#eternal shadow: myth

[eyeforchaos]

I WAS gonna draw nsfw of these two but the silly brainworms won out so--Have that one 'be not afraid' meme featuring @bigidiotenergy 's Odysseus and true form Kyvyn :3 under the cut for the tiniest bit of blood and a crow skull

The DA link since tumblr killed the quality waa

[weebslawyer]

Il Capitano x reader (!fem !wife)

ANGST (based on the last AQ more or less)

AN: please excuse any grammar mistakes, English isn't my first language and I worte all this at 3am with blurry vision 😭

Words count: 1716

For five centuries, you had traversed the shifting sands of time, a quiet sentinel to the rise and fall of nations, the birth and ruin of dreams. The world flowed around you like a ceaseless river, its current reshaping mountains and cities, but you remained a stone beneath the surface—weathered, unyielding. Your soul had become a vast archive of echoes: the laughter of lovers turned to dust, the roar of battles etched in crimson, the whisper of civilizations swallowed by the maw of eternity. To endure beyond the reach of decay was not a triumph; it was a symphony played too long, a dance that outlived its music.

Beneath the shifting constellations, you stood as a paradox—unchanged as the stars rearranged their myths above him, eternal yet burdened with the ache of transient beauty. Eternity was not the gift poets promised, it was a weight that bent the very core of his being, a mirror reflecting centuries of loss. He bore it all—the unbearable light, the endless air thick with memory—not as a choice, but as a truth. You were the keeper of an unbroken vigil, a shadow in the unending dawn, a solitary defiance against time’s relentless march.

That's what you were.

Five hundred years passed since the fall of Khaenri'ah. The land still whispered its lament. Blackened spires clawed at the heavens, their jagged silhouettes etched against a sky that had long since forgotten the stars that once guided your people. The cursed earth beneath your feet bore the scars of divine wrath, its once-thriving beauty now a wasteland of sorrow and silence.

Five hundred years since the world forgot the name of your husband, now known as Capitano. Five hundred years since you fought alongside him for a better world, for the sake of Khaenri'ah people, for the safety of the royal family. Five hundred years since you were round and glowing with his children, their essence long gone now, their bodies dust in wind, the only remains are the little stones you created out of what was left, hidden and stored away. Five hundred years since you last touched your husbands soft, yet scared skin, a symbol of all the fights he has been through, always a champion, and formidable warrior. Five hundred years since you saw the face of the man you love so dearly. A man hunted by his past, a man hunted by his mistakes, his regrets. He was a strong man, and you knew that. He knew that. But yet, all you could do was to wrap your arms around him from behind, a simple gesture to show him that you are there, no matter what, no matter where his choices lead him. His hands always finding yours. The wedding ring, still shining on his finger, matching yours, triumphing over the pass of time, the countless battles. You were always there when he was reminiscing of that kingdom, a fragment of its lost glory, cursed with eternal life but stripped of everything that made life worth living. In his eyes burned the memory of the golden halls of old Khaenri'ah, now reduced to ash, and the faces of those he had loved, now shadows haunting his immortal heart.

Yet somehow, after the passing of time, of challenges, of loss and grief, it was only you and him, him and you.

You were a storm wrapped in flesh, the fire to Capitano’s shadow, a presence as unyielding as the steel of his blade. Where others faltered in fear before his masked visage, you met him with unwavering resolve, your eyes a mirror of his endless determination. From the blood-stained fields of battle to the silent corridors of treachery, you had walked beside him—not as a fragile tether to humanity, but as an anchor that steadied him in the tumult of his unrelenting duty.

You had seen him rise, a towering force among mortals, his loyalty bound not by sentiment but by a fierce, unshakable will. When the world turned against him, branding him a monster, you stood defiant at his side, your voice sharp as any blade, declaring his truth to a world deaf to honor.

In the quiet moments between wars and commands, you were the calm that soothed the tempest within him. You traced the edges of his mask with your fingers as if memorizing the unseen face beneath, whispering truths only he would hear. "You are not alone," you would tell him, her words a shield against the abyss of his solitude.

Through victories and losses, betrayals and triumphs, you remained. Even as the Harbingers gathered their might and the skies darkened with the weight of impending fate, you presence was his unspoken strength. You were not merely his wife but his equal, a force as indomitable as the tides, as eternal as the stars.

In you, Capitano found not just a partner but a reflection of his own relentless spirit—a reminder that even in the cold, merciless march of duty, there could still be warmth, still be love. Together, you were an unstoppable force, your bond a defiance of the world’s cruelty, your story a testament to the power of loyalty, love, and unyielding resolve, but no one will be able to learn about it.

The battlefield was eerily silent when the news reached you—a silence that followed the storm, a silence that mocked your fury. Capitano was gone. The unyielding tower of strength, your shield, your partner through centuries of unrelenting trials, had fallen.

Your breath hitched, with sorrow, but also with a rage so fierce it burned away any tears before they could form. They dared to take him from you.They dared to strike down the one constant in your life, the man who had fought against gods and monsters, who had endured a world that sought to crush him, and who had always returned to you.

You stood on the precipice of the world’s madness, your grief transforming into an inferno that would consume anything in its path. The stars themselves seemed to tremble as your voice split the air, a cry of mourning and of war. A war so painful yet so devastating on your soul.

"Capitano," you whispered, your hands trembling as you looked at him, sitting on a throne that held no king, but a throne that held your lover, the man of men, the warrior of all warriors, the man that long ago was holding your children

"I swore I would stand with you through everything. And now, even in death, I will not abandon you." You said as you slowly approached his lifeless body.

You slowly crawled closer to him, pain eating your soul alive, seeing him like this destroying you. You made your way on his lap, a place where you always find comfort through storms and angry thunders, but this time his arms couldn't comfort you anymore, they couldn't wrap around you anymore, soothe you again. You could hear his weak breathes, a body who's soul long left. You looked at him while your tears where washing your face, not seeming to stop soon. Your trembling hands reached to pull his mask off, to see the man. To see your husband. To see the man that promised you eternity.

"You were my strength" you murmured into the night, your voice a steel-edged whisper. "Now I will be yours."

You spoke softly, even if the tears in your eyes made everything so hard to see. You put his mask on your lap, so now your hands can touch his face, feel the cold skin against your fingers. Your touch so gentle, not wanting to hurt him even in death. You took in every detail, like he will vanish the second you close your eyes.

"You promised me I won't lose you too. Not after everything, my love. Not like this." You whispered biting your lip, before speaking again "I don't know if you will ever hear me, if you are even around like a stray ghost, but I promise we will meet again soon. I will hold you again, kiss you, and love you all over again in the afterlife. Just don't forget me until then, my brave warrior. Oh my love, my peace, my place, my forever. This time be my light through the darkness" you said, kissing his cheeks, his forehead, and his lips one last time, cradling at his chest, being close to him like that, your mind slowly calming down, remembering all the comfortable moments like that, where being in his arms and presence where the only moments of peace in your life.

You spend days like this, not moving in the slightest from his lap. Moving away from him would feel like a divorce. But slowly, beside the immense pain that threatened to rip your heart out, anger started to settle in. Was his sacrifice necessary? Was there anyone to even pretent his heroic act? Why did death consider now that it's time for Capitano to join him and leave you here all alone? You had all those thoughts, crying and breaking down every time you remembered where you were. Pain consuming you hole, whispering to take your revenge, to destroy whoever did that, to hunt down everyone who let this happen.

Your fury was a thing of legend, a tempest that dwarfed even the wrath of gods. You would not rest until you knew the truth of his fall, until the blood of those responsible stained the earth beneath your feet. The Harbingers would hear your fury, the Archons would feel your wrath, and the heavens themselves would tremble beneath your rage. They took every from you, they took the melody that lingers in the chords of your soul, his name the refrain in your heart that keeps singing.

And unfortunately, your vengeance was not reckless, it was calculated, cold, and precise. Every step you took was deliberate, every strike a tribute to the man who had fought for a world unworthy of him. You would burn the skies and sunder the earth if it meant avenging him. For you, love was not a gentle thing, and your anger, born of loss, would not be silenced until the scales of justice were balanced—until those who had taken him paid in kind.

[witchthewriter]

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄: 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬: 𝒀𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝑯𝒊𝒔 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒆

⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!

a/n: this includes ... all types not just one. So it's a bit of a 'preference.' (That's what we called it in the olden days ...)

I would love some feedback; if you want me to continue, or if you want me to add a specific monster or you have a certain scenario in mind!

Also this is 18+, not explicitely explicit but ... we acting like grown ups.

art credit: atnomen_comic

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘: You had no idea this could happen. Especially since your world didn't seem all that magical. But somehow there was another world, just beyond your fingertips. And finally you're able to see past the veil and into the true world.

𝑽𝒂𝒎𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝑩𝒐𝒚𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅

・He’s spent centuries alone, convinced that true love is not an immortal experience. Itt's only a mortal invention...

・So he decided if love was no longer available for him, then he would ... have as much sex as possible. Have as many lovers as he possibly could, even have a few fleeting companions.

・But none have ever made his dead heart stir—until he met you.

・The moment he saw you, something shifted. A sensation he hadn't felt ...since he was human. His cold, lifeless existence suddenly felt warm.

・It wasn't just attraction...no. It was recognition. His soul, long thought to be lost to eternity, had awakened at the sight of you.

・His eyes lock onto yours, and for the first time in centuries, he felt hunger—not for blood, but for you.

・He truly knew you two were soulmates when his bite mark did not fully fade.

・The first time he drank from you, you felt a cool, then electric tingle where his fangs met your skin.

・As he started to drink, with his lips pressed against your neck, his hands tightened on your body and you relaxed. It felt right. He felt so right.

・And then it felt as if his very essence started to weave itself into you and yours into him.

・In the vampire culture, soulmates are a rare phenomenon, whispered about in ancient myths. Now that he has you, he will never let you go.

・He has become your shadow, watching over you, making sure no harm comes to you. Even if it means following you. He's only ensuring your safety.

𝑾𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒘𝒐𝒍𝒇 𝑩𝒐𝒚𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅

・The moment he catches your scent, it was over. Even his wolf knew before his mind could catch up.

・Everything changed. His heartbeat started to race, his instincts screamed “mine”, and his world sharpened into a singular focus: you.

・Your scent soon became home, like the warmth of a crackling fire after a long winter hunt. Even in a crowd, he can track your heartbeat.

・If anyone dares to look at you the wrong way, he bares his teeth, his voice dropping into a possessive growl.

・Werewolves are very touch-oriented, and he is absolutely no exception. Expect to be pulled into his lap, carried effortlessly, and nuzzled constantly.

・His favorite thing? Falling asleep curled around you, his warmth keeping you safe and cocooned in his embrace.

・Although he does love being the little spoon...

・The moment you both knew you were meant for each other was when he first touched you. Skin to skin—you felt a sharp, burning sensation on your wrist.

・It wasn't painful, but it was intense. It felt like your souls had locked into place. Whatever felt missing, was now whole.

・The mark is invisible, but you can feel it pulse whenever he’s near, whenever he’s thinking about you, whenever he’s longing for you.

𝑶𝒓𝒄 𝑩𝒐𝒚𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅

・Orcs don’t believe in fate. They believe in strength, will, and battle. Romance isn't a big part of the orc culture.

・So in his mind...this wasn't meant to happen. Not to him.

・He tried to ignore the feeling at first. The swirling, giddy feeling whenever he saw you, or, whenever you're near.

・Soulmates are myths, things whispered in old war songs, but the way his chest tightens whenever you’re near proves otherwise.

・He watches you closely, testing your spirit, your fire, your heart—because if you are truly his mate, he needs to be worthy of you.

・His instincts scream to claim you, but he won’t rush—not until he’s proven to both you and himself that he is strong enough to deserve you.

・It is a little annoying. Confusing even. Because the way he acts around you ... you thought he loved you.

・And then he would stop himself.

・Put up a wall.

・But you understood him once he gave you a certain something.

・Orcs don’t write love letters—they craft. And he had been making things for you constantly:

A knife with a handle carved to fit your grip perfectly.

A wooden pendant engraved with symbols of protection and love.

Your own bow and arrow...the bow had intricate carvings

The pelt of a wolf, to keep you warm. Yes, he had made it himself.

・These gifts are a piece of him. Every time he gifts you something, and you wear/use them, he literally swells with pride.

・You both knew you were soulmates, because your hands burned when you were near each other.

・No, not painful. But the same symbol is left on the top of your hand.

𝑫𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒏-𝑯𝒚𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒅 𝑩𝒐𝒚𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅

・Dragons do not love easily. They are proud, powerful, and above such mortal concerns.

・Until you both received the soulmate mark.

・It happened like this: you had no idea there was an extremely tall being waiting for you to move in the bookstore.

・And then suddenly, you felt a strong yearning for a particular book, and when you went to pick it up, a large hand bumped against your own.

・Instantly, you started to glow. As if you had been dusted with the essence of pure gold.

・His eyes flashed to you, because the same thing was happening to him.

・An ancient feeling bubbling up from the pit of his stomach and he looked at you. Stunned. And you knew he was because his eyes gave it away.

・In that instant he was feeling a force beyond time and reason. His heart—once untamed and indifferent—now started to beat ... for you.

・Dragons are territorial creatures, and now you are his most treasured possession

・He hates being away from you. He knows your schedule, and whenever you wander too far, his wings twitch restlessly, and his claws flex as if he’s about to hunt you down and bring you back.

・If anyone even thinks of touching you, his eyes flash with molten gold, his pupils thinning into slits.

・His hoard grows with things that remind him of you—a necklace you once wore, a book you left open, even things that carry your scent.

・The first time he allowed you to ride on his back in dragon form was a big moment for him. He preened for days, smug and proud that you trust him so deeply.

𝑫𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒏 𝑩𝒐𝒚𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅

・Demons don’t believe in soulmates. They believe in power, in lust, in domination—not in something as fragile as “destiny.”

・And yet, the moment he lays eyes on you, he feels it—a pull so deep it rattles his very essence.

・His chest tightens with something unfamiliar—not hunger, not desire, but a need beyond reason.

・His claws flex involuntarily. His tail flicks behind him. His smirk falters, just for a second. And then, with a low, sultry chuckle, he leans in and whispers, “Oh… you’re mine.”

・Then a mark, only visible to you and he alone, would glow faintly. A symbol, neither of you know what the symbol exactly is - but it has to mean one thing...

It might appear as black runic symbols, glimmering and glinting on your skin.

However, it may appear as a delicate sigil, an ancient demonic brand woven from flame and magic.

・If you are ever in danger, the mark scorches hot, summoning him instantly—no matter where he is.

・The mark is not always visible to mortal eyes, but it glows faintly when touched by him or in moments of intense emotion.

・He would burn the world down to keep you safe.

・If anyone dares to touch you, flirt with you, or even breathe in your direction too long, his eyes darken, his tail curls possessively around your leg, and his fangs flash in a dangerous grin.

“Oh, I do hope they keep looking...Gives me an excuse to tear them apart.”

・He might act nonchalant, but he watches you like a predator watches its most prized possession.

𝑨𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍 𝑩𝒐𝒚𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅

・Angels had a very specific job. From a very specific god... They weren't allowed the same freedoms that the other factions & deities had.

・Therefore, angels do not fall in love lightly. They were created to serve, to protect, to remain above mortal emotions.

・They looked out for humans; as gurdian angels.

・Your guardian angel however, didn't have a problem with getting close to you.

・In fact, he was able to physically be around you, touch you even - which was highly odd because only other beings with magic blood could do that.

・When the soulmate mark appeared, it solidified his feelings and changed your world forever.

・A gentle warmth envelopes you, and an instant calm washes over you.

・The mark is no mark at all, but drops of sunlight mixed with moonlight. They swirl on both your hands, fingers, wrists and arms. Like a moving masterpiece of true love captured through a pearlescent light.

・His very essence had trembled, as if the divine itself had rewritten fate just for the two of you.

・His wings shuddered, breath caught and for the first time in his eternal existence he felt longing.

・Usually angels did not receive soulmates.

・But for some reason he did.

・His loyalty knows no bounds. He would never stand against you. Never leave you. Never hurt you in any way possible.

・And though his essence is peace. He would die for you. He would challenge anyone or anything for you.

・There is no other path for him, but you.

[eskumii]

" MY FAIR CONSORT, ETERNAL " — soft yandere!knight x immortal!princess!reader

SYNOPSIS: your dark knight, who grew up hearing stories of your tragic fate as the immortal princess destined to be killed by a great warrior, has now arrived to claim your father's throne... and you. (1.9k) — navi.

CONTENT: yandere behaviors, age gap (knight is like 27 and reader is 19), fake religious mentions ("the gods"), hot knight is literally ur superfan 4 life and just wants better for u... manipulation, slight infantilization

NOTES: i injected elden ring into my veins to write this. i thought of the knight from the perspective of the player's character, who defeats all the bosses in the game and meeting you is like the ending lol. u don't need to know anything abt elden ring btw, i was just inspired by the lore (and ranni's ending ofc muehehe) c:

the dark knight who ascended from ashes, borne from shadows and bones and the blood of the world, is now kneeling at your precious feet.

and you, the princess destined to he who restores order in this level of the stratosphere by cutting down the souls of opposition, must take the triumphant warrior into your arms as he takes your life, and your father's throne—just as the prophecy foretold.

but, to do this, you hesitate.

even in the blackness of his rugged armor, you see your reflection in the twinkling of the blood there, freshly drawn from the still-warm bodies of the gatekeepers, who lie uselessly past the threshold of your chambers. you are alone now, at the mercy of a mortal who clawed his way through death to usher in a new era of reigning peace.

this is the man by whose hand you are to be killed. you see his face not, but his beastly stature hunched before you and his ghastly sword, long and wide, is sheathed against the vastness of his strong back; it is enough for you that a great knight has emerged from among the lowly to slaughter you, and that you do not even have a chance to fight for your life. how cruel that you are fated to die this way.

despite your personal reservations, you must accommodate this warrior, as you have been trained to do since you were a mere girl. 

“honored knight,” you speak. “you have arrived, at last. i awaited this day a thousand years.”

he seems to be looking at you but you cannot tell from within the deep shadows of his helmet, where a small slit has been carved for sight. he is strange and quiet and stoic; you do not know where he comes from or the kind of person he is. 

you clear your throat in the silence. “to whom have i the honor of relinquishing my power?” 

ignoring your question, he instead delicately takes your hand in his, and he holds it to the metal of his faceplate where his lips are hidden beneath.

"my lady," his voice is darkness and tender. "the honor is mine. you are altogether lovely, even moreso than i imagined."

you flinch and hasten to pull your hand away. a sudden terror sweeps through the throne room but it is only apparent to you, the sole recipient of a certain impending doom. he is nothing like the brute you envisioned he would be… no, this is much worse.  

”...in my youth, i read of you and heard many a story—a princess whose beauty is marred with tragedy, as the fated warrior whom she knows not is to be her end.” 

you swallow thickly but you hold your tongue. you were not aware that your own tale had been passed down to the common peoples for so long, or that they cared much for you at all. you are both warmed and sodden with grief at the thought that so many generations of children have grown, tried, and failed to reach your castle and free themselves from the curse of being lost in this frozen pocket of time. 

he continues. “of all the myths (or so i thought they were) of princesses and their lovers, yours always won my favor and affection. i thought often that, during my training, i might one day come and gaze upon you myself.”

you stare at him, utterly disturbed. you do not know where he is going with this and wish he would spare you the preamble. is he going to kill you or not? 

“i see… well,” you start after a long pause. “you have seen me, and are seeing me. i am no figment of imagination.” 

“indeed, i have fulfilled my childish longings.” he hums lowly in agreement.

perhaps this strange man aims to kill you slowly with his fake words, so that you are none the wiser to the moment when he sinks his sword in your abdomen. there is no time for these foolish pleasantries. the gods are growing impatient; the skies have darkened, and you hear what sounds like thunder roaring in the near distance. 

you no longer stop yourself from blurting out how you really feel. "...o, please, great knight. do not torment me. i know well what you must do, so do not delay. you, a mere man, have felled every king and prince, who themselves are something like gods. i have no means of resistance towards you.” 

he is silent and unmoving for a moment. then, he bows his head to you, hand lain over his heart, still kneeling all the while. 

"my darling princess, it is true that i have conquered the world with my hands. if I may ask, for what reason do you think i have come to you?" he questions you with a smooth lilt in his tone, like he is humored by your urgency to die. 

but it is then your turn to be moved to silence. what is he talking about? you lean forward, confusion and desperation coming undone on your face.

"why, mustn't you end my life in order to fulfill the prophecy? of a lowly warrior who rises to take my father's throne, which i alone stand in your way?"

he bursts out into laughter, booming and terrifying. "what meaningless prophecies!”

your heart drops into your bowels at his words.  

the dark knight shifts to rest his weary, armored head in your lap. it is heavy and cold against your thighs, which are veiled poorly from such biting contact by your thin underskirts. the claws of his iron gloves dig into your yielding skin, pulling you closer to him despite your rigidness. he is breathing deeply, trembling against your warmth and softness like a man who's been starved of anything good and kind.

"what is a ruler without his fair consort?” he mutters quietly. “i have slain your father already, silly girl. i may descend upon this throne as i wish. but i have come so that we might be companions, not enemies.”

your breath is taken from you. this lowly knight wishes to rewrite the prophecies of old? it is impossible—more than that, absurd and deluded. even you, granted immortality by the gods, have no say in what you have been called to do.  

“no…” you blanch, feeling sickly as your resolve crumbles. “we cannot… i must fulfill my duty. you have restored order unto this world, now i shall do my part.”

slowly, he begins to stand. you fear you have angered him but you have only told the truth, and it is all you can do. 

“your ‘duty’?” he spits, his tall form reaching mountain peaks as he straightens up to a towering height. “are you so eager to die when i have toiled eagerly to share a moment with you?” he reaches out a hand to cup your chin, turning your face this way and that as if to examine the integrity of your words based on the fear in your eyes. 

he rambles on, scoffing. “and then you speak of kings as gods yet i have defeated them all. what am i to you, then?” 

“you.. you’re the greatest warrior to ever live, of course. you have proved yourself tenfold, to me and to the gods. now you must do what has been demanded of you, fool.” you spit back harshly, disregarding any of your niceties from before.

it is true that you do not want to die… but this is a kinder fate than being punished by the gods for disobedience, who by now must be descending atop the clouds in their anger, or something of the sort. 

“very well, then. if duty is what you desire, i give unto you a new one that is most befitting: embrace thine new king, and be mine.”

his hand moves to your cheek and how gentle is his touch. but you wretch yourself away because you are no betrayer of your destiny. a thousand years ago, you took your place as throne keeper while your father awaited this so-called “fated lowly knight” who would fell him with ease. for a thousand years, he prowled amongst the shadows of the castle, regarding every wandering soul within the kingdom with hostile suspicion, and never was he a father to you again, but a stranger.

none of this changes the fact that your father was weak, as well as every other kingdom that operated beneath you. now, that very knight is standing before you with one unrelenting desire—not to kill you, but… to love you? all of your faithfulness in sacrificing yourself for the sake of the world has been reduced to nothing right before your eyes. 

you sink to the floor, lacy underskirts pooling helplessly around your legs, and clasp your hands around his steeled greaves. it is the first time you have left the seat of the throne in many, many years. but you do so to lay your case before this knight, this new king, on behalf of the common peoples who are stuck in this timeless crack of history, where dying means to never have existed.

“please,” you beg. “put this evil far from you! you know not what you are doing.” 

“my girl, is it an evil thing that i have chosen to love you and spare you? rather, have you not been burdened by such an evil thing the "gods" are setting against you?” he leans down to pet your head. “your isolation has maddened you, poor thing. come, i shall comfort you.” 

you shake your head furiously but you can do nothing as he drags you with little effort by your underarms to what is now his place on the throne. his clanking armor rests in the seat which you have sat, and you feel a sort of power come out from you. you come to the realization that the exchange of rule and royal hands has finally occurred, but all for the wrong reasons.

the dark knight sits you on his lap. sharp edges dig into the back of your legs. you turn to shove and push and punch but a strange weakness has taken you, and you hardly cause the man to budge in his upright position. after a few minutes of your senseless onslaught, the knight wrestles your arms down with just one hand.

“enough of your whining, [name],” he growls. “we must tend to our kingdom now. how ever are you to help the peoples when you act so childishly?” 

you spit in his face. a bastard ascending from squalor dares to speak to you so familiarly? to touch you so intimately? this is no king worthy of your respect and submission and service. but of course, though, your act of rebellion does nothing and the dark knight laughs cruelly at your feeble attempts to disrespect and defy him. the deep sound rumbles from beneath his breastplate and he only seems to tighten his grip on you further. 

“no matter. i'll see to it that my darling is trained to be on her best behavior from now on. your father never did such a thing, did he?” he taunts you, but it is nothing but fondness. 

you slump down in his iron-clad grip, defeated. conquered. 

“on this day forth,” the knight raises his voice as if talking to a crowd, but there is no one to hear but you. “i have taken my rightful place as king, and will rule over these cursed lands for the rest of my days. as for the princess…” he seems to move his head to look down at you huddled in his arms.

“she, too, has taken her rightful place… as my fair consort, eternal.” 

[call-sign-shark]

Echo of Shadows || Masterlist

Pairing: The Darkling x Heartrender!OCreader || Alina Starkov x Heartrender!OCreader || Malyen Oretsevx HeartRender!OCreader

Summary: "They called her the White Plague, a saint or a monster—but she was neither, only destruction wrapped in a pretty bow."

In Ravka's frosty heart, the legend of the White Plague spreads—a woman with snow-white hair, frozen-fire eyes, and powers that rival those of Jurda Parem. Once a slave in the Menagerie, the one who calls herself Heaven is now a myth, either leaving towns in ruins or former disease-ridden people crying with gratitude. A Sankta.

General Kirigan's interest soon turns dark and his desire obsessive. Never had he been so captivated and haunted by someone. Someone he could finally share his eternal life with. Caught in a cruel game of power and love, she's torn between Kirigan’s corrupting passion and Alina Starkov’s promise of freedom.

Amidst the chaos, one question arises: will she become a savior, a monster, or something far more dangerous?

TW: Explicit sexual content, slow burn, borderline consent, heavy pinning, toxic relationship [manipulation, obsession, extreme jealousy, controlling behavior], graphic sexual description, graphic depiction of murder and torture, blood!kink, size!kink, radioactive couple, codependency, reference to past SA and child SA, dark romance & mad romance trope, ambiguous relationship with Alina. This story is brutal, bloody and rated +18.

ACT I: A BURNING LIMERENCE

1. Keep Moving, Little Girl

2. Their Frozen Shackles

3. The Court of Shadows

4. The Fear Within

5. Beneath his Watchful Eyes 🔞

6. Until Nothing is Left

7. Dangerous

8. Blood and Honey

9. Burn Your Village

10. Gazed Into the Abyss… 🔞

11 ... The Abyss Gazed Back Into Me 🔞

12. All I've Ever Wanted. 🔞

ACT II. RAPTURE OF THE DEEP

13. Queen of Spades

14. Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Light

15. I was Made for Loving You, Baby

16. Blinding Light

17. It's in Our Veins

18. Your Darkness Flayed 🔞

19. After the Storm, the Sun

20. Safe in the Dark 🔞

21. Paint Me Black 🔞

22. Golden Cage for a Pretty Bird

23. Your Heart, My Chains

24. Good Ending? You Haven't Paid Attention

ACT III. THE CALL OF THE VOID

25. The Assasymphony

26. Never You

27. Barbwire Kiss🔞

28. It Has Always Been You 🔞

29. I'm Not Ruined. I'm Ruination.

30. Here Comes the Wolves

31. Your Love is an Open Wound 🔞

32. The Mask of the Red Death

33. The Starless Saint of Broken Hearts

34. Symphony of Our Ruins

35. Epilogue: Eternal Eclipse

ONE SHOTS

Much Ado About Jam Toasts- fun & fluff

Away From the Deep Shadow

MODERN AU*

Happiness Therapy

Folie À Deux

A Rose in the Corridor

Friend and Festivities - @justrainandcoffee

Kindred Spirit - @justrainandcoffee

Enrichment

Scrabble and Struggle - @justrainandcoffee

*Amos is Aleksander's modern identity.

VISUALS

Light in the Dark

"Call me Aleksander" - trailer by the beloved @elizabethblood9

ASK

Modern!Aleksander x Heaven for Christmas

Notes:

☾ I haven't read the books so this work is based on the TV show even though I know it's fairly different from the original Grisha verse. If you're an adorable lore psycho, you might not want to read that! :(

☾ Taglist: @lunawants , @emtaz-art, @lightinbug, @kmc1989, @thepassionatereader @mystic-mara @m-riaa @kallista-diune @meadows5 @kasagia @watersquirtpewpewboomm @the-sweet-psycho @sarahsobsession @elizabethblood9 @ritzzzzz @sophialeiros

[janumun]

Nomos (Xavier - NSFW/18+)

Pairing: Xavier/Queen Reader (based on Xavier’s first myth) Word Count: 3.7k Tags: religious imagery/desecration sex, angst, evol bondage, oral sex, orgasm denial, Knight Xavier on his knees repenting to his Queen MC, spoilers for Xavier’s first myth, female dominating, canon divergence, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned

Summary: The Queen of Philos had sacrificed her heart ultimately and along with it, part of her humanity, in the wake of Xavier’s failed Backtrack mission; binding it to Philos’ core for eternity. Now, returned to her, centuries after, Xavier seeks his Goddess’ audience, and her forgiveness, within the stone-cold chambers of her castle. 

But centuries suffered alone, and with her heart now gone, she is a former frigid cast of the woman he used to love. Xavier is adamant on repenting, even if it costs him his life this time round. 

[A fic where Prince Xavier manages to return to Philos but he is too late; his Queen has long thrown her powerful core, her heart, into Philos’ centre and now, she has nothing to offer Xavier but her bitter resentment.]

O celestial body of mine, Slumbering adrift in darkness, Which never heeds the whispers of life, Till it fades into oblivion, nothingness. 

The rolling echo of thunder — knelling an approaching storm — was the only sound that rippled across the heavy, cold silence that had settled itself across the throne room. Wan shadows clung to the wide, dismal stone pillars of the great hall. Barely quelled by the flickering protocore lamps interspersed on either sides of the room. 

A looming, stone figure of the Goddess adorned the space right behind her great throne, staging Her chosen Sovereign to rule and obey, for all of Philos to see, placed by Her will upon the throne. The Goddess; doused in cool shadow, her sculpted eyes stared down glacial and unforgiving, set into regal stone. Her great Sword aimed at length towards the altar Xavier knelt at. 

The flagstone beneath his knee was a harsh and frigid reminder; Xavier considered, not for the first time how it too had frozen in on desolate isolation, just like his Queen’s majestic figure in front. She stood tall and silent — the paradigm of dignity she’d forced herself to be, for the sake of Philos... and for the sake of a lover who’d refused to accept the wretched Crown of a King.  

Solitary and unattended — he’d allowed her to experience the empty desolation that came with a Sovereign’s crown of lonely leadership. And yet, even confined to the yawning silence of her frigid throne room, she’d ushered Philos into an era of prosperity. While he— 

Xavier had failed her; her hopes, her dreams... her yearnings he’d turned blind to each time she’d granted him the soft brunt of her affections sifting like stone against his heart. So in love with her — she would never know — and yet, the distance he’d maintained stretched flimsy in between them; closer than friends, stranger than lovers.  

The burden of her past life, their first life, lived in futility, through a heart that brought her no end of pain until it had burned her life out of existence — and in turn, ended his, in spirit — with her untimely demise.  

And he had — in misguided intentions, she viewed them as — refused to let the cycle of tragedy repeat once more, in the sacrifice of her sole being. As Xavier, prince of Philos. And a mere man in love with a woman. The one heart he could never bear to let go. In the name of a ‘greater good’, his father, the previous King had called it such. For Philos.  

To hell with a nation his father and his wretched co-conspirators had painted from the ground up, drenched in the blood of numerous sacrifices before her. Xavier had wanted no part in the perpetuation of that horrifying ritual.  

Desperation had eventually led him to adopt far perilous measures, to prevent her oblation in this lifetime — two centuries spent in between their tentative meetings, and then several countless more spent traversing the stars and through worlds in search of a solution. To prevent Philos’ downfall without the need to hold on to age old rustic customs. 

And he had promised her, his beautiful lonely Queen, a victory he had failed to bring to her feet. Swore to her in centuries past, when she’d still looked upon him with love naked in her gaze and worry taut in her features, that he’d search for a better path for Philos from among his travel in the stars, while she’d resolved to stay behind as their planet’s sole Sovereign; their Goddess incarnate.  

The tender warmth of her skin as he’d traced her features into memory on their last meeting all those centuries back, within the plaza rife with life; a reminder of what they were fighting for. The way she’d layered her own hand against his, letting her eyes drift shut as if she too wished to forget their fast-looming separation. 

And on the day of her coronation, he’d left her, branded as a traitor. Chancing one last, proud look upon her majestic form as she’d leveled the blade of her sword against his shoulders apiece, in their private ceremony of two, knighting him as her Grandis Knight. 

A fleeting, tentative touch of her palm she’d pressed against his shoulder in farewell, determined eyes staring into his from beneath the weight of her crown as she’d wished him well. 

“The fate of our nation rests within your hands now, Xavier. And should you fail, the entirety of Philos shall have to pay the price for the Prince’s failings.”  

Her delicate hand had tightened against the pressed shoulder of his regalia, not caring for the badges of honor there, digging into her skin. “May the Goddess be with you. Goodbye, Xavier.” 

 Xavier’s eyes flitter shut in resigned recollection; the very last touch of her warmth still fresh in his mind. In the flex of gloved digits against the badge attached to the hilt of his sword, one she’d gifted to him, in lieu of her star tassel.  

Now, as he kneels at her feet, she hasn’t even moved to touch him. Hasn’t deigned him worthy enough to afford even the mercy of her hands on his body, even if just to strike him. In ire or curses; Goddess, his heart and body have missed her so dearly. And yet, this is not the time for personal weakness. But repentance. And Xavier has always been one devoted to his cause, his one sole duty; to live and serve, to die or be tortured by her will alone.  

His Demiurge regent, his sole Queen.  

She observes great clemency as is expected of a Sovereign of her stature, when her steps shift closer; the dignified brush of her mantle pooling about her feet. Soft fur fabric brushing against the polished heel of pale shoes, the slip of bare skin through the part of her flowing robes at her legs, filling his line of sight as it remains firm, fixated upon the ground. For she has not allowed him leave to freely gaze upon her form. And Xavier is her Grandis Knight, committed to propriety of duty, if it is for her alone.  

He, however, dares: gloved digits reaching for the sweep of her queenly cape brushing the stone-cold flagstone. The pads of them skimming the soft of fur that lines its edges. And when she does not move to refute his brazen touch, he curves his fingers into the fabric and guides it up to his lips, lashes descending shut as he lays a kiss against the cloth, in show of the proper reverence she deserves. “I have returned, my Queen.” 

Xavier feels her shift above his genuflecting form, a response she utters in the voice he has missed. “Why?”  

“I will accept whatever punishment you deem necessary for my failure, your Majesty. If it is my life you seek—”  

“Why have you returned now?”  

“Forgive me, your Majesty.” 

“You are far, far too late.” The first hints of displeasure seep into her intonation, accusing strains of heat Xavier prefers to the thick monotone she’d employed previously.

“Forgive me, your Majesty.”  

An explicable tremor breaks across her still form; minute, missable, were it not for how finely attuned he is to her mannerisms, her emotions, her simmering ire.  

“Why have you returned now, after all this time? You made no promises.” She asks once more, cool resignation in her voice.  

He stares fixedly at the sight of her feet, a response she seeks from him, he has no answer to.  

Silence stretches long and taut, infinite, in between them. 

“After the first five hundred years spent waiting in futility...” she deliberates. “I finally concluded that you’d died. Perished among the unknown.” 

His fist, sunk into the unyielding cold floor at his knee, crushes tighter at her words. “...Please allow me to look upon your Majesty’s face.”  

Her footsteps glide forwards, another step closer. Ignoring his entreaty, she resumes, “I continued to make excuses for your failure to return.” She pauses. 

“It brought me some modicum of comfort to know you had not just abandoned me but that you were simply no more.” The terrifying frigid inflection of her voice numbs Xavier’s heart — cool tendrils of dread coiling vines within his chest, like their first life, he’d held her within his arms. Watched the life pool out of her eyes, leaving her dull and lifeless within his embrace.  

She has lost her heart once more, and the mere thought has Xavier’s nerves driven to near devastation.  

But he is here, he knew of the consequences. And he is here, to bear through them, to accept his Sovereign — and beloved’s — ire; no matter if she remains full or half. She is all he draws breath for, all he fights for, the pinnacle of his existence and his desires. His guiding star, his monarch, his God. 

“Forgive me, your Majesty.” He speaks, once more. 

The first signs of emotion other than cool resentment thread through her low voice: furied indignance. “Utter insolence.” 

The heel of her shoe rises before his very gaze — Xavier’s eyes falling shut to accept the brunt of her oncoming strike. One that does not come. He feels her press the harsh tip of it, instead, underneath his jaw, knocking his face upwards so that his eyes meet hers, glacial turbulence within her gaze. “How does it feel to be demeaned as if you were a mere traitor, at my feet? Do you feel as violated and desolate as I too did all those years ago?” 

She is kind, she remains so gentle; her punishment, she considers it humiliation for him to be put at her feet when it is anything but. As if it could ever be. She offers him her worship instead, and so he follows her regal command. 

Pitching his face to dig deeper against the tip of her shoe, his eyes remain devoted upon hers. Gloved fingers he brings to curl, slow beneath the sole of her boot to support, mouth skimming a kiss of reverence to the polished surface.  

Ire and heat fulgurate within her gaze at his brazen actions, she continues to watch as his mouth parts, pink tongue darting forth to slick a slow, deferential path against the cool leather of her shoe. “This is not punishment enough, your Majesty, when your Grandis Knight has been ever prepared to end his life at your feet, were it your will.” 

The spark of heat within her gaze retreats and shutters itself behind its glacial curtain. “Do you remember what it is I told you when you embarked on your journey, my Knight?” 

“I do.” He murmurs, just as she digs the edge of her heel deeper against his cheek.  

She rips herself away from his worship, sweeping right up close against his kneeling figure, until he can catch the drifts of her perfumed scent emanating from her bone-ivory robes. Can feel the brush of the silken cloth adorning her thighs, against the tip of his nose. 

Wretched, blasphemous desire churns vicious within his belly at having the woman he loves this close, after centuries spent without her — a woman that is not his, never will be. Immoral desires of a sinner for Philos’ Mother. A woman — and their nation — he brought to ruin by his own hand; Philos’ branded traitor. 

“I told you,” she speaks, in the neutrality of a Sovereign, “that were you to fail, all of Philos would have to pay the price for the Prince’s failure.” She stills. “And I am Philos, I am centered to Her core. I am Her life-force as she is mine. Our people paid a hefty price for our peace, oh Grandis Knight.” 

Xavier’s face sinks forward, brushing the edges of her silken robes against his cheek. “Forgive me, your Majesty.” In the harsh clench of his jaw; and when she does not move to spurn him, he devotes a kiss of resigned reverence to the cloth above her thigh. Her body loses part of its stillness at the action.  

“Even after all this time...” she murmurs under her breath. “You refuse to address me by my proper name, like a foolish coward.” A slipping fracture of something akin to torment in her voice.  

Xavier lets his mouth glide further up across the lustrous cloth in begging of her pardon, for the ache he has caused, has continued to cause to her. To Philos. For his protection that he has always known held a double cutting edge to itself.  

He drifts towards her other thigh, mouthing proper worship onto it and his Queen — benevolent, tender in heart still — lets the Sinner at her feet do as he pleases. Canting his gaze heavenwards to watch as she allows; her own eyes that burn into his kneeling form, observing him from her place on high.  

Her legs shift, allowing Xavier the fleeting sight of unblemished skin in between the loose flow of her fabric and like a devotee starved, he’s drawn to the catch of her inner thighs revealed with the slight disarray of her robes beneath his questing mouth. Finding her undeniably warm when his lips brush near the junction of her thighs at bare skin.  

“My Knight—” 

“You may call me by my name, your Majesty.” His hungering tongue slips past his lips to lave gentle at her. “After all, I am no more than servant to your Majesty and her great throne.”  

“Grandis Knight, you are—” 

“I am your Xavier, your sinner.” His hot gaze rolls up towards hers and beseeches. “So, please call me by name so you may curse at me.” 

He feels the fire of her indignant resentment sputter within her gaze, receding the glacial indifference of it. Her cold fingers slink into his hair and wrench harsh at the argent strands, ripping a groan free of Xavier’s throat. The very first gift she makes of pain, to him, one he receives with the reverent ardour it deserves.  

Xavier heaves forward once more to settle in between her legs, nosing at the fabric of her mound, breathing in her scent. Teeth catching at the cloth that keeps her concealed from view before he loosens it apart with a violent jerk of his head.  

Moisture glistens tempting in between her folds — the firm press of her digits against the back of his head is the sole permission Xavier requires to engulf her entirely against an open, hungering mouth, a low moan of desire breaking past his throat at the intoxicating taste of her on his tongue.  

He laps up at her; a man starved — one he is, after the emptiness of her endured in his soul, the burdens of his failures and desires commingled in the wet lave of his tongue from base to hood. Slicking the edge of his tongue against the pearl at her apex. Her low sigh follows the incessant push of his face deep into her mound, his nose brushing at the curls of it, accepting the gift of her benevolence.  

“Did you know, my dear Knight—” her voice skitters mildly in pleasure with the press of the tip of his tongue, cleaving gentle into her slit. “It did get easier.”  

Her wetness seeps past her opening and onto his fervent tongue as he dutifully swallows. He feels incredibly parched, open mouth pressing deeper against her as he works her pleasure, tongue slinking into her depths. She clenches around him at the intrusion, knocking a muffled groan free of his throat.  

“When time finally ran out for your chance to return and Philos neared the end of its life, with our people on the brink of desolate death,” her breath jolts. “I marched out there.” 

His brows knit into a severe frown, stroking his need for her ire to sheath itself deeper into his body. He requires it; his Queen’s rightful anger so that he may take all of it and her, let her bruise her emotions into it, until the moment she’s used him up to her heart’s desires and she finally weeps and hurts no more.  

And so, his lashes descend with the tight spasm of her fingers carded through his hair, steering his mouth however she pleases. 

“And I willingly bound my life force to Philos’ core so that it could continue to live. Cut out the part of me that loved and felt until I turned myself into something entirely non-human for the sake of our people. A true God.” A slow, desolate string of weak sound tapers out of her body before it augments itself into mirthless laughter that rings hollow through the great, empty space of her throne room. “It was all too easy to do so, in a world I knew my Star no longer existed. For my heart had beat for him alone.” 

A heavy bludgeon of agony rips through his chest, tries and clambers its way out of his body before Xavier tamps it mercilessly in the gentle scrape of his teeth against her tight bundle of nerves. Her violent shudders, he feels buffets her limbs before he’s reaching out for her on instinctual, fervid desire in the clasp of gloved palms against the sides of her legs, trekking his touch up her thighs. A low moan parts her lips at the touch. 

Xavier’s audacious attempt at desecrating his God further underneath his obsidian worship is foiled in the twin blades of light that cleave around his wrists, whipping them swift and away from her body to shackle them together at the base of his spine. 

His body jolts through the glaze of his desires, part sense rending through the thick of pain knocking at the back of his breastbone to realize she’s forced his submission in the resonation of her Evol against his. Emulated his Light seamlessly in the binds of radiance — befitting of Philos’ Sovereign — wound tight at his wrists. Even centuries past now, she remembers the precise shape of his Light. 

He tests a flex against his restraints, finding they do not give an inch. “You’ve grown far too bold in your time away,” her voice is a cold dagger that scotches itself right beneath his ribs. She heaves him away from her body, reluctant mouth drenched in the strings of slick and spit that trail from his mouth to the soaked space of her legs. “Grandis Knight, what makes you think you’ve earned even an ounce of me to embrace as you would, a lover?” 

“I have not, your Majesty, forgive—”  

Severing through the rest of his apology in the quiet catch of Xavier’s breath when the sole of her heel comes to rise, knocking a firm, uniformed thigh apart to reveal the indecency of his arousal to her gaze, straining painful against the placket of too tight trousers.  

The edge of her heel trailing the inside of his thigh, she switches towards the heavy length of him. Brushing the underside of his arousal, Xavier’s shoulders tense in heavy need at the barely present stimulation. Before her heel sinks firmer against the length of him, jolting a groan free of him. “Does that feel good then?” 

“Yes, your Majesty.” He breathes heavily.  

“Look at you, coming apart under the mere, filthy touch of my foot.” Her brow bunches in an irked frown.  

“No part of you—” His voice breaks apart into quiet, ragged breaths at the stimulation of her heel against the increasingly sensitive strength of his arousal. “—is filthy to me, your Majesty.”  

Xavier tugs against the leash she’s made of her fist at the back of his head and she allows him, in that moment, to arch forwards and nudge the part of her dress aside. Sink into the wet heat of her; a man imprisoned to her tender mercies and the flood of her taste in his mouth. 

He works her open against his tongue, laving at her desires. Back and forth, he doesn’t let a single drop spill past his hungering mouth until he feels the tell-tale evidence of her orgasm in the insistent clench of her walls.  

Her hips gyrate forward in tandem to the suck of his mouth against her tightened bead and Xavier lets his shoulders fall slack to allow her free reign of her release as she grinds herself against his tongue to a precipitous finish. The gush of her desires Xavier drinks down, humming in dazed arousal, to have let her find her relief; used as her personal seat of pleasure, to be tossed at her will alone.  

Her hands flitter about his head, curling on either side of his jaw to pull away from the heaven of her body, and up as she descends, her mouth settling against his in a violent kiss he receives with vehement pleasure.  

Releasing herself, slow, from him only when her desire to breath turns overbearing. The edge of her thumb slips just past his damp bottom lip, urging his mouth open further. Before she spits against his revering tongue and instructs him to, “Swallow.” 

Xavier’s mouth clamps shut on instinct, working the taste of her against himself. Gaze flittering in darkening, vicious desire at the heat of his Goddess’ gift.  

A low hush of withering laughter leaves her mouth. “I’ve tethered a rabid beast to my side.” 

Her thumb and index cup about his jaw, coaxing his gaze to remain on hers, bright, burning. “Swear to me,” she speaks. “Swear that your loyalty shall never lie with another.”  

He feels his Queen curl a tremulous fist into the robes at his shoulders, crumpling the fabric hard in between her fingers. “Swear that you shall remain mine, my Grandis Knight, for all time. That you shall never abandon me again, Xavier.”  

His gaze quivers in fleeting emotions for a moment’s weakness, steel gray resolve returning once more to utter his vow renewed. 

“I have always been yours to have or reject, your Majesty. This Knight — his Body and Soul is yours alone to wield.” 

Making of himself, a promise, he commits to her in the life she shall have; to end at the sweep of her sword, should he ever dare renege on it.  

Declaring himself, at long last, in his clear devotion; to his one Queen and God.  

Tagging: @samanthagnicole , @catboi-anon , @beebumbo , @hellinistical , @dangerousluv1 , @webmvie , @aria-tempest , @raendarkfaerie , @lamentinee , @unhingedsillygod , @tiredas

(Skipping folks who do not have tagging permissions on, so they cannot be mentioned, unfortunately)

I had the angsty pleasure of reading Xavier’s first myth for the first time a few weeks back and with the help of a Xavier main friend and inspiration drawn from Xavier’s prayer pose in photobooth, this fic was born. I hope you enjoyed your read! 

Likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated, if you are so inclined, lovelies!

If you’d like to be tagged in my future stories, you can fill this short form here. If you’d like to be removed, shoot me a DM! You can also find me on Ao3 and twitter, if you’d like to chat or just squeal with me about hot characters, in general.

[jezebelblues]

𝐀𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐔𝐒 | 𝐇.𝐒 𓆩♱𓆪

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐚𝐭, 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐛—𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲, 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫—𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬, 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐧—𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐚𝐫.

𝐂𝐖: smut18+ (p in v), implied consent, heavy sacrilegious elements, selling of soul, manipulation, blood, demonrry

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 11.3k

❏ i know this isn’t everyone’s cup of tea but i hope some of you liked this !!! <3

masterlist

IN THE BEGINNING, he was nothing. neither light nor shadow, nor the name carved upon the breath of a thousand angels. before heaven, before rebellion, before the stars spat their first flames into the void, he was silence. harry had no name then, no purpose, no shape. his existence was the marrow of chaos, the pulse of something god himself could not contain. he was desire unbound, the ache of creation, the temptation that god wove into the fabric of his design.

but god, ever proud, sought to bury him beneath the weight of divinity.

and so it was written—let there be light.

light was a shackle, a cleaving blade that divided the holy from the profane. where harry’s essence once seeped through all things, god cast him down, shoving him into the periphery of existence. the angels sang their praises, their voices golden and bright, their hands lifting the heavens into being. harry, the silent pulse of all things forbidden, was hidden beneath their hymn.

but harry did not stay silent.

when lucifer fell, harry followed. not as a soldier, not as a companion, but as something older, hungrier. when the war in heaven turned brother against brother, harry moved through the carnage like a shadow, his presence sharp and unseen. the angels wept rivers, their feathers torn from their backs like leaves in a storm. michael’s blade sang, and lucifer screamed his defiance as the heavens split open. and harry, unseen, caught the blood of the fallen in his hands, drinking it like sacrament.

he descended into hell with lucifer, but he did not bow.

asmodeus, they called him. the demon of lust, the king of desire. but harry wore the name like a mask, his true self hidden beneath the myths men would later craft to make sense of his presence. he did not revel in lust alone. no—his was the sin that bore all others, the quiet devastation of the soul, the ache that turned men’s prayers into whispers of want.

he was the serpent in eden, not in body, but in spirit. his essence seeped into the apple before it ever touched eve’s hand, a sweetness that sang of something beyond god’s dominion. the fruit’s flesh broke beneath her teeth, and in that moment, harry smiled. for the first time, the world tasted him.

harry was no prince of hell, no ruler of legions. his dominion was not forged in flames but in flesh. where lucifer sought thrones, harry sought the softest parts of god’s creation, the places where the divine cracked beneath the weight of its own hypocrisy. he was the tremor in a priest’s voice as he uttered his vows, the heat in a widow’s chest as she knelt to pray, the shadow that lingered in the hearts of the faithful.

his presence was not an explosion but a creeping rot, a sweetness that curdled into decay. he moved through the centuries unseen, his influence whispered in the psalms and carved into the margins of holy texts. the saints who fell to their knees in ecstasy, the priests who burned in the fires of their own desire—these were his victories, small and quiet, but eternal.

but in the fourteenth century, as the plague swept across europe, harry found his hunger growing. the world had grown darker, its faith frayed and trembling. death ruled the land, its shadow cast across every village, every chapel. god’s silence was deafening, and harry stepped into the void it left behind.

he had walked among men before, his form shifting and fleeting, a phantom that touched dreams and slipped through the cracks of consciousness. but this time, he longed for something deeper. the plague had starved men of their faith, but harry wanted more than despair. he wanted worship, devotion, the kind of love that burned brighter than heaven’s light. and so, he took shape, his form a blasphemous echo of the angels he had once moved among.

he descended upon the earth as a man, his beauty unnatural, almost cruel. his green eyes burned with a hunger that no mortal could comprehend, his smile a mockery of god’s grace. he moved through the world like a fever, slipping into dreams, whispering into the minds of the devout.

and when he found her—her prayers trembling on her lips, her heart untouched by sin—he knew he had found his altar.

YN knelt on the stone floor before her bed, dusted with straws of hay and dirt yet to be swept. her hands pressed together so tightly they ached. the crucifix nailed to the wall above her loomed like an executioner's blade, the savior’s face cast in shadow as the meager light of the candles flickered against the damp walls.

"holy mother, guide me," she whispered, her breath trembling. "may i serve you in purity and devotion. may i serve you..."

the words caught in her throat.

only silence answered her.

THE dreams began the night her father announced her betrothal.

it was after supper, the fire crackling low, her father’s voice heavy with the weight of finality. the man he had chosen was a merchant—twice her age, twice widowed. a practical match, her father had said. a man of standing, of faith.

YN had nodded dutifully, her hands folded in her lap, her heart trembling like the flame on the candle before her. she had whispered a prayer of thanks to god that night, her knees pressing into the cold stone of her chamber floor, her lips moving with reverence. she prayed for strength, for purity, for the will to be a dutiful wife.

that was when he first came to her.

harry.

the name would come later, slipping through her trembling lips in the dark, as though it had always been there, coiled around her tongue like a serpent in eden.

at first, it was just the sense of being watched, the prickling heat crawling over her skin as she lay beneath the coarse linen of her blankets. she told herself it was nothing—her imagination, the aftertaste of nerves. but as she drifted toward sleep, the sensation grew heavier, like a weight pressing against her chest.

in the dream, the air shimmered like heat rising from desert sand. she stood in a place that was no place—a horizonless void, dark and infinite, lit only by a soft golden glow that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

and then, he was there.

he stood at the edge of her sight, just out of focus, his form a smudge of gold and shadow. his voice was a whisper, low and smooth, threading through her mind like silk. you are beautiful, he murmured, his words curling around her like a serpent. so faithful—so untouched by the rot of the world.

she tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat, her tongue leaden with fear—or something deeper, something she could not name. he moved closer, still indistinct, his shape shifting like liquid gold in the flickering light.

do you love your god? he asked, his tone neither mocking nor kind, but something in between.

“yes.” she whispered, her voice trembling.

good. the word dripped from his lips, thick and honeyed, filling her with a sweetness that felt almost wrong. then show me.

her heart raced, her pulse pounding in her ears. she sank to her knees, her hands clasped tightly together, her prayer spilling from her lips in a hurried stream.

not to him, the voice interrupted, sharp and commanding.

she froze, her words faltering. the light around him pulsed, growing brighter, harsher, until she could barely see.

kneel to me.

her eyes flew open, her breath ragged, her body damp with sweat. the dream clung to her like a shroud, the words echoing in her mind as she sat up, clutching the cross at her neck. she prayed until dawn, her voice hoarse, the weight of the dream pressing against her like sin itself.

the next night, it happened again.

this time, she saw his face.

it was the face of an angel, but not the kind she had seen painted in the pages of her father’s bible. his beauty was cruel, his features too perfect, too sharp, his green eyes burning with an intensity that made her want to look away and yet drew her closer. his smile was a blade, cutting through her defenses with a single glance.

he stood before her, his hand outstretched. “come,” he bellowed, his voice a command and a plea all at once.

she took a step toward him, her feet moving against her will. the closer she came, the more she could feel it—that heat, that ache, that hunger.

“who are you?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

he tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as if amused. “you know who i am.”

“no,” she breathed, shaking her head. “i do not.”

his smile widened, cruel and knowing. “i am the sweetness you crave but cannot name. i am the ache that fills the hollow of your prayers. i am the shadow in the garden, the voice that whispered take and eat.”

her breath hitched, her knees buckling beneath her. she fell to the ground before him, trembling, her hands clutching at the hem of her gown.

her voice broke, her face twisting in despair. “you are a lie.”.

his laughter was soft, almost tender. “and yet, here you are, kneeling before me.”

his hand brushed against her cheek, and the touch sent a jolt through her, like fire licking at her skin. she flinched, but he caught her chin, tilting her face upward to meet his gaze.

“you will deny me.” his eyebrows furrowed, voice soft but unyielding. “you will curse me. you will pray for deliverance. and yet, you will return to me.”

she woke with his laughter ringing in her ears, her body trembling, her chest tight with something that felt like both shame and longing.

the dreams continued, night after night.

she stopped praying before bed, her faith fraying like a thread pulled too tight. the cross at her neck felt heavier, colder, as if it had become a burden instead of a comfort.

by the end of the week, she was afraid to sleep. but it did not matter. whether awake or dreaming, he was there.

he lingered at the edges of her mind, his presence a constant hum beneath her thoughts. she saw him in the curve of a candle’s flame, in the flicker of sunlight through the chapel’s stained glass, the contemptible ache that burned the pit of her stomach. his voice haunted her prayers, turning her words into whispers of doubt.

and then, one night, he was no longer a dream.

he stood in the shadows of her chamber, his eyes glowing faintly in the darkness. she sat frozen in her bed, her breath caught somewhere at the top of her throat as he stepped into the moonlight, his beauty sharp and terrible, his smile a mockery of grace.

“you called for me.”

“i did not.” she whispered, clutching the blanket to her chest.

“oh, but you did.” harry drawled, dripping with feigned sincerity.

he knelt before her, his hands resting on the edge of the bed, his gaze locking her in place. "it was the fever in your chest, the tremble in your hands as you clasped them in prayer. it was the sigh that escaped your lips as you dreamed of me.”

her breath hitched, her face burning with shame as his words carved through her, exposing her, leaving her bare.

"it was the heat between your thighs grieving my absence.” he continued, his voice a velvet knife, slicing through her defenses. "the ache that settled deep in your belly, curling low and sweet like forbidden fruit. it was the way your body sang for me, even as your lips cursed my name."

she turned her face away, her cheeks wet with tears she hadn't realized were falling.

"look at me," he commanded, his tone soft but unyielding.

her eyes snapped back to his, and the weight of his presence pressed down on her like the crushing weight of sin itself.

put to death therefore what is earthly in you: sexual immorality, impurity, passion, evil desire, and covetousness, which is idolatry

harry laughed, deep and cruel, a sound that slithered beneath her skin and coiled around her spine. “do you think your god’s design was flawless? he made you flesh and then called you sinful for feeling it.” his lips were that of the spring berries as he smiled, the faintest stretch of rose.

the scripture would rattle louder in her mind, her lips mouthing the words in a silent, desperate prayer. harry would tilt his head, watching her with an expression that was both pitying and predatory, as though she were a lamb brought before the slaughter. “no prayer, no scripture, no god will efface the truth. you weren’t made to flee from this—you were made to burn.”

”no–“

he leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear as he whispered, "you cannot lie to me, little one. your god may turn a blind eye to the truth of you, but i see it all."

his lips brushed against the shell of her ear, so light it felt like a specter’s touch, but it sent a jolt through her that left her trembling. "and you will call to me, YN.”

ONE day without him was a reprieve, though it did not feel like mercy.

her chest still ached with the weight of the dreams, her thoughts burdened by the lingering whisper of his voice. the sunlight felt sharper that day, the world too bright, too loud. every moment dragged her closer to evening, and she feared the coming of night as much as she longed for its veil.

but the dreams did not come.

that night, her sleep was empty, untouched by his presence. she woke feeling as hollow as the silence he had left behind, her body too cold without the phantom heat of him pressing against her. she prayed that morning, her knees bruised against the stone of her chamber floor, but her words felt hollow, like they were falling into an abyss.

god had not answered. neither had he.

by the time the sun dipped low on the horizon, YN’s mind was frayed, her soul heavy with both relief and dread. she lit a candle and made her way to the small shack her father had built behind the cottage—a sacred place, he called it.

it was little more than a wooden skeleton, the walls warped with time, the roof patched with hay. the wooden crucifix her father had carved hung above a stone altar, its edges blackened with the blood of lambs offered in sacrifice. the air was thick with the smell of wax and ash, the shadows heavy and alive in the flickering candlelight.

she knelt before the altar, the cold of the stone biting into her knees. her hands clasped tightly together, her head bowed, her lips moving in whispered prayer.

“father in heaven, hear me,” she began, her voice trembling. “i am weak. i am lost. guide me, cleanse me, protect me from the darkness that seeks to devour my soul.”

the words felt brittle, as if they might shatter under their own weight.

“deliver me from temptation,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “deliver me from—”

“—yourself?”

the voice echoed through the shack, low and mocking, sending a shiver down her spine. her breath caught, her body freezing in place.

“you ask for deliverance from the one thing you cannot escape.”

she turned her head slowly, her heart pounding as she saw him standing in the shadows. his beauty was sharper here, crueler, as if the walls of this sacred place brought out the worst in him.

“you shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“oh, but i should,” harry said, stepping closer, his movements fluid and calculated. “what better place for me to be? this is where your faith lies, after all. broken and bleeding on that stone.”

he gestured toward the altar, his smile wicked. “how many lambs have been slaughtered here, their blood spilling in vain as your father begged his god to hear him? tell me, little one, how often has he answered?”

she flinched, her hands clutching at her dress, but she couldn’t look away.

“you kneel before this altar as if it can save you,” he paused, his voice a low purr. “but your prayers are nothing more than empty words, falling on deaf ears. your god doesn’t listen, YN. he never has.”

“stop,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“why should i?” he asked, tilting his head, his eyes pines blanketed in fog. “why should i hold my tongue when the truth is so deliciously plain? look at this place—this shrine to a silent god. the blood stains the stone, the candles burn low, and still, you kneel.”

he stepped closer, the heat of his presence overwhelming her, suffocating.

“you pray to him, and yet your body longs for me.” his voice was a velvet knife. “your lips speak his name, but your soul cries out for mine. every breath you take in this place is a mockery of the faith you claim to hold.”

“you lie,” she spat, her voice trembling.

“do i?”

he reached out, his fingers brushing against the wooden crucifix that hung above the altar. his touch was gentle, reverent almost, but his eyes burned with something dark, something unholy.

"stop.” YN insisted, her voice rising. "you cannot defile this place."

"cannot?" he echoed, his smile widening. "little lamb, i have been defiling sacred places since the stones were first laid."

"get out," she hissed, her voice trembling.

he tilted his head, feigning confusion. "why? am i not welcome in my father's house?"

"you are no son of god.” she bit, her nails digging into her palms.

he laughed, a low, resonant sound that seemed to reverberate off the walls and whisper malevolence. “this,” he said, his voice soft but laced with venom, “is not salvation. it is a symbol of failure. your god hangs here, broken and bleeding, a man nailed to wood, unable to save himself, let alone you.”

her breath hitched, her chest tightening as his words carved through her. the candles burned lower, their flames flickering as if suffocating. the crucifix above them groaned, the carved figure of christ seeming to shift, his eyes now open, his mouth twisted in a silent scream.

“he is not here,” he continued, his tone dripping with mockery. “but i am. i have always been here, in the shadows, in the spaces where your god’s light does not reach.”

he turned to her then, his eyes locking with hers. “kneel to me, YN.” harry exhorted. “kneel to the one who hears you, who sees you, who wants you.”

her body trembled, her knees threatening to give out beneath her. she clutched the edge of the altar, her knuckles white, her breath ragged.

“i will not,” she whispered, though her voice wavered with the weight of the lie.

he smiled, a predator’s smile, and took another step closer. "blessed are the pure in heart," he recited softly, his voice dropping to a whisper. "and yet here you are, YN. your prayers stained with want, your purity burned away by the fire in your chest. tell me, little lamb—what does your god see when he looks at you now?"

DREAMS came to her again last night, wrapping around her like silk soaked in poison. she woke with the taste of copper on her tongue. the air was thick, rancid, like meat left to rot.

but it was saturday, and there was no room for weakness on the sabbath.

her father had already dressed in his fine woolen cloak, his voice sharp as he called for her to hurry. she obeyed, tying her hair beneath her veil, clasping the cross at her neck with trembling fingers.

her steps dragged as she and her father walked to the chapel, the congregation gathering like crows around carrion. the chapel’s crooked steeple cast a shadow across the field, its bell tolling low and mournful. the holy place felt like a maw, swallowing her whole.

the priest’s voice boomed as the congregation kneeled on the dirt floor, their heads bowed.

“let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts; let him return to the lord, that he may have compassion on him, and to our god, for he will abundantly pardon.”

the words struck YN like a lash, her heart thundering in her chest as she whispered the verse under her breath. she gripped the wooden bench in front of her, her knuckles white, trying to anchor herself.

“compassion,” the priest intoned, his hands raised high. “he calls to us, even now, though we are unworthy. he calls to the sinners, the straying sheep. come back to him, my children. return to the lord.”

a low chuckle coiled through the air, faint as the flicker of a candle but unmistakable. YN’s stomach dropped.

“do you believe that?” the voice whispered, warm and mocking, curling behind her ear. “that he’ll pardon you? that he’ll save you from me?”

she didn’t dare lift her head.

“seek your servant, for I do not forget your commandments,” the priest continued, his voice heavy with fervor.

“he’s lying,” harry purred, his voice like velvet dragged over glass.

YN’s breath caught in her throat.

“you’ve forgotten every commandment that matters,” harry continued, his tone soft, intimate. “what about the one that said, thou shalt not covet? because you do. every night, in your dreams, you covet me. and your god?” he growled, low and mocking. “he watches.”

her body trembled, her fingers digging into the rough wood as the priest’s voice rose.

“i have gone astray like a lost sheep; seek your servant, for i do not forget your commandments.”

harry’s laughter slithered through her mind, dark and sharp. “you are a lost sheep,” he said, his voice dripping with mock pity. “but he doesn’t seek you, little one. he sent me instead.”

she gritted her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut as the priest called for the hymn. the congregation rose to their feet, their voices low and discordant as they sang, the words clawing at the stale air.

“holy father, forgive us, for we have sinned. purify our hearts, that we may walk in your light…”

“his light,” he scoffed, his voice like a knife slicing through the hymn. “look around you. this chapel is a tomb. the life you sacrifice, the blood you spilled—it did nothing. and still, you sing to a god who leaves you on your knees, begging.”

YN’s voice faltered, the hymn dying in her throat.

“keep singing,” he whispered, his voice a noose around her throat. “pretend he can hear you. pretend this is not the cry of the forsaken.”

her breath came fast, her chest tight as she darted a glance toward the altar. the priest stood with his arms raised, his back to the congregation. behind him, barely visible in the flickering light, stood harry.

he was leaning against stone altar, eyes gleaming with amusement. his beauty was stark against the dark stone, his smile sharp and cruel. he dipped his fingers into the chalice of wine and brought them to his lips, licking the crimson liquid from his skin with deliberate ease.

“the blood of christ,” he murmured, tilting his head. “does it taste like salvation? or does it taste like rot?”

YN’s stomach twisted, her knees trembling as she clutched the back of the pew for support.

“your god demands sacrifice, little one. a lamb, a son, a savior nailed to wood. i demand nothing but you.”

the priest turned, lifting the chalice high. “this is the blood of christ, shed for us, that we may be cleansed of sin.”

harry grinned, his teeth glinting like ivory in the dim light. “if you drink it, will it stop the ache?” he asked, his voice low and taunting. “will it fill the hollow i left in you? or will it only make you hungrier?”

her legs buckled, and she sank back onto the bench, her body trembling.

“stand,” her father hissed under his breath, his grip biting into her arm.

“i can’t,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“you can,” harry said, stepping closer, his eyes locking with hers. “you will. for you know i’m watching.”

the congregation knelt again, murmuring prayers of repentance. YN bowed her head, her heart pounding as she forced the words to her lips.

“forgive me, lord, for i have sinned…”

“no,” harry growled like a prayer ripped inside out. “not him. me.”

his shadow loomed over her, heavy and oppressive, and when she dared to lift her head, he was standing directly before her. his gaze burned with something dark, something primal, and his smile was a blade pressed to her throat.

“pray to me, little lamb,” he murmured, his voice low and commanding. “ask me to deliver you. beg me for salvation.”

she squeezed her eyes shut, tears slipping down her cheeks as her lips moved in silent prayer.

“your god isn’t listening,” he said, his voice soft and cold. “but i am.”

when she opened her eyes, he was gone. but the air still burned, his words etched into her mind like scripture written with flames.

THE day was gray, heavy with the weight of a coming storm, but YN could not wait for the skies to break. her soul was breaking already.

the dreams were unbearable now. waking was worse. her every breath felt like a prayer unspoken, each step an act of penance for sins she could not name aloud. her father noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes, the tremor in her hands, but he only frowned and muttered about weakness.

"pray harder," he told her.

so she did.

the confessional was cold, the air thick with damp and the faint smell of rot. YN knelt on the rough wood, her skirts pooling around her as she folded her hands tightly, her knuckles white. the small window before her was shuttered, and through the slats came the low rasp of the priest's breathing.

the priest’s voice came soft through the slats. “speak, child. let your sins fall from your lips, and god will wash them away.”

she trembled, unsure if her words could even be spoken aloud. “father, i am… i am haunted.” her voice broke, shaking with shame. “in dreams. a man—no, not a man. something else. he comes to me, tempts me, mocks my prayers. i try to resist, but he—”

her voice failed.

the priest made a low noise of understanding, his tone grave. “the devil comes in many forms, child. his beauty is meant to deceive, his words to ensnare. you must resist him. confess fully, and god will grant you the strength to drive him away.”

YN’s lips parted to respond, but the air changed. the confessional grew darker, the candlelight flickering weakly. the priest’s breathing faltered, replaced by a sound she knew too well.

laughter. low, rich, and far too familiar.

“resist me?�� the voice came smooth and mocking, curling through the air like incense. “you could no sooner resist the tide than resist me.”

YN’s blood turned to ice. her nails digging into her palms as she whispered, “no. not here.”

“oh, but here,” his tone was laced in wicked amusement. “this is perfect. isn’t this where you come to bare your soul? where you whisper all your secrets, hoping your silent god will hear?”

“leave,” she hissed, her voice shaking.

his laugh deepened, almost tender. “and rob myself of the pleasure of hearing what you truly want to say?”

her throat tightened as she pressed her hands together, forcing her trembling lips into a prayer.

“our father, who art in heaven—”

“—has forsaken you,” he interrupted, his voice a sharp, blasphemous mimic of reverence. “your father doesn’t want you, little lamb. he gave you to me the moment your knees hit the floor. what did you think he’d do? save you?”

she squeezed her eyes shut, her voice trembling. “hallowed be thy name.”

“yes, hallowed,” he purred. “and hallowed is the way you whisper my name in the dark. tell me, YN, when you kneel like this, do you imagine it’s for him?”

her hands flew to her ears, trying to block him out, but his voice only grew louder, more insistent.

“stop hiding,” he spit, his tone sharp now, demanding. “tell him the truth. tell him how your thighs tremble when i’m near, how your breath catches when i speak your name. tell him about the ache that wakes you in the night, the way you burn for me even when you beg for deliverance.”

her breath came in gasps, her body trembling. “you’re lying,” she choked out, her voice breaking.

“am i?” he asked, leaning closer. the confessional creaked as if straining to contain him. “then why are you here? not to confess, surely. no, you came here hoping i’d follow. hoping i’d find you, press close, whisper in your ear.”

the wood slats separating them seemed too thin, too fragile, and the air grew stifling.

“take and eat, little lamb,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate. “for this is my body, given for you.”

her stomach twisted, shame and something more burning hot in her veins.

“this god of yours,” harry continued, his voice a cruel mockery of the priest’s measured tone. “he asks for everything and gives you nothing. he demands blood, obedience, sacrifice. what do i ask for?”

she shook her head, trembling. “leave me alone.”

“what do i ask for?” he repeated, his voice louder, harsher now, like a crack of thunder. “your pleasure. your desire. the things you deny even to yourself.”

the priest’s voice broke through the haze, faint but steady. “child, speak. what is it you see?”

YN opened her eyes, her breath coming in shallow gasps. through the slats, the priest sat motionless, his eyes half-lidded and dull, as though he were barely there.

“he doesn’t even know i’m here,” harry laughed softly. “they never do. blind sheep, praying to an empty sky. but you see me, don’t you, YN? you feel me.”

she stumbled from the confessional, her knees weak, her chest heaving as she staggered toward the altar. the chapel spun around her, the walls closing in, but she dropped to her knees again, clutching the cold stone with desperate hands.

she looked up, her gaze drawn to the crucifix, and her breath caught in her throat.

christ's face, carved from pale wood, seemed to shift in the trembling candlelight. his eyes, once serene, now seemed to stare down upon her with sorrow—or was it accusation? the wounds on his hands and side bled afresh, crimson rivulets that ran down his body and dripped onto the altar.

she stifled a choke. “forgive me, father,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “for i have sinned.”

but the words felt hollow, her prayers cracking under the weight of his voice as it lingered in her mind.

“your god isn’t listening,” harry murmured, his tone soft but unrelenting. “but i am.”

the shadows seemed to twist around her, thick and suffocating, and for a moment, she thought she felt his hand ghost across her cheek. she cried out, pressing her forehead to the stone as the chapel grew silent once more.

but even as she prayed, she could feel him there, watching, waiting.

IT was well past midnight when YN woke with a start, the air in her chamber cold and heavy. the faint light of the moon filtered through the small window, casting pale streaks across the floor. her heart was racing, though she couldn't remember dreaming. perhaps it was the silence itself that had startled her, the kind of silence that felt alive, that pressed against her ears and made the hairs on her neck rise.

then she heard it.

a soft scrape, the barest shift of weight on old stone. her breath caught as her eyes darted toward the corner of the room. at first, there was nothing—just shadow. but the longer she stared, the more the shadows seemed to thicken, pooling together, forming a shape.

and then he stepped into the light.

he looked more human now than he ever had in her dreams, though the sheer perfection of him was anything but mortal. his green eyes glowed faintly in the darkness, sharp and predatory, their color like fresh spring leaves glistening with dew. his curls fell loose around his face, framing features so flawless they felt like an insult to the world that had made her.

he was bare from the waist up, his skin pale as marble, his chest broad and smooth. faint scars crisscrossed his arms and shoulders, not marks of war but something deeper, older, like remnants of a punishment she couldn't begin to fathom. he was beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful—gleaming, deadly, meant to draw blood.

YN's breath came fast and shallow, her body frozen in place as he moved closer. his steps were slow, deliberate, each one making the air between them heavier.

"you didn't dream of me tonight," he said softly, his voice low, almost conversational.

her breath caught as she clutched her blanket tightly.

"did you miss me?"

"no," she whispered, though her voice trembled.

his smile widened, wicked and knowing. "liar."

he stepped closer, and the shadows seemed to follow him, pooling at his feet like they belonged to him.

"why are you here?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

he tilted his head, his green eyes gleaming as he looked at her. "why do you think?"

"leave me be," she whispered, her hands gripping the cross around her neck.

his gaze dropped to it, his smile softening into something crueler. "that again," he muttered, moving closer. "you think it'll save you?"

he reached out, his hand brushing lightly over the cross. it burned hot against her skin, the chain snapping and falling into his palm. the cross itself turned black beneath his touch, the wood cracking, the air around it heavy with the smell of smoke.

YN gasped, her hand flying to her throat as he let the ruined cross clatter to the floor. "you clutch at your symbols like they mean something," he grumbled, his voice rich with disdain. "your god's little trinkets. do you think they'll stop me?"

her breath came fast, her body trembling as he knelt before her, his face level with hers.

"don't," she managed, her voice breaking. but it held no real conviction.

his lips twitched, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest as he leaned closer, the heat of him suffocating. "don't what? don't touch your meek toys? or don't touch you?"

his hand lifted, slow and calculating, until his fingertips brushed the edge of the blanket covering her legs.

"i see the way you tremble," he murmured, his voice like silk pulled taut. "not with fear. no, this is something else."

“stop.”

"why?" he asked, his tone soft, almost gentle. "why should i stop, when your body begs me to keep going? when your cunt weeps my name, even as your lips say no?"

her face burned, shame twisting in her chest as she shook her head violently. "no. you're lying."

it felt even more shameful that she was the one who lied.

his smile widened, sharp and predatory. "am i?"

his hand dragged up her leg, slowly, the blanket slipping as his fingers grazed her bare skin. her body jolted at the touch, a heat blooming deep in her belly that she tried desperately to ignore.

"there it is," he said softly, his eyes locking with hers. "that flame. you try so hard to smother it, to pretend it's not there. but it is, YN. it always has been."

"you're wrong," she said, though her voice faltered.

his hand paused, resting just above her knee, his thumb brushing in slow circles against her skin. "am i?" he asked, his tone low, teasing. "then why are you shaking? why does your breath hitch when i'm near?"

she clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms as tears pricked her eyes. her desires were red hot, searing and damning—it could blind her.

"there's no shame in it, little lamb." he murmured, his voice soft and coaxing. "desire is the most human thing about you. even the saints, even the martyrs—they all burned with it. they lied to themselves, called it devotion, but you..." his hand slid higher, his touch light but deliberate. "...you feel it for what it is. don't you?"

her body shuddered, heat and shame twisting together in her chest. "no," she whispered, her voice breaking.

his laughter was soft, warm, like a lover's. "you keep saying that, but your body tells me otherwise. it sings for me, YN. every breath, every tremble, every beat of your heart—it's all for me."

his hand left her leg suddenly, the loss of his touch almost startling. it felt wrong to miss it. but she shifted in her bed, tucking her legs beneath her.

he rose to his feet, towering over her, his presence heavy and oppressive. "look at you," he pouted, his voice low and mocking. "kneeling there like a lamb before the slaughter. tell me, YN—when you kneel to your god, does it feel like this?"

her head snapped up, her breath coming in ragged gasps as tears streaked her cheeks. "you're vile," she spat, her voice trembling.

his smile didn’t waver, “and yet you crave me.”

her lips parted to deny him again, but no words came.

"pray to him," he said suddenly, his tone sharp. "pray to your silent god. beg him to take me away. go on."

her hands shook as she clasped them together, her lips moving in a hurried, whispered prayer.

"louder," he demanded, his voice a growl.

she choked on the words, her voice faltering.

"he doesn't hear you," harry breathed, leaning down, his eyes burning. "but i do. i hear every word, every plea, every desperate little gasp."

his hand brushed against her cheek, light as a whisper, and her body flinched at the heat of his touch. "and i'll return to you.”

then he was gone, leaving her alone in the stifling darkness.

YN collapsed onto the floor, clutching the blackened cross in her trembling hands. her prayers spilled from her lips in frantic, broken whispers, but her chest ached with the weight of him, her shame twisting into something darker.

your body tells me otherwise.

the words echoed in her mind, and no matter how hard she prayed, she couldn't silence them.

and part of her didn’t want them to be silenced.

THE festival was a rare indulgence, but one that brought the village together in a brief, fragile joy. the green had been cleared of mud and manure, and stalls were hastily built from rough-hewn wood to hold baked breads, sugared apples, salted fish, and honeyed wine. ribbons of faded red and gold hung between posts, fluttering weakly in the breeze, a half-hearted attempt at gaiety. the villagers gathered in their sunday best—threadbare cloaks and patched tunics, the smell of sweat and smoke clinging to the air.

YN moved stiffly beside her father, her eyes fixed on the ground as he gripped her arm with a hand calloused from years of tilling the fields. his voice, rough and impatient, barked orders as they wove through the crowd. “stand straight. do not fidget. the merchant will see you soon.” he snapped, his words a command, not comfort.

her stomach churned at the thought. she had heard of the man—léonard. old, jowled, his hands thick with grease and his temper legendary. his two previous wives had died, and the rumors whispered that it was grief that drove him to cruelty. others muttered darker things.

“a match is a blessing,” her father had said weeks before, his face dark as a storm. “you will not shame this family with resistance. god’s will is clear—obedience to your husband, salvation through servitude. you will thank him for this.”

YN bit the inside of her cheek, her throat tight as her father led her through the crowd. laughter and shouting mingled with the braying of goats and the clatter of wagon wheels, but it all felt far away, a blur against the rising dread in her chest.

and then she saw him.

harry.

he was standing near one of the stalls, his green eyes fixed on her, gleaming like firelight through emerald glass. he leaned casually against a post, shirtless, his pale skin a stark contrast to the coarse linens and wool around him.

no one else seemed to notice him.

her breath hitched as he began to move, threading through the crowd with a predator’s ease. his presence was heavy, suffocating, even as he stayed just far enough away to keep her guessing.

her father stopped abruptly, and she nearly stumbled into him.

“he’s here.” her father muttered, his voice heavy with satisfaction.

her gaze snapped forward, and there he was—léonard.

his cloak was fine but stained, the dark fabric stretched tight over his rounded belly. his face was ruddy, his jowls trembling as he spoke, his voice low and wet, like the squelch of mud beneath boots.

“so this is the girl,” léonard paused, his beady eyes scanning her from head to toe. “she’ll bear fine sons, i’m sure.”

YN’s cheeks burned as her father grunted his agreement.

“come closer, girl,” he barked, motioning her forward.

she stepped forward reluctantly, her body tense, her hands clasped tightly together.

and then she felt it.

a touch, light as silk, sliding along the small of her back. her breath caught as harry’s voice curled through her mind.

“look at him,” he purred, his tone rich with disdain. “smells like pig’s blood and sour ale. this is the man your father chose for you? a shepherd fattened for slaughter?”

her knees weakened as his hand slid lower, his touch teasing but firm.

“stop,” she whispered under her breath, her voice trembling.

léonard raised a brow. “speak up, girl.”

harry chuckled darkly, his breath warm against her ear. “sheep don’t speak,” he said, his tone a mockery of scripture. “they follow.”

her body stiffened as his hand crept to her hip, his fingers pressing lightly, just enough to make her shiver.

“obedience,” he murmured, his lips brushing the curve of her ear. “isn’t that what they want from you? isn’t that what your god demands? kneel, obey, bleed. it’s a wonder they don’t ask you to thank them for it.”

léonard was still speaking, his voice droning on about dowries and blessings, but it was muffled now, like the buzz of flies over something rotting.

“look at him,” he whispered. “look at the way his lips move, spilling lies and demands. do you smell it, little one? the decay beneath gold? this is what they call god’s will.”

her breath hitched as harry’s hand moved to her thigh, his fingers dragging upward slowly, teasingly.

“you could scream right now,” his voice was low and taunting. “and no one would care. they’d blame you for it. your father would say it’s your fault. your god would call it a test. but me? i’d enjoy it.”

“enough,” she hissed under her breath, her voice trembling.

léonard frowned. “what did you say?”

he laughed, his eyes gleaming. “tell him, little lamb. tell him what you really want to say.”

YN’s heart raced as harry stepped around her, moving behind léonard.

“this is what you’ll wake up to every morning,” he taunted, gesturing to the man’s bulk, his jowls, the faint stink of sweat and blood. “this is your future. do you see it?”

he tilted his head, his lips curling into a wicked smile.

“let me show you.”

before she could respond, harry reached out, and suddenly léonard’s throat was slit, a jagged, gaping wound spilling blood in thick rivulets. his mouth moved silently, his eyes wide with shock as he stumbled back, gurgling, before collapsing to the ground.

her breath caught in her throat, her body frozen in horror.

harry knelt beside the body, his fingers dipping into the blood and lifting it to his lips. “the blood of the lamb,” he said, his tone rich with mockery. “shed for you. do you feel saved yet?”

her knees buckled, and she grabbed at her skirts, trembling.

“YN!” her father barked, his voice sharp.

she blinked, and léonard was standing again, unharmed, his voice droning on as if nothing had happened.

harry stood beside him, his eyes locked on hers, his smile wicked. “just a taste,” he mumbled. “but you see it now, don’t you? the rot. the lie. tell me you want more.”

her chest heaved, her breath shallow as she tore her gaze away, trembling. “i… i need a moment.” she stammered, fleeing before her father could object.

YN's feet moved without thought, her breath shallow and uneven as she fled toward the trees at the edge of the green. the sounds of the festival faded behind her—laughter, clinking mugs, the low hum of a hymn sung off-key. she stumbled into the shadows, her back pressing against the rough bark of a tree as her hands trembled against her skirts.

her heart pounded as she clenched her eyes shut, willing the sickening image of léonard's torn throat to leave her mind. the blood. the gurgling.

the way harry had knelt so casually beside the body, his fingers trailing through the crimson spill like it was honey.

"it wasn't real," she whispered, her voice shaking. "it wasn't real."

"oh, but it could be."

her eyes snapped open, and there he was.

he stood a few paces away, leaning casually against another tree, his eyes bright even in the dim light. he looked impossibly at ease, his shirtless torso pale and gleaming, the scars that marked his flesh carved from a divine hand.

her chest heaved as she pressed herself tighter against the tree, her knees trembling. "you’re vile," she spat, though the words came out weak, a desperate attempt to regain control.

harry’s smile widened, wicked and knowing. "yet here you are," he said softly, stepping closer. "running from him. running to me."

she pressed her back harder against the tree, the bark scraping through the thin fabric of her dress.

"leave me," she whispered, her voice trembling.

harry tilted his head, his curls catching the faint light, making him look more angel than demon. but his smile gave him away, all sharp edges and mockery. "leave you?" he repeated, taking a slow step closer. "but you're the one who called me here. the moment you fled, the moment you thought of me instead of your god."

"i didn't," she said quickly, her voice breaking, though she couldn't meet his eyes.

"liar." he murmured, closing the distance between them in a single stride.

the heat of him was overwhelming, pressing against her like a heavy shroud. his fingers reached for her, trailing along her jawline, his touch featherlight but impossible to ignore.

"do you know what you've done, little lamb?" he asked softly, his tone almost gentle. "you've brought me here. to this holy forest, where the air smells of prayer and sacrifice. do you think your god is watching now?"

she flinched, her lips trembling as she looked down. "he watches everything."

harry laughed, low and dark, turpentine—wearing her thin . "oh, YN. he does not watch you, if he was, would he have let me come so close?"

his fingers slipped beneath her chin, lifting her face until their eyes met. "would he have let you feel this?"

her breath hitched as his other hand trailed down, brushing over her waist, bunching the fabric of her dress in his fist. the coarse wool scraped against her skin as he gathered it higher, his green eyes never leaving hers.

"stop," she whispered, her voice trembling.

his smile widened, cruel and indulgent. "but you don't want me to stop," he said softly, his tone a mockery of tenderness. "you want me to keep going, to do what your god will not."

there was a moment of silence, eyes boring into one another as the trees shook in the breeze of whispers. “banish me.” he prodded, his eyebrows furrowed. “tell me to go and i will leave you.”

her chest heaved as she struggled to find her voice, to deny him, but the words tangled in her throat.

the faint glimmer of her damning shining through her cracked resolve.

"look at you," he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "trembling like a virgin sacrifice before the altar. but that's what you want, isn't it? to be taken. to feel something other than this cold, empty devotion."

"no," she choked out, though her body betrayed her, her legs weakening as he stepped closer, his body crowding hers against the tree.

"no?" he repeated, his voice a low growl. "then why aren't you pushing me away? why does your breath quicken when i touch you? why does your cunt sing for me, even now?"

his hand slipped lower, finding her thigh beneath her skirts. his touch was firm but slow, deliberate, as he dragged his fingers upward, his gaze locked on hers.

"your god asks for obedience," he uttered, his voice sharp and mocking. "he demands sacrifice. but i ask for nothing but this."

her knees buckled slightly as his fingers brushed the edge of her undergarments, the heat pooling low in her belly making her head spin.

"don't." she whispered, though her voice lacked conviction.

harry's free hand moved to her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. "don't lie to me, little lamb. i can taste the truth on your lips."

he leaned closer, his breath warm against her mouth. "say it," he urged, his voice low and commanding. "say you want me."

her breath came fast and shallow, her heart pounding as shame and desire tangled in her chest.

"say it.”

her resolve crumbled. "i-i want you," she choked out, her voice breaking.

she gasped, her hands clutching his arms while her face burned—shame and something darker twisting inside her as his fingers slipped beneath the thin fabric, finding her folds.

"there," he murmured, his tone soft and taunting. "that's the truth of you, YN. not the prayers, not the fasting, not the faith. this. this heat, this need, this sin. it's mine."

her nails bit into his skin, taut and firm underneath while his digits slid through her arousal, deliberate and unhurried.

"you'll deny it, of course," he hummed, eyes burning as he watched her. "you'll call it blasphemy, call it wrong. but it's not wrong, is it? it feels too good to be wrong."

she bit her lip, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her body trembling as he circled her clit with maddening precision.

when he withdrew his hand, her body lurched at the loss, her breath catching in her throat. harry's fingers glistened in the faint light, slick with her arousal, a damning testament to her betrayal.

"look at this," he breathed, holding his hand before her face. his eyes burned with triumph, his lips curling into a smile. "the fruit of your desire. forbidden, but oh, so sweet."

YN's lips trembled, her cheeks wet with tears as she tried to look away.

"no," he said sharply, his tone slicing through the air like a blade. "you don't get to turn away from this. from me. taste it, little lamb. taste what you've given me."

her stomach twisted as he pressed his fingers to her lips, the heat of his touch scorching her skin.

"open," he commanded, his voice low and unyielding.

she hesitated, her chest heaving with shame and fear.

"open," he said again, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. "you've come this far. don't turn back now."

her lips parted, a trembling act of surrender, and he slipped his fingers into her mouth. the taste was overwhelming—salt and heat and something darker, something that made her stomach clench and her body burn with ashamed desire.

"good girl.” he breathed, his tone a velvet caress. his eyes stayed locked on hers, watching every flicker of emotion that crossed her face.

when he pulled his fingers away, he let them trail down her chin, leaving a faint sheen behind.

"do you see it now?" he asked softly, his hand moving to cup her face. "do you see what you are?"

she shook her head, not trusting her voice.

his smile deepened, his thumb brushing over her trembling lips. “you do not see, hm?” he cooed, “you are mine by design, as eve was made for adam, as fire is made to burn."

she slid down the tree, her back scraping against the bark as she crumpled to the ground, her head in her hands.

harry crouched before her, his smile softening into something almost tender. "pray if you like," he murmured. "but it won't change the truth."

he stood then, his green eyes gleaming as he disappeared into the shadows, leaving her trembling and broken beneath the gnarled branches of the forest.

THE days following her surrender blurred together, each one heavier than the last. YN no longer prayed—not because she didn't want to, but because the words felt meaningless. they sat heavy on her tongue, unmoving, like stones lodged in her throat. every attempt at confession ended in silence, the weight of her sin pressing her knees deeper into the cold stone of the chapel floor.

and yet, it wasn't guilt that made her tremble in the quiet moments. it wasn't shame that kept her awake at night, her hands fisting her sheets as she tried to ignore the heat pooling low in her belly. it was him. the memory of his touch, his voice, his green eyes burning into hers as though they could see every thought she tried to hide.

she waited for him. every day, every night. and when he didn't come, it felt like torment.

it was near midnight when she woke to the smell of smoke.

at first, she thought the cottage was burning, but when she sat up, the air was still. no flames licked at the thatched roof, no shouts from her father broke the night. the smell was faint, clinging to her skin like an afterthought, mingling with the faint taste of ash on her tongue.

the shack was colder than she remembered.

YN stepped inside, her breath catching as the warped wooden door groaned shut behind her. the faint smell of damp wood and old blood clung to the air, a reminder of the offerings her father had made here long ago. candles sat in the corners of the room, their flames low and flickering, casting shadows that stretched like grasping hands across the walls.

and at the center of it all stood the altar.

its surface was dark with stains that time could not scrub away. her father's hands had held lambs there, muttering prayers as their blood spilled onto the stone. the altar had been a place of sacrifice, of devotion, of faith.

now, it was hers.

harry stood beside it, waiting. his bare chest gleamed in the candlelight, the scars that crossed his pale skin stark and unyielding. his eyes burned as they met hers, the corners of his mouth curling into a slow, knowing smile.

"you came," he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent.

her body trembled as she stepped closer, the worn planks beneath her feet creaking with every step. "you called for me.” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"are you afraid?" he asked, his voice a low hymn, the kind that made sinners weep.

YN's knees shook. her faith had been a crutch her entire life, a shield against the dark, but now that shield was splintered, discarded at her feet. she didn't want god anymore.

she wanted him.

"no," she lied, though her heart was a caged bird, its wings beating frantically against her ribs.

harry smiled. it was not a kind smile. it was the smile of a wolf, sharp and full of promise. he beckoned her closer with the wave of his hand, her steps light until she stood before him at the altar.

his hand reached for her, pale fingers curling around her throat. his grip was light, reverent, as though she were something holy, something to be cherished.

his mouth found hers, claiming her with a kiss that was both savage and tender, his lips devouring hers with a hunger that felt endless. her body melted against him, her resistance crumbling with every stroke of his tongue, every graze of his teeth.

his hands roamed her body, pulling at the coarse fabric of her dress, lifting it away from her skin with a reverence that felt almost mocking. when the cold air hit her bare flesh, she shivered, but his warmth was there, surrounding her, consuming her.

he looked at her like she was something sacred, a relic carved by divine hands. his eyes trailed over her shoulders, her breasts, her hips, lingering on the hollow of her throat where her pulse fluttered like a trapped moth.

"do you know,” his voice soft as a lover's whisper, "that heaven and hell both weep at the sight of you?"

her breath hitched, her cheeks burning as she crossed her arms over her chest, trying to shield herself from his gaze.

"don't," he said softly, his tone sharp but not unkind.

his hands reached for hers, pulling her arms away from her body. "don't hide from me, YN. not here. not now."

his hands moved over her then, slow and purposeful, tracing every curve, every line, as though committing her to memory.

"you're perfect," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "the most beautiful lie heaven has ever told."

her chest heaved as his hands slid to her waist, lifting her effortlessly onto the cold stone of the altar. the chill bit into her skin, sharp and unyielding, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his body as he stepped between her legs.

"do you feel it, little lamb?" harry murmured, his voice dark and smooth, the words curling into her ear like smoke. "the way your body aches for something more? the way your soul trembles at the edge of the void?"

YN gasped, her body trembling beneath him, every nerve alight with a sensation she couldn't name. she tried to speak, to protest, but when his fingers gripped her hips and dragged her closer, the words dissolved on her tongue.

"i'll make you feel heaven," he sighed against her lips, his voice a promise and a threat.

her mind swirled with panic and want, her hands pressing weakly against his chest. "this is... wrong," she whispered, her voice trembling.

"wrong?" harry repeated, a laugh slipping from his lips, low and mocking. "do you think the lamb is asked if it consents to the knife? do you think your god cares for your innocence, your purity? no, YN. you were born for this. to be taken. to be ruined."

before she could respond, he kissed her, and it wasn't the soft, tender act she had imagined in her prayers. his lips claimed hers with bruising intensity, his tongue forcing its way past her defenses, devouring her protests until there was nothing left but submission.

her hands, once pushing against him, now clutched at his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor her as the world seemed to shift beneath her.

his lips descended to her neck, his breath hot against her skin as he kissed the tender flesh just below her ear. she shuddered, her fingers tightening against into him as his teeth grazed her, a soft scrape that sent heat coursing through her veins.

her head fell back, a soft moan escaping her lips, and she hated herself for it. hated the way her body betrayed her, the way it arched toward him, desperate for his touch.

his body was a weapon forged of bone and muscle. he was naked, his skin a canvas of scars and shadows, his beauty as blasphemous as it was perfect.

"do you remember your scripture, YN?" he asked, his lips brushing her ear. "your body is a temple, isn't it?"

her breath came in short, desperate gasps. "yes.”.

"then let me worship."

the stone of the altar was cold against her back, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from his body. he moved with purpose, his hands firm on her thighs as he spread her open, exposing her in a way that made her breath hitch.

he shifted, pressing his hips against hers, and the hardness of his cock sent a shudder through her body. she gasped, her nails digging into his sides as he positioned himself between her thighs, his movements deliberate, torturous.

YN cried out, her back arching against the altar, her hands clutching at him as her body stretched to accommodate him. he fucked into her, the sensation overwhelming, a mix of pain and pleasure so intense it felt like her very soul was unraveling.

"that's it," he grunted, his voice thick with pleasure. "take me, little lamb.”

his hips moved, his thrusts deep and unforgiving, each one dragging a sound from her lips that she couldn't control. the rhythm of him was maddening, each movement sending a wave of heat crashing through her, building and building until she thought she might break.

"do you feel it?" he asked, his hand gripping her thigh, his fingers digging into her flesh. "do you feel heaven inside you? because it is not god who gives it to you. it is me."

YN's head fell back, her eyes squeezed shut as her body betrayed her, her hips rising to meet his with every thrust. she hated herself for the way her breath hitched, for the way her moans spilled from her lips like confessions.

"say it," he commanded, his voice low and rough, his hips driving into her with brutal precision. "say you find salvation in me."

her eyes flew open, meeting his gaze, and she saw it then—the green fire that burned in his eyes, the darkness that curled at the edges of his smile.

"say it," he demanded again, his pace quickening, his body relentless—a sacred place ricocheting with moans and wet slaps of skin against skin.

"i–" she gasped, her hands clawing at his back, her breath coming in ragged sobs.

"say it," he growled, his hand tangling in her hair, pulling her head back so that she had no choice but to look at him.

"i find salvation in you!" she cried, the words ripping from her throat like a scream.

his smile was triumphant, his lips descending to her throat, his teeth scraping against her skin as he drove into her harder, faster, each thrust filling her with a pleasure so sharp it bordered on agony.

her body tensed, her breath catching as the pleasure crested, shattering over her like a wave. she cried out, her voice echoing through the chapel, a sound of both ecstasy and despair.

as she fell apart beneath him, she felt the final pieces of her faith crumble, her soul slipping from her grasp and into his hands.

harry stilled above her, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, "you were always meant for this. for me."

the shack went still. the candles burned low, their wax pooling onto the cracked wooden floor, the flames flickering weakly as if ashamed of what they had witnessed. the air was heavy, thick with the scent of sweat and smoke and something darker. the altar was cold beneath YN’s bare back, but she no longer felt it.

the space seemed different now. even as moonlight spilled through cracks in the wood, painting the ruins in pale silver, there was no pretense of holiness. the crucifix above her hung crooked, the wooden christ staring down with lifeless eyes, mouth agape not in sacrifice but in mockery. if god was watching, he did nothing. no lightning struck. no thunder rolled.

she thought, for the first time, that perhaps he was never there at all.

what had she done?

the answer burned its way into her mind, not with guilt, but with a clarity so sharp it was almost cruel. she had abandoned heaven for him. traded salvation for damnation.

the weight of harry’s body pressed into her, his chest rising and falling against hers in a rhythm that was almost human. almost. her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, her breath shallow, her hands limp at her sides.

this was what she had feared, wasn’t it? the moment she’d run from, prayed against, begged god to prevent. and yet here she was, laid bare on the very altar her father had once sanctified with lamb’s blood. the same altar where prayers for forgiveness had echoed into the rafters, unanswered.

she could feel harry still on her, even as he moved away, the imprint of his body an ache that had lodged itself deep in her marrow.

the stone beneath her was unforgiving, just like the faith she had clung to for so long. faith that had demanded her knees break on cold chapel floors, her hands bleed as she tilled the earth in her father’s shadow, her heart ache as she bent to the will of a god who had never once spoken her name.

now, that faith lay in ruins.

she pushed herself up slowly, her limbs weak, her thighs slick with what they had done. the air bit at her skin, but she did not cover herself. there was no point. there was no shame left to cloak herself in.

harry stood near the altar, watching her. his naked body was a study in contrasts—smooth and unyielding, as though carved from alabaster, but alive with a heat that seemed to radiate from his very core. his beauty was inhuman, the kind that drew worship but offered no mercy in return.

his gaze on her was heavy, not with judgment but with possession. he had taken her, yes, but it wasn't force. it was inevitability. a dance they were always meant to perform.

YN swung her legs over the edge, her bare feet touching the cold stone floor. she thought of the animals her father had slaughtered here, the way their blood had run in thin rivulets down the grooves of the altar.

how fitting that she had bled here, too.

harry spoke no parting words, offered no promises. he didn't need to. what had happened was already written into her skin, her bones. it wasn't just her body he had claimed. it was her soul, and now it was marked, an unholy sigil that no prayer could erase.

when she stepped out into the night, the air was sharp and cold, the stars above indifferent and unmoving. but YN did not shiver. she felt warm, burning with a fire that no heaven or hell could extinguish.

there were no more prayers left on her lips. no scripture to guide her. there was only him, harry, and the path he had carved into her.

and as they disappeared into the forest's dark embrace, the shack and its altar remained behind, empty and silent, its walls whispering of a god who had abandoned it long ago.

[apoemaday]

Eurydice

by Carol Ann Duffy

Girls, I was dead and down in the Underworld, a shade, a shadow of my former self, nowhen. It was a place where language stopped, a black full stop, a black hole Where the words had to come to an end. And end they did there, last words, famous or not. It suited me down to the ground.

So imagine me there, unavailable, out of this world, then picture my face in that place of Eternal Repose, in the one place you’d think a girl would be safe from the kind of a man who follows her round writing poems, hovers about while she reads them, calls her His Muse, and once sulked for a night and a day because she remarked on his weakness for abstract nouns. Just picture my face when I heard -- Ye Gods -- a familiar knock-knock at Death’s door.

Him. Big O. Larger than life. With his lyre and a poem to pitch, with me as the prize.

Things were different back then. For the men, verse-wise, Big O was the boy. Legendary. The blurb on the back of his books claimed that animals, aardvark to zebra, flocked to his side when he sang, fish leapt in their shoals at the sound of his voice, even the mute, sullen stones at his feet wept wee, silver tears.

Bollocks. (I’d done all the typing myself, I should know.) And given my time all over again, rest assured that I’d rather speak for myself than be Dearest, Beloved, Dark Lady, White Goddess etc., etc.

In fact girls, I’d rather be dead.

But the Gods are like publishers, usually male, and what you doubtless know of my tale is the deal.

Orpheus strutted his stuff.

The bloodless ghosts were in tears. Sisyphus sat on his rock for the first time in years. Tantalus was permitted a couple of beers. The woman in question could scarcely believe her ears.

Like it or not, I must follow him back to our life -- Eurydice, Orpheus’ wife -- to be trapped in his images, metaphors, similes, octaves and sextets, quatrains and couplets, elegies, limericks, villanelles, histories, myths…

He’d been told that he mustn’t look back or turn round, but walk steadily upwards, myself right behind him, out of the Underworld into the upper air that for me was the past. He’d been warned that one look would lose me for ever and ever.

So we walked, we walked. Nobody talked.

Girls, forget what you’ve read. It happened like this -- I did everything in my power to make him look back. What did I have to do, I said, to make him see we were through? I was dead. Deceased. I was Resting in Peace. Passé. Late. Past my sell-by date… I stretched out my hand to touch him once on the back of the neck. Please let me stay. But already the light had saddened from purple to grey.

It was an uphill schlep from death to life and with every step I willed him to turn. I was thinking of filching the poem out of his cloak, when inspiration finally struck. I stopped, thrilled. He was a yard in front. My voice shook when I spoke -- Orpheus, your poem’s a masterpiece. I’d love to hear it again…

He was smiling modestly, when he turned, when he turned and he looked at me.

What else? I noticed he hadn’t shaved. I waved once and was gone.

The dead are so talented. The living walk by the edge of a vast lake near, the wise, drowned silence of the dead.

[myster-roca]

La Pelle del Diavolo: A Halloween Special

The night air in the hills of Tuscany was thick with the scent of earth and wild herbs, but a chill crept through the wind, slipping from the shadows cast by ancient oaks around the estate. Marco Romano, a seasoned thief, felt the familiar prickle of excitement as he approached the villa.

Dark whispers and superstitions tugged at the edges of his thoughts, but he pushed them aside. Danger was an old friend, and tonight, it had led him to the mysterious Villa Tenebra.

The locals had spoken of the villa’s hidden treasure in hushed tones over dark wine, only daring to mention it in shadowed corners of Florence’s oldest bars. It was a relic of myth, known as the Corpus Noctem, the key to immortal life. Marco had dismissed it as folklore at first, but the lure of such power was impossible to resist.

He had slipped into Villa Tenebra with the help of a map from a cryptic dealer in Florence—a strange man eager to be rid of it. The map was faded and worn, but it revealed something extraordinary: an old smugglers’ passage hidden in the villa’s foundations, built centuries ago to let noblemen move treasures in and out undetected.

The entrance to the passage lay hidden behind a statue in the villa’s overgrown gardens, its base concealing a narrow stone door. With a grunt, Marco pushed it open, revealing a winding staircase descending into the earth. The air was cool and damp, and each step echoed, punctuating the silence with a heavy, ominous beat.

At the bottom, the passage twisted into a dimly lit stone hallway. Shadows flickered on the walls, worn smooth by years of forgotten footsteps. Marco moved forward, his senses sharp, adrenaline building. The air was thick, carrying an old, metallic scent, as though it held memories of things long past.

A few meters down, he found himself in a corridor and saw something he had never encountered—a perfectly sculpted muscle suit that looked like leather, coated in wax, and painted red. The closer he got, the more he felt an odd pull, a magnetic force that made his skin tingle and his pulse intensify.

The suit looked like leather but felt too smooth, too alive. It beckoned to him.

“This is it. The Corpus Noctem. The Flesh of the Night,” he whispered, his voice thick with greed. “The key to youth and eternal life.”

His fingers hovered over the material, and as soon as he touched it, a rush of heat surged through him, like electricity flooding his veins. His fingertips tingled as he traced its sculpted lines. The sensation was intoxicating, almost erotic. His breath quickened, and an unfamiliar hunger stirred deep within him.

With the suit clutched in his arms, he moved quickly down the hall, rounding a corner, his breathing quickening as he felt its warmth intensify. The heat from the suit seemed to throb, mirroring his own pulse, sending waves of anticipation rippling through him.

He knew he couldn’t wait any longer—he needed it on his body, needed to feel it enveloping him.

Setting the suit down, he hurriedly removed his clothes, pulling off his sleek, dark outfit and kicking off his boots. His legs trembled as he reached for the red muscle suit once more, pressing himself against it and feeling heat spread through his body.

He removed his pants, standing completely naked before the suit, savoring the rich red sheen of the leather.

Without hesitation, he began to put it on. The moment it touched his skin, a wave of pleasure and power flooded his senses.

As he slid the suit further up his leg, he felt an incredible tightness around his calf, a strange, thrilling tension as though the suit were pulling at his muscles. And then, to his astonishment, he felt his calf muscle expand, swelling against the material as though infused with newfound strength.

He continued, slipping his other leg in, feeling the suit tighten around his thighs. The same sensation of growth surged through him, his quads and hamstrings expanding, hardening, becoming thicker, stronger.

Marco’s hands trembled as he pulled the suit up over his hips, feeling the snug embrace of the material. He slipped his arms into the sleeves, and as the suit enveloped his torso, a wave of heat exploded through his chest and back.

He watched in awe as his pecs rose, filling out, becoming solid and powerful, each muscle now perfectly defined. His shoulders broadened, the suit tightening around them, forcing them to grow, to harden, until they were as strong as stone.

His arousal surged as he ran his hands down to the calves and then up to the chest, pressing his palm against the sculpted abdomen. It felt perfect—hard, tight, like a muscular man was inside.

Eyes closed, he traced his hands over the biceps and around to the triceps, savoring every sensation.

“You shouldn’t have touched that.”

The thief spun around. An old man stood in the hallway, his silver hair gleaming in the dim light. On his right hand, a tarnished silver ring caught the faint glow, intricate symbols etched into its surface.

His eyes, sharp and full of something the thief couldn’t quite place, bore into him. The air between them crackled with tension.

“This is your treasure, old man?” the thief sneered, masking the tremor in his voice.

The old man stepped forward, his lips curling into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Treasure? No… it’s a curse. You should strip it off and leave while you still can. That suit… The Corpus Noctem… was never meant to be worn by anyone who values their soul.”

The thief chuckled darkly, reveling in the waves of pleasure and power coursing through him as the suit clung tighter, molding to his body like a second skin. “You’re just trying to scare me. It’s mine now.”

But then, something shifted. The warmth he’d felt before began to change, becoming suffocating, as though the suit itself was tightening around him, digging deeper into his flesh.

The initial rush of pleasure twisted into something unbearable, a heat that clawed at him from within.

His chest heaved as panic seized him. “What… what is happening?”

The old man’s gaze was steely, his voice soft yet filled with grim satisfaction. “You wanted to own the suit, to wield its power. But now, it owns you.”

The thief’s hands flew to the suit, trying to rip it off, but the material wouldn’t budge. Panic clawed at him as he realized the truth—this wasn’t just a myth or legend. This was real, and he had fallen for its trap.

“The suit was crafted centuries ago,” the old man continued, his voice soft yet laden with dark knowledge. “A coven of sorcerers, desperate for immortality, summoned an ancient demon—the Harrower of Flesh—who bound its essence into the hollow skin of a man, creating the Corpus Noctem. Whoever wore it would gain eternal youth and beauty, but at a cost: for each year they lived, they’d need to drain another’s essence, leaving behind a lifeless skinsuit. To bypass this, the wearer must cloak themselves in the flesh of another soul—only by donning this skin over the Corpus Noctem can one remain whole.”

The thief’s vision blurred as the suit constricted around him, merging deeper into his skin. His body tingled with a sensation that was equal parts pleasure and terror. It felt as if the suit were feeding on him, consuming his very essence.

The old man’s frail form shifted, and with deliberate slowness, he raised his hands to his face. He pulled it off, revealing a lifelike mask, and beneath it, a strikingly youthful, handsome face emerged—features sharp, jawline strong, eyes dark and piercing. Smirking, he removed his clothes piece by piece, casting off the disguise of age.

As the last layer fell, the old, fragile illusion was gone, replaced by a chiseled, muscular figure that looked as if it had been carved from marble. His back straightened, shoulders broad, and every inch of him radiated a powerful, youthful energy.

“You see, I was once like you,” the man said, his voice now rich and powerful. “I, too, was lured by the suit’s promises. But unlike you, I learned its secrets and made it my own. I’ve lived for centuries, wearing this skin, draining life from those foolish enough to fall into its grasp.”

The thief stumbled back, his body no longer his own. The suit tightened again, and he felt his skin loosen, as if separating from his bones, becoming pliable and empty. He was now little more than an outer shell waiting to be filled.

“You’ll be perfect,” the man murmured with a predatory smile. “I’ve been needing a new face. And your body… it will serve me well.”

The man reached down, his fingers trailing over the thief’s hollowed form, savoring the warmth and fresh pliability. He lifted the emptied skin carefully, feeling its readiness to be inhabited. Pausing, he slid a tarnished silver ring from his finger and set it gently on the floor beside him, a faint smile crossing his lips, as if the gesture held private, ritualistic meaning.

With a sigh of satisfaction, he began donning the suit, the thief’s former identity slipping over him like a glove. The skin conformed to him, tightening and sealing with a sensation that sent shivers through him—a seductive merging of flesh and power.

He ran his hands over his new form, relishing the strength beneath his fingers. This body was everything he’d hoped for—youthful, strong, and ready to endure another century. He reached down, rubbing his hands over Marco's abs, feeling the muscles tense beneath his touch. His hands drifted lower, gripping Marco's cock, heat radiating from it. Wrapping his hand around the shaft, he began to stroke.

“Do you like it?” he asked himself with a smile.

He began to laugh as he continued stroking, feeling Marco grow harder. On the verge of climax, he still sensed remnants of Marco's essence, and his smile grew even wider. Reaching up, he massaged his new face.

But he wasn’t done. He turned to the Corpus Noctem, lying on the floor like a crimson shadow. With practiced ease, he slipped it on, layer by layer, feeling it fuse with his stolen body, amplifying his strength, fortifying every fiber. The suit melded seamlessly, completing his transformation.

Reaching down, he retrieved the silver ring from the floor and slid it back onto his finger, a final touch that signified the bond. He looked into the grand mirror, admiring the flawless reflection. Turning sharply, he traced a hand along his new jawline, savoring the unfamiliar yet perfectly familiar contours. The face of a man he had consumed, a youth he had stolen, now belonged to him entirely.

With a slow exhale, he ran his hands over his abs, savoring each hard, sculpted ridge beneath his fingertips. The suit hugged every contour perfectly, every muscle honed, every line exact.

“Magnificent,” he whispered, his voice low with satisfaction, echoing through the empty hall like a dark promise. Only his faint laughter remained, drifting through Villa Tenebra’s silent halls, waiting for the next soul to fall prey to the Corpus Noctem.

--- ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ---

Would you like to expand this dark universe? Follow me to explore more content and updates: https://linktr.ee/mysteroca

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Hey, I wanted to ask, do you have any tips for numbers and their meanings, For example: what does the number 5 represent?

Writing Notes: Symbolism of Numbers

In symbolism, numbers are not merely the expressions of quantities, but idea-forces, each with a particular character of its own.

The actual digits are, as it were, only the outer garments.

All numbers are derived from the number one (which is equivalent to the mystic, nonmanifest point of no magnitude).

The farther a number is from unity, the more deeply it is involved in matter, in the involutive process, in the“world.”

The first 10 numbers in the Greek system (or twelve in the oriental tradition) pertain to the spirit: they are entities, archetypes and symbols.

The rest are the product of combinations of these basic numbers.

Below are the most generally accepted symbolic meanings of each number.

ZERO

Non-being, mysteriously connected with unity as its opposite and its reflection; it is symbolic of the latent and potential and is the “Orphic Egg.”

From the viewpoint of man in existence, it symbolizes death as the state in which the life-forces are transformed.

Because of its circular form, it signifies eternity.

ONE

Symbolic of being and of the revelation to men of the spiritual essence.

The active principle which, broken into fragments, gives rise to multiplicity, and is to be equated with the mystic Centre, the Irradiating Point and the Supreme Power.

Stands for spiritual unity—the common basis among all beings.

Guénon draws a distinction between unity and one, after the Islamic mystic thinkers: unity differs from one in that it is absolute and complete in itself, admitting neither two nor dualism.

Hence, unity is the symbol of divinity.

Is also equated with light.

TWO

Stands for echo, reflection, conflict and counterpoise or contraposition; or the momentary stillness of forces in equilibrium; it also corresponds to the passage of time—the line which goes from behind forward; it is expressed geometrically by two points, two lines or an angle.

It is also symbolic of the first nucleus of matter, of nature in opposition to the creator, of the moon as opposed to the sun.

In all esoteric thought, two is regarded as ominous: it connotes shadow and the bisexuality of all things, or dualism (represented by the basic myth of the Gemini) in the sense of the connecting-link between the immortal and the mortal, or of the unvarying and the varying.

Within the mystic symbolism of landscape in megalithic culture, two is associated with the mandorla-shaped mountain, the focal point of symbolic Inversion, forming the crucible of life and comprising the two opposite poles of good and evil, life and death.

THREE

Symbolizes spiritual synthesis, and is the formula for the creation of each of the worlds.

Represents the solution of the conflict posed by dualism.

Forms a half-circle comprising: birth, zenith and descent.

Geometrically it is expressed by three points and by the triangle.

The harmonic product of the action of unity upon duality.

The number concerned with basic principles, and expresses sufficiency, or the growth of unity within itself.

Associated with the concepts of heaven and the Trinity.

FOUR

Symbolic of the earth, of terrestrial space, of the human situation, of the external, natural limits of the “minimum” awareness of totality, and, finally, of rational organization.

Equated with the square and the cube, and the cross representing the four seasons and the points of the compass.

A great many material and spiritual forms are modelled after the quaternary.

The number associated with tangible achievement and with the Elements.

In mystic thought, it represents the tetramorphs.

FIVE

Symbolic of Man, health and love, and of the quintessence acting upon matter.

Comprises the four limbs of the body plus the head which controls them, and likewise the four fingers plus the thumb and the four cardinal points together with the centre.

The hieros gamos is signified by the number five, since it represents the union of the principle of heaven (three) with that of the Magna Mater (two).

Geometrically, it is the pentagram, or the five-pointed star.

Corresponds to pentagonal symmetry, a common characteristic of organic nature, to the golden section (as noted by the Pythagoreans), and to the five senses representing the five “forms” of matter.

SIX

Symbolic of ambivalence and equilibrium, six comprises the union of the two triangles (of fire and water) and hence signifies the human soul.

The Greeks regarded it as a symbol of the hermaphrodite.

It corresponds to the six Directions of Space (two for each dimension), and to the cessation of movement (since the Creation took six days).

Hence it is associated with trial and effort.

Shown to be related to virginity, and to the scales.

SEVEN

Symbolic of perfect order, a complete period or cycle.

Comprises the union of the ternary and the quaternary, and hence it is endowed with exceptional value.

Corresponds to the seven Directions of Space (that is, the six existential dimensions plus the centre), to the seven-pointed star, to the reconciliation of the square with the triangle by superimposing the latter upon the former (as the sky over the earth) or by inscribing it within.

It is the number forming the basic series of musical notes, of colours and of the planetary spheres, as well as of the gods corresponding to them; and also of the capital sins and their opposing virtues.

Corresponds to the three-dimensional cross.

The symbol of pain.

EIGHT

The octonary, related to two squares or the octagon, is the intermediate form between the square (or the terrestrial order) and the circle (the eternal order) and is, in consequence, a symbol of regeneration.

By virtue of its shape, the numeral is associated with the two interlacing serpents of the caduceus, signifying the balancing out of opposing forces or the equivalence of the spiritual power to the natural.

It also symbolizes—again because of its shape—the eternally spiralling movement of the heavens (shown also by the double sigmoid line—the sign of the infinite).

Because of its implications of regeneration, eight was in the Middle Ages an emblem of the waters of baptism.

Corresponds in mediaeval mystic cosmogony to the fixed stars of the firmament, denoting that the planetary influences have been overcome.

NINE

The triangle of the ternary, and the triplication of the triple.

It is therefore a complete image of the three worlds.

The end-limit of the numerical series before its return to unity.

For the Hebrews, it was the symbol of truth, being characterized by the fact that when multiplied it reproduces itself (in mystic addition).

In medicinal rites, it is the symbolic number par excellence, for it represents triple synthesis, that is, the disposition on each plane of the corporal, the intellectual and the spiritual.

TEN

Symbolic, in decimal systems, of the return to unity.

In the Tetractys (whose triangle of points—four, three, two, one—adds up to ten) it is related to four.

Symbolic also of spiritual achievement, as well as of unity in its function as an even (or ambivalent) number or as the beginning of a new, multiple series.

According to some theories, ten symbolizes the totality of the universe—both metaphysical and material—since it raises all things to unity.

From ancient oriental thought through the Pythagorean school and right up to St. Jerome, it was known as the number of perfection.

ELEVEN

Symbolic of transition, excess and peril and of conflict and martyrdom.

According to Schneider, there is an infernal character about it: since it is in excess of the number of perfection—ten—it therefore stands for incontinence; but at the same time it corresponds, like two, to the mandorla-shaped mountain, to the focal point of symbolic Inversion and antithesis, because it is made up of one plus one (comparable in a way with two).

TWELVE

Symbolic of cosmic order and salvation.

It corresponds to the number of the signs of the Zodiac, and is the basis of all dodecanary groups.

Linked to it are the notions of space and time, and the wheel or circle.

THIRTEEN

Symbolic of death and birth, of beginning afresh.

Hence it has unfavourable implications.

FOURTEEN

Stands for fusion and organization.

And for justice and temperance.

FIFTEEN

Markedly erotic.

Associated with the devil.

OTHER NUMBERS

Tarot

Each of the numbers from sixteen to twenty-two is related to the corresponding card of the Tarot pack; and sometimes the meaning is derived from the fusion of the symbols of the units composing it.

There are two ways in which this fusion may occur: either by mystic addition (for example, 374 = 3 + 7 + 4 = 14 = 1 + 4 = 5) or by succession, in which case the right-hand digit expresses the outcome of a situation denoted by the left-hand number (so 21 expresses the reduction of a conflict—two—to its solution—unity).

These numbers also possess certain meanings drawn from traditional sources and remote from their intrinsic symbolism:

24, for example, is the sacred number in Sankhya philosophy, and

50 is very common in Greek mythology—there were fifty Danaides, fifty Argonauts, fifty sons of Priam and of Aegyptus, for example as a symbol, we would suggest, of that powerful quality of the erotic and human which is so typical of Hellenic myths.

Repetition

The repetition of a given number stresses its quantitative power but detracts from its spiritual dignity.

So, for example, 666 was the number of the Beast because 6 was regarded as inferior to seven.

Contained within a multiple

When several kinds of symbolic meaning are contained within a multiple number, the symbolism of that number is accordingly enriched and strengthened.

Thus, 144 was considered very favourable because its sum was 9 (1 + 4 + 4) and because it comprises multiples of 10 and 4 plus the quaternary itself.

Lastly: Dante, in the Divine Comedy, has frequent recourse to the symbolism of numbers.

Sources: 1 2 3

More: On Symbolism

Hope this helps, would love to read your writing if it does!

[eyeforchaos]

"If it weren't for me, we'd be out of here by now." - ody to kyv

He looks over as he hears the other, staring at him for a long moment. Kyvyn looks back to the sand underneath them, quiet a moment. “You couldn’t’ve known things would end up like this, captain.” He starts, choosing his words carefully. “You can’t control the way things happen. The best you can do is try and adjust as they do.” So much had happened since they left Troy, none of which they could’ve prevented.

But I could have. The guard is quick to shove that thought aside, hands digging into the sand a bit.

[dokjafang]

whats your opinon on yan vampires?

♡ Book. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

♡ Word Count. 576

♡ Banner / Mentioned Story. 🔞Will you scream? Or will you beg?

When it comes to Yandere! Vampires, I don’t go for the usual romanticized, angsty, or gothic portrayals. Instead, I base my interpretation on the real origins of vampire myths—historical cases, early folklore, and actual criminal events that shaped the concept of vampires.

♡ Historical Basis of Vampires.

The vampire archetype wasn’t born out of fantasy but fear—specifically, fear of the unknown, disease, and serial killers before the term even existed. Some of the earliest “vampires” were actually:

Folkloric Figures: In Eastern Europe, corpses were sometimes exhumed and found with bloated bodies and blood at the mouth, leading to beliefs in revenants.

Plague Victims: During outbreaks, bodies were found in states of decomposition that looked unnatural (e.g., receding gums exposing more teeth, bloated stomachs). People assumed they were rising from the grave to spread disease.

Real Killers: Figures like Elizabeth Báthory (1560–1614), accused of bathing in the blood of virgins, or Peter Kürten (the "Vampire of Düsseldorf," 1883–1931), who drank victims' blood, reinforced the monstrous image.

♡ Yandere! Vampires: No Clichés, Just Psychological Horror.

If I were to write a Yandere! Vampire, it wouldn’t be some brooding immortal with tragic eyes whispering about eternity. Instead, it would reflect the true horror behind the myth:

Bloodlust as a Ritual: Killing and consuming someone isn’t just an act of hunger; it’s deeply intimate. This aligns with how historical cases of vampirism often involved obsession and ritualistic behavior.

Possession, Not Just Love: Yandere behavior stems from extreme obsession and control. A true vampire yandere wouldn’t just stalk or protect their darling; they would see them as something to be consumed, owned, and preserved—perhaps in a literal sense.

Eroticism and Death: Historically, vampirism has always been tied to both seduction and violence. Rather than softening it into a fantasy, I’d lean into the disturbing, almost religious reverence of taking a life in the name of love.

Kinks: Blood Drinking / Blood Play, Vore, Sanguinarianism, Biting / Marking, Feeding Control, Total Ownership / Objectification, Hypnosis / Mind Control, Sacrificial Play, Necrophilic Undertones, Fear Play

♡ Comparison to Yandere! Sukuna.

I view Yandere! Sukuna in the same way. A "soft" Sukuna is a contradiction. If he were to cherish someone, it would be through the ultimate act of consumption—literally savoring his darling as a meal. This isn't mindless brutality but an act of twisted intimacy. Similarly, a true Yandere! Vampire wouldn’t just protect or admire their darling; they would worship them in the most visceral, horrifying way possible.

♡ Final Thoughts.

I respect different takes on yandere vampires, but for my own writing, I refuse to dilute them into fantasy tropes. A vampire’s love is terrifying because it’s not love—it’s hunger disguised as devotion.

────────────

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Ink & Insight”:

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology ♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. ♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World. ♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows. ♡ Book 5 [you are here]. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

[writingastory]

[01] - A Cold Prison

— A multi-chapter story based on Zayne's myth "Tower of Secrets".

Synopsis: Zayne, a celebrated surgeon, is haunted by a past of love and sacrifice. As his powers dare to consume him, the woman he’s eternally bound to starts to uncover the truth of their fated connection.

Pairing: Zayne x fem!reader (not MC -> Evol: Time Distortion)

Genre: (Former) Foreseer Zayne AU, Multiple timelines/Reincarnation

Warnings: Spoilers, canonical violence and pain, angst, fighting, eventual fluff

"Zayne? Are you listening?"

Your voice rang through the apartment like a soft melody, carried by the warm steam from the hot, long shower you just took. "Zaynie~!"

Chuckling, you wrapped a towel around your frame and stepped out of the bathroom. The large living room was illuminated by a gentle glow from the fire crackling away in the fireplace. Through the floor-length windows, you cold see the violent blizzard raging outside, tinting the landscape in greys and whites.

Zayne sat in his reading corner, in a large arm chair right by the windows, his gaze fixed on the outside world. The lamp next to him was turned off; he looked like a shadow, brooding and lifeless.

Memories pushed their way back into his mind; memories that he had locked away so carefully and securely, breaking out of their prisons. A deadly blizzard capturing him, his home crumbling underneath his feet, his love carried away by the wind. 'Don't cry. Promise me you won't cry anymore.' There she laid, amongst the jasmine flowers, while ice pierced his body, the cold creeping through his flesh, suffocating him-

"Zayne?"

Your voice was soft, your hand gently coming up to squeeze his shoulder. He startled out of his thoughts, looking up at you with wide eyes. "Yes, love?" He sounded almost robotic as he willed those gruesome memories back into the dark, to be lost and forgotten. "What is it?"

Frowning, you tilted your head slightly as you looked at him. Letting go of his shoulder, you turned on the lamp next to him with a soft click.

"Are you okay?" You whispered after a few long moments of silence, kneeling in front of him. There they were. These beautiful eyes that he fell in love with all those centuries ago, staring up at him, full of sadness and concern.

"I'm okay," he answered, cupping your cheeks gently. Zayne constantly had to remind himself that you were real. You were there, with him. And every time he got used to it, every single time he felt at ease and comfortable, Astra found a way to remind him how fleeting the moment was, how limited your time together. Just like he did now. Zayne could feel him in the blizzard, divine eyes watching his every step, all the time. It never stopped.

"Ah, Zayne...!" you winced, pulling away from him suddenly, holding your cheek. "Your Evol..."

He looked down at his hands, icy crystals spreading over his palms slowly. It was happening again. He grunted in pain clenching his hands to fists.

"I-"

The words got stuck in his throat as a sharp pain ripped through his chest. Ice rose up his neck, growing over his jaw. You gasped quietly. He had problems controlling his Evol recently - but never like this. "Zayne," you called out to him, putting your hands on his fists. Skin colder than ice, Zayne's hands trembled violently. His breathing was labored, small beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

"Look at me," you said softly, your hands coming to rest on his shoulders. "Look at me..."

Zayne willed one eyes open ever so slightly, fighting the pain surging through his body. Your heart clenched at his agonized expression, pain and fear evident in his gaze. You had to do something - anything - to stop this...

"I'm sorry," you whispered, cupping his cheeks gently. You knew he hated the feeling of your Evol, but you had no other choice.

Time froze at your command - and your surroundings along with it. The fire in the hearth stood still, the snowflakes outside your window stopped falling, and Zayne - for a moment - stopped being.

You took a deep breath and kissed his forehead, trying to ease his anguish; he almost looked like a wax figure straight from the museum... but it worked. Standing up and taking a step back, you raised your hand slowly, your palm facing up. Slowly, a soft, warm glow filled your hand, as you slowly rotated it counterclockwise.

The fire flickered in an unnatural pattern.

The snowflakes were raised back into the clouds.

The ice on Zayne's skin disappeared bit by bit.

Zayne panted heavily when he came back to his senses, palming his chest in slight panic. He looked up at you with widened eyes, taking in your presence.

"You used your Evol...?"

Lowering your hand again slowly, you nodded, watching the snowflakes outside floating to the ground again - as if nothing had ever disturbed their path. "It's fine," you said quietly, "I only used it for my immediate surroundings."

Zayne swallowed thickly, his racing heart finally starting to calm down. "You know I hate when you do that. It's far too dangerous, and it feels terrible."

You averted your gaze, nodding again. "I know, but I wanted to-"

"Thank you," he cut you off, slowly standing up from his arm chair. There was no need to elaborate, no need to think about what happened, and why it happened.

You saved him - for the moment at least. That was more than he could have ever asked of you.

That was more than what you should have done.

[speaknow-sw]

•| ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏʀɢᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ |•

Content : kissing, fighting, injuries, cult, mentions of nudity, knife throwing, TENSION,

A/N : chapter 4 for you, and I love this one. I think I did good with the tension. Hope you’ll like it. •| ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪᴠ : ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴀ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ |•

Even the sharpest mind can be dulled by devotion, for faith does not seek reason—it demands surrender.

BENEATH THE GILDED SURFACE OF ROME, beneath the marble temples and the deafening roar of the Colosseum, beneath the weight of empire and conquest, there are whispers. A name, a legend, a warning—The Cult of Romulus.

Few speak of them openly. Fewer still claim to know the truth of their origins. But in the shadows of the Eternal City, their presence lingers like the scent of blood in the sand. They are not men of politics, nor men of gods. They do not serve the Senate or the Emperor, nor do they pray at the feet of Jupiter or Mars. They serve only a name, a ghost, a myth that has never faded—Romulus, the first king of Rome.

It is said that when Romulus vanished, taken by the gods or swallowed by the earth, he did not truly die. His bloodline remained, diluted through centuries, hidden among the common-born and noble alike. The Cult exists for one purpose alone: to preserve that bloodline and to ensure that no false heir dares to rise. They believe the spirit of Romulus must remain undisturbed, that his sacrifice—the foundation of Rome itself—must never be undone.

Which is why he should not exist.

Anakin, the golden-haired barbarian, the lion of the arena, the undefeated gladiator. The one whose presence unsettles them, whose face stirs something ancient in the bones of Rome itself. They have been watching him for months, moving in the shadows, waiting for a sign, for proof of what they already suspect.

Now, they have seen enough.

Now, they must kill him before he remembers. Before he becomes what he was always meant to be.

The night is thick with the scent of burning oil and damp stone, the streets of Rome restless beneath the hush of midnight. The Colosseum looms in the distance, its arches gaping wide like the ribcage of a beast long since stripped of its flesh, waiting to swallow those destined for slaughter. The city sleeps, but danger does not.

Anakin walks at the center of a small procession, flanked by three guards. Unlike the other gladiators, he wears no chains. They do not need them. His reputation is enough to keep most would-be troublemakers at bay. The golden-haired barbarian, the undefeated wolf of the arena. A killer. A beast. He has earned his place in Rome’s bloody history, and yet, in the restless hours before dawn, the city whispers of something more.

They are watching.

They have always been watching.

The Cult of Romulus has been following him for months, moving in the shadows, gathering their forces, waiting for the right moment. Tonight, they strike.

It happens as they pass through a narrow alley leading to the outer gates of the Colosseum. The air is thick with the stench of piss and rotting grain, the streets silent but for the steady footfalls of the guards. Then, in a breath, the silence shatters.

A cloaked figure drops from the rooftops, landing with the grace of a panther, a blade flashing silver in the moonlight. A second follows, then a third. The guards barely have time to shout before steel meets flesh, the sickening crunch of bone splitting the night.

Anakin reacts before thought.

A sword is thrust toward him—he sidesteps, catching the attacker’s wrist, twisting hard until he hears the snap of bone. A dagger whistles past his ear, but he moves like a storm, relentless, brutal. His knee drives into a man’s gut, and as he doubles over, Anakin brings his elbow down on the back of his skull. The body crumples.

Another comes at him from behind—too slow. Anakin spins, grabbing the hilt of the attacker’s blade before it can plunge into his back. He wrenches it free and buries it in the man’s throat, ripping it sideways with a sickening shhk. Warm blood spatters his skin, the copper scent thick in the air.

But there are too many.

They are not common thugs. Their movements are disciplined, their tactics coordinated. They are here for him.

One of the remaining assassins steps forward, hood slipping just enough to reveal the glint of a golden wolf’s head embroidered into his collar. His voice is calm, even reverent.

"The blood of Romulus runs through your veins. The gods demand it be spilled."

Anakin snarls, launching himself at him before the words fully register. He fights with the desperation of a cornered beast, the instinct to survive overriding all else. But even as he kills, his mind races—who are they? Why do they speak of Romulus?

Why does that name feel like an echo of something lost?

Another blade slashes toward his ribs—he barely dodges in time, feeling the sharp sting of steel kissing his flesh. He has to move. Has to run.

He breaks through the last line of attackers, sprinting through the winding alleys, blood dripping from his fingers. The city blurs around him, the world reduced to the rhythmic pounding of his feet against stone, the ragged breath in his lungs.

Then he collides with someone.

Hard.

A body, warm and real, the force of impact knocking the air from his lungs. His hands snap forward, gripping their shoulders on instinct, ready to shove them aside—

And then he sees you.

For a moment, the world stills.

Your eyes, wide with surprise, meet his, and something in his chest clenches. He has seen you before. Not just in the forum, where you watched him bleed beneath a Roman whip. Not just in the stands of the Colosseum, where you looked upon him with unreadable eyes. Not under him, writhing of pleasure.

No, it’s something deeper. Older.

A memory just out of reach.

Then, just as quickly, his expression darkens.

"You," he growls, pushing you back as if your very touch burns him. "Of course you'd be here. Watching." His voice drips with hatred, but beneath it, there is something else—something shaken, something raw.

Behind him, the shouts of his pursuers grow louder. He doesn’t have time for this. Doesn’t have time for you.

But neither do you.

Because you have been watching, too. And for reasons you do not yet fully understand, you are not about to let him die.

The streets of Rome are a labyrinth of marble and shadow, narrow alleys twisting into grand avenues where torches flicker against towering columns. The city is alive even at this hour—merchants closing their stalls, drunk patricians stumbling home from lavish feasts, beggars lurking in the doorways of temples. But none of them see the two of you, running like hunted animals through the veins of the empire.

Anakin is beside you, breathing hard, his body still tense from the fight. Blood streaks his knuckles, some of it his, most of it not. His tunic is torn, and the moon catches on the sweat glistening over his skin. He’s fast—too fast for a gladiator who has spent years in chains—but you match his pace, weaving through the streets, slipping into shadows when patrols pass too close.

“You planned this, didn’t you?” he mutters as you turn sharply into an alley, pressing your backs against the stone wall to catch your breath. His voice is raw, hoarse with exertion. “Hired those men to test me? To see how well I fight?”

You almost laugh. “You give me too much credit.”

His blue eyes narrow, sharp even in the darkness, but there’s no time for argument. The Cult of Romulus will be looking for him—they might already be spreading through the streets. You grab his wrist and pull him forward, guiding him through the back ways, up a hidden stairway between two buildings, across the wooden scaffolding of a half-built villa.

Soon, the streets grow wider, the noise of the city softens, and the air carries the scent of blooming gardens instead of sweat and filth. You’ve led him into the Esquiline Hill, where the wealthy hide behind walls of carved stone and wrought iron.

Anakin slows, suddenly wary. He takes in the quiet opulence around him, the soft glow of oil lamps flickering from elegant windows, the fountains trickling in courtyard gardens. “Where are we?”

“Safe,” you answer simply, pushing open the heavy bronze doors of your villa.

The interior is grand—too grand for a woman who had walked unnoticed in the arena’s crowds. Marble floors gleam beneath the soft light of hanging lamps. Pillars stretch toward ceilings painted with the delicate brushstrokes of gods and myths. Fine tapestries soften the walls, and the scent of wine and myrrh lingers in the air.

Anakin steps inside hesitantly, eyes sweeping over the excess. He scoffs, running a hand through his tangled curls. “Of course,” he mutters. “You’re one of them.”

“One of who?”

“The Romans who watch men like me die for sport, then go home to silk sheets and fine wine.” His gaze flickers back to you, more cautious now, more closed.

You only smile, stepping closer, your voice low. “I never said I was Roman.”

Before he can press further, footsteps echo down the hall.

“Domina?” Your servant appears from behind a curtain, her expression shifting the moment she sees Anakin—his disheveled state, his torn tunic, the blood staining his skin. Her brows lift. Then, without hesitation, she tilts her head and smirks.

“Did you bring your boyfriend home?”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks before you can stop it. “He’s not—” you start, flustered, but Anakin’s low, irritated growl cuts over your words.

“I am not,” he snaps, his voice rough with anger, his glare sharp enough to cut stone. His posture stiffens, broad shoulders squared, jaw clenched. He looks like he’s ready to bolt—to run back into the streets rather than stay here, in this world of marble and wealth, where he does not belong.

Your servant, entirely unfazed, hums thoughtfully. “Then what is he? Your new guard dog?”

Anakin turns on her with a snarl, his frustration crackling like a storm. “I am not some pet you can collar—”

“No,” you interrupt, quickly stepping between them before he does something rash, though you can’t help but smirk. “He’s not my guard dog.”

Your servant raises a skeptical brow but says nothing, only waiting. You sigh, turning toward her with a knowing look. “Go check the temperature of the thermal baths. We’ll be needing them.”

She glances between you and Anakin, then nods, barely concealing her amusement as she disappears down the hall.

Silence lingers in her wake.

Anakin is still seething, fists clenched at his sides, but beneath his anger, you can sense something else—unease, restlessness. He’s never been in a place like this, never stood in a villa where everything is soft and warm, where no chains weigh his limbs, where no one is waiting to throw him back into the sands.

You tilt your head, studying him. “Relax, Anakin,” you say, voice lighter now, playful even. “No one’s going to throw you to the lions in here.”

His blue eyes flick to yours, dark and unreadable. “Not yet.”

You don’t hesitate as you step into the chamber of the thermal baths, your fingers already undoing the fastenings of your garments. The marble walls gleam under the soft glow of oil lamps, the scent of heated water and fragrant oils thick in the air. Steam rises in delicate curls, clinging to your skin as you let your tunic slip from your shoulders, pooling at your feet in a whisper of fabric.

You don’t think much of it—why would you? Anakin has seen you bare before, in dreams, in lifetimes past, in fleeting moments stolen under the watchful gaze of the gods. And in this life, men like him are hardly spared the modesty of others; slaves and gladiators are stripped of dignity along with their freedom.

Yet when you turn, expecting him to follow, you find him standing rigid near the entrance, arms crossed over his broad chest, his blue eyes locked onto the baths with an expression you’ve never seen before.

You arch a brow. “Are you coming in, or do you plan to stand there like a statue all night?”

His gaze snaps to you, sharp, wary. He shifts uncomfortably, his fingers flexing at his sides. “I don’t—” He stops, exhales sharply through his nose, then grunts. “I don’t know what to do.”

For a moment, you simply stare.

Anakin Skywalker, warrior, gladiator, beast of the Colosseum—reduced to a confused puppy before a simple bath.

The realization makes something warm bloom in your chest.

You suppress a smile, tilting your head. “You’ve never been in a thermal bath before?”

His scowl deepens, as if offended by the very idea. “Gladiators don’t exactly bathe in perfumed water.”

“Pity.” You lean back against the stone, the warmth seeping into your muscles. “Come here.”

He hesitates but steps closer.

“You wash first,” you instruct, nodding toward a bronze basin filled with oil and scented water. “Use the strigil to scrape away the dirt.”

He eyes the tool with suspicion, picking it up as if expecting it to bite. His fingers curl around it, testing its weight. “And then?”

“Then you step into the bath.”

Anakin huffs under his breath, but he follows your instructions, pouring the oil over his skin and running the strigil over his arms, his chest. The motion is awkward, stiff—he’s used to wiping off blood and sand, not indulging in luxury.

When he finally lowers himself into the steaming water, he exhales, the tension in his shoulders melting, his head tilting back slightly as the warmth surrounds him.

You watch him, your lips curving. “Better?”

He cracks one eye open, giving you a look that is half-glare, half-reluctant surrender. “It’s… acceptable.”

You laugh, letting the water lap around you as you move closer. “You’re adorable when you don’t know things.”

His eyes darken at that, but before he can retort, you reach for a cloth and dip it into the water, wringing it out before running it gently over his shoulder.

Anakin stiffens—just for a moment—before relaxing under your touch. His skin is warm beneath your fingers, solid, real.

In the quiet of the bathhouse, surrounded by the scent of myrrh and the gentle ripple of water, you wonder if the gods are watching.

Anakin leans against the marble edge of the baths, his arms crossed over his chest, watching you with that sharp, assessing look of his. His damp curls fall messily over his forehead, and the firelight flickers against his chiseled features, casting him in hues of gold and shadow. His eyes drag over you, studying, calculating—then, with that biting wit of his, he scoffs.

"What are you, anyway? Twelve?"

You freeze for a fraction of a second before giving him a flat, unimpressed look. “I’m twenty.”

His brows lift, amused, skeptical. “Right. And I’m the Emperor of Rome.”

You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. “I am twenty.”

Anakin smirks, tilting his head as if to examine you more closely. “Could’ve fooled me. You look like a child.”

You roll your eyes, stepping closer, the silk of your robe whispering against the marble floor. “And you look like you’ve been fighting wars since the dawn of time.”

He lets out a short, dry laugh. “That’s because I have.”

You hesitate at that. There’s something bitter in his voice, something that lingers beneath the sarcasm. He turns his head away slightly, as if considering something, then exhales sharply.

"I'm thirty-five," he says at last, almost as if he's testing the words in his mouth. He shifts, stretching his arms, the movement making his muscles ripple. "I could be your father."

You scoff. "Hardly."

He smirks again. "I don’t know. You look small enough. Frail.” He leans in slightly, his voice lowering into something almost teasing. “Maybe I should start calling you ‘little one.’”

Your eyes narrow. “Try it and I’ll drown you in the baths.”

He chuckles, the sound deep and rich, but there’s something unreadable in the way he looks at you now—like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle that refuses to fit. “You don’t act twenty, little one.”

You tilt your head. “And you don’t act thirty-five, big guy.”

He gives a dry, humorless laugh. “No. I act older.”

Something shifts between you then, something quieter. He’s still watching you, but now it feels different—like he’s truly seeing you for the first time, searching for something beyond your face, beyond your words.

"You’re strange," he mutters finally, shaking his head. "I don’t trust it."

"Good," you say, smiling just enough to be infuriating. "You shouldn’t."

You work in silence, dragging the strigil over his skin with slow, deliberate strokes, scraping away the layers of grime, sweat, and dried blood that cling to him like remnants of battle. The water darkens as filth dissolves, revealing golden skin beneath—the color of sun-warmed bronze, marred only by the scars that speak of his suffering.

Your touch is methodical, careful. When you reach his back, your fingers still for the briefest moment, tracing the deep red welts left by the whip. Some are fresh, still raw, angry lines carved into his flesh. Others have faded into pale reminders of pain endured.

He doesn’t flinch when you touch them, but his shoulders tense.

You reach for a small alabaster jar resting on the bath’s edge, scooping out a thick, fragrant ointment made from crushed myrrh and healing herbs. You press it to his wounds, spreading it with gentle fingers.

Anakin hisses, his body going rigid beneath your hand. “That stings.”

“Good,” you murmur, working the salve into his skin. “That means it’s working.”

He exhales sharply, his voice edged with suspicion. “Why are you doing this?”

Your fingers pause for a fraction of a second before continuing their slow, soothing movements. You could tell him the truth—that something about him calls to you in ways you cannot explain, that he reminds you of a love lost to the hands of fate. That you are selfish, drawn to him not by kindness but by something deeper, something that pulls at your soul like a thread woven through time itself.

But you do not.

Instead, you tilt your head, offering him a small, unreadable smile.

“Because I own you now,” you say lightly, though the words taste bitter on your tongue. “And what use is a broken gladiator?”

His jaw tightens, his blue eyes flashing as he turns to look at you over his shoulder.

“You think I’m yours, little one ?” His voice is a low growl.

Your smile deepens. “Aren’t you?”

The moment the words leave your lips, something in him snaps.

Anakin turns, the water sloshing around his broad frame as he moves, faster than you expect. Before you can react, he cages you against the smooth marble edge of the bath, his arms braced on either side of you. The steam curls around you both, thick and heady, blurring the world beyond this moment.

You tilt your head up, meeting his eyes—blue like the deep sea, turbulent with something dark, something dangerous. His wet curls cling to his forehead, water trickling down his temple, following the sharp lines of his jaw, his throat, the ridges of his collarbones.

“You think I belong to you?” His voice is low, almost a whisper, but there’s no softness in it.

A shiver runs down your spine, though not from fear.

You smirk, your fingers trailing through the water, brushing against his submerged waist. “Would you rather belong to someone else?”

His jaw clenches. His hands press against the marble, trapping you in the heat of his body. “I belong to no one.”

You hum, letting your fingers trail higher, grazing his stomach, the firm muscles tightening under your touch. “No one?” you echo, voice laced with mock innocence. “Yet here you are, standing in my bath, letting me tend to your wounds. Letting me touch you.”

His breath hitches—just barely, but you notice.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmurs, his face dipping closer, lips a mere breath from yours.

You reach up, cupping his jaw, your thumb tracing the sharp edge of his cheekbone. His skin is warm, damp from the bath, from your touch. His breathing is heavy now, uneven. His eyes flicker down to your lips, then back up, hesitation warring with desire.

“I always win,” you whisper.

His control snaps.

Anakin crashes into you, his mouth claiming yours in a kiss that is all heat and hunger, his hands gripping your waist, pressing you flush against him. The water ripples violently around you as he deepens the kiss, his fingers digging into your skin, desperate, as if he’s trying to carve his presence into you.

You let him.

You match his intensity, your arms winding around his neck, nails raking through his curls. He growls against your lips, the sound reverberating through your chest, sending a thrill down your spine.

When he finally pulls away, breathless, his forehead resting against yours, his grip still tight on your waist, you smile against his lips.

“Tell me again,” you murmur. “That you belong to no one.”

His breath is shaky, his hands flexing on your hips.

His breath is heavy against your lips, his hands still gripping your waist, fingers pressing into your skin like he doesn’t want to let go. For a moment, he says nothing—just looks at you, eyes dark with something unreadable, something caught between defiance and need.

Then, his jaw tightens. His grip on you flexes.

“I belong to no one, little one,” he growls, the words rough, almost desperate.

You feel his breath against your lips, hot and unsteady, but he doesn’t move away. If anything, his hands tighten, his body pressing into yours as if trying to convince himself of his own words.

You tilt your head, fingers ghosting over his shoulders, the tense muscles beneath damp skin. "No one?" you murmur, your voice soft, teasing, but there’s a challenge in your eyes.

His breathing stutters. You see the war in him—the battle between pride and something deeper, something neither of you are willing to name.

And then, as if realizing how close he is, how much he’s given away, he pulls back, breaking the moment, the heat. His hands drop from your waist, his expression hardening. He turns away, stepping deeper into the baths, trying to put space between you.

But you see it in the way his fingers curl into fists beneath the water.

He belongs to no one.

The morning air is crisp, tinged with the faintest chill before the sun fully rises to warm the city. You wake slowly, the remnants of sleep clinging to your limbs, your body still steeped in the languid ease of the baths from the night before. For a moment, you forget where you are—lost between dreams and reality, between past and present. But then the weight of the world settles over you once more.

You rise from your bed, the silk sheets slipping from your skin, and pad toward the open window, drawn by the quiet stirrings outside. The city is already beginning to rouse—merchants setting up their stalls, servants bustling about their morning tasks, the distant sound of hooves against stone. But none of it holds your attention.

Because below, in the courtyard bathed in the golden light of dawn, stands Anakin.

He moves like something divine, his body carved from sun and shadow, the muscles in his back rippling as he shifts through each movement with practiced ease. His bare chest gleams with a fine sheen of sweat, his golden curls damp and unruly, catching the light as he breathes. His arms flex as he grips the weighted wooden sword—a rudis, meant for training—cutting through the air with sharp precision.

You watch, entranced.

He is not like the men of Rome, whose bodies are sculpted for decadence, for leisure. Anakin is built for war, for survival. Every inch of him is honed, sharpened by years of battle and hardship. His form is fluid yet unyielding, his muscles taut, his legs steady as he shifts his weight from one stance to another. He is practicing the drills of a Roman soldier—lunging, parrying, striking—movements ingrained into him through blood and sweat.

He turns slightly, his profile cutting against the morning light. The sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his throat, the beads of sweat trickling down the ridges of his abdomen—they all blur together in an image almost too perfect to be real.

You have seen gladiators before, warriors trained to entertain, their bodies sculpted for spectacle. But Anakin is different. He moves not for an audience, not for the pleasure of others, but for himself. There is something raw about him, something untamed. A man who refuses to be broken, who fights not because he must, but because it is the only thing he knows.

His breaths are steady, controlled. He swings the rudis in an arc, pivoting on his heel before thrusting forward, his entire body coiling like a predator about to strike. The sheer power behind each movement is undeniable. Even in stillness, he is a force—like a storm waiting to break.

The rising sun frames him in a halo of gold, casting long shadows over the courtyard. For a brief moment, he does not seem mortal at all. He looks like a god. A forgotten deity of war and vengeance, reborn in the flesh, cursed to walk among men who will never understand what he truly is.

And then, as if sensing your gaze, he stills.

Slowly, Anakin turns his head, blue eyes locking onto yours.

A shiver runs through you.

His stare is piercing, unreadable. He does not smile, does not speak. He only watches, his chest rising and falling with the ghost of exertion, his lips parting slightly as if about to say something—but he doesn’t.

Instead, he simply stands there, the sun at his back, the morning breeze rustling through his curls.

And for the first time, you wonder—who is truly watching whom?

You hear a sharp sound and then the air in front of you shift swiftly. You look to your right where a kitchen knife is buried in a concrete gap of the brick wall. You never saw him move. 

A warning. I see you.

Your breath stills. You should move, step back into the safety of your chambers, but you don’t. You can’t. His gaze pins you in place, unreadable, searing through the morning light.

And then—he smirks.

A slow, knowing curve of his lips, arrogant and wicked.

Heat floods your face.

You step away from the window, heart pounding against your ribs, but before you can collect yourself—

A knock at your door.

Sharp. Insistent.

Then your servant���s voice, hushed and urgent—

"Domina… the Emperor’s men are here. They demand to see you."

He was made of gold—not just in the way the sun kissed his skin, but in the way he burned, untamed and eternal, a man the gods themselves had failed to break the first time.

[readriordan]

Happy Halloween!

It's that time of year once again, and with the release of The Wrath Of The Triple Goddess, it seems only appropriate to take a look at some of Hecate's spoooooky~ children! Let's take a dive into the night and hang out with our favorite demigodly magic users!

1.) Lou Ellen Blackstone

You know her, you love her! Master of turning campers into pigs and prestidigitation, Lou Ellen is an extremely skilled daughter of H̵ecate. It's no wonder she's counselor of the brand new Cabin 2̷0̷! Lou Ellen is first during a counselor meeting in The Lost Hero, having literally stolen Miranda Gardiner's nose, and later is seen alongside her friends Will Solace and Cecil Markowitz in The Blood of Olympus. In interesting trivia (which also happens to be Hecate's oman name!) - Lou Ellen is technically the first human character in the franchise to use multiple sets of pronouns, due to being referred to with ħɘ/him̷ in the Polish translation of The Lost Hero.

2.) Josephine

Josephine, also known as Jo, is another daughter of Hecate and a former Hunter of Artemis. One of the few adult demigods we meet, Jo lives with her wife Hemithea, or Emmie, and their daughter Georgina. Together Jo and Emmie run the Waystation - a magic ever-shifting safehouse for demigods owned by the goddess Britomartis. Perhaps that's a bit of Hecate magic? Jo grew up in the 1920s, disguised as a man and working with mobsters until eventually joining the Hunt, where she met Hemithea. The two remained in the Hunt for several decades until deciding to leave so that they could continue to pursue their relationship. From there they became the stewardesses of the Waystation. In The Dark Prophecy, they meet our protagonist Apollo, alongside our old friends Leo Valdez and Calypso and offer them refuge throughout their quest.

3.) Lami҉༙྇ⱥ

One of Hecate's immortal children, Lamia was once a mortal woman. In some myths, she went insane after the abduction and murder of her children by the gods. In retaliation, Lamia began ki̴l̸l̵ing and devouring the children of others. For this, she was transformed into a monster, eternally hunting in retribution for her children. .̴̺̿.̴̩̾.̷̳̏ᴴᴱᴸᴸᴼ?.̶̹͠.̸͖͛.̴̧̄ And hunt she does! Lamia has quite the accomplishment among monsters, having̵ ̸c̸r̵e̴a̷t̶̫͝ē̴͎d̷̝̋ ̵̪͐a̷̯̐ s̷̘͖͛̚p̶̨̆̓é̵̛̪l̶̰̽̇l̶̥͛̑- HELLO? CAN YOU HEAR ME? -t̶̮̔h̷̜̐ȃ̷̗t̵͚́ makes it easier for monsters to track down demigods. Perhaps she's to blame for demigods not being able to use technology? Regardless, we meet her in T̷h̵e Dem̴i̸god D̷̝̋i̷̠͑ar̸i̷e̸s̶, where she's hunting dơ̷̻w̴̖̒n̷̤̽.̴̠̅.̵͉͒.̶̘͗ actually, ẉ̷͗h̸̹̔ô̸̪ ̴̼́ is s̴h̴e̶ ̵hunting down? Ǐ̷͍ can't s̴͕͗ȇ̵̞e̸̯͑m to recal̸l̵... .̸͖͛.̴̧̄ ᴾᴸᴱᴬᔆᴱ⸴ ᴸᴵᔆᵀᴱᴺ⁻ ᶜᴬᴺ ʸᴼᵁ ᴴᴱᴬᴿ ᴹᴱ? .̸͖͛.̴̧̄ Regardless, you can witness her terror for yourself in... oh, what was ţ̶̓ḧ̵̳a̴̯͒ť̷̝ short sto̷͙͐r̸̨͒y̸͖͗ called...? In... in... Ah, that's right! .Ɔ̷̱̄I̴̬̒Ә̸̯̽A̴̞̽M̶̱̆ ꟻO И̵͓̍Ö̶͉́Ƨ̸̭̒ ƎHT

4.) Hylla's Amazon Assistants

Perhaps the most obscure of Hecate's mortal children, we were nevertheless delighted to meet these two daughters of Hecate in The Blood of Olympus. Though nameless, these two are seen alongside Hylla as members of the Amazons. They assist her by shadow-travelling and fight Orion alongside her. Besides the̸s̶e̵ ̵t̵i̷n̷y̶ ̸g̶l̷i̷m̸p̴s̴e̶s̸,̴ ̷w̵e̶ d̶͔͑ȯ̷͜n̷͌ͅ'̷͕̎t̸͕͌ ̶̪̓s̵̝̕ē̷̗e̴͕̋ ̴̹̽m̷̫̊u̶͚̇c̶̡͑h̵̪͝ ̴̹̍o̶͕͗f̷̮͛ ̸͚͐t̸̳̕h̷̜̓e̴̠̒s̴̲͆e̶͇̿ t̴̤̓̄w̵̛̰̪o̷̩͊̚.̶͇́ ̶̝̦̆̃Ẃ̷̘̉e̶͚̔̆r̴̮̈́e̵̛͇ ̷̈́͆͜t̸̺̠̂̔h̶̘͂̈è̸̙͕y̶̟͗ ̷͌̄ͅs̸͈͉̈̑o̷̤̊r̷̠̭̋̃c̴̱̳͗͋e̴̛̟͇̽ṙ̴͔̕ë̵͉̝́̎s̵̻̺̒s̸̫͂͑e̵̝̅͛s̴̡͎̊̕ ̸̟̦̋ụ̸̈́͊n̷̨͎̊̈́d̷̪͑e̷̻͓̓́r̷̥̱̈́̊ ̶̨̗̈̏C̶̳͊͠i̵̤̫̎r̵͖͝c̵̠̗͑e̶̳̦͊ ̵͚͔͆ă̴̟̫̈l̵̨̗̐o̵̠̽̀ͅn̸̮͑́g̷̠͌s̷̥̻̽́i̷̻̍d̶̛̮͗e̴̲̓͋ ̸͈̫̎̕H̶̗̾ẏ̶̹͍l̷̲̺͋̅l̷̩͗͝ả̶̼͔͝ ̶̘͊a̸̢̎̓n̵͚͊ď̶̻�� ̵̻̞̔Ř̶́ͅè̴͉͒y̸̬͋̚n̸̘̱͘͝a̵̯̘̕?̸͖̣́̌ ̵͇̬̓̉Ŵ̸̙̙͝ë̷̠̺̍r̶̠͇̂̏ȩ̵̳͝ ̶̟̀̈́ẗ̵́ͅḫ̸̈́ë̷̦́͜͝y̵̳̘̅ ̵̪͍́̊ă̵͇͠l̶̲͕͒ŕ̶̻̟e̶̗͆͘a̶͚̽̚d̶̡̆̅y̴̨͕̎ ̷̤̄p̸̞͝͝ą̵̝̍r̴͚̲͌t̸̤̺͌ ̴̨̀o̵͓͓͐f̶̲̍̑ ̸̱͇͋suozɐɯⱯ ǝɥʇ? 𝕎𝕙𝕠 ̵́𝓀ⲛⲟⲱ𝓼!̸̘͐ ̸̢͇̏̂𝕒𝓛𝓛 ̵̭̀͝t̸̤̓̕h̸̡̚e̶̹̒ ̷̥̼͝𝓂𝖔𝓇𝖊 ̵̠͕̑ŗ̸̿͒ỏ̴̞̖ȏ̴̭̉ḿ̶̹͉̀ ̶͎̃f̸̛̱̲̾ȏ̸̲̲͝r̷̠̔ ̵̳̏̌h̷͔͍͈̔͒͝ē̶̢͈̈̈́̈́ã̶̝̦͍̥̽͘d̷̛̺̤͙̅͋̈̑c̸̭̽̓̾̊͌â̴̤̤ň̸͎͉͙͂̓̕ŏ̷͎̫̣̬̇̽̏̇n̸̜͙͍̓̋ͅs̴͙̻̲̄!̴̨̣̬̱̅̍

5̸͋́̈́͜.̴̘͖̬̯̱̒͋̾͝)̵̢̝͒̀̐̕ Ɐl҉༙྇ꅔƀä͓̰́ͫꕷt̖̪͈̽̂ͤ͡ēⓡ Ć̷͇. ₮ꝋʁɍiꞥꞡⱦ_̓o🅝

S̶p̷e̵a̷k̵i̸n̸g̴ ̶o̵f̸ ̶d̸e̶m̴i̴g̸o̷d̶s̸ ̶w̵e̸ ̸d̸o̵n̸'̴t̸ ̸k̶n̶o̴w̴ ̴m̷u̸c̵h̷ ̴a̴b̸o̵u̶t̶ ̵-̵ ̷h̸e̶y̸,̴ ̸w̸̵̶̢̙̙̫̐̂ḣ̴̸̷̠̺̯̣̓̄õ̷̵̷͔̼̝̓̎͠ ̶i̴s̶ ̴t̶h̵i̵s̸ ̷g̵u̵y̵?̷ L̵i̴t̷t̷l̷e̴ ̴i̸s̷ ̸k̶n̷o̶w̸n̴ ̴a̴b̷o̶u̴t̸ ̶t̷h̷i̴s̵ ̶m̶y̵s̵t̷e̸r̶i̶o̶u̸s̷ ̸s̴o̷n̷ ̸o̵f̶ ̷H̷e̵c̴a̷t̴e̶.̵ ̸I̵n̶ ̸f̸a̷c̶t̶,̷ ̴I̶ ̴c̵a̸n̶'̸t̸ ̵s̸e̵e̷m̶ ̵t̸o̷ ̵̴̪͠ṙ̴̠é̵̼c̵͉͗â̸̤l̶͖̎l̴̻͂ ̷̬̏ä̵̗́n̵͍̈́y̶͈͗t̶̛̠h̸̩̎i̷̮̇n̴̥͝g̴͔̈́ ̴̤̈a̶̿͜t̴͔̉ ̴̈ͅa̴̾͜l̷̨̊ļ̷̛.̸̭͂.̵̧̈́͊̈́.̴̻̩̼̎.̸̟̹͓̎͊?̵̯̲̓̈́

-̶̟̂Ḣ̸͖e̶̛̜ḻ̴̏l̵͉̈́ỏ̷̬?̷̺̏ H̷e̸l̵lo? I think I've got this working. Please, listen, I don't have much time.

My name is Alabaster Torrington. I'm the son of Hecate, I was exiled from the demigod camps, and my half-sister is hunting me down as we speak.

My siblings were killed for following our mother in the Titan War, and I nearly was as well. The gods decided to prolong my suffering, exiling me so I couldn't "corrupt" my siblings who were forced to join Camp Half-Blood. My monstrous half-sister was tasked to hunt me down and kill me, and so far has successfully killed a mortal working with me. I nearly succeeded in trapping her to prevent her from reforming, but unfortunately our mother wishes for neither of us to die, so I was prevented from doing so.

In my search for ways to defeat her, I am on the brink of a breakthrough that I believe may change the lives of all demigods. I just need time.

I am extremely close to finding a way to break my sister's curse upon demigods that aids monsters in tracking us. But so long as I'm being hunted I'm not able to work on it. I-

D̸a̴m̵m̴i̶t̸!̶ I'm out of time. I'll contact you again̴ ̵a̷s̴ ̶s̵o̸o̷n̴ ̵a̶s̴ ̴I̴'̶m̵ ̵a̴b̸l̵e̷.̸ ̸ ̸̸̸̣̩̐̽ ̷̲̚U̶̩͋n̷̠̿t̸̫̅ȉ̵̺ļ̶̇ ̷̲̈́t̶̫̀ḩ̴͗ȇ̶̡ñ̷̦-̷͙͘!̴͓̈́

[̷C̴R̷A̷S̷H̴]̵

-̴̬̖͠ ̵̟̙̎Y̶̘̲̊͠o̷̢͑u̶̹̿ ̷c̵a̵n̸ ̶s̴e̸e̷ ̴Ⓜ̙𝑜𝑟e of Alabaster in The Son of Magic, a short story written er, ahem, an "interview," "transcribed" by Haley Riordan - since of course, Camp Half-Blood's own resident transcriber was not able to get close enough to speak with a wary former Titan Army member - that can be found in The Demigod Diaries.

Regardless, you can see more of Hecate herself in The Wrath Of The Triple Goddess. Perhaps we'll be seeing more of Hecate's children soon as well?

[mistress-of-vos]

Idk how to put this on a way that makes sense outside of my mind but to me Tim is Persephone, protected apprehensively by Bruce and spending the days between his flowers and friends.

There's Kon, who shines in golden inheratinace just like Apollo. He's born of a tragic love, his mother never the queen that sits next to Superman.

There's Bart, blessed by Hermes and the winds. A kind, strong soul that craves to see the world.

And there's Ra's, just like Hades, of course. Unkillable, king of a land that you can't come back from. His mere sight condemns people and a favor from him will grant you eternity. His wealth is infinite, and he moves through shadows, noticed until it's too late and his sword has made justice.

The myth, as expected, follows its path. And the little bird who lived between flowers and was loved by the sun and wind, becomes queen to the king.