needs Arthur to want seperation. He's depending on John's fear of loneliness and need for control and Arthur's resentment of commitment (which Arthur sees as a loss of autonomy).
Like.
The Dagger: Kayne had to lure Arthur into the city. Like the black stone he can't see him, so Arthur had to come to him. He talks about the Patreon voting and who Arthur thinks will win (on a meta level). Then he gives Arthur the dagger. The dagger is a key component of the worst result for both of them (a tie). Arthur bleeding out and sent to Addison. John seeing Arthur is dying and going into the King. Then struggling and being cast out into the dark world. The coin which has two heads, lands on its side. Ties are bad and a tie means Kayne gets his hooks into both of them.
Yellow: Kayne specifically shows up to save Arthur and needs to save him for his plans to work, but Yellow does a bunch of things.
Arthur is forced to rely on someone he cannot trust. His personal autonomy is not returned with John gone, and worse, it cannot be trusted that Yellow won't try to steal his body. Unlike season 1 John Arthur knows where Yellow comes from and he remembers all the ways season one John burned him.
Yellow also provides a way to make Arthur not only miss John, but remember exactly how John used to be. It makes Arthur feel worse about who he's becoming without John. When John returns he feels guilty he has fallen so low. He's so thankful that John is back he actively avoids the red flags he see and is eager to show John that 1. Their friendship means a great deal. 2. That he trusts John perhaps more than he trusts himself right now. 3. He's sure John does not want his body and after all they've been through would never betray that fact.
Prime headspace to be manipulated.
🗡️
Kayne Keeps John In Dark World: he could have just sent him back to Arthur right away, but instead had him hit rock bottom. Had him do things for him. It reinforces to John how scared he is of the place. How alone he is there. How John falls back to being the King there without Arthur. Bonus Kayne uses it as leverage to get John to manipulate Arthur saying Arthur is too stubborn to do his bidding.
But then when all is revealed Kayne threatens them both to do his bidding to retrieve the black stone. He could have done that from their first meeting if he wanted to. He knows about Faroe. This is why I think it's not actually about the goal, it's about the journey.
Pops Matthews Head: needed to stop him from mentioning Kayne to Arthur, but also set dressing for later. Kayne points out Matthew had a choice in telling Arthur and yeah it got his head popped off, but he made the choice. John could have told Arthur about the deal and yes there would be consequences but he had a choice. (Also might be a nod to the Tie but I digress). John's choice is completely understandable up until the moment he asks for Arthur's memory erased (more on that later).
Shows up in the Mine while Arthur is Dying: John is on the cusp of losing Arthur again. Kayne reminds him what he has at stake. Not only is John terrified for Arthur, he also is terrified of going back to the Dark World, and this solidifies that 1: Arthur cannot die because John can't stand to be alone again. 2: Arthur cannot die because if he does his deal is broken and he's sent back. 3: Kayne establishes he isn't there to actually help John get things done. John cannot rely on divine intervention. John is soley responsible for keeping Arthur alive.
John stitches Arthur, but I'm convinced once he did Kayne just healed him up. He needs Arthur alive and he needs John desperate and guilty and he also needs John to become more and more attached to Arthur, not on a friendship level and not even on a survival level, but on a selfish level. Kayne wants John to feel entitled over Arthur and his body. Not just one or the other but both. He wants John to resent not getting a say about things that specifically effect Arthur. Kayne wants John in isolation to feel it keenly.
Get Arthur to New York: where there are people. For the first time Arthur not in places being affected by the King in Yellow's madness (because the King is indisposed due to Kayne. I think?). Arthur was bound to be reminded of how nice it is to interact with other people and John would feel isolated. Ramps up John feeling isolated after he just got back from the Dark World. Also causes a possessiveness of Arthur and pushes John to try to isolate Arthur in turn.
Makes sure Arthur Knows about the Deal Before John Can Tell Him: Arthur struggles with trusting John this season, but lands on John being on his side even if there's something wrong with his memory. He constantly reassures John that he is trusted. It's why they go to New York. Which makes John feel more guilty.
Arthur talks about how undefeated John is (John was super defeated and is guilty about it.)
John resents his reliance on Arthur and tries to manipulate him to establish his own autonomy. He has the excuse of the deal, but he's also making choices (like Matthew).
John resents his reliance but also saw what happened when they were seperated. Becomes angry when obstacles get between them (Oscar)
John will do whatever it takes to keep Arthur safe. Both because of his attachments and the threat of the Dark World. Thinks Kayne won't save him. Causes friction when he tries to get Arthur to give Oscar the stone. Gets him more frustrated when Arthur disagrees. John wants autonomy yes absolutely, but he also wants some control over Arthur's autonomy.
We also get a ton of indications that Arthur does not like being tied down/controlled. He resented being forced to marry Bella and misses the birth of his child because he has a crisis about it. His resentment of religion and Daniel's belief in it. Avoiding any relationship with Daniel because of the control he tried to exert wanting him to move to New York. He admits he felt a terrible kind of relief after Faroe died, not having to take care of a child anymore. He doesn't like when he is forced to give up his own autonomy. Even for the sake of others. And he knows it's shitty and he feels guilty about it, but something inside him struggles.
The Grey Stone: sets them up for the mission with the black stone so that Arthur would be keyed into things about the Order, but ultimately was just a end point. Kayne's real goal here was to finally reveal John was working for him. Arthur never even touches it.
Interestingly, although not necessarily Kayne's machinations, Arthur loses all the people he's met since coming back to their world. Larson and Yellow are banished. The Butcher is killed. Noel is bleeding out and sent to maybe Spain. Arthur writes down to forget Oscar (which might not be literal but an underline of Arthur choosing John). Cannot write Marie. I think Daniel is the only exception, but it's established how dangerous Arthur being near him is with Daniel getting hurt. Arthur cares about him but once again doesn't want to be tied to him.
So even if he got back to New York the majority of Arthur's ties would be gone. Just like how he has nothing really to return to in Arkham with Parker dead. All he has is John. So England! Right? Start fresh. No ties (pun unintended).
Yorick: Kayne specifically mentions the tooth. Now that the two are alone again Yorick can cause some conflict even if Yorick himself is on their side. Arthur sees a tool that can help them and John sees a danger to Arthur. Also John gets jealous when Arthur trusts Yorick over him.
Kayne Offers to Wipe Arthur's memory: reinforces to Arthur that John actually shouldn't be trusted when it comes to his autonomy when push comes to shove.
Arthur has been struggling all season to try to accomodate John's isolation. He can see the situation is unfair to both of them. He gives up on a friendship with Oscar, but also tries to establish an openness with Noel so that John has a little bit of a voice outside his head and Arthur doesn't have to be isolated from other humans. Arthur is happy to give John autonomy, but not at the cost of his own because, as established, he doesn't like sacrificing his autonomy for other people. He is being forced to with the John situation and because on his journey with John he has become much more self aware. He is trying his best to compromise.
But now the shoe is on the other foot, and when John is offered a chance to take Arthur's autonomy he immediately tries to takes it. No compromise.
Arthur thinks John fucked up on a human level because of the stress of the deal and his resentment for his lack of control. I don't think he clocks how afraid John is of being alone and that part of the reason he tries to control Arthur is so that he doesn't lose Arthur (Which pushes Arthur away because he does not want to be controlled. Not by Yellow, Larson, the Mine Creature, or John).
John on the other hand understands it was a shitty thing to do. Knows theatening Arthur's body was over the line, but doesn't see how attached to autonomy Arthur is. Arthur gives John an ultimatum. Either John takes over or he doesn't because that has ALWAYS been what it's been about for Arthur. John's betrayal reestablishes it firmly. Either they seperate or John takes over. He does not see or even want a middle ground. Middle ground was Yellow. Middle ground was Oscar. Middle ground was John working for Kayne.
Kayne Ignores John's calls when Arthur is Killed by the Hag: could be he just can't hear them, or could be that he REALLY wants John's fear of being alone to reach a max. Like as a star wars fan it feels like Kayne is Anakin Skywalkering John into fear of being alone so deep, and clinging on to Arthur so tightly that later on he's going to do something extremely ill advised to keep Arthur bound to him, not out of love but out of fear. Something that Arthur does not want
At the same time Kayne is also trying encourage Arthur's own selfishness about his autonomy and being tied down by establishing very complicated trust issues in Arthur where he cares about John and trusts him up to a point but cannot trust him with his body.
So that Arthur keeps forgiving John until a big enough betrayal makes it impossible.
So Arthur very explicitly wants them to have seperate bodies and thinks this will fix things.
And John does not want them to be seperated at all.
The resulting blow out results is maybe the Day of Wrath. John does a thing to keep Arthur, Arthur feels betrayed, spirals about how he could never trust John and does something to counter what John did. Arthur is stubborn you can't make him do anything, but you can ensure rebellion. Like, bonus points if John's actions seem to be in line with Kayne and Arthur thinks he's screwing both of them and freeing himself entirely from being controlled by others.
Whatever Arthur does sets off is exactly what Kayne wanted in the first place. The Black Stone was a bluff or just a key to getting Arthur to do the thing.
In conclusion Kayne isn't just trying to point them in a certain direction, he's very deliberately trying to manipulate how they feel about each other.
The real big bad was the friends we made along the way.
Now John and Arthur might be able to avoid this with the power of hope and love and friendship, but I think Kayne is doing all he can to make them have incompatible goals. He even says it never works out when they seperate.
Hopefully John and Arthur love each other enough to forgive each other.
#arthur lester#john malevolent#malevolent podcast#kayne malevolent#malevolent theories#long post#i could go on and on about this so if you have comments or questions feel free to add them#sorry for using autonomy so many times the word lost all meaning but it's so important to them
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I told my kids (tween daughter and high-single-digits son) about the ✨🗡️Ides of March🗡️✨ back in February, because I was showing their dad a particularly funny meme and they wanted to know what was so funny. So I gave them the age-appropriate version (which means low gore and no sex, but lots of background, motivations, and politics, because they aren't 4 either), then showed them the meme and they laughed.
I thought that was the end of that.
I occasionally mentioned to my husband in the last few days that there were a lot of Ides posts on here, but didn't say anything to the kids. I forgot that my daughter has a memory like a steel trap.
Went out to pick stuff up (prescriptions, toner for the printer, hair conditioner, a new tape measure, etc.) yesterday afternoon (3/15) and was gone a while because those are four different stores. My husband was in charge of the kids so I wasn't worried. Came home at almost bedtime and daughter was washing up, son already had.
I stop by the bathroom and daughter is in the tub, and while she's letting her hair absorb the conditioner, she's comparing rubber duckies. The kids have about twenty ducks collected over the years, and she's got three of them on the edge of the tub and is staring at them.
"Hi, kiddo, what's up?"
"Hi, Mom! I was trying to decide which duck should be Caesar and which one should be Brutus."
I was mildly flabbergasted.
She went on to explain that she wanted to recreate the assassination scene with her rubber ducks. Do you know what day it is, Mom? Which duck looks more like a Roman emperor, Mom?
What the crud, kid (Internally)
So I helped her decide which one seemed the most like a dictator, asked her what they were using for weapons (a gray gear on a suction cup), reminded her that Brutus was not alone in this and she could get more ducks to be senators, and then told her to call me back in when she was ready to play out the scene.
It was fantastically hilarious. The "knife"-on-a-suction cup wouldn't come off the tub wall, so she had to get one of the senators to distract Caesar and keep him on the steps while Brutus was standing 20 feet away unsuccessfully and unsubtly yanking his dagger out of the wall. It was a duck with a black cowboy hat, so he was talking to Caesar about horses. After she managed to get the gear(knife) off the wall, Brutus was the first to attack Caesar and then they all sort of dive bombed him, complete with cartoon sound effects.
I congratulated her on her historical accuracy through my giggles, and let her finish up her bath. After she was done and had drained the tub, she came back and arranged the ducks and added pin-daggers (which I made sure were counted for retrieval).

[Image description: a group of 12-14 toy ducks surround a central duck. Each surrounding duck has a straight pin beside it, pointing at the central duck, which is the only one unarmed. End ID]
The black duck with hot-rod flames is Caesar and the plain yellow one he's facing is Brutus. The senators have a variety of interesting hobbies and fashion choices.
#ides of march#julius caesar#funny#family#stabby stabby 🔪⚔️#rubber duckies#where does she come up with her ideas?#yes i DID find all the pins#in case you were wondering#long post
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🌺 Luke Castellan and exes back to lovers trope 🌺 The tension where you almost kiss but “we can’t”!!
Against All Flags
luke castellan x reader
or... the one where you cross all lines
word count : 920
warning : short battle scene, english is not my first language!!!
on the radio : I know places by taylor swift



🗡️🪽
the sun hangs high in the sky, casting bright streaks of light through the canopy of trees as you make your way through the forest. your heart pounds in your chest, adrenaline rushing through your veins. capture the flag has always been a big deal at camp, but today feels different. today, he’s out there.
luke castellan -your ex. the one who broke your heart and the one person you’ve been trying to avoid all day. the red team band tied around your arm feels heavy, almost like a reminder that you’re on opposite sides now. both in the game, but in… other ways.
you crouch low, listening for any signs of the blue team nearby. the plan is simple - get the flag, win the game. but knowing luke, he’s got something up his sleeve, and you can’t let your guard down. not after everything.
the snap of a twig catches your attention, and you whip around, dagger in hand. your breath catches in your throat when you see him - luke, standing there, blue team band on his arm, a smirk tugging at his lips.
“figured I’d run into you eventually,” he says, voice low, like he’s been waiting for this moment.
you tighten your grip on your weapon, trying to ignore the way your pulse races at the sight of him. “should’ve known you’d be lurking around here,” you reply, trying to keep your tone steady.
he steps closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “just doing my job. can’t let you win, after all.”
“same goes for me,” you counter, your body tensing. this is it - the moment you’ve been dreading and anticipating all day. the air between you feels charged, like you’re on the brink of something explosive, and not just because of the game.
“you think you’re gonna take me down?” luke teases, raising an eyebrow.
you narrow your eyes, heart pounding in your chest. “I could, if I wanted to.”
he laughs, that familiar sound that used to make you feel so warm. “oh, really? I’d like to see you try.”
without thinking, you lunge at him, your dagger aimed for his chest. but he’s fast - too fast - and easily blocks your attack. you’re both moving quickly now, trading blows and dodges, the tension between you growing with every step. it feels more like a dance than a fight, every movement bringing you closer, every second making it harder to focus on anything other than the way he looks at you, like he knows something you don’t.
before you know it, he’s got you pinned against a tree, your dagger knocked from your hand. his body is close, too close, his breath warm on your skin as you struggle to catch your own. you can feel the heat radiating off him, the weight of his gaze as it lingers on your lips.
“you’re not fighting very hard,” luke murmurs, his voice low and teasing, but there’s something more behind it - something raw, something real.
you swallow hard, your heart racing for reasons that have nothing to do with the game. “maybe I don’t need to,” you whisper, barely able to form the words.
his eyes darken, and for a moment, everything else falls away - the game, the teams, the rules. it’s just you and him, the way it used to be before everything got so complicated.
his hand moves to your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin lightly, sending a shiver down your spine. “we shouldn’t,” he says, but there’s no conviction in his voice. his gaze flickers to your lips again, and your breath catches.
“we can’t,” you reply, but your voice is weak, almost pleading. because the truth is, you want to. gods, you want to so badly. but you can’t let yourself fall back into the same trap, the same heartache.
but then his lips are on yours, soft but insistent, like he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as you have. the kiss is electric, and for a moment, everything feels right, like all the pieces have fallen back into place. you kiss him back, your hands finding their way to his hair, pulling him closer, desperate to make up for all the time lost.
but then reality crashes down around you, and you pull away, breathless. “we can’t do this,” you say again, but this time, your voice cracks.
luke’s breathing heavily, his forehead resting against yours as he struggles to regain control. “I know,” he says, voice rough. “but gods, I’ve missed you.”
you bite your lip, trying to keep the tears at bay. “luke… this changes nothing.”
“it changes everything,” he argues softly, his thumb brushing your cheek again. “you and I both know this isn’t over. it never was.”
the weight of his words sinks in, and for a moment, you just stand there, leaning against the tree, his hand still on your face, your heart aching with everything unsaid between you.
“we can’t let the others know,” you whisper finally, your voice barely audible. “not yet.”
he nods, eyes searching yours. “I won’t say anything. but this… this isn’t the end.”
you swallow hard and nod, stepping away from him, the loss of his warmth almost unbearable. “I’ll see you after the game.”
“you better hope you win,” he calls after you, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.
you glance back at him, your own lips tugging into a smile despite everything. “I always do.”
————————————————————————————
© all rights reserved to folkwhoreberry. no stealing or copying will be tolerated.
a/n : I want luke so badddd :((
#folkwhoreberry#pjo x reader#pjo#luke castellan x y/n#luke castellan x you#luke castellan x reader#luke castellan#x reader
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HEKATE - History & Origins

Hekate (also spelled Hecate) is an ancient goddess who originated in pre-Greek Anatolia (modern-day Turkey) and later became prominent in Greek mythology. Her roots are deep and complex, with associations that span from the underworld to the heavens, making her one of the most enigmatic and powerful figures in the ancient world.
Origins of Hekate
1. Pre-Greek Origins:
Hekate's origins likely stem from pre-Hellenic times, specifically in the region of Anatolia. Some scholars believe she may have evolved from a local goddess worshipped by the Carian people, a civilization located in southwestern Anatolia. In this early context, Hekate was probably associated with fertility, the natural world, and the cycles of life and death.
2. Introduction to Greece:
Hekate was later integrated into the Greek pantheon, where she became a highly revered and complex deity. Unlike many other deities that were tightly tied to a specific realm or aspect of life, Hekate’s powers spanned the heavens, earth, and the underworld, giving her a unique and formidable position in the Greek spiritual framework.
3. The Hesiod Connection:
Hekate first appears prominently in written Greek records in Hesiod’s Theogony (circa 8th century BCE). Hesiod describes her as a powerful goddess honored by Zeus himself, with dominion over the earth, sea, and sky. According to Hesiod, she was one of the few Titans who retained her powers after the Olympian gods defeated the Titans. This depiction of Hekate as a goddess of great authority suggests that her worship was both widespread and significant during the time.
Hekate’s Role and Attributes
Hekate's identity evolved over time, and she became associated with several key aspects:
1. The Crossroads and Liminal Spaces:
Hekate was often depicted as a goddess of the crossroads, symbolizing her connection to liminal spaces—places where the boundaries between worlds (life and death, light and dark) are thin. Crossroads were considered magical or dangerous places in ancient times, and offerings were often left for Hekate at these junctions, particularly on nights of the new moon.
2. Goddess of Magic and Witchcraft:
Hekate became closely associated with magic, witchcraft, and the mystical arts. She was believed to have power over spirits and ghosts and was often invoked by those seeking protection, guidance, or to cast spells. Her role as a guide in the spiritual realm made her a key figure in the rituals of ancient sorceresses and witches.
3. Triple Goddess:
In later traditions, Hekate was portrayed as a triple goddess, representing the three phases of a woman’s life (maiden, mother, and crone) or the three realms she ruled (earth, sea, and underworld). She is often depicted with three faces or bodies, symbolizing her ability to see in all directions and her mastery over past, present, and future.
4. Keeper of the Underworld:
Hekate was also connected to the underworld and became a key figure in the myths surrounding death, the afterlife, and the spirits of the dead. In many depictions, she is shown holding torches, which symbolize her role as a guide, lighting the way for souls journeying to the underworld. In the myth of Persephone, Hekate is described as guiding the young goddess back to the world of the living, solidifying her connection to both life and death.
Symbols and Iconography
Hekate is often depicted holding torches, symbolizing her role as a guide through darkness. Other symbols associated with her include:
🐕 Dogs: Dogs were sacred to Hekate, often accompanying her in depictions or howling at crossroads, signaling her presence.
🗝️ Keys: As a gatekeeper between worlds, she holds the keys to the underworld and the mysteries of life and death.
🐍 Serpents: Symbolizing rebirth, transformation, and wisdom, serpents are frequently connected with Hekate’s imagery.
🗡️ Daggers: These represent her role in cutting through illusions and revealing truth.
Worship and Practices
Offerings at Crossroads: In ancient Greece, worshipers left offerings known as Hekate’s Supper at crossroads. These offerings often included food, incense, or small tokens to appease the goddess, seek protection, or honor her as a protector of the household.
Pharmakeia (Witchcraft and Medicine): Hekate was revered by witches and healers for her mastery of herbcraft, poisons, and magical spells. Those practicing pharmakeia (the ancient art of medicinal and magical herbs) would invoke her assistance in their workings.
Legacy
Hekate’s legacy is vast, and she remains a powerful figure in modern paganism and witchcraft. Contemporary witches often invoke Hekate as a goddess of magic, transformation, and protection. Her connection to the moon, the night, and the spirit world makes her a potent deity for those walking magical or spiritual paths.
In essence, Hekate is a goddess of boundaries and transitions, guiding individuals through difficult journeys—whether in the physical world or the spiritual realms. Her origins are ancient, but her presence endures, particularly for those seeking wisdom, magic, and the courage to face the unknown.
#hekate#hekáte#hecate#witchcraft#witch#witchy#dark goddess#deities#goddess#grimoire#dark feminine#history#origins#witchblr#witch blog
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— A R G H U R Y S 🗡️ • 3
+ pairing | ser harwin strong x f!princess!reader
+ a/n | not me posting this as if i didn’t up and disappear for a year o o p s
It was getting late enough that the sun’s light no longer adequately lit the book you had been staring at. Rubbing at your eyes, you yawned and stretched out your arms. You had been out here since after morning’s end at least. Supper would have to consist of whatever you could convince the chefs in the kitchens to cook for you.
The roots at the back of the heart tree, or rather, where you joked the ass should be carved (to the Septa’s annoyance and your later punishment), had a nice dip in them that served as a hammock for your body. Add in the many pillows and blankets that had a permanent residence under the tree, and you had yourself a nice little hiding spot that you had frequented for as long as you could remember. Unless one walked all along the side of the heart tree, it was likely a passerby wouldn’t notice you.
“Ser Harwin was looking for you.”
A yelp escaped your lips, much to your sister’s delight. Her airy laugh floated amongst the trees in the Godswood.
“Seven hells Rhaenyra!”
She giggled again, sitting down next to you. You playfully pushed her arm. She feigned offense, then wrapped her arms around you and placed a delicate kiss to the top of your head.
“Ser Harrold told me he was the one who took you hunting in the Kingswood for Aegon’s nameday.” She looked at you expectantly. You shrugged in response.
“That was over a fortnight ago! You weren’t going to mention it to me,” she paused, pressing her flattened palm against her heart, “big sister, best friend, closest companion?!”
“Well you didn’t exactly talk about your night in the Kingswood with Ser Criston, bloodied and disheveled. I thought we were going to drink and leave Aegon’s nameday behind us.”
Rhaenyra gave you a knowing look. “This,” she waved her hands in a circle, “is different. You’re already blushing at the mere thought of him.”
You rolled your eyes at her. “The dramatics are over the top tonight, Rhaeny.”
“Dramatics or not,” she turned her body to face you, grabbing your forearm, “you two would make a fine match someday.”
“Match?! Rhaenyra, he’s Lord Lyonel’s oldest boy. Don’t you think a marriage proposal would be for you?”
Rhaenyra smirked. “See, that’s another thing Ser Harrold told me. When father was discussing my future matches,” she paused at the word to stick out her tongue and fake sick, “with Lord Lyonel, he joked that the Lord would advise I wed his son, Ser Harwin.”
“…And?”
“And,” she leaned in closer to you, “He disagreed. Instead, he counseled Father that he believed I should wed another.”
“Who?”
Rhaenyra slapped your arm. “It doesn’t matter who sister, point is, Lord Strong is not putting his son up for my hand. Furthermore,” she continued, while you rubbed your stinging arm, “Ser Harwin is not interested in me. As soon as we ran into each other, the first thing out of his mouth was to ask if I’d seen you.”
You rolled your eyes. “That doesn’t mean anything, Rhaenyra.”
“Is that right? Well, answer me this — whose dagger has been occupying space in your chambers? Because I know you did not convince the smiths to craft you one with the sigil of House Strong in the hilt.”
“You went in my room without me!” you pushed her.
“Sister,” she grabbed both of your shoulders, “you keep missing the point.”
“Which is?”
She lowered her voice. “That not only would the two of you make a handsome match, one that father would actually consider and if need be, we could sway him toward, but, that you could also be happy. You could wed for love. You could,” her voice cracked and she cleared it, “you could have what mother and father had.”
Tears welled at both yours and Rhaenyra’s eyes at the mention of mother. She pulled you in and hugged you tightly. “I just want you to be happy,” she whispered.
You squeezed her back and inhaled her familiar scent. “I love you, sister.”
“And I, you.” She pulled back and smoothed out your hair. “Now head to the library. With any luck, you might still find him there searching for you.”
You grabbed your book and hopped up to your feet. You began a brisk pace towards the library, the halls of the Red Keep surprisingly empty during the walk there.
You rounded the corner into the library and saw a familiar, tall, dark knight pacing the shelves in the back, looking at the various volumes on hand.
“Can I help you find what you’re looking for, Ser?”
Harwin turned on his heel, clearly a little startled by the sound of your voice. He took in your appearance as you returned the book you had been reading back to the proper shelf. The corners of your mouth were upturned into a smile.
“Princess,” he greeted.
You picked up a different book and offered it to him. Flora of the Seven Kingdoms by Maester Tollett.
“Hmm… I think I would rather have lessons from the expert than read about flowers from a Maester who’s been dead half a century.” His smile was large, his eyes bright as he looked down at you. You put the book back down on the shelf and began walking around the library, running a stray finger along the spines of the books.
“Expert, hmm?” you questioned. “I’m surprised a man of the City Watch has time for something as silly as flowers.”
Harwin walked over to you, the soft patter of his boots with every step emphasizing just how slowly he was moving. He lifted a hand to your cheek. “I make time for the things that are important to me, princess.”
You smiled up at him as he gently brushed his thumb against your cheek. “What brings you to the library?”
“Well,” he dropped his hand from your face, bringing it instead to his and rubbing the length of his stubble. “I had dinner with father and Larys. Father said I should learn what it means to be Master of Laws if that is the path I want to follow someday.”
“What about the City Watch?” you tilted your head slightly.
“Mmm, I intended to climb up the ranks, princess. However, it seems father wants me to have all my options open. Says I could make for a fine politician like him.” He shrugged his shoulders as if to indicate he didn’t believe that. “I asked for a transfer to the barracks here at the Red Keep to be closer.”
“You’ll get to patrol inside the Keep?”
He nodded. “Both inside and out now, yes.” He took a deep breath in.
“Oh Ser Harwin, that’s wonderful. You’ll get to see Lord Lyonel and Larys a lot more now.”
“Yes, princess,” he paused, reaching a hand out to brush some hair behind your ear. “My family, and others who are dear to me.”
Your cheeks grew hot. You eyes left Harwin’s and looked down at your feet. His feet stepped in closer to yours and you could feel his breath against the crown of your head. His hand gently wrapped around to the back of your head…
He jumped back like he had been burned at the sound of feet behind you. Maester Runciter had entered the library, oblivious to the princess and knight who currently occupied it. He began scattering various papers around his workspace and talking to himself.
You cleared your throat and peered up at Ser Harwin through your lashes. “Would you accompany me on a walk through the Keep? Or are you on duty tonight?”
He offered his arm out and you took it. “I am free tonight, princess.”
You waved to Maester Runciter on your way out of the library but you were pretty certain he did not hear or see either of you during his time in there. You giggled at this and Ser Harwin could be heard chuckling under his breath.
“You know, I have a book on the small council in my chambers. You’re welcome to it, Ser Harwin. Admittedly, I have been using it to press flowers.”
His laugh was more audible this time around. “Thank you princess. I will be sure to find you a heavy replacement.”
The two of you walked what felt like the length of the entire castle, talking and laughing. The evening air brought with it a cold front that had the hairs on your arm standing up tall. A shiver ran through you as the wind ripped your silver hair behind your shoulder. You let go of Ser Harwin for the first time to rub your own arms.
“Princess,” he stopped you. You turned around to face him. His gold cloak had been pulled from his own shoulders and he was holding it out to you like a blanket. You nodded and turned, letting him wrap his cloak around you.
“We should get you inside,” he murmured in your ear. You shivered again, admittedly not from the cold this time. Not wanting the night to end but knowing he was right, you reluctantly agreed. You nuzzled into the gold fabric, breathing in the woody smell of Ser Harwin as you followed alongside him.
Ser Criston had a strange look upon his face as the two of you rounded the corner towards your chambers. He nodded wordlessly to you before eyeing down Harwin. Harwin, who had also taken notice of the way your Kingsguard had been watching him, placed a firm hand at your back, rubbing up and down tenderly.
You twirled around, having reached the double doors to your chamber. “Thank you for accompanying me tonight,” you smiled up at him. Harwin simply bowed and you took this chance to stand on your tiptoes and place a soft kiss upon his cheek. When you both pulled back, Harwin’s eyes found the floor, his face flushed. Ser Cole cleared his throat.
He looked at you after a moment, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Good night, sweet flower.”
You curtsied before opening the doors behind your back and pushing yourself in. When they were closed and at your back, you brought your fingers to your lips where they still tingled from the scratchiness of Harwin’s beard. It took your full willpower not to run back outside after him.
It was then that you realized you still had his gold cloak. You fingered it lightly for a few moments before throwing it atop your bed. When you were ready to tuck yourself in, you brought the cloak underneath the covers and wrapped yourself in it.
#ser harwin x princess!reader#ser harwin x you#ser harwin strong x reader#ser harwin#ser harwin x reader#ser harwin strong x you#ser harwin strong#harwin strong x reader#harwin strong imagine#harwin strong#*mywork
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Merlin rewatch -- S3E5: The Crystal Cave
Arthur's choice of gift for Morgana is so perfect. I want one too. Look how much Morgana adored it.



Arthur is usually the one who has a more rigid gender view so it's really nice to see that he considered carefully (by himself) and picked something practical and what Morgana might like, not the typical jewelry like Merlin said or combs/mirrors other lords gifted her.


Love Arthur’s enthusiasm for the gift he chose. Immediately wants to show off to Merlin.
Of course, it could be that Arthur was so bad at choosing gifts for women (seeing that Merlin did all the courting for him) that he just bought something he himself would like. That's nice too. I think Pendragon siblings did have some similarities and they knew it~


Merlin’s opinion wasn't necessarily wrong (I think Morgana did like pretty things) but it's so general and in such a dismissive tone. He was just being snarky because the future he feared didn't come to pass.

But then Arthur took the advice in his own way! Obviously you make the weapon prettier. Awesome. Love his thinking process. And it's very in character. Arthur had shown many times that he was able to reflect/accept criticism even if it's directly opposed to his beliefs. Also he was a pragmatic person and a knight so the dagger stayed on 🗡️
I wish Arthur and Morgana could have more direct interactions in this ep… It’d be beautiful if some residual love and care for Arthur awakened inside Morgana because of this considerate gift…
[S3E5] [other episodes]
#arthur and morgana#arthur pendragon#merlin rewatch 2024#bbc merlin#rewatch: the crystal cave#I’d also love to see the continuation of the flirty vibe in s1#Morgana is furious about Uther cause it ruins what she and Arthur had#or something#I’d be more convinced
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𝑀𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉: 𝒶 𝒸𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒸𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝑜𝒻 𝒮𝓅𝒶𝓌𝓃 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒜𝓈𝒸𝑒𝓃𝒹𝑒𝒹 𝒜𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝑅𝒶𝓅𝒽𝒶𝑒𝓁 𝒻𝒾𝒸𝓈, 𝒹𝓇𝒶𝒷𝒷𝓁𝑒𝓈, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒜𝒰’𝓈
Tolkien (Sauron, Annatar) Masterlist

“My Beloved” Series: A collection of one shot Gale x f!Reader, Tav, or my Durge Merelind
🔮Ao3 Link for Series🔮
“Resplendent, Beloved:” Wavemother’s Robe, beach, outdoor smut
“Supple, Beloved:” Leather Gloves and semi-public Elfsong campsite smut
“Pampered, Beloved:” Pregnancy body worship threesome with Gale’s mirror image for Mothers’ Day
“Ambition’s Chosen:” God Gale and Goddess of Blood Merelind punish Mystra in the heavens. Blood and torture and revenge.

Link on Ao3
EtL Gur!Tav x Astarion—Katja hates her circumstances of a tadpole in her head, but she hates him more, Gue by birth, monster hunter by trade like her people. As for him, she’s the same stock of vagrant that killed him all those centuries ago; punishing her should be fun.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3
Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 |

Ao3 link | Tumblr fic Index
Ascended Astarion x f!Reader
“I can’t yet speak its language…” Astarion doesn’t know all his powers, despite the title of Vampire Ascendant, despite having a Bride at his side. Suppose these manifest themselves surprisingly, even awkwardly… a bit of comedy and smut.

series link on AO3
Series of scenes from Acts 1 and 2 of Spawn Rogue Astarion x Female Reader.
✨Part 1: “Go back to sleep, darling…” [the SFW flirty bite one]
✨Part 2: “You’ll have to keep quieter than that…” [the NSFW sexy fingering one]
✨Part 3: “Daggers are a love language, my dear…” [the NSFW sexy daggers one]
✨Part 4: “Let me have that sweet ambrosia, my love…” [the NSFW vampire feeding frenzy, period sex one]
✨Part 5: “All vim and vigor, dearest…” [the NSFW healing trope one]
✨Part 6: “Maybe we should fight more often…” [Lovers Spat and Make Up Sex one]
✨Part 7: “You had better tie me up, darling…” [fuck or die Sex Pollen one]
✨Part 8: “Anything to reassure you, my sweetest…” [jealous tav needs nsfw convincing]
✨Part 9: “Dexterity check first, my sweet” [my homage to his hands, and an excuse to use Sharess’ Caress]
✨Part 10: “To things that warm us!” [drunken toasts and public cockwarming]
✨ Part 11: “Use Your Words” [prompt full au: lovers run]
✨ Part 12: “Decadent” [Valentines Day sex chocolates, semi-public sex]
✨Part 13: “You’ll end up bitten” [the werewolf smut, knotting one]
✨ Part 14: “Don’t hold your breath” [underwater oral hot spring surprise]
✨ Part 15: “Knowledge is a dangerous weapon” [bookworm Tav, Spawn powers, breeding (no babies) kink]
✨ Part 16: “Your body’s already given you away” sharing body heat, caught in a storm
✨Part 17: “You make me want to live:” BG3 anniversary smut based on the song
✨ Part 18: “I wanted to hear you whimper:” Brat taming the Vampire
✨Part 19: “Please:” The Graveyard Smut scene
Yuletide in Faerûn Part 1: A Yuletide Miracle (Spawn)
Ao3 link | Tumblr Fic Mini-Masterlist
Scenes of Ascended Astarion x Female Reader, realizing that all the power in the world can’t instantly heal all his trauma. It takes love, sex, and making him remember the Vampire Rogue he once was. All chapters are NSFW.

link on AO3 | tumblr fic masterlist
🗡️Enemies to Lovers | Astarion x Named Tav
💞🗡️He can’t remember anything, but she does. The betrothed she believed dead, the source of all her centuries of grief and heartache now in the middle of her path after the Nautiloid crash, but something is different about him. Dark. Changed. Something hidden.
𝓞𝓾𝓻 𝓑𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓭, 𝓒𝓸𝓶𝓹𝓪𝓷𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓠𝓾𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓼…
“Our Blood: Into the Fire:”
Astarion, Cordehlia, Wyll, Karlach and Raphael… NSWF
Ao3 Link
Summary: A favor once given to ensure Ascension is finally owed in turn: Raphael arrives from Avernus. With the thrill of another battle on the horizon, Astarion and his Raven prepare for fires and blood. Lust and bloodlust aren’t quite so diffent
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3
“Our Blood: Liars’ Night”
Summary: At the request of their old Wizard companion, the Ascendant and his Raven arrive in Waterdeep the night before Liars’ Night. “A matter of utmost importance” needs their aid, a dangerous prospect with enemy Vampires, secret artifacts, and a good old fashioned Masquerade for the holiday
Ao3 Link
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3
🩸Ascended Astarion x Selûnite Shadowheart🌙
Caught sneaking on the walls of the Crimson Palace, Shadowheart wakes in the dungeons, deep in the Monster’s lair, the keep of her former companion and current tormentor, Lord Astarion. BDSM kink fic with a happy ending.
Ao3 link | Fic tumblr Index

Lumina is different, newly turned, and she has turned the head of the Master, the Vampire Ascendant. For the first time in 200 years, his beating heart might just feel something again.
CW: darker turns to softer AA, Harem of Spawn, No Tav, OC reminds AA of his past, “she’s special,” some jealousy, manipulative sexy AA, angst with a happy ending
Ao3 link | tumblr Fic Index (all chs)

😈 Raphael Fics Mini-Masterlist
🗡️🩸Drabbles and Prompts
🩸🗡️Ascended Astarion Drabbles Mini-Masterlist
✨🗡️ Spawn Astarion Drabbles Mini-Masterlist
🩸🌙 Shadowstarion
🗡️ “To Slice the Tension” [knife play]
🛐 “Unholy” [Priestarion, religious corruption]
Fanart by @marimosalad, @nyx-knox @snowfolly and @dafna-winchester
#astarion fanfic#astarion fic#astarion smut#astarion baldurs gate#baldurs gate astarion#astarion x female reader#astarion x you#astarion x reader#reader x astarion#astarion x tav#astarion x female tav#astarion angst#baldur’s gate astarion#baldur's gate 3 astarion#bg3 astarion#astarion bg3#astarion#astarion ancunin#baldurs gate smut#baldurs gate fanfiction#baldursgate3#baldur’s gate iii#baldur’s gate 3#baldur's gate#baldur's gate 3
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(𝐍𝐚-)𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 / 𝐅𝐞𝐲𝐝𝐬 𝐖𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬 🖤
[𝐯𝐨𝐥. 𝟏]

Maybe plus some bodypaint and markings on your lip? I'm pretty sure you would hide a knife or a dagger somewhere. Probably on your leg. 🗡️
(All pictures are from Pinterest. If you want a link to one, please let me know.)
#•aesthetic folder here•#house harkonnen#dark aesthetic#dune part 2#feyd rautha dune#feyd rautha harkonnen#dune part two#feyd rautha#feyd rautha x reader#dune 2#dune aesthetic#giedi prime#dune giedi prime
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