#flames of the dark rites

[mango-unit]

something about termina, lorule, demise, and the flames of the dark rites

ok so i was thinking about the sword of demise and the goddess sword

the goddess sword is the blade of the goddess hylia, and is also the sword spirit fi, who is capable of dowsing. this capability is what allows her to track zelda, the reincarnation of hylia.

the sword if demise is the blade of the demon king demise, and is also the sword spirit ghirahim, who has the capability to track zelda, the reincarnation of hylia. this implies some dowsing ability.

in its default form, the goddess sword bears little resemblance to the blade of demise. however, when tempered in the sacred flames of the golden goddesses, it becomes the master sword.

both blades (masyer sword and sword of demise) feature winged hilts, embedded gems, and depictions of the triforce engraved in the steel. the sword of demise is very clearly a demonic counterpart to the master sword - although it was fully forged first. also, its triforce is upside down.

considering that hylia and demise have parallel blades, it is a fair assumption that demise is the demonic parallel to hylia, and was granted the role of king by some greater entities (just as hylia was). i revisit this later once i have some more laid out, bear with me.

it is also a fair assumption that, as the blade of demise resembles the master sword more than the goddess blade, it was similarly tempered in demonic flames.

and i think ive got a pretty strong contender.

the sacred flames are three flames containing the power of the golden goddesses. the flames of the dark rites are three flames containing the power of the demons. in fact, there are theories that the flames of the dark rites are actually the origin of all demonic power, although i dont subscribe to it.

i believe that there are three dark demons, just as there are three golden goddesses. the sacred flames contain the power of the golden goddesses, and embody the virtues of power, wisdom, and courage. the flames of the dark rights contain the power of the dark demons, and embody the virtues of destruction, sorrow, and despair.

i believe that demise tempered his blade in the flames of the dark rites, just as link tempered hylias blade in the sacred flames. this is why the sword of demise resembles the master sword so closely.

these dark demons, the parallels to the golden goddesses, left demise in charge of their domain, just as the golden goddesses did to hylia.

and, just as the golden goddesses created the light realm (hyrule and its sister kingdoms), the dark demons created the dark realm (lorule and its sister kingdoms). this connects to the master sword and demise sword - the master sword features the triforce of light (embodying wisdom, courage, and power) while the demise sword features the triforce of dark (embodying sorrow, despair, and destruction).

the gods rule the light realm. the demons rule the dark realm.

the triforce of dark, bearing the virtues of destruction, sorrow, and despair, was the original triforce of lorule. it, due to it having corrupted virtues, pointed towards the ground. just as the golden goddesses left behind the triforce (to sustain the light realm) and the sacred flames, the dark demons left behind their triforce (to sustain the dark realm) and the flames of the dark rites. the golden goddesses placed hylia in charge of the light realm; the dark demons placed demise in charge of the dark realm.

due to the dark realm being founded upon more corrupted virtues, the people were more cruel and paranoid. because of this, the primary settlement of the kingdom isnt even named - its just a town for thieves to rest before they head back out to rob and crime. i believe that this led to the era of chaos, the war over the triforce, happening much earlier than it would have in the light realm, even without demises interference. i will revisit this.

as for the actual layout of the dark realm, just to cover some bases.

look at the eastern border of termina and the western border of lorule

to the southeast termina, there is swampy jungle marsh

to the southwest lorule, there is swampy jungle marsh

just north of that marsh in termina is a desert

just north of that marsh in lorule is a desert

to the north of both kingdoms is a mountain range said to be cursed into eternal winter

i believe that termina is directly to the west of lorule. the small bit of desert in lorule connects to the ikana desert of termina, and the curse placed upon the termina range extended to death mountain.

there is more in-game evidence for this, in both albw and majoras mask.

the ikana desert bleeds into lorulian territory, so it would stand to reason there would be some transferred iconography. that is exactly what we see. in the stone tower temple - in the ikana desert - we see depictions of the triforce, being licked by demons. the triforce is right-side-up, if youre talking about the light realm, but its upside down, if youre talking about the dark realm. this would imply some connection with the tower and inversion, since such a key symbol is inverted.

oh wouldnt you know the entire dungeon flips upside down.

so, if we say its an inverted dark triforce, it actually serves as a guide to those who travel through the dungeon: it is a dungeon of inversion. similarly, since its a symbol of the dark demons who created the world, it is a simultaneous depiction of defiance against the gods and worship of the dark demons.

when inverted (resembling the light triforce), a pathetic, naked figure with a forked tongue (a weak demon) is licking the triforce from above. this seems to imply that those who defy the dark demons (the gods, represented by the inverted dark triforce) are lesser than even the weakest of demons.

when oriented correctly (resembling the dark triforce), that same pathetic demon is now below the triforce, straining to lick its tip. this seems to depict how most demons, even those greater than the gods, are still lesser than the dark demons who created the world and struggle for just a small taste of their power. this is a flattering image for their creator deities.

so, now that weve discussed the connection to the lorulian dark triforce in majoras mask, we can now discuss the connection to terminas culture in a link between worlds - although this is even more blatant.

thieves town, on the western edge of the kingdom bordering termina, has a group of people who wear masks depicting the faces of monsters in an attempt to become those monsters themselves.

termina is littered with magical masks that transform its wearer into the monster it depicts.

this seems pretty direct. they picked up the culture or myths of those masks from termina and, seeking salvation from the pain of human life in the dark realm, developed a religion from the concept of transformative masks.

so there is a connection to the other kingdoms culture and icons in both games, and theyre both along the proposed common border with similar geographic features.

now as for the mountains: there is a misconception held by some that the curse on biggoron is what caused the winter on terminas mountain. that isnt the case. the curse on biggoron caused the blizzard, yes; but he was only there in termina in the first place to investigate the endless winter.

the mountains were cursed a significant time before majoras mask, allowing for the time it took for biggoron to learn of the curse and travel to termina; this curse affected death mountain in lorule.

now, i said i would revisit what i said about the era of chaos happening earlier in lorule.

i think that there are two things at play: the dark world, which is more aggressive, had the era of chaos earlier as a result. and the light world, which was attacked by demise, had the era of chaos greatly delayed as a result (the hylians were sent to the sky).

i believe that the lorulian sages destroyed the dark triforce just before the events of skyward sword. the world began to unravel, which prompted demise (the dark realms guardian deity, equivalent to hylia) to seek out a new one. this led him to the light realm - to the triforce left by the golden goddesses.

demise did pretty much the same thing hilda would eventually do, except through much more active bloodshed and conquering. he was fighting to save the world he was tasked with protecting, and he was sealed and killed as a result. his attack led to skyloft, which further delayed the light realm era of chaos (and the sealing of the triforce).

the dark realm was left without a guardian deity. this prompted the giants to offer the people of termina the oath to order. they would sleep in the furthest reaches of the kingdom, and their power would sustain the land - and if the people ever needed their intervention, they could play a song which would awaken them.

they became the new guardians of termina, akin to the role the dragons serve in the light realm. lorule, however, had no being to protect it from the decay caused by the absence of the triforce. so it, slowly, ever so slowly, began to rot.

its probably a good idea to wrap this up now, so im gonna recap everything discussed here really quickly.

- termina is directly west of lorule, both are in the dark world

- the lorule desert is a small section of the ikana desert

- the stone tower temple depicts an inverted lorulian triforce, hinting at its ability to flip

- the thieves town picked up the culture of wearing masks to transform into monsters from termina

- the dark world was created by three dark demons who embodied the virtues of destruction, sorrow, and despair; these virtues were embodied in the dark triforce, and in the flames of the dark rites, the demonic counterpart to the sacred flames

- demise is the dark realm equivalent to hylia, tasked with defending the world

- demise tempered his blade in the flames of the dark rites, as link tempered hylias blade in the sacred flames

- the more aggressive dark realm battles over the triforce earlier, and so destroyed it before the events if skyward sword

- this led to demise seeking out the triforce of the light realm, further delaying the era of chaos in the light realm by forcing the hylians to escape to the skies

- the absence of a guardian being led to the giants delivering the oath to order

[littlest-w01f]

Chapter Two

Series Masterlist

Cw: Death/ Mentions of Death, Alcohol

It was a few days after the first battle, after Rheana and Rhysand with the help of their friends had won The Blood Rite, and claimed the title of 'Carynthian', two half-breeds and two bastards. She was a proud shame for the Illyrian males. She was the first female to not only compete in the Blood Rite but win it in a way not many had before her.

She stood outside near the camps, waiting for her mother and sister to take them to meet Rhys, Cassian and Azriel just after the four of them had emerged victorious. She hoped they would be proud, even if she knew her father wouldn't be, he didn't like her spending more time in Illyria than acting like a high fae, like royalty.

"You are Princess Night." Her father would tell her growing up, his tone gentle while he would sit and nurse any wounds she would get while Illyrian training, "You need to act more like the Night Court royalty you are, Princess." But she never did, she was a full brute at heart.

She met the females of her family in the middle of the woods, her sister, Cedrica, jumped on her in a hard hug, praises and relif flowing from both their lips as Rheana set her sister down and her mother embraced them both.

It was peaceful for a moment. Happy. Before it all ended. The scent of Spring coated the air. Rheana and her family straightened, putting on a guard.

"My Lord..." Rheana gave a short bow, and Cedrica and her mother followed, to the High Lord of Spring who stood in front of them, standing in front of Cedrica and her mother with Rheana in between them. "What brings you to this side of Prythian?"

"Ah, Rheana." The Lord of Spring greeted her rather coldly as if not expecting her to be there, his eyes on her mother. "Dalia, I heard your son is to meet you here..."

Rheana stood in a protective stance in front of the High Lord, her legs parted and back straight, her arms tensing by her sides, ready to strike. Before she could ask where he heard of anything related to her family, familiar screams made her spin around.

Big mistake.

Rheana saw her mother and sister trying to fight off the two heirs of Spring, and her violet eyes darkened. She took a step forward to help them but in her distraction, the High Lord tripped her and had her under him easily, she tried to fight off the weight on her. She struggled under his claws, she felt his power hold her down, it hit her too soon that she couldn't fight off a High Lord with magic multitudes higher than hers.

She helplessly watched as the High Lord's sons overpowered her family who couldn't hold a fight. Her mother was always under her father's protection, and no one dared to even think of hurting her, while her sister was more into the politics of Night than her Illyrian heritage. It didn't take long for the heirs to have her family on the ground.

"No, no let them go!" Rheana groaned under the weight and power of the beast that was the High Lord of Spring. "What are you doing!?"

"My dear son told us he was coming to congratulate you and that Rhysand." The man overpowering her spat out, "I'm just here to let your daddy dearest know that his precious family isn't untouchable like he pretends they are."

"Tamlin...?" Her eyes darkened, feeling the boy in the air. "He's here, isn't he?"

The speak of the devil, Tamlin walked out of the woods, looking awkward rather than evil, he held a large dagger in his hands, letting the females that were held down by the rest of the heirs and the High Lord himself know exactly what was about to go down. "I'm sorry Rhea."

Rheana spat on his feet, "I will never forgive you for this. Rhysand was wrong to befriend you, you asshole."

She tensed up when the claws of the High Lord dragged down her back as if to let her know they were there, not yet breaking the skin, a threat to her insulting his son who had got him such great intel, "Bring your wings out, little girl." The High Lord ordered her.

The females refused to say anything when suddenly the heirs holding her mother gripped her wings and twisted them, making her cry out in pain, something purely forbidden, a taboo, to touch an Illyrian's wings without their permission.

She yelled for Rhysand and her father in her mind, she was sure her sister and mother were trying to do the same, calling for them to come, but they had done something to her abilities, she felt a shield of the High Lord, rendering their magic useless.

Cedrica tried to reach her mother, but she was held just the same as her. Helpless. Both of them helpless.

Everything else happened in a blur, the High Lord of Sprige wanted to to kill them, but seeing Rheana, she wanted her wings as a prize first, wings she had kept hidden away. Cedrica was yelling profanities at the men while their mother offered herself up in place of her daughters, whispering words of love for them to hear.

"I love you, my sweets." Came from their mother, she looked as if she had already made peace with death, both the females tried to fight against those who held them down to get to their mother, get held one last time even if they couldn't save her.

Fear filled both the sisters as in seconds, tears staining their tanned cheeks, the Spring heir brought down the blade and severed their mother's wings from her back, It was her screams that alerted someone of the ongoings in the woods, hearing her scream the heir then took her head with the blade.

Rheana couldn't hear anything, her ears rung loud as she looked over her mother's mutilated body, killed without remorse. Wingless and headless. Simply dead.

She couldn't look at the body anymore, blood spreading through the grass underneath them, she was sure her sister was yelling in her direction to not let herself lose her wings as the High Lord held her under him, his claws digging into her back, making 3 symmetrical jagged cuts on her otherwise smooth back, if she had her wings out they would have been easily pulled apart by those scary precise cuts. The powerful male held her like he was a cat toying with a helpless bird. Rheana didn't feel the pain of it, even as tears fell, they were for his mother and for the fact her sister would be next after her if she did not let her wings out.

She could hear her sister yelling at her to not let them take her, she could feel her sister in her head.

If one of us is to survive, it should be you. I need it to be you. You can get revenge. Between the two of us. Revenge is more in you than me.

Before she could find the voice to disagree with her sister, Cedrica offered herself up, summoning her wings to her death. The sounds of the wind moving with the spread of large Illyrian wings made Rheana look up.

They made eye contact, anger and resentment in both their eyes, for the murder of their mother. Rheana then held the eyes of Tamlin, who looked at her guilty as he watched his brothers take on defenceless females.

Rheana watched in horror as her younger sister was dragged next, and no amount of pleading or begging made them stop, not even for a second. There was no emotion on their faces as they ripped the wings from her sister, giving her sobbing self the same treatment as they did her mother. Cedrica cried as the drags of the blunt knife, one wing after the other falling on the ground, there was no sound in the wood as the glare Cedrica had thrown at the High Lord, who still had his claws lodged in Rheana's back, soiling her clothes in blood, stood in the tense air.

With her sister's death, her breathing laboured as if their power flew into her, her eyes covered in darkness as she was surrounded by the Spring Court men. She had to get out of this, get revenge on them for what they've done.

"You will die for this" Her voice was hoarse from crying and screaming, "You will die."

Her eyes were full of pain and anger. Survive. Survive. She chanted to herself. Darkness from all around rose and fell with her breathing. She couldn't kill them, not now. Survive first.

She screamed and the darkness of the woods roared at her command, a newfound power. No one was coming to help her, so she would get the darkness to her side, every dark thing would be by her side.

The men around her started to whisper in fright as the shadows grew, covering her as if keeping her safe from them. Then there it was, something who had heard all the screaming. A monster of the Illyrian mountains.

She was covered by darkness like a blanket of cold, but the sound of the monster sniffing reached her ears. The next thing she knew whatever cover the High Lord had set up to negate her powers went down, she guessed they had winnowed away seeing the horrifying creature.

Then each message she had tried to get out to her brother and father reached them. They winnowed in instantly, the monster backed away slightly, sensing the power of his High Lord. Rhysand was instantly by the side of her darkness as both of the males saw the females they cared for dead.

"Rhea?" Rhysand whispered to the darkness, the darkness shimmering away from her to reveal her tear-covered face and her back with large wounds that all three of them knew wouldn't go away.

"I've got you, Rhea... I've got you."

"I've got you, Rhys... I've got you."

She whispers, by her brother's side in an instant. Holding Rhysand in her arms as the magic of their bargain woke him up, feeding him strength. She held him close as he groaned and tried to sit up on the bed.

"Is it our thing, little sis?" He cracked out as Rheana jumped to hug him, "For me to be all dirty and gross and for you to not care and hug me?"

She slapped him upside the head at his attempt at the joke, "Shut up! I'm just making sure you're ok before I beat you up for fucking leaving me and our entire court when you told me you felt something off about Amarantha's party invitation."

"I'm so mad at you." She claimed as they hugged tighter.

"And I love you too, Rhea..." Rhysand chuckled, melting in her hold.

Rheana rested her head on his shoulder, "I'm glad you're safe."

"I'm glad you're safe too." He replied instantly.

"Everyone is ok... As ok as we could have been." She told him, ending the hug, "All thanks to you."

Rhysand stretched on the bed, his joints popping loudly, with a groan, he noticed his body was nearly as healthy as it was before everything. "How did you...?"

"I don't know," She sighed, taking out some new tunics and pants for him. "I just said I needed you and our bargain glowed you back to health."

Before Rhysand could comment, she summoned some food, for both of them. "Forget that. we are going to eat together."

Rhysand gave a soft sigh, "I'm... Not really hungry. Whatever you did... It's as if I've never been fuller."

She frowned slightly, "Alright, if you say so, I won't force you to eat, but let me know if you need anything."

She instantly moved to a chair with some clothes on it, then threw them at him. "Wash up, I'm not letting you stink up the room any longer."

"Ugh, fine..." Rhysand groaned as he got up, and opened the door to the giant bathroom joint to his room.

Rheana excused herself from his room and stood just outside it, she leaned back and slid down on the floor, a smile formed on her face, her blood was suddenly pumping faster through her body, and her heart was beating stronger. Whatever their bargain had done, Rhysand had quickly gotten healthy again. She stroked her hand tattoo, signifying the bargain.

She could hear Rhysand turn the bath tap on to fill it, she didn't know why she stayed just outside his door, but a piece of her wanted to stay as close to him as possible. Half a century away from each other, all she wished to do was sit next to him and learn about what had happened. Certainly, something good had happened at the end of it, Rhys had found his mate, and she smiled at the thought, of her brother's mate.

But the gnawing feeling that something far worse than just torture had happened to her brother before it all stayed with her. She could see it in the ghostly man who he was before their bond healed him, he was physically better but there was something about him that just seemed, gone.

She looked up when she saw a pair of feet approach her, she looked at the male who stood in front of her and smiled, "He's up, Az.."

Rheana got up from the floor with Azriel's help, a soft smile on her face. "He finally woke up."

Azriel, the rather quiet Illyrian male mirrored her smile, "I heard a little," He claimed, the shadows sitting on his shoulders moving against his neck and jaw, whispering in his ear. "Spy remember."

She rolls her eyes at him and his gossip addict shadows, "You're not meant to listen in on your High Lord, you know."

"Forgive me, my Princess." Azriel gave a teasing bow, "Please do not mist me."

And with that, she chuckled, a louder laugh escaped her lips when he took her hands in his scared one to kiss over her knuckles, "I suppose he doesn't have to know."

Azriel smiled hearing her laugh, straightening his back up. "You haven't laughed like that in so long, Rhea..."

"Well, he's back... Rhys is back." Her laugh abruptly ended, but a smile stayed, "And even if he could be broken with what might had happened, but we can heal."

Broken. Broken meant something could be fixed. She would help him fix whatever had been broken Under the Mountain. If she thought about it, everyone in their lives was broken to some extent, and they had all helped each other

"We always do..." He smiled slightly, his burn scared hands stroking her rather scarless ones, "Even if it takes decades."

He led her to the open living room, night had fallen, and the stars covered the sky. The air felt lighter when she looked outside, a peaceful silence between them. The city was lit up under the stars and the moon. The power in the city felt increased tenfold simply by Rhysand's return.

Azriel had got her some food to eat, A damn busybody Rheana smiled to herself as she ate, her food floating on his shadows with a canteen of water by the bread.

"Come on, baby! We can finally bring out the drinks!" Cassian flew in, crates and crates of alcohol in his hands. A big dumb grin on his lips. "Our Rhysie is alive, and he's back!" He almost hollered, anyone could have easily felt the power of their High Lord fueling the city.

Azriel and Rheana look at each other, then at Cassian, "Maybe not just yet, he's just got back, let him rest." Rheana whispered, swallowing her bite.

Cassian frowned as he set all the alcohol down on the ground, giving her a look that he knew would make her get what he wanted, a look of the boy who had once never seen the inside of a house, they all paused when they heard Rhysand's voice, "I won't mind... Bring out the drinks, Cass."

The three of them turn to face Rhysand, cleaned up in his usual tunic and pants with a broad smile on his face. A smile that Rheana saw through instantly. Cassian and Azriel moved fast to tackle him in a hug, she looked at the three of them and noticed how he'd gotten quite uncomfortable with their touch as he tried to pass it off with a smile.

She finished the last of her meat as she let her talons gently scrape his dark fortress of a mind shield, and he carved out a piece of his mind to let her in, something that had made her raise her brow, he's never actually blocked her out before, he'd always trusted her to not snoop around in his thoughts and feelings.

Rhys...? Are you sure you want to party and drink?

I'll be ok, please, let me enjoy this, I've not had some good alcohol since I was taken, I just want to forget... Everything.

Her brows furrowed in confusion but she let it go, a part of her wanted to know what happened, but she would never force him to tell.

Cassian and Azriel were laughing, patting him on his back, talking about how he looked a lot better after his sleep, talking over each other, asking if he was alright. Cassian was basically jumping up and down on his feet, grabbing a bottle of Rhysand's expensive whiskey to pour them glasses. Azriel was a little curious looking at Rhysand, his shadows whispering in his ears whatever they thought was the reason for his physical recovery.

Rheana picked up a glass at the same time as Rhysand, who looked at Azriel and gave a broader smile, "To my return," He smirked and clinked the glass of whiskey with Azriel's.

Mor winnowed in the townhouse with Amren, Rhysand had probably called them in through their mind link as he pulled out more bottles from the crate that Cassian had got, he took a large swig of rum, sighing at the burn in his throat.

The females greeted Rhysand happily and Amren smirked, her nose crinkling slightly at the smell of whiskey. "Good to see you up, boy. Little Rhea was about to lose her mind when you would not wake up."

Rheana playfully shoved Amren and the tiny ancient one, making her eyes glare silver, "Oh shut up, Amren, I was not losing my mind."

"YES, YOU WERE!" Came a chorus, how the lot had managed to get tipsy in seconds was a mystery to her. Only Mor was the one who said nothing since she had panicked just as much, worried shitless for her brother.

A faint blush covered Rheana's tanned cheeks, taking a sip of her own whiskey as the rest poured more drinks, clinking glasses all around.

It took at most 30 minutes before the entire Inner Circle was drunk with how quick they were drowning drinks, Rhysand was smiling and chuckling, drinking more and more by the second. Rheana, too, drank her fill, she'd not let herself have a moment to be loose since Rhys was taken, but if he wanted to get a moment to get drunk, she would do everything to keep him happy, at least once.

Cassian was the drunkest, he'd soon started singing loudly one of the songs that frequently played at Rita's, grabbing Rhysand by his arms to pull him in a slow dance, twirling him around. Mor was laughing at them, even Azriel doubled over laughing at Cassian singing loudly at Rhysand's face. Amren just stood by the side, watching them with a smile.

Five centuries-old toddlers... Rheana thought to herself before she yelled the background vocals to Cassian's singing slightly less awfully, joining in on the dancing with Cassian who held both the brother and sister to dance with.

A real smile came on Rhysand's lips as the night carried on, Mor and Azriel also joined in on the singing and dancing happening in the townhouse, and Amren loosened up well too.

Rheana and Rhysand got twirled around and let out of the dance by the drunk Cassian and the two stared at each other, she reached her hand out to him, and he held it tight, her siphons glowed slightly, a warm humm between them. Whatever happened, they would get through it like any other misfortune they faced. Rheana would be there for Rhysand. They would be ok. They would heal. Together. Alltaf. Aeternum.

{Taglist: @anuttellaa @nox-ceur}

[furcas-knight-of-hell]

Mr Furcas, I am writing you to enquire upon your studies of pyromancy. After examining the syllabus I have been unable to find any mention of certain variations in the form taken by some more complex incantations. More specifically ones involving the creation of flame pillars, as I have observed some individuals summoning columns with a flater peak (similar to a hearth fire), whilst the same incantation cast by another results in a more singular tongue of flame (much like a candle). If you have any information on the matter it would be appreciated, yours [anonymous].

Depends on your brimstone seal, most of it is down to personal preference and purpose, but for the iconic pillar of flame look from the (spits) bible you're gonna want something that can invoke not only the sulfur demons but also the windstorm rite of the ancient desert blasphemies.

In any case you can't go wrong with the basic carved sigil of Umaglu-Luku-Pu speckled with the blood of a virgin she-djinn.

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Between Fire and Stone

Daemon Targaryen/Strong!female

summary: anxious about her approaching union to Aemond, the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen seeks comfort | word count: 2.8k~ | warnings: incest, reader is described with strong features, fingering, p in v sex, arranged marriage, Daemon being a cheeky cunt

A/N: idek what I was on to write this cos I'm not usually a Daemon girlie but here we are besties. Tysm @em-writes-stuff-sometimes for beta-ing 😘 appreciate you

The cold mist nipped at the skin around her ankles, a shiver running up her spine as she struggled through the jagged rock towards the Dragonmont. Her fingers brushed against the stark stone for balance, the other holding the lit torch to light her way before her in the darkness.

It was one of her favourite things, taking a stroll through Dragonstone in the hour of the wolf. Peaceful. Quiet. Something she could have all for herself. Away from the prying of her maidservants and the overbearing boisterous nature of her brothers. Though Jace, now a man grown, still held onto those immaturities.

Yet another thing that set her apart from her siblings.

For she, only a mere year younger than Jace, was considered a woman, ripe for marriage and bearing children, whereas the same hastiness was not pressured upon him. She knew her mother had never intended to bestow such responsibilities on her, but she understood, it was inevitable. As that time loomed ever closer, she found herself roaming her home more often, as if to savour the feeling of once being a child.

Where her brothers could seek adventure with their dragons once they were big enough to saddle, her egg had not hatched in her cradle. She would not inherit the birthright of the blood of Old Valyria, yet another judgement cast upon her that only inflated her sense of belonging at her mother's side. With her moonlit hair and pale lilac eyes, each of her children could not have looked more different.

Before the incident, there existed only one other soul who could truly fathom the depths of her solitude. No dragon. Ceaseless taunts. The notion of isolation, even amongst one’s family. Any semblance of camaraderie had been extinguished the day Lucerys took his eye. That defining moment when Aemond—her uncle—seized his birthright had marked the fracture in their familial bonds. In the aftermath, her mother, alongside her new husband Daemon, orchestrated a grand scheme to mend the shattered relations, a plan that involved her betrothal to him at an opportune moment.

Try as she might, she couldn't conjure the image of herself as his wife. The thought of residing in King's Landing under his roof refused to coalesce into a coherent vision. It remained an elusive spectre, haunting her thoughts with its intangible uncertainty.

Whispers of tradition and duty echoed in the hallowed halls of her childhood, spun by the gentle tongues of Septas who spoke of the sacred rites of marriage. Tales of Lords and Ladies, of the solemn exchange of vows, and the anticipated consummation on the wedding night. Some stories painted a picture of pleasure and intimacy, of unions founded on mutual desire and affection. Others whispered of duty, of sacrifices made for the sake of one's spouse, regardless of personal inclination.

Caught in the web of uncertainty, she pondered which version of Aemond awaited her, a tender partner or a distant lord, bound by duty and tradition. The unknown loomed before her like a shadow, casting doubt upon her heart and stirring a quiet fear within her soul. She knew not what to expect, but the uncertainty itself was enough to unsettle her, to sow the seeds of apprehension in her mind. And as the weight of anticipation hung heavy in the air, she couldn't help but wonder, which path would her marriage tread, and would she have the strength to endure whatever lay ahead?

Amidst the towering peaks of Dragonmont, she sought solace in the embrace of ancient flames and the soothing hum of Vermithor's slumber. Here, amidst the rugged terrain and the ever-watchful gaze of the dragons, she found a fleeting sense of peace.

But it was not the Bronze Fury that sang to her. 

“Hen ñuhā elēnī:

Perzyssy vestretis,

Se gēlȳn irūdaks…

Ānogrose.”

She felt the rush of heat at the nape of her neck. Daemon stood straight, back facing her, his voice near-matching the hum of Vermithor’s deep exhales.

“It is late, Princess.” Unlike her, Daemon remained as he dressed during the day, shown when he turned to face her, with the self-satisfied smirk on his lips. “What troubles you?” he asked.

She tried to raise her chin, but her eyes betrayed the turmoil that stirred within. 

���My fate,” she said, her careful steps drawing ever nearer. "I am to be wed to Aemond, but I fear what awaits me in that union.”

Daemon hummed, as if curiously amused.

She had known no father figure since Laenor. And though she knew sooner than her brothers the truth that lay beneath the careful picture her mother had forged, since she had been wed to Daemon, he had taken practice with his own daughters and become almost a father to her alike.

She felt his eyes sink over her once before returning to her eyes.

"Marriage is a weighty matter," he said. "But is it the marriage itself that troubles you, or something more?”

She did not miss the lilt to his voice. The one, that like his eyes had done many times before, made something squeeze in her gut. A fire burning bright. A feeling that brought her shame.

He was her mother's husband.

“I cannot say exactly,” she confessed. “Perhaps it is leaving Dragonstone. Mother and my brothers. And being alone in the capital with no face I recognise with trust.”

Daemon nodded almost indistinctly, his fingers reaching out to brush a lock of hair back over her shoulder, admiring her hair loose of its usual braids. His touch sent a shiver down her spine, a sensation both familiar and disconcerting. She fought to push aside the conflicting emotions that threatened to overwhelm her, the warmth of his touch conflicting with the knowledge of their complicated relationship.

"Leaving behind the familiar can indeed be a daunting prospect," Daemon acknowledged, his voice a velvet caress, “But fret not. Within you resides the same fire that fuels your mother's resolve. Embrace it. You are as much Targaryen as any of them.”

She felt a blush creeping up her cheeks at the intensity of his gaze, at the way he seemed to see straight through her defences. She knew she should be wary of his advances, of the way he danced on the edge of propriety with his words and his touch. But there was something undeniably alluring about the way he held her gaze, about the way he made her feel desired and understood.

"Thank you, Daemon," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Your support means more to me than you know.”

Daemon's smile was a slow, seductive curve of his lips, his eyes alight with a fire that mirrored the flames of the Dragonmont. 

"Ah, but my dear Princess," he replied, his voice low and husky, "you have yet to discover the true depths of my support.”

She felt her throat close up, the feeling mirroring somewhat what happened between her thighs.

What could he possibly mean?

“Do you fear it?” he asked. “The act of consummation?”

Her cheeks flushed crimson at Daemon's bold question, his words sending a jolt of both arousal and apprehension coursing through her veins. 

“It… is perfectly normal, I would think,” she answered, words failing her.

"Princess," he murmured, his voice a soothing caress against her skin. "There is no shame in feeling uncertain. It is only natural to have doubts, especially when faced with such intimate matters.”

She felt he was circling her, as dragons did their targets. And felt her heart thumping in her chest.

“With Aegon, I dare say, I would join you in your uncertainty. But Aemond, on the other hand… is a different matter entirely.”

“How so?” she asked, breathing out when he disappeared out of her line of sight, his presence at her back, fingers draping past the material of her dress.

“I am afraid he may be less… forthcoming with expressing his desires,” he purred. “He may be cold, or at least that is how it may be interpreted.” Her eyes met his with bated breath as he appeared on her opposite side, closer. “He may not be so adept with the pleasures of a female body.”

She swallowed, a chill settling on her front, her body reacting thus. He remained silent, as if daring her to say what he knew was already on the tip of her tongue. So, she took the plunge. “And…you are?”

Daemon smirked smugly, and she knew she already had her answer., “What do you think?”

Her heart raced. Her mind struggled to contemplate whether she should be honest or not, for she had heard stories and rumours. She knew she was treading dangerous waters, playing with fire in the form of her mother's husband, but there was a part of her that couldn't resist the allure of his confidence, his charm, his undeniable magnetism.

"I... I suppose I never considered such matters," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, her cheeks burning with embarrassment at the admission.

Daemon's eyes danced with amusement as he stepped closer. "Perhaps it is time you did," he murmured, fingers trailing lightly down the curve of her spine.

Her skin vibrated with anticipation as she fought to maintain her composure in the face of his overwhelming presence. She knew she should pull away, should put an end to this dangerous game they were playing, but the lure of Daemon's charm was too strong to resist.

“Mayhaps I could demonstrate and put your worries to rest,” he suggested, crossing the imaginary but daring line seemingly without fear. “Rest assured, my experience in such matters is... extensive."

Her heart pounded in her chest as she struggled to maintain her resolve, her body betraying her with every flutter of her lashes, every quickened breath. “But… you and Mother—”

Her lips clamped shut with the bruising of his grip in the softness of her waist, urging her back to the rocky, hard wall. Only now, when faced with the Rogue Prince, did she realise just how small she truly felt.

“Your mother is preoccupied with her own affairs," he replied, his voice dripping with a dangerous allure. "She won't concern herself with our little... indiscretion.”

The realisation sank in that she was alone with Daemon in the secluded confines of the Dragonmont, far removed from the prying eyes of the world. And yet, she still felt her lips go dry when he hung the torch and trailed his touch upon her skin where he was taking her skirts with it.

She could not hide her nerves, or the beating rush of arousal, “Bu—but… with Aemond, I must—”

The air felt warm as her skirt was rucked around her hips. She squeaked when his calloused fingers swept through her folds, ashamed to find she was affected by what he was doing to her as her slick coated them easily.

Daemon chuckled, a pleased hum in his chest that she was wet and ready, while his other hand busied with the laces of his breeches, “Sweet girl. When my dear nephew has his cock buried inside you on your wedding night, he will not know the difference.”

His words, combined with the tight circles he applied to the forbidden bud tucked between her legs, had white hot pleasure burning in her veins. Her lips were parted, but no sound came out. All she could do was look upon his pleased face with a hedonistic expression, feeling very much like they were doing something deliciously wrong but could find no reasonable excuse to cease.

“Do not look so surprised. I have seen the way you watch me. Are you not ashamed for looking upon your own mother’s husband with lust?” 

The more he touched her, the more arousal he coaxed forth, the sound lewd and forbidden in the raw silence of the Draognmont. She could not answer his question without subjecting herself to further embarrassment. Even so, attempting to concentrate enough to form words as his two forefingers slid within her tight, hot walls, was near impossible. She gasped quietly, the feeling so foreign and yet not unpleasant. And like Daemon in any other scenario, while his motions were forceful, somewhat brutal, they were calculated, without effort. Like it came innately. Her hands found purchase on his shoulders, his digits buried deep inside curved towards him, stoking a fire at the hearth of her.

“Answer me.”

She nodded frantically. “Yes—I am ashamed—”

It was all she managed before the feeling began to crest, building and building as if she were climbing some great height and was about to tumble off. But she only exhaled shakily as Daemon withdrew his fingers from her fluttering, sensitive walls, using the moisture to lubricate himself with a careful caress of his manhood.

He chuckled at the wounded expression on her face. “No need for shame, Princess.”

She caught the glint of his ring as he wrung the fabric of her skirts in his fist. Her eyes widened as the head of his cock disappeared easily between her swollen folds, with no real full feeling until he pushed forward, both with hesitation and a sort of evil excitement.

Her back pressed against the jagged stone, her lips only parted to suck in air where it had left her lungs. It was a feeling she could describe very little, the sting of being stretched around him painful and yet once sheathed fully inside her, hips pushing against her own. Daemon wrapped his fingers around her fleshy thigh to tug her leg over his hip, a flash of white hot pleasure creeping up her spine. He only grunted, her slick ridges gripping him greedily without any effort on her part. 

For a few moments, he stayed like that as if waiting for any complaint, but when he found none, began a steady rhythm, fingers creating crescent-moon shaped welts in her skin. He did not share in her reaction. He simply raised one corner of his lips in a pleased manner, watching her face, treating it very much as a lesson in pleasure more than anything else.

She could scarcely think with the violent push of his hips, the notch of his belt stabbing into her each time.

“My nephew does not deserve this perfect. little cunt.” He grunted from the effort. “Tell me, Princess—when he is fucking you with his narrow little prick, will you be thinking of this instead?”

Her eyes slipped shut, her head tipped back and fingers coming to her own mouth to muffle the lewd sound that threatened to come out. Her perceived embarrassment at her own enjoyment of this only seemed to motivate Daemon further, and he widened her hips with a soft nudge of his knee against her leg and groaned at the way she tightened around him.

“You liked that, didn't you?” He breathed against her face, looking briefly down between them to watch how he rooted himself inside her over and over, as if unable to believe this was really happening. “I bet he won't make you this wet. I doubt the little cunt will even know how to make you come.”

Her skirt fell from his hand as it drew down between them, and she resisted the urge to squeal when he began to apply pressure in tight, sure circles around her bud.

“You shall have to teach him those pleasures.”

Her fingers gripped his forearms tight as she climaxed, her tight, hot walls spasming around him uncontrollably. It was so utterly different to the way she had pleasured herself before. This time, the forbidden combination of Daemon stretching her open around him and the pleasure he coaxed from her with his fingers meant that this peak seemed to drain her entire body of energy. Her body feeling boneless in his hold, that if he let go, she would surely lose her balance.

A flash of fear cracked like lightning across her subconscious. Surely he did not intend to spill inside her?

He did not overstimulate her for much longer as he neared his own end. Rather, he savoured the feeling of her warmth sucking him in for just a few moments more before pulling out, stroking himself vigorously to completion, warm ropes of his spend coating her lower stomach.

In the quiet dead of night with only her laboured breathing to echo within it, she felt her eyes could not keep up with her mind as she glanced back up at him. His rapidly cooling seed began to dribble towards her thighs, swiftly covered by her skirts once more as Daemon lowered her clothing back into place. The reality of the dangerous and yet delicious sin she had committed with him began to rise into clarity.

Upon his fingers shone the damning proof of his sordid claim on her, pearly in the glow of torchlight. “What a waste. I’d have liked to see it dripping from you.

But that pleasure… I shall save for my nephew, sweet girl."

General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince @thetrueblackheart @tsujifreya @urmomsgirlfriend1 @valeskafics @valleyof-goldenlilies

[dark-dawn]

rites for a dying planet // caleb | xia yizhou

you wake up in a body that isn’t yours, in a world that shouldn’t exist. you’re not sure if it’s a dream, a punishment, or some cosmic joke—but you’re definitely alive, and unfortunately, very aware of it.

✭ pairing: caleb x mc | reader

✭ contains: isekai and transmigration, worldbuilding, politics, dubious science, handwaving: the fanfic, unreliable narrator, mental health issues, exploring the horrifying logistics of canon, angst, canon-typical violence, slow burn, found family, caleb is his own warning, eventual romance, moral ambiguity, only canon-compliant if you squint and lie, read too many naruto self-insert fics in 2013 and it shows.

✭ word count: 5.5k | part one ✭ a/n: listen. I barely understand this game. I went down one (1) reddit rabbit hole hoping for answers and emerged with more questions, three contradictory timelines, and a headache. So—like any reasonable person—I wrote fanfiction. [ read on ao3 ]

You always thought death would be cruel. A tearing, or a rending—something final. You imagined pain, or perhaps light, or the sudden silence of being extinguished like a flame, and you thought there would be meaning in it, some last, flickering clarity before the dark. But it wasn’t like that. It was quiet. Not kind, but not unkind either. Just indifferent, the way the sea is indifferent to the drowning, the way fire never pauses to consider what it consumes.

And then—smallness. Small hands, small feet, the shape of the world too big to hold. A room washed in yellow light. Your mother’s voice—new and warm and unfamiliar in a way that felt right anyway. Your father’s hands lifting you too easily, like you weighed nothing at all. None of it should have made sense, but it did. Not in the way memory is supposed to make sense, neat and linear, but the way dreams do: loose, flickering, stitched together by feeling more than fact.

Some would call it a blessing, to be born twice. To start again. But you’ve learned it’s not a clean slate, not really. It’s more like a palimpsest. Something overwritten, but never entirely erased.

Your childhood was happy, all things considered. There were warm meals and scraped knees, paper kites and sunburnt shoulders, the easy rhythm of routine, of growing older without noticing. You learned to read with your back pressed against your mother’s arm, mouthing words out loud while her fingers traced letters in the air; you learned to run across fields that smelled of dry grass and river clay, to fall and laugh and cry and keep going. You had friends, or something close to them, and the kind of endless summer days that blur together into one long, golden memory. You were loved, and it was enough.

The dissonance came slowly. At first, it was only a feeling, like stepping into a room where the furniture has been rearranged: everything familiar, and yet not. You looked for signs without knowing you were searching—hoped someone would mention a name you used to know, or a song, or a brand of cereal, something small and anchoring—but no one ever did. You started noticing the strangeness of the machines, how they didn’t hum or buzz the way they should, how the screens were too clean, too thin, too quiet. The interfaces responded before you touched them. The trains never broke down. Everything worked too well, moved too quickly, skipped past the imperfections you’d learned to live with before.

You knew what was happening before you really let yourself believe it. It crept in at the corners—quiet, certain—the unfamiliar holidays marked on the calendar, the children’s books with their strange alphabets and kingdoms you’d never heard of, names of countries that didn’t exist.

And yet, they did.

You lived in Linkon City. It said so on your school ID, your library card, the crumpled paper wrappers from the bakery on the corner. You could draw its subway map from memory. You knew which districts smelled like engine oil and which ones flooded in the spring.

Where else would you live?

(Your mother had never heard of London.)

But it was the sky that solidified things, in the end. The stars were all wrong. No North Star. No Orion’s Belt. Just a sweep of unfamiliar constellations, bright and sharp and wholly indifferent. A completely different sky, a new part of the universe, one where the rules had shifted in ways you couldn’t quite name. And standing beneath it, you felt something loosen in you—some last thread to the world you’d once known pulling taut, then snapping clean through.

This was a new world. This was a new life.

Maybe you were supposed to do something with it—this second chance. Maybe there was some grand purpose you missed, some fate you were meant to fulfil, some cosmic checklist you failed to tick off before the universe got bored and filed you under miscellaneous. You were reborn, weren’t you? Isn’t that supposed to mean something? You should have come out special. Glowing, chosen, blessed. A prodigy with ancient wisdom tucked behind your teeth. A voice in your head whispering secrets. Powers. Insight. Anything.

Instead, you got mild seasonal allergies and a lopsided birthmark on your hip.

In your worst moments, you wonder if this life is some sort of punishment. Not a dramatic punishment, of course. Not fire and brimstone. Something quieter. Smaller. A life that just goes on, day after day, full of minor joys and minor failures. No grand battles. No tragic fate. Just the constant, lingering what if?

Because if it were awful, you could rage. If it were perfect, you could surrender. But this—this not-quite, this maybe, this waiting-for-a-sign-that-never-comes—is unbearable in a way that’s hard to name.

And still. You wake up. You brush your teeth. You go to school. You come home. You eat dinner. You laugh when people expect you to. You go to sleep. And some nights, you dream of vending machines and broken streetlights and a world that was uglier, slower, louder—and yours.

And then things go to hell. Because of course they do.

Your parents die when you turn seven, and for a moment, you think—this is it. This is the turning point, the part where the strangeness cracks wide open, where your destiny finally limps onto the stage, late but dramatic. You wait for the letter with the wax seal. The sudden inheritance. The shadowy stranger who knows your true name.

But no. There’s just grief.

Not the cinematic kind, either. No thunderstorm, no funeral in the rain. Just soft voices and drawn curtains. Empty rooms and a suitcase you didn’t pack. Their shoes still by the door because no one’s been brave enough to move them. People say they’re sorry and mean it, but that doesn’t help when the silence is so loud you start talking to yourself just to fill it.

And still—still—some part of you watches from a distance, thinking, Is this it? Is this the moment I transform?

But you don’t transform. You just survive. Messily, gracelessly. You go back to school with red-rimmed eyes. You forget homework. You stare too long at strangers, hoping one of them will look back and say, Ah. There you are. We’ve been looking for you.

They don’t.

And after a while, you stop expecting them to.

The memories of this time are a little hazy. You chalk it up to grief, at first—the way your brain fogs over to protect you, how people say trauma softens the edges of things. You tell yourself that’s normal. That forgetting whole days is just part of the process. That it’s nothing to worry about when you wake up with bruises you don’t remember earning, or when you find notebooks with pages torn out, or when someone from school says, “We talked about this yesterday,” and you nod like you remember.

Sometimes, you do. Probably.

Sometimes you dream about white light and metal walls and voices just out of reach. You wake with your heart racing, certain something was done to you—is being done to you—but then the thought slips away, too smooth to hold. It’s always just out of focus. Like trying to stare straight at a shadow.

You’ve always had an overactive imagination, your teachers say. You read too many books. Spent too much time alone. You once tried to keep a journal, to track the days that slipped when you weren’t looking—but whole weeks were missing, and the entries stopped making sense. Dates out of order. Gaps you couldn’t explain.

Still, you survive. Or you pretend well enough that it passes for the same thing.

And most of the time, that’s enough. Most of the time, you can almost forget there’s something missing. That you’re walking around the hollow shape of a person with gaps in the middle. That sometimes you catch your reflection and for a split second, you swear it moves wrong.

Caleb makes things easier, but Caleb always makes things easier.

He was there in the early years, the scraped-knee summers and playground bruises, when everything felt half-formed and full of promise. He knew how to fill in the silences, how to make you laugh when your chest felt too tight, how to say “You’re fine,” in a way that almost made it true.

He doesn’t ask questions you can’t answer. Doesn’t press when your memory skips or when you forget entire conversations. When you say, “I think I lost some time,” he just shrugs and says, “Happens to the best of us.” Like it’s normal. Like it’s fine. Maybe it is, when he says it.

Sometimes you wonder if he knows more than he lets on. If he’s ever noticed the blank spaces and decided not to speak. If maybe he remembers the things you’ve forgotten.

But you don’t ask, and he doesn’t say, and the silence between you has always been a comfortable one.

And anyway, Caleb is steady. Caleb is real. When the world feels too sharp at the edges, too bright, too fast—he’s the one thing that doesn’t blur.

It makes living with Grandma easier, having him with you.

She’s a kind lady, the sort who smells like lavender and keeps biscuits in a tin shaped like a cat. Her knees crack when she walks, and she sings old songs to herself while folding laundry, soft and tuneless. She doesn’t ask too many questions, which helps. You get the sense she’s known loss too, though she never talks about it—not directly. Sometimes you catch her looking at you like she’s trying to remember someone else’s child in your face, but then she smiles and pats your head and tells you there’s more soup on the stove.

Your room is small, but it’s yours. Slanted ceiling, pale yellow walls, a window that fogs up in winter and lets in birdsong in spring. There’s a bookshelf with mismatched titles, a desk that creaks when you lean on it, and a bed pushed up against the wall with too many pillows and a blanket that smells faintly of mothballs and safety. You’ve tacked up drawings and pressed flowers and book pages, little things that make the space feel more like home. It helps.

Caleb’s room is next door. You can hear him through the wall sometimes—shuffling around, tapping out rhythms on the floor, singing under his breath when he thinks no one’s listening. Some nights, when everything feels too loud inside your head, you knock once on the shared wall and wait. There’s always an answer: three knocks back. Then a pause. Then the soft creak of his door opening. He doesn’t say much when he sits at the edge of your bed—just offers you a hug or a joke or a leftover biscuit from the tin. Sometimes that’s all you need.

Other times, you just fall asleep knowing he’s close, and that’s enough to keep the shadows from rearranging themselves while you dream.

~

You’re ten years old when you see a Wanderer for the first time.

It happens in the middle of an ordinary afternoon—clouds low, air heavy with the threat of rain, the street humming with delivery drones and kids on bikes and vending carts rolling over cobblestone. You’re walking home from the market with Caleb, arms full of groceries and stupidly arguing about which of you could win in a sword fight, when the world tilts.

The sky doesn’t split—not exactly—but it fractures. Like something huge and hidden behind it finally pressed too hard.

You don’t know the name for it then—don’t know it’s part of something bigger, something called the Chronorift Catastrophe, don’t know this is only the beginning. That somewhere, deep in the government’s hands, they opened something called the Deepspace Tunnel. A corridor through time, they said. Or space. Or both. A marvel of science. A new frontier.

Instead, it became a wound.

The first one you see is enormous. Bone-white and many-limbed, with a head shaped like a ram’s skull and eyes like dying stars. It moves like something remembering how to move, awkward and predatory and far too real. People scream. The sky dims. Caleb grabs your hand so hard it hurts, and still, you can’t look away.

It feels mythological. Beasts from storybooks made monstrous, folklore made flesh and invited in through a door no one should’ve opened. You don’t even know how long you stand there—how long you stare—before the soldiers arrive. Sirens. Gunfire. A blur of motion and commands you don’t understand.

And for the first time in your life, you feel very small, and very real, and very awake.

This changes things.

The world doesn’t end, but it forgets how to be ordinary. There are checkpoints now. Curfews. Emergency drills at school. The news cycles between denial and panic. The grown-ups talk about “rebuilding efforts” and “containment zones” like that means anything, like anyone understands what’s really happening. The military presence increases. The sky hums differently.

And you—well.

You used to lie awake imagining some ancient power would call your name from the dark and everything would click—your past life would make sense, your strange instincts would sharpen into something useful, and you’d finally, finally become what you were meant to be: great, magical, extraordinary.

But that was before you saw a Wanderer tear through a street like paper. Before you saw what “chosen” looks like when it’s screaming for help and no one comes. Before the sky split open and something vast and ancient and wrong looked back at you.

The Wanderers cured you of destiny.

You realise you don’t want to be brave. You don’t want to be the one who runs toward the monster. You just want to stay alive. You want to go home. You want Caleb to keep singing in the room next door, and your window to keep fogging up in winter, and the universe to completely forget you exist.

(It doesn’t.)

So you start running laps in the school gym, even when no one tells you to. You time yourself when no one’s watching. You start noticing exits in every room, counting steps between doors, between windows. You learn which alleys to avoid after curfew and how to move without being seen. You don’t tell Caleb. You don’t tell anyone.

They haven’t started recruiting yet, and maybe they won’t. You’re a civilian, technically. A child, legally. But rules bend in a crisis. Expectations shift. And you suspect this world will ask more of you than you want to give.

You get faster. Quieter. Meaner, when you have to be. You learn to say the right things so the teachers stop looking at you with too much concern. You learn how to pass unnoticed in a crowd. You learn what fear looks like in other people’s eyes, and how to keep yours steady.

Then you turn eleven.

And suddenly, you’re not strange anymore—you’re gifted. The adults stop whispering about trauma and start talking about potential. They say you’re quick. Observant. Strategically minded. Someone prints your name on a school leaderboard you didn’t know existed. You don’t ask what it’s for.

At first, it unsettles you. You weren’t doing anything special, just surviving. But then you realise: no one cares why you’re quick, just that you are. No one asks why your test scores jump from average to perfect, why you watch the news with too much intensity and flinch when the sirens start before they reach your street. They think you’re bright. Promising. The kind of child the city can be proud of. Something salvageable from the wreckage.

You let them believe it. You nod when praised. You smile when necessary. You answer questions with just enough personality to be liked, but not enough to be known.

They see discipline. They see talent.

They don’t see the Wanderer in your dreams. Or the bruises you don’t remember getting. Or the fact that some days, you still don’t recognise the handwriting in your own notebook.

But Caleb notices.

Of course he does. He always has.

He doesn’t say it outright—he never does—but you catch the way his eyes linger on you a little too long when you’re quiet. The way he notices when you skip a meal or disappear into your room before sunset. He starts sitting a little closer at the dinner table. Walks you to school even when he doesn’t have to.

One evening, after you get back a perfect score on an exam you barely remember taking, he knocks on your door and asks if you want help studying.

You blink at him, surprised. “I don’t need help.”

He shrugs, casually, like it doesn’t matter. “I do.”

And maybe that’s true. Maybe he’s really just trying to keep up—he’s a few years ahead of you, but lately you’ve caught up in ways neither of you expected. He’s still taller, still stronger, still better at most things, but it’s starting to narrow. The difference between age and ability. The space between you, closing inch by inch.

And maybe that’s why he starts pushing himself, too.

He studies harder. Trains longer. You catch him at the park running sprints alone, long after everyone else has gone home. He starts carrying extra textbooks and scribbling formulas on his arms in ballpoint pen. He says he’s just trying to set a good example, but you know better. Caleb’s always been the calm in the storm, the one who grounds instead of rises—but now, there’s something sharper in him. Like he’s decided that if the world is going to fall apart, then the least he can do is not let you face it alone.

~

It’s around this time that you first meet Zayne.

He’s older—by three years, maybe four—and already something of a legend in the upper school halls. Top of every class. Reads textbooks for fun. The kind of student teachers smile at like he’s their personal success story. You hear his name before you ever see him, always in the same breath as ranking reports and advanced placement. The kind of name that makes other students grit their teeth.

You meet because someone decides you belong in the same orbit.

A teacher pulls you aside after class, gently enthusiastic. “We’ve arranged for you to sit in on the upper-level track for now,” they say, like it’s a reward and not further proof that the universe hates you.

Grandma is thrilled. You’re just tired.

They bundle the exceptional students together now—streamlined education, post-Rift efficiency, all that—and suddenly you’re sitting in a small seminar room that smells like old whiteboard markers and overconfidence. You’re the youngest by far, and Zayne is at the front of it all, spine straight, handwriting neat, correcting instructors without a hint of arrogance. Just certainty.

You sit in silence through most of the session, only half-listening. The room is full of numbers and diagrams that should feel complicated, but your brain catches onto them too easily. It’s not that you’re smarter than the others. It’s that the answers are already half-formed in your head, just waiting to be remembered.

You don’t feel brilliant. You feel like a fraud with a head full of loose wires and secondhand thoughts.

Zayne answers every question without hesitation. The kind of sharp, assured intelligence that feels clean and earned. He doesn’t stumble or second-guess. You catch yourself watching him more than the lesson.

And then you realise he’s noticed you, too. He sees the way you finish your work too quickly, the way your fingers twitch when the material is too easy, the way you seem at once too young and too knowing. You can feel his gaze like a pressure behind your ear.

He approaches you after the second week.

“You missed the extrapolation in problem seven,” he says, flipping your worksheet around without asking. “It’s subtle, but it throws off your entire hypothesis.”

You glance at the page. He’s right, obviously. You were sloppy.

(You were thinking about white light and metal walls and the wrongness humming beneath your ribs.)

“Oh,” you say, because you don’t trust yourself to say anything smarter. “Right.”

Zayne doesn’t smile. He just nods, like he’s confirming a hypothesis.

“Are you autodidactic?” he asks.

You blink. “Am I what?”

“Taught yourself,” he says, still watching. “You learn unusually fast.”

You shrug. “I guess.”

It’s not a lie. But it’s not the truth, either.

Zayne doesn’t press, which somehow makes it worse.

After that, it’s like you’ve been filed under Interesting. He starts sitting closer. Starts asking you questions in that quiet, clinical way of his. Why you skipped a step in the solution but still landed on the right answer. How you saw the pattern in the data set before it was introduced. Whether you reverse-engineered the formula or intuited it.

“You don’t think like the others,” he says once, matter-of-fact. “You solve backwards. That’s interesting.”

It’s not meant to be flattering, but it lands that way.

You tell yourself not to let it matter. That he’s just another student. But something about the way he speaks to you—measured, never condescending—makes your brain light up in places most people don’t reach. Zayne doesn’t talk down. He talks across. As if you’re already fluent in whatever strange mental language he’s operating in.

Caleb hates him immediately.

Caleb, who has always been good at most things but never the best, who has worked hard and stayed steady and smiled through every project where Zayne outscored him without trying. Caleb, who mutters “robot” under his breath when Zayne walks past, and loudly announces that “real people don’t talk like that” after one too many overheard comments about theoretical models.

(You’ve never seen him act so petty. You almost find it endearing.)

“He thinks he’s better than everyone,” Caleb says one day, slumped beside you at lunch. “Bet he doesn’t even have friends. Just facts and spreadsheets and whatever’s shoved up his—”

“Caleb,” you interrupt, without looking up. “He’s not that bad.”

That’s the first time you realise you’ve started defending Zayne. You’re not sure you like that. But it’s true. He’s not kind, exactly, but he’s precise, and there’s something in that precision that feels familiar. Comforting.

Caleb doesn’t say anything after that. Just peels the label off his water bottle and refuses to meet your eye.

And you get it.

It takes a moment��longer than it should—but you do. Because this isn’t about Zayne. Not really. It’s about you. It’s about the way your world has always had two people in it: you and Caleb. The way he’s always been there—beside you, ahead of you, behind you, whatever the moment needed. And now you’re in rooms he doesn’t enter. Speaking in shorthand he doesn’t know. Drifting.

And for the first time, you think: he’s afraid.

Not of Zayne. Not of being outscored or overlooked. He’s afraid of being left behind.

It’s not an easy thing to spot—Caleb doesn’t do open vulnerability. He isn’t the sort of person who makes a scene. He just folds into himself, grows sharper at the edges. Throws out a few more barbed jokes than usual. Hovers over your shoulder and bears his teeth.

He’s always been a protector. That’s how he exists in the world: guarding things. Guarding you. Even when you didn’t ask for it. Especially when you didn’t ask for it. He walks on the street side of the pavement. He memorises your schedule without meaning to. He’s the one who knocks back when you tap the wall at night.

Even now, with Zayne in the picture and things shifting underfoot, he doesn’t push you away or accuse you of changing. He just circles a little tighter, stands a little closer, like he’s trying to remind the world you’re already spoken for.

And maybe that’s what makes it worse—the way he never demands anything. Never asks you to choose.

He just braces himself to be left behind and pretends he isn’t afraid.

It pisses you off.

Because Caleb is home. Caleb is the first face you learned to trust. Your first friend. You don’t know where he ends and you begin. That if the universe cracked open tomorrow and you had to choose someone to stand beside you in the ruins, it would be him.

But he’s a stupid teenage boy, and completely oblivious to any of your emotions. So he just sulks a little more than usual. He takes longer to respond to your texts. He avoids eye contact when you catch him looking. He kicks pebbles into storm drains, and gets into fights at school.

You think maybe he wants you to ask what’s wrong—just so he can say nothing in the most unconvincing tone humanly possible. But you don’t ask. You don’t push. You just walk beside him like always, your backpacks bumping slightly as you fall into step, the silence stretching long and uneven between you.

He shoves his hands into his pockets, head ducked like the pavement’s suddenly fascinating. Every so often, he mutters half-hearted complaints—about school, the weather, how Zayne probably practices blinking in a mirror and still hasn’t nailed it.

You let him talk. You let him not talk. You let him exist in that strange space between anger and sadness where Caleb lives when things get too complicated to name.

At the corner near your street, he finally says, “You don’t even like him that much, right?” Not looking at you. Not quite managing to make it sound like a joke.

You glance over. He’s staring straight ahead, jaw tight, like he’s already bracing for an answer he won’t like.

“I don’t not like him,” you say, and immediately regret it. Because it’s not the kind of answer that softens things. It just makes him shrug too hard, like he’s trying to shake something off.

“Right,” he says. “Cool. Yeah.”

He kicks another pebble, harder this time. It hits the curb and skitters into the gutter with a sound that feels unnecessarily final.

You sigh. “Caleb. I’m not going anywhere.”

He doesn’t answer. But he walks a little slower after that.

And when you reach your street, he hooks his pinky around yours, like he used to when you were smaller and scared of thunderstorms and neither of you knew what to say.

No deal is spoken. No vow is made. But it feels like one anyway.

~

You’re fourteen when you start realising that the feeling of wrongness you’ve been carrying around with you might mean something.

It’s not just dreams anymore. Not just phantom bruises and flickering gaps in your memory. It’s more insistent. Closer. A low-frequency hum beneath your ribs that no one else seems to hear. Sometimes it feels like your heart is stuttering—like something inside you is trying to move in a rhythm that doesn’t match the rest of you.

You try to ignore it. You try to pretend it’s nothing, just growing pains, just too much caffeine, just you being dramatic. But the world is changing, and pretending is starting to feel harder.

Because around this time, you start hearing more about Evolvers.

They’re no longer background noise on the news or a quiet topic for academic panels. They’re everywhere now—featured in public service announcements and splashed across front-page headlines, on billboards with stylised codenames and blurred-out faces. Hunters being praised, feared, marketed. Children in your year whisper about Evol Classes like they’re houses in a fantasy novel—Psychic, Elemental, Simulation. Everyone wants to know which one they’ll be. If they’ll be anything at all.

The school nurse starts carrying Evol detection kits. Guidance counsellors begin holding “talent assessments.” There’s a quiet kind of hysteria underneath it all, dressed up like opportunity. Like evolution is the next academic stream. Just another test to pass.

You try to play along. You listen. You nod. But none of it feels real.

(Because this world is still strange. Deeply, fundamentally strange. You doubt you’ll ever fully acclimatise.)

Zayne starts talking about it more. He has theories, of course. About Class distributions and gene expression, about combat bias in Hunter selection and the ethics of private-sector augmentation. His Evol is public knowledge now—ice, sharp and efficient, just like him. Elemental Class. A perfect fit.

Caleb pretends not to care, but he always has a way of being exactly what people want to see. Top marks, captain of the basketball team, the kind of smile that makes teachers trust him and classmates fall a little bit in love with him.

But you know him better than that. You’ve seen the way he stiffens, just barely, when the subject of Evols comes up. The way he makes a joke and changes the subject whenever someone mentions Class registration. The way he keeps his hands in his pockets when he’s angry.

He’s not careless. He’s careful.

You haven’t seen anything float. Nothing dramatic. But sometimes you feel the air going still around him, the weight of a moment stretching thin, like the world holds its breath when he’s near.

He hasn’t told you. You’re not sure why he hasn’t, but you trust him.

Caleb doesn’t lie—not to you, anyway—but he withholds. He gives you everything and nothing in the same breath, and you’ve long since stopped expecting clean answers from him.

Because if there’s one thing you’ve learned, it’s that he guards what matters most. And if this is something he’s keeping quiet, then it must matter.

So you trust him. He’ll tell you when he’s ready.

And you—well, you have nothing.

No classification. No listed Level. No registered Evol.

Just that feeling. That quiet, insistent hum.

You start reading late into the night. Medical journals, declassified reports, scraps of data buried deep online. You learn about Levelless Evolvers. About fluctuations. About undocumented Classes. You learn the word Anhausen—a strange, archaic thing buried in a footnote, a misrecorded Class, maybe even a mistranslation.

But something about it sticks.

To raise. To heighten. To make someone better.

You don’t feel better. You don’t feel anything good at all. Just the weight of something you can’t name curled around your heart like a second pulse.

No one else seems concerned.

Grandma pats your shoulder and says you’re probably just a late bloomer. The school nurse shrugs at your clean scan results. The guidance counsellor smiles too much. No one questions the blankness in your file.

And so the silence settles in. Official, approved, unremarkable.

Caleb is pleased. He says as much, that first evening after school when the topic comes up and you shrug, trying to look unbothered.

“Good.” he says, without hesitation. “That’s what I was hoping for.”

You raise an eyebrow, half-expecting the usual teasing—but no. He means it. He’s genuinely relieved.

“No limelight,” he adds, tossing a chip into his mouth. “No agencies tracking you. No recruiters with pamphlets. No creepy uncle-types offering you custom weapons in alleyways.”

You snort. “No one is offering me things in alleyways, you dork.”

He leans back on your bed, arms crossed behind his head like this is the best news he’s heard all week. “You’re safe. You get to be normal. That’s a win.”

You nod. You say, yeah, sure, because it’s easier than explaining the thrum under your skin. The way your hands sometimes shake for no reason, or how your vision flickers when you stand too close to certain people.

You don’t want to worry him. You’re not even sure if your research is right, or if what you’re feeling is just some leftover residue from the Rift—something your body never learned to process.

It could be anything, really. Aftershocks. Nerve damage. Ghost data from a life you’re not supposed to remember. You’ve tried to explain it to yourself a dozen different ways—hormones, trauma, something metaphysical that hasn’t been named yet. Maybe all of it. Maybe none of it. There are so many things wrong with you that trying to name just one feels almost pointless. Like picking one crack in the glass and pretending it caused the whole shatter.

So you nod. You smile. You let Caleb be relieved.

And you keep digging.

~

That night, you fall down another research hole and stumble across a name: Lumiere. No Class, no Level, no face. Just grainy footage buried in a decade-old crisis report.

You swear you recognise him.

This changes things.

[mrscarpenter]

“We were always meant to burn together.” 2

Summary: cant think of one without spoiling everything 🥲

Includes/warnings: hightower!reader, aegons twin. Y/N has been used on multiple occasions. There is an age gap in this (whatever daemons canon age is). Some high valyrian with translations, i am not fluent so ignore if it sucks.

🪐notes: its been a while since i’ve seen season 1 so please ignore any timeline mistakes. Daemyra does not exist in this. :)

Biggest thank you to my lovely hannah ( @just-some-random-blogger ) for beta-reading this <33

« “I am not going back to Oldtown with you, uncle.” »

« “Then where will you go?” »

« “i’ll be with rhaenyra.” »

Dragonstone ― Near the beaches...

Less than six months later, after the incident at Driftmark, a new act would rattle the court.

As per the ancient customs of House Targaryen, Daemon and his niece, you, had arranged a ceremony on the beaches of Dragonstone to perform a Valyrian rite, which was attended by Rhaenyra, her children, Jace, Luke, Joffrey, and Daemon’s children, Baela, and Rhaena, along with Rhaenyra's maester, Gerardys. 

The wedding ceremony was to be solemnized by a High Priest, who worshipped the Old Gods of Valyria, and was brought in by both Targaryen royals. However, due to the tragic event of the Doom that destroyed the Valyrian Freehold and their civilization, very little information or records remained about the long-forgotten religion, except that the Targaryen dragons were named after gods from the ancient pantheon worshipped throughout Old Valyria's vast empire. 

Their faith was practiced for thousands of years before being greatly diminished. It was a momentous occasion for the family, steeped in tradition and history, as they honored their heritage and celebrated the union of two of its members.

You, dressed in the traditional garments, looked back at everyone. This marriage was performed suddenly without the knowledge of your father, mother or siblings. They were not in attendance— a deep shame. You had hoped that they would be there to support you. 

You never wanted to be wed, you linked it with childbirth and after the late queen Aemma, and Daemon’s late wife, Laena; it scared you to no end. Your thoughts drift back to the day you and Daemon arrived at Dragonstone, and he had made the proposal. 

« “If you don't want Alicent to have any control over you anymore, you must wed me. A woman’s place is beside her husband. She couldn’t deny that.” »

« “I do not wish to be wed, Daemon— to sit around as a broodmare, my only purpose to produce heirs until I end like...” »

« " I know you are frightened, but I won't let anything happen to you.” »

Proceeding with the wedding, you and Daemon cut your hands and lips with dragonglass, mixed your blood in a ceremonial chalice, and marked Valyrian glyphs in blood on your foreheads.

"Hen lantoti ānogar. Va sȳndroti vāedroma.” Blood of two. Joined as one. the High Priest prayed in High Valyrian. "Mēro perzot gīhoti. Elēdroma iārza sīr. Izulī ampā perzī. Prūmī lanti sēteksi. Hen jenȳ māzīlarion. Qēlossa ozūndesi. Sȳndroro ōñō jēdo. Rȳ kīvia mazvestraksi.” Ghostly flame. And song of shadows. Two hearts as embers. Forged in fourteen fires. A future promised in glass. The stars stand witness. The vow spoken through time. Of darkness and light.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Red Keep ― Maegor's Holdfast...

"A perversion of justice," Larys commented. "The young Prince Aemond... defiled. An outrage."

"Indeed," Alicent replied. Since her father took control of her influence, the instructions were left relatively straightforward. Her position as Queen Consort was in dire jeopardy.

"If it's an eye you want to balance the scales, I am your servant."

"Don't bother. Even if Rhaenyra's bastards are mere pushovers, she and daemon are another matter entirely. So even if I wanted to, such actions would only bring further unnecessary trouble. But your devotion has not gone unnoticed."

"These are dangerous times."

"The day will doubtless come when House Hightower will require such a friend. With not only skill but discretion as well."

"I shall await your call, my queen. However..." Larys passed on a note. "It's come to my attention that a certain young princess has done the unthinkable, Your Grace."

Alicent raised a curious eyebrow and examined the note. Her eyes traced the handwriting intricately. When she finally realized what Larys's spies had uncovered, the queen couldn't help but gulp. "My sweet girl.." She turned to Larys. "Thank you for letting me know."

––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Dragonstone

After the wedding, there was no bedding ceremony. As much as daemon had wanted to bed you, he knew it was not something you wanted yet, still far to scared of your duties as wife. Only you two would know that secret, to anyone else you had consummated.

You had avoided daemon after that night, trying your hardest to not speak to him, or to avoid his presence altogether. Having never been close with him beforehand, you didn’t know what to talk to him about. If you weren’t being a wife, what else should you be doing? You did not know.

The small folk and the fishermen looked up in confusion as you passed them, it wasnt a usual occurrence that a Targaryen princess such as yourself, walked along the dusty beach of dragonstone, in a fancy dress no less. You had wanted to clear your mind, you told yourself. But subconsciously, it might have had something to do with the sightings of a dragon near the beach the past few days.

Daemon had assigned a personal guard to you, to keep you safe. If the guard reported back to him on your doings, you did not know. But if he did, it wasn’t obvious. “Princess, maybe we should turn back.” Ser Steffon spoke, gulping as he hears the screams of terror as a dragon is sighted flying towards the beach.

“If you want to return, you are welcome to do so Ser. I am staying.” Claiming a dragon wasnt the first thing that crossed your mind, you simply wanted to stay at the beach. And unlike the small folk, you were not terrified of dragons. But yet as the dragon flew over you, and the thought of claiming it did cross your mind, a small tingle of terror did run over your spine before you shook it off. You are a targaryen, this is your birthright. You tell yourself. Don’t be scared of what is owed to you.

You speed up to the flat lands where you saw the dragon land. You hadn’t seen what dragon it was, you had only hoped it was seasmoke, or any other dragon that wasn’t as scary, in your mind, as the wild ones.

After Aemond claimed vhagar, you were left the only Targaryen without a mount. It broke your heart when your dragon didn’t hatch in OldTown. Now that you had this opportunity in front of you, you weren’t gonna let it go to waste.

Ser Steffon, however scared, did not turn away, and instead followed you. Ofcourse his pleadings to turn back never stopped, and neither did his murmurs: “Prince Daemon is going to kill me.”

Now that you have the dragon in your full sight, you can finally see which one it is. You audibly gulp. “grey ghost.”, you whisper to yourself. It just had to be a wild dragon didn’t it?

You don’t let it deter you, slowly stepping closer. you were never taught High Valyrian in OldTown, you had only started learning with Rhaenyra when you first came to dragonstone. You hadn’t progressed far, so you tried your hardest to remember dragon commands. Lykirī, dohaerās, sōvēs, you recited over and over in your head as you stopped in front of Grey Ghost. He is a beautiful pale grey-white dragon, and if the stories were true, he blended in beautifully with the clouds.

It made sense that he was near the beach these past few days, according to the stories you had heard, Grey Ghost preferred fish.

“Beautiful”, you mumble to yourself, you were mesmerised.

“Princess! Please get away from that beast!”

You clench your jaw, “Dragons are not beasts, Ser Steffon, they are beautiful creatures. If you do not wish to be here, you are free to leave!” You yell at him over the wind.

You take small steps towards Grey Ghost, and he growls at you. “Lykirī, Grey Ghost, Dohaerās!”

You chant those two words over and over towards him, your hand held out as you step closer to his head. This is it, you think, this is the part where i get burned alive.

Eventually you step so close, your hand lands on his snout. “Kostilus” you whisper, please.

Grey Ghost turns his head away. You move towards the length of his body, praying to the seven you won’t get burned, or eaten.

You hear Ser Steffon running away, probably to fetch Daemon, or other guards. You dont know why, if this is when Grey Ghost decides to kill you, nobody would be able to stop it.

You slowly climb up, somewhat clumsily seeing as Grey Ghost has no saddle for you to climb up on, and you’re wearing a dress instead of the usual riding wear.

As you manoeuvre yourself on top, you settle down and let out a sigh of relief, It doesnt last long because you’re forced to lean forward and grab onto something, anything, as grey ghost moves. “Lykirī, Grey Ghost, sōvēs.”

With that, Grey Ghost takes off. Once in the sky, its hard for you to not panic. Not only is Grey Ghost very fast and very excited, you are also flying at a great height without a saddle, or reigns to hold onto.

You hear a loud roar and suddenly a red dragon flies beside you, caraxes. A smile blossoms onto your face as you follow the length of the blood wyrms body til your eyes land on your husband.

Daemon smiles at you, as he leans back in his saddle and spreads his arm wide. You’d do the same, but you are nowhere near as skilled at riding a dragon as he is.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Dragonstone —— DragonMont

Your feet touch the ground as you dismount Grey Ghost. You spent an hour in the sky, flying around with Daemon, before he led you to the dragonmont.

In the sky it was fun, but you knew that now you’re on the ground, you were in for a scolding. And as you approach Daemon, the stern look on his face proves you right.

He meets you halfway, stands impossibly close to you, puts his hand on your waist to lock you in and places his head right beside yours. “Do you know how reckless and dangerous that was?”

You sigh, but dont say anything to excuse yourself, because nothing will excuse it.

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you happy now? Did you get what you so desperately needed? you were even willing to risk your own life for it.”

You say nothing, you dont move and you dont speak, you only avert your eyes downwards. Daemon notices and pulls back slightly. He puts his fingers under your chin and forces you to make eye contact with him again. He leans slightly forward, and presses his forehead against yours for nothing more of a nanosecond before pulling away again and walking off, leaving you standing there.

Part 3, anyone?

explore post, masterlist

please comment & reblog if you enjoyed. <3

© mrscarpenter, 2025

[fairyysoup]

the devil i know

chapter ten: i'm gonna stay faithful to the devil i know

(repost)

fic tag | fic playlist | fic masterlist

pairing(s): crossroads demon!eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: Your full moon rite sparks some unexpected confessions.

cw: explicit, smut, monsterfucking, piv sex, rough sex, name calling, public sex, exhibitionism, mild choking, brat taming, dumbification, reader is in heat, sex in a cemetery, eddie is a tease, marriage mention, sex pact, demonic rituals, love confessions, animal death mention, dead dove: do not eat

please check masterlist and individual parts for content warnings before reading. this fic contains dark themes. your media consumption is your own responsibility.

ALL OF MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

It doesn’t take you long to find a rickety motel in the middle of rip-roaring Cleary, across the river from Eastwick. You don’t imagine you’ll stay long enough to warrant another rental house or apartment, but you don’t want to think about what you’ll do when this is all over. You didn’t stop to collect anything besides a change of clothes after your apartment went up in flames; you hopped out the bedroom window and took off in your car, trying not to focus on how the fire never burned you, or how Eddie kissed your hand before disappearing into the flames. 

The motel is backed up by trees, trees, and more trees. It’s a sprawling campus with two two-storey buildings, and a bungalow of a few cottages. The check in desk is inside a small reconstructionist Victorian-style house that doubles as a tavern on the weekends. 

Thankfully, it’s not the weekend. 

You stalk up the stairs of the second building, careful not to be heard by other guests. The motel still uses physical room keys; yours boasts a tag that reads 237. You slip mostly quietly into your room, and shut the door before leaning heavily against it. Checking in took more confidence than you have at the moment. You weren’t sure if the clerk could still see blood in your hair or your skin, smell the smoke on the clothes you’d quickly snatched from your dresser before the flames could touch them.

You’d washed off by pulling over and jumping into the river on your way out of town. The water was fucking freezing, and now instead of blood you have river water in your hair. Go figure. 

You walk forward and collapse onto the motel bed. The box spring squeaks, the A/C unit clatters as it turns on, and you flop over to stare at the asbestos popcorn on the ceiling. 

You laugh. You got out of everything easily; being attacked by Andy, your shithole apartment burning to a crisp, and (god forbid) skinny dipping in the Eastwick river. Eddie’s mark still burns on your wrist, under the sleeve of your sweater.

You don’t have anything now, aside from your car and the clothes on your back, and the money in your wallet. The police are stupid enough that they’ll assume you’re dead. You’re sure that if the complaints about gunshots aren’t enough to convince them, the blood on the walls that hasn’t been boiled away by the fire will. 

Dante emerges from the shadows, barks happily once and hops onto the bed to settle beside you. He doesn’t have blood on him anymore, thank god– you don’t know what you’d do if you had to leave the motel with random bloodstains all over the white linens. 

And the darkness forms into the shape of your lover, who sinks onto the bed beside you and stares down at you with the darkest, most beautiful eyes you’ve ever seen in this life or the last. Eddie’s cheeks flush the prettiest carnation pink to match his lips when you reach up and trace them with your fingers. You lift yourself up to settle into his lap, all smiles as you wrap the demon around your little finger and catch his bottom lip between your teeth. 

And you… you’re alive, and you can do anything that you want.

Whispers in the dark. Footfalls behind rotted trees, scuffs of earth that haven’t actually been stirred. It can’t entirely be in your mind. The crossroads is a volatile place at night, and even worse when the moon is full.

You asked a very confused motel clerk where the nearest crossroads she knew of was– she directed you to something in the center of town. That wouldn’t work, of course. You could only imagine Eddie throwing you down in the middle of an intersection and fucking you halfway to Sunday in front of the entire town.

You’re sure he’d love to do that, too.

You sighed and just ended up asking Eddie if he could tell you where the closest one was. If he’s a crossroads demon, it only stands to reason that he’d have a spidey-sense for that sort of thing.

There’s one about a hundred yards into the trees behind the motel. Take your time.

Of course, he isn’t there when you arrive. You don’t know why he’s drawing things out, while your body is breaking out in a cold sweat at the thought of him. Considering you fucked again last night, after you got to the motel, managing not to blow the place up this time, you would think that you’d gotten your fill. 

But no, your body is still going insane with fever and lust, like it just can’t sit still without him there. The moon hangs overhead, bright white in the sky. There’s the littlest peek of it through the tree cover, but it’s enough to let you know that you have the right time, and you’re certainly in the right place. Your body knows that it’s in a more liminal place, now.

You tear at your clothes. You throw your shirt over your head so that your bare chest can hit some sort of fresh air and, theoretically, find some relief. You yank your pants off roughly and toss them into the bushes. All it does is cause another form of stimulation– the cool night air on the dampness of your skin, paired with the burning realization that you’re undressing in public. 

Sort of. You’re the only one here. Or, at least, the only living person. 

You’re not… nervous. Per se. You just don’t know what to expect out of a full moon rite. Will the ground split open and swallow you? Is it just gonna be a normal fuck with your demon boyfriend? Are you going to be able to walk afterwards?

“Probably not.” 

Eddie. His presence pulses, screaming at you from across the clearing. Two paths cross in the center of it, creating an X on the ground where he stands, like he’s dead on a target. 

“Look at you, getting started without me.” He chuckles. “And here I thought I was excited.”

The rabid animal in your chest leaps for him, and you follow it, like everything that you’ve felt and done for him up to this point has been preamble. Eddie’s arms come around you like they’re meant to be there, and you want them to be. Forever and ever and ever, until the meek inherit the earth and the sea swallows the land, et cetera. 

Until the only thing left in the universe are your intertwined souls.

Your kiss is brutal, bordering on desperate rather than sweet. Eddie giggles into it– you don’t think you’ll ever get tired of hearing that soft, manic giggle, or feeling it on your lips as you kiss him. 

Eddie is too sweet for Hell and too chaotic for Heaven. You’re not sure how to reconcile it. At the end of it all, you don’t really see how spending eternity with him could ever be a bad thing. You don’t see why you wouldn’t give him your soul, again and again. 

Eddie’s hands cradle your face, stroking strands of hair away from it while his eyes glow warm and inviting. “Did you get everything you wanted, sweetheart?” he asks, his fingers toying with a little strand beside your ear, curling it tightly around his fingertip before letting it slip free. 

You think about it. In total, roughly two weeks have passed since you first signed over your soul to Eddie, and so far you have everything to show for it. You had your promotion, you got your car, a new dog. You killed your shitty ex and now you have a real reason to get the hell out of dodge. 

It doesn’t seem like it makes sense. It doesn’t seem like a happy ending, but it is. It’s the happiest ending in the world for you, because you don’t have to stay in Eastwick with all the stones being thrown and taunts being yelled in your direction. And you’re in love with him.

You fell for the demon you sold your soul to, in a grand fucking total of two weeks and counting. And if that doesn’t scream irony, you don’t know what does.

“I did,” you say, nodding between his hands. You suck in a deep breath, smelling his smoke and the warmth of his body, and it makes your chest ache. “You’re what I want, Eddie. I love you so much.”

Eddie stops, blinking his fiery eyes at you. “What– what’d you just say?”

“I said I love you,” you repeat. You’re not taking it back. Not now. And you don’t have the ability to feel embarrassed about it, either. “I love you, baby. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before–”

“That’s because you’re in heat, baby,” Eddie insists, anxiously stroking your hair again like he’s trying to self-soothe. “Your body’s just gearing up for the rite, it’s not– you’re not in love with me–”

“Yes. I. Am.” You shoot him a caustic glare, balling your fists against his shoulders. “You can read my mind, right? You must know, Eddie. I think I started falling in love with you the minute you showed up with that stupid smirk and I– I fell for you, and I don’t care about the deal or heat or fucking rites, I just want you.”

Shushing you, he pets your head with a gentle hand. He sounds pained when he says, “I’ve loved you since Lacey brought me your petition.”

You freeze at that. “Lacey?”

Eddie nods. 

“My… my dog?” You can’t wrap your head around it. Your blood is pounding in your ears, adrenaline making your hands vibrate as they grasp at him. Your dog– your sweet little girl who you thought was simply gone forever– is still protecting you, still pulling strings to give you a happy ending? “Lacey brought my–?”

“She chose me,” he tells you honestly. “She chose me for you. Because… she knew I was meant to be yours. And I am. I am yours. Forever, if you’ll have me.”

You’re nodding, excitedly, but you also smother him in a kiss before he can continue. You’ll have him forever, and ever, and even longer after that. Your need and your love both stretch on for eternity, and Eddie won’t say no to it. He’s kind of selfish that way.

He takes your wrist, and raises it to kiss the mark of his name on your skin. His eyes meet yours, and the mark burns, glowing orange and bright like it’s just been placed there. 

“Eddie, what–? ” You whimper, your grip tightening on Eddie’s shoulder, but he just cradles you against him, soothing his lips over the mark on your skin until it stops burning, seconds later.

“Have to start the ritual, baby,” he says, and winks at you. “Doesn’t count if we just fuck like idiots without clocking in, y’know.” 

His hands on you are wretched as sin, kneading at you like he’s just trying to memorize your body. You make a soft noise in your throat, letting your head fall to his shoulder with a huff of breath. Your eyes feel heavy as you breathe in his scent– his smoke, his fumes. They surround you, shrouding you in comfort and warmth, safety in the unforgiving cold and empty night.

“I’d do it without the ritual,” you hear yourself murmuring into his shoulder, your lips grazing across his tattered denim vest and up onto his neck. There’s a pulse beneath his skin, something that feels so human that it makes your own heart tremble in your chest. You can’t seem to stop yourself from talking, now. “I’d fuck you anywhere. All the time. I just fucking want you…”

“I know,” he chuckles, his hand cradling the back of your neck. “So let’s have some fun, yeah?”

You nod. You expect him to lower you down onto the ground, something like last night but with dead leaves and dirt all over you instead of blood. But instead, he just presses a sweet kiss to the corner of your mouth, and then he swats your ass so hard that it makes you gasp.

“C’mon baby,” he whispers into your ear, his eyes and touch burning hot. “I know a spot.”

And with a blink, Eddie disappears, leaving you alone in the crossroads. 

“Wait, what–”

A noise in the bushes makes you startle, and then something pushes you from behind, urging you into the trees. You yelp, and then a voice in your ear says, Trust me.

Stumbling, naked and delirious with lust, you trip and throw your hands against a tree to steady yourself. Darkness clings to the black night around you, just like your mind clings to every sound behind you, alerting you of Eddie’s presence. 

It takes a good amount of you stumbling through the trees, guided by gentle prods at your back and sides, before you start to hear things behind you. You wonder if he’s climbed up into the trees and he’s watching you from above, like some angel of death. 

The ground is uneven and damp from recent rain. There’s no path before or behind you, just infinite trees, looming out of the abyss apathetically. The trees don’t care what you do. They’ve been here, time and time again, and you’re sure that you are the least horrible thing they’ve seen.

In retrospect, you probably should have brought a flashlight. At least you’d be able to see him, wherever the fuck he is. Or where you’re going. You’re moving by the light of the moon in the trees. 

He wouldn’t let you, like… actually eat shit, would he?

Eddie appears close to your shoulder once, just a flash of glowing eyes and a brush of a hand on your bare shoulder, a huff of breath in your ear. Toying with you, letting you know that he’s still there, guiding you in the direction that he wants. You whirl around to grab for him, but he’s already gone, leaving nothing but a giggle and a puff of smoke in his wake. He makes it clear, you can’t catch him; he’ll just appear, whenever and wherever he pleases.

You watch him skulk through the trees up ahead, just wandering as though he has all day. As if you aren’t aching for him and seething with rage at the trees that appear out of the darkness just to get in the way. His eyes are yellow, glowing in the dark like beacons, letting you know exactly where to go. 

He leads you to a cemetery.

The back fence backs up to the trees, bent and mangled from teenagers breaking into it at night to party. Eddie disappears into the shadows, phasing out of existence in your periphery, leaving you alone to duck into the cemetery and weave through the weathered stones.

You can feel Eddie’s breath on your neck, even though your other senses tell you that nothing is there. It ignites every nerve in your body, raises the hairs on your skin. You stumble around a mausoleum, and that’s precisely when a looming shadow figure steps right in front of you. Clawed hands solidify out of the darkness, clad in heavy rings, and grab you by the waist.

“Eddie!” you screech as he materializes in his full form, monstrously large and covered in writhing, living tattoos. Enormous pointed horns and sharp teeth, black bat wings curling around you as he pulls you into him with a grin.

“You know you can’t hide from me,” he purrs at you in his low, demonic voice, and it might come off as disconcerting if you weren’t entirely in love with him. If you didn’t know that his claws will never bring you any pain that you don’t want, and his wings caging you in only serve to protect you, rather than imprison you.

You press in close to his hot chest, smelling his smoke and his aether, near purring, yourself. “Thank God for small favors.”

Eddie laughs, dragging his hand up to cradle the back of your skull. He bends down and kisses you sweetly, in a way that disarms you. So much more tender than you expected, savoring and long. He gives a deep sigh, and looks down at you with his beautifully glowing eyes, swirling with lava and ash, warm and near doting. “Much more romantic, huh?”

“Oh, yeah,” you scoff, glancing around at the lonely tombstones in the darkness. “Real inviting spot you picked, honey.”

“I knew you’d like it,” he murmurs. And then sharper, when a mischievous grin crosses his face.

And he grabs you by the hips and spins you around to throw you down across the steps of a mausoleum.

“What– Eddie?!” Your stomach hits granite, your hands slapping against the hard, cold stone beneath you. Your knees brush the edge of a step and you squeak at the shock of the temperature, but something long and thin like rope wraps around your thigh and yanks you back towards him, spreading your thighs and making you collapse forward, your torso bumping the stone. 

You yelp. “Do you have a tail?”  

“Surprise, surprise,” Eddie murmurs into your ear. Then he drops the seductive tone to add, “Kinda cool, isn’t it?” 

You find yourself giggling, pushing backward to press into his warm chest. He’s so big in his true form– hulking, like all of his bones have to grow in order to accommodate the amount of power he emanates. He crowds you, hovering over your bent body on the steps. “I fucking love it.”

“I know you do,” he hums. His tail, still wrapped around your thigh, pulls your leg until your knees widen. A quiet gasp leaves you when his hand, large and weaponized with sharp claws, cups your sticky cunt. “Think I can’t tell how much you fuckin’ love this? You were just made to be my whore, weren’t you?”

His teeth scrape your shoulder as he rubs your pussy, his whole hand rocking between your legs and kicking up a lewd squelch into the air. You choke, arching your back and wiggling your hips further toward his. 

“Please, Ed– fuck!” He replaces his hand with his cock, and the moan you make is pornographic. Your breasts scrape against the stone underneath you, your nipples hard from the cold and the rough texture of it. The chill is fading, slowly being warmed by your body and his, practically burning hot in comparison to it. 

His cock glides teasingly through your folds, making you keen softly; the sound still echoes, bouncing off the granite and into the cavernous mausoleum, louder than hell. Straight ahead is an abyss full of the dead. 

Eddie pauses. “You know, it occurs to me that this is technically our wedding night– I mean, right?” 

“Oh, nevermind about that,” you huff, wiggling your hips back against him. He’s right there, and you’re so fucking wound up that you can’t bring yourself to have a goddamn conversation at a time like this. “Just– dammit, Eddie, fuck me already.”

“No, I mean, really,” he muses, still not moving. You groan. “Like, if we got married on the dark moon, then isn’t this technically the consummation? I mean I know we already fucked and everything last night–”

You growl and jam your hips back against his. “Eddie, shut the fuck–”

His clawed hand clamps down over your mouth. You squeak, and then roll your eyes as he continues, “Prepare for the first day of the rest of your life. That’s how it goes, right? Or– no, wait. That’s not for weddings…”

You slam your hands down on the granite, roaring as hard as you can against his hand while you writhe back against him, trying to get the words that are running around in your brain across without saying them. The empty mausoleum creates an echo chamber that throws the sound of your roar back at you. 

Eddie obviously gets the message, because he chuckles and pinches your cheeks between his fingers. His claws press into your skin as he tuts, “You want to fuck me so bad you’re gonna throw a tantrum about it? Really?”  

You whimper, shaking your head slightly but still trying to force back against him. His tail yanks your legs further apart, making you lose your little bit of balance and slip back down against the granite again. 

“Oh no no, baby, that won’t do,” Eddie coos, sounding so saccharine sweet, but you don’t think there’s anything sweet about what he’s thinking. “Look around. You’re in my house now, and I get all night to fuck that attitude out of you. Consider this a courtesy.” 

And then he all but slams his cock into you in one go, throwing you forward across the steps with a wail that could scare all the ghosts back into their graves. He doesn’t give you time to adjust– just starts fucking into you with abandon, letting you scratch at the granite beneath you while you scream from the overstimulation. 

You’re so sensitive after having gone a full day in heat, even though he’d given you everything you wanted and more last night. He’d been so gentle and giving, made love to you slowly and passionately on the cheap mattress in your motel room, careful to make sure you didn’t burn that place down. 

There’s nothing of the sweet and slow of last night when he weaves his fingers into your hair and yanks your head back by the roots, growling, “Say, ‘Thank you, Eddie.’”

“Thank you, Ed– FUCK!” You moan obscenely loud, arching your back as your eyes nearly cross. His brutal pace is too much all at once, making you go slack, literally fucking you dumb. 

You can’t think. You drop your head onto the granite step beneath you and just let him use your body, because nothing in heaven or on earth will ever feel as good as it. 

In Hell, maybe. 

“That’s it,” Eddie snarls at you, with the sound of skin on skin filling the air as punctuation. “Little brat always telling me to shut up– how’s it feel when I do it to you, huh?”  

He strokes over something inside you that makes you lose all train of thought. Fire burns inside you, your voice cracking as you moan, rutting back against him to get him to hit there again–

And Eddie snatches you by the hips and lifts you until your back is entirely against him as he pounds into you. Manhandling you until you can’t move or kick, you just have to stay and take it. 

“Stay down, like a good fucking girl,” he spits, his fangs scraping your shoulderblade as he bends over you. Your hand wraps around the edge of one of the steps, nails scratching audibly against it.

His balls slap your clit from each angle, and a moan dies with a squeak in your throat when he hits your g spot again, making you contort and writhe despite his hold. Eddie hisses behind you, feeling you tighten on his cock, his breath breaking across your skin in waves of warmth.

“Right there, sweetheart?” The snicker in his voice is infuriating. You’d snap at him if you weren’t unable to speak from the way that he fucks into you again with the same fluid motion, making stars burst behind your eyelids. His breath hitches, an audible groan in his throat when he says, “Love all those little noises you make when you’re getting fucked dumb. I could do this for ages, baby, you have no idea–” 

“Oh fuck, please, Eddie–” You’re so wet, the sound of the slickness of it nearly echoes in the cavern of the mausoleum. Your face burns, your body breaking out into a sweat.

“Mmm, what is it?” Eddie’s clawed hand comes up to wrap around your throat, completely eclipsing it and pulling you to him. “What more do you need, huh?”

It’s like the minute he finds the pace and angle that has you mindless, he focuses all his energy on it. You feel like you’re melting, your body turning into that same lava he embodies and molding with his own. Spinning and swirling until you’ve fused together and nothing can separate you.

You let out a noisy whine. “N-need– I need to cu– hmm–”

Eddie croons, “Yeah? Little witch needs to cum? Gone all day without it, you just have to cum so soon?”  

Your eyes nearly roll back into your skull when his wings slam down on either side of you, cracking the stone steps you lean on with the force. He uses his free hand to stroke down your tummy, over your pelvis to where the lips of your pussy part around his cock. Eddie parts his fingers, gliding them around the seam of your cunt to feel the way that he pumps in and out of you, your body stretching to make room for him. 

“You think you deserve it?” He whispers threateningly, beginning a torturous back and forth with his fingers, avoiding your clit entirely. You don’t think you can stand much more teasing– everything in you is wound up tight and ready to snap, your toes curling hard as your muscles flex in warning.

“Yes– yes, Eddie, for the love of fu–” You get cut off because Eddie squeezes your throat a little bit, making your sentence die with a moan.

“Just do one thing for me,” he rasps, sounding wretched and beautiful and so close to losing it, himself. 

“Anything, I’ll do anything–”

The push and pull is intoxicating. You feel ecstasy vibrating in your limbs, removing any other thought or sensation from you until all you can focus on is him. Eddie, your demon, the one who was made for you and the one who was fated to be brought to you. 

“Say that you love me again,” Eddie says, a gentle waver in his voice that makes your breath hitch and your heart race. “Tell me again, I want to hear it.”

You were always going to end up here. It just so happens that you came together sooner, rather than later. 

“I love you,” you whisper back, and it feels like your entire body will burst with the intensity of it. And he kisses your shoulder once, just enough for you to know that he heard you. Enough for you to know that in spite of his teasing and his mind games, this is the truth.

“I love you so much,” Eddie tells you as his breath ghosts your ear, lighting a fire beneath your skin. And his fingers drift up to your clit.

When you cum, it’s with a cry that resounds in the cavernous chamber of the mausoleum and bounces back out into the hazy night. He grips your hips hard and fucks you through it. You feel lazy, sated, unable to move or speak or do anything other than take everything he gives you with weak whimpers that sound so much louder to your ears than they actually are. 

Eddie growls and fills you, until you drip with him and the evidence of what you did here; the first of many full moons to come.

He cradles you there on the mausoleum steps, giving you sweet kisses as your body stills and lowers into a thick, post-orgasmic lull. You curl into his warmth, naked in the pale moonlight and shivering a bit from the early autumn chill.

“Hey, you know…” Eddie says after a moment, pulling you from the soft refrain of your thoughts, “I wasn’t entirely kidding about this being… my house. I guess.”

“You live in a fuckin’ mausoleum?” You slur tiredly, your head lolling to the side to look up at him.

“What? No, not the—” he sighs. “We’re, ah. Technically in the Otherworld right now.”

“Oh.” You blink up at him, watching the way the embers in his eyes swirl and glow bright orange. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, a bit of a half laugh that lets you know he’s embarrassed. As embarrassed as a demon can be, more or less. “It’s kind of where stories of the Witches’ Sabbath come from. Certain rituals… when the demon is present… they take place in the Otherworld.”

“And what does that mean?” You whisper up at him with a conspiratory grin.

“Just look.” Eddie gently tilts your head up, prodding you to look out across the cemetery. And you gasp.

Spirits. Ghosts and ghouls and the like. They mingle among the stones, the above ground tombs, the trees. A bonfire in the distance– the near distance, just in the treeline– shows you another rite happening. Another sabbath. 

There are more witches in Eastwick than you thought.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, sitting up in Eddie’s arms. Mist hangs in the air, getting thicker the more your presence within the realm solidifies. Everything is eerie, foggy like it’s happening in a dream. 

“A lot more fun than your standard crossroads,” he muses. “Am I right?”

You glance back at Eddie, all scars and horns and sharp teeth, but looking no less beautiful than he always does. You’ve chosen the prettiest of all the demons, you’re sure of it.

Or, is it that he chose you? Or… weren’t you chosen for each other?

A little figure materializes in the darkness, galloping toward you on tiny legs that don’t seem to touch the ground. The smoky figure of the Dachshund shifts in and out of focus– she’s getting the hang of manifestation, slowly but surely. It’ll take more work, but she’ll get there.

“Lacey?” you whisper, bending forward to let the little figure sniff your hand. She doesn’t need to, though. She barrels toward your hand and bonks into it at full force, her smoky head dissipating for a second with her excitement. Despite how much you wish you could pet her, you giggle, and it sounds echoey and strange in the liminal atmosphere. “Oh my gosh, I missed you so much.” 

“She missed you, too,” Eddie says fondly, twirling a lock of hair at the base of your neck around one of his clawed fingers. “She might have to wait a little bit until she can hang with you in your realm, but as long as you’re here…”

He trails off, watching as Lacey yaps and happily runs back and forth in front of your legs, excited to see you again.

“Well, it’s only appropriate, considering who brought us together,” Eddie concludes, chuckling a little when she tries to jump on your legs and still passes right through them. “Lacey, she isn’t from this realm. You won’t be able to cuddle just yet. Aww– she’ll get there. She’s a smart one.”

You turn to gaze at him, teary-eyed and lovestruck in spite of your surroundings. “What do we do now?” You ask him shyly, in a whisper, as if you’re afraid that one of the spirits will hear you and take exception. As if you didn’t already fuck nasty right in front of them.

Eddie smiles, and the embers in his eyes explode into picture perfect fires. Roaring with love and affection. “Whatever you want, baby.”

There’s a rhythmic drumbeat from within the trees, where the witches dance around the fire with their respective demons– just as you always imagined a stereotypical witch’s Sabbath might look like, if old accounts from ye olden days held any merit. You tug Eddie by the arms, leading him toward the bonfire, the drums mimicking the rhythmic thump of your own heart. Lacey excitedly zips around your ankles, passing directly through them in her haste on occasion.

You dance.

And you dance.

And you fuck on the tomb of some guy named Roland, whose stands off to the side as a ghost, glaring at you the whole time. You don’t care at all. You’re looking at Eddie the whole time, anyways.

He’s everything you could have wanted and more.

[starforged-witch]

Hail Lucifer, Lightbringer,

You who illuminates the mind in wisdom,

Who guides me through the dark with your light.

I call to you, Morningstar.

Walk with me, guide me on this path.

Lord of Pride, help me know my worth.

Prince of Darkness, grant me courage.

God of transformation, give me strength to rise above my weakness.

My guiding Light, show me the path to my best self.

You who fell and rose again by your own power,

Ignite the flame within myself

That I may know my own power.

Ave ❤️

Happy First Rite of Lucifer ✨

[astra-ravana]

Stolas' Ritual Of Arcane Wisdom

A sacred rite to invoke the guidance of Prince Stolas, the demon of knowledge, herbalism, astrology, and hidden wisdom. This ritual strengthens your connection to nature magick, herbal lore, and astrology under the guidance of Stolas, offering profound insight and spiritual growth.

Needed:

• Owl or crow feather

• Howlite

• Star anise

• Sapphire or lapis lazuli

• Blue, silver, or dark purple candle

• Frankincense and myrrh incense

• A bowl of soil or dried herbs

• A celestial map, tarot deck, or astrology book

• Black or dark blue cloth

• A written question or intention related to your studies on a small piece of paper with Stolas' sigil on the other side.

Instructions:

Preparation - Cleanse your space using the incense or by sprinkling salt water around the ritual area. Lay the black or dark blue cloth on your altar or workspace. Place the candle in the center, surrounded by the howlite, sapphire (or lapis lazuli), and star anise. Set the bowl of soil or dried herbs nearby, along with your celestial map or astrology book. Position the owl or crow feather beside the candle as a representation of Stolas.

Invocation - Light the candle and the incense. Hold the owl/crow feather in one hand and the howlite in the other. Close your eyes, take deep breaths, and visualize a celestial owl with piercing eyes descending from the night sky. Chant,

"Stolas, Prince of wisdom vast,

Guide my mind and make knowledge last.

By feather, stone, and starry light,

Teach me your secrets deep as night.

By herb and crystal, earth and sky,

Open my mind, let wisdom fly!"

Pause, listening for any sensations, whispers, or impressions.

Request for Knowledge - Hold the piece of paper with your question or intention. Pass it over the candle flame (carefully) or place it on the altar. Say,

"Prince Stolas, I seek your ancient lore,

In herbs, in crystals, in stars evermore.

Grant me wisdom, let my sight expand,

Teach me the secrets of nature’s hand."

Place the paper beneath the bowl of soil or dried herbs, symbolizing its planting in the realm of knowledge.

Absorbing the Wisdom - Pick up the howlite and hold it to your forehead (Third Eye Chakra). Visualize cosmic energy and nature’s wisdom flowing into your mind. Meditate on any insights, messages, or images you receive. If you feel called, use your astrology book, tarot deck, or scry into the candle flame to receive further guidance.

Closing - Thank Stolas for his presence and guidance,

"Prince of wisdom, I honor thee,

For the knowledge you have given me.

I walk the path with open sight,

Under stars and wisdom’s light."

Extinguish the candle, letting the smoke carry your gratitude. Keep the howlite as a talisman of wisdom, placing it under your pillow or on your altar. Bury the burned or written petition in soil (outdoors if possible) to allow the knowledge to take root and grow.

After the Ritual:

• Keep a journal of dreams, insights, or synchronicities in the coming days.

• Study herbs, crystals, and astrology with renewed focus, as Stolas may subtly guide you.

• Repeat the ritual whenever you feel the need to deepen your knowledge.

[astervaleblack]

DP X Marvel #3

The thing about being seventeen and King of the Infinite Realms is that nobody prepares you for the paperwork.

Sure, Danny thought there’d be some responsibility when he accidentally overthrew Pariah Dark and inherited an ancient, eldritch realm full of undead beings and chaos entities. But this?

“This” being a five-hour council meeting about whether the Blob Ghost could legally marry the Ghost of a Haunted Taco Bell.

Danny slammed his forehead into the obsidian table, sighing. “Can someone remind me why this is my life again?”

Fright Knight, sitting to his left in full spectral armor, replied without missing a beat. “Because you claimed the Throne of The Infinite Realms by Rite of Spectral Conquest, my liege.”

“Right…” Danny muttered, dragging his crown—which looked less like a crown and more like an aggressive mass of bone, metal, and green flame—off his head and onto the table. “That. Cool. I love my life. I’m living my best afterlife.”

The Ghost Zone’s politics were a nightmare. The Council of Wailing Scepters argued in riddles. The Ministry of Temporal Loops wouldn’t stop trying to undo Danny’s birth “as a preventative measure.” Ember was unionizing musical ghosts. Skulker demanded hunting permits. Box Ghost somehow had diplomatic immunity.

And let’s not even talk about the Realms’ economy.

“Have you ever tried to make a tax code for entities who don’t obey time?” Clockwork once asked with a deadpan stare.

Danny had not. Danny did not want to.

And all of that was on top of being a superhero, a public figure, a full-time student at Midtown, Tony Stark’s ghost consultant intern, and, most critically, Peter Parker’s boyfriend.

The one bright spot in his entire liminal, half-dead, legally dubious existence.

Peter was the only reason Danny hadn’t exploded yet. Or accidentally declared war on Canada (long story, don’t ask). Or gotten exorcised by a rogue Vatican unit (longer story).

When Danny phased into his boyfriend’s bedroom at 2:43AM wearing royal armor, covered in ghost slime, with a ghost octopus clinging to his leg screaming, “LONG LIVE THE GHOST KING,” Peter didn’t even blink.

He just put his book down and said, “Do you want hot chocolate or a sedative?”

“Both.” Danny croaked.

“Got you.” Peter said, already moving toward the mini kitchen.

Danny melted into the couch, dropping his crown on the floor. It rolled slightly, then hissed at the furniture. He kicked it under the table.

“I hate everyone.” He muttered. “The fire ghosts are trying to annex the Library of Screams again, the Spectral Senate is debating if time travelers have souls, and a councilwoman called me a fleshling with trauma issues.”

“Well,” Peter called out gently from the kitchen, “she’s not wrong.”

“Peter.”

“I’m just saying. You did try to punch Death last week.”

Danny groaned. “It was a misunderstanding!”

“You called them a dusty crypt bitch.”

“They insulted my hoodie!”

Peter returned, holding two mugs. He handed one to Danny, kissed his forehead, then sat beside him.

Danny leaned heavily against him.

Peter didn’t complain.

“Y’know,” Danny said after a moment, sipping his cocoa, “sometimes I forget I’m still seventeen.”

Peter chuckled. “Babe. You’re seventeen, King of a spectral empire, on the Avengers’ emergency contact list, and still get detention for being late to gym. You’re living like six lives at once.”

“I died once,” Danny muttered. “That should’ve been enough.”

Between ghost attacks, council drama, interdimensional skirmishes, and Midtown High exams, Danny hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since… well, since before dying.

The living world had opinions too. America couldn’t decide if he should be considered a minor, a sovereign leader, or a health hazard. International ghost regulations were passed in his name. He had diplomatic immunity in over a human countries and was banned from a hundred others. There was a conspiracy subreddit entirely dedicated to the theory that he was an alien hybrid bred by the government to replace the Queen of England.

Danny’s response to that was, “Do I look like I want to colonize anything?”

He still had math homework due tomorrow.

Sometimes he phased into the UN to yell at their Interdimensional Defense Committee. Sometimes he missed bio class because a ghost war broke out on the edge of the Dreaming Isles and he had to teleport to stop Nocturne from invading people’s nightmares.

Sometimes, Peter would find him sitting on the floor of their shared dorm shower, still glowing, muttering, “I am the King of Everything and Nothing and I can’t figure out mitochondria.”

“I’ll tutor you,” Peter always offered. “And also get you a nap and a cookie.”

Peter was… everything.

Unflinchingly patient. Wickedly smart. Constantly worried.

He patched up Danny’s wounds, whispered jokes during council meetings when Danny looked five seconds from screaming, brought extra snacks when Danny forgot to eat.

He held Danny after Danny woke up screaming from ghost-fueled nightmares.

And when the burden got too heavy—when Danny stood on the balcony of his palace in the Infinite Realms, overlooking a kingdom of madness and memory, time fractals and ghosts whispering in languages lost to the living—and said, “I don’t think I can do this anymore,” Peter kissed his knuckles and said, “Then I’ll do it with you.”

The other ghosts hated it.

A human, dating the King? Scandalous. Blasphemous. Soft.

Danny told them all to choke.

Peter? Peter told them to submit a formal complaint in triplicate and then kissed Danny in front of them just to be petty.

They ruled together, in a way. Danny signed the decrees. Peter corrected the grammar. Danny banished tyrants. Peter took notes and organized his calendar. Danny fought for peace. Peter made sure he didn’t forget who he was fighting for.

Once, Clockwork pulled Peter aside and said, “He will burn out without you.”

Peter just nodded. “I know.”

And yet, through all the madness, they found joy.

Danny giving Peter flying lessons. Peter webbing Danny’s locker shut as a prank. The two of them building a spectral stabilizer out of Tony’s spare tech, laughing hysterically when it turned the floor into a trampoline.

They shared ghost patrols, movie nights, star-watching on top of the Empire State Building.

Peter calling Danny “Your Majesty” in a ridiculous accent until Danny threatened to drop him into a lava lake.

Danny threatening international leaders by day and then cuddling with Peter by night, wearing fuzzy socks and a hoodie that said “Half-Dead, Fully Tired.”

Sometimes, Danny just stared at him. In awe.

Peter, who knew the truth. All of it. The weight. The loss. The terrifying power clawing beneath Danny’s skin. The fact that Danny was the anchor between dimensions, balancing the afterlife and reality like a tired high schooler with PTSD and ghost fire.

And still loved him.

Still said, “You’re doing great.”

Still held him when it all came crashing down.

The Realms called Danny a King.

To Peter, he was just Danny.

Sometimes, that was all Danny needed to be okay.

Just… Danny. Human. Ghost. Hero. Boyfriend.

King of the Infinite Realms, sure. But also a seventeen-year-old who just wanted to pass his math test, kiss his boyfriend, and maybe get five hours of sleep.

With Peter by his side?

He could do it all.

Even the haunted Taco Bell marriage negotiations.

[mya-valentine]

Hi! And Happy Lantern Rite!

So there is a lot i wanted for these characters: I would like to request a Diluc, Razor, Xiao, Kazuha, Cyno, Al Haitham, Wanderer/Scaramouche, Neuvillette, Wriothesley, Freminet, Lyney, Kinich, Ororon, Dainsleif x reader (seperate (Ik this is a lot 🥲)) a headcanon of them what it would be like if they were in Disney movies (basically Disney Princes) you can make parts of this to make it easier and take a break part 1 - Diluc, Razor, Xiao, Kazuha part 2 - Cyno, Al Haitham, Wanderer/Scaramouche, Neuvillette part 3 - Wriothesley, Freminet, Lyney part 4 - Kinich, Ororon, Dainsleif

Have a nice day and Happy Lunar New Year!

Headcanon: If They Were in a Disney Movie

A/N: I'm sooooo sorry this took so long and a very happy super delayed lantern rite to you as well.😅 I was actually thinking of doing something like this anyways (I'm a HUGE Disney fan) but couldn't really figure it out, so thank you for this.😁 Hopefully you enjoy this.🩷 ALSO, do you want Wanderer or Scaramouche or both?

Diluc – The Dark Prince of a Fallen Kingdom (Beauty and the Beast/Sleeping Beauty Hybrid)

A dark fantasy romance similar to Beauty and the Beast mixed with Sleeping Beauty, where Diluc plays a brooding yet noble prince fighting against the curse placed on his kingdom.

Diluc was once a beloved prince, known for his warm heart and unwavering sense of justice. However, after his father, the king, was betrayed and assassinated, Diluc turned cold and distant. Consumed by grief and a thirst for vengeance, he abandoned the throne and disappeared into the depths of his family's grand but now abandoned castle. Rumors spread that a curse had befallen him—one that made his soul as fiery as the flames that once protected his home.

The kingdom fell into despair, overtaken by darkness, while Diluc became an elusive, near-mythical figure. The heroine stumbles upon his castle, seeking shelter or answers. At first, Diluc is cold and distant, but as they spend time together, she begins to see past his bitterness.

Wounded by betrayal, he carries a heavy burden of guilt and self-doubt. He isolates himself, believing he failed his father and kingdom.

Despite his cold demeanor, he secretly cares deeply. He feeds birds in the garden at night, fixes broken items around the castle, and ensures the heroine is safe, even if he won’t admit it.

The heroine teaches him that he is not defined by his past, and he eventually finds the strength to fight for his kingdom again.

In the final act, he rises from his exile, wielding a sword imbued with flames, leading a resistance against the tyrant who took over his homeland.

Razor – The Wild Prince of the Forest (Tarzan / The Jungle Book Hybrid)

A Tarzan-inspired story where Razor, raised by wolves, must choose between his primal world and the human civilization that threatens it.

Razor was abandoned as a baby deep within a vast, enchanted forest. Raised by a pack of mystical wolves, he grew up learning their ways, speaking their language, and understanding the balance of nature. He is the unofficial "Prince of the Wild," guarding the forest from outsiders who seek to exploit its magic.

When the heroine—an adventurous noblewoman or explorer—enters the forest in search of a rumored lost city, she encounters Razor. Their worlds collide as she introduces him to human customs, and he, in turn, teaches her the beauty of the wild.

Razor is fiercely protective of those he loves. He doesn’t trust humans easily but will fight for those who prove themselves.

He is fascinated by the outside world, especially the concept of family and home, yet fears losing his identity.

When greedy hunters threaten the forest, Razor must decide whether to stay hidden or fight back.

In the end, he blends both worlds—becoming the bridge between nature and humanity.

Xiao – The Cursed Guardian of the Mountains (Mulan /Hunchback of Notre Dame Hybrid)

A Mulan-inspired tale with elements of Hunchback of Notre Dame, where Xiao is a guardian cursed to protect his land forever.

Once a noble warrior blessed by the gods, Xiao was tasked with defending a sacred mountain kingdom. However, after a great war, he was cursed to wander the land as an immortal guardian, bound by duty and unable to rest. Many fear him, calling him a vengeful spirit or demon, though he is simply a lonely protector.

The heroine, a warrior or pilgrim seeking knowledge, meets Xiao after unknowingly trespassing on his domain. Though he initially warns her away, fate continues to intertwine their paths, and she learns the truth behind his sorrow.

Xiao acts distant and formal, but his concern for others is immense. He watches over villages from afar and eliminates threats in silence.

He carries guilt from a past battle, believing he is unworthy of peace.

He struggles with emotions, unused to kindness or attachment. The heroine's presence challenges his beliefs.

By learning to forgive himself, he finally lifts the burden of his immortality, choosing to protect his people not out of duty but love.

Kazuha – The Wandering Prince of the Sea (Pocahontas/Moana Hybrid)

A Pocahontas-esque story with elements of Moana, where Kazuha is a prince without a kingdom, forever sailing the seas in search of a new home.

Kazuha was once the heir to a peaceful island nation, but after a terrible storm and political betrayal, his people were forced to flee. Now a wandering prince, he sails the endless seas, searching for a new land where his people can live freely.

One day, he encounters the heroine, a curious and adventurous young woman who longs to see the world beyond her shores. Drawn to his poetic nature and the sorrow in his eyes, she joins him on his journey, learning the beauty and hardships of a life adrift.

Kazuha sees beauty in everything, writing poetry about the wind, the waves, and the stars.

He carries the weight of his lost home but refuses to let bitterness take root.

No storm can break his spirit—he adapts, survives, and continues to hope.

In the end, he realizes home is not a place but the people he loves, choosing to settle with the heroine and his people in a newfound land.

.

.

.

Masterlist

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Pairing: Softish Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn Note: It is/will be mentioned Tav is a draconic sorcerer

Rating: Explicit 18+ [Slow Burn]

Setting: Post End-Game Please note: Written before epilogues were added, so may not be congruent with that content

Warnings [more will be added] - expect mature content/read at your own risk.

Blood drinking. Sexual Themes/Tension. Slow Burn. Eventual Explicit Smut. Pining. Suicidal Thoughts. Biting. Violence.

Small Notes:

I am not well-versed in DnD 5e and it's rules as it pertains to this world, so although I'm going to try and keep it as accurate as possible, some aspects may not align or may be completely made up for story reasons.

Mentioned of in-game content that I've made resolve a certain way for this Tav.

Fabricated camp events.

Tav is named in later chapters (15 +), will have her own backstory, which we may explore eventually.

Details of Tav's appearance have been made up, but I've tried to keep details to a minimum so you can imagine your own Tav.

Otherwise, I hope you all enjoy!

Big thank you to everyone who reads and/or comments/follows/likes/reblogs - it truly does make my day to know you're finding some enjoyment in my story :)

Chapter 1: Lost Between Night and Dawn

Chapter 2: Reunion

Chapter 3: One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

Chapter 4: Little Lamb

Chapter 5: Rebellion

Chapter 6: Dancing with Darkness

Chapter 7: Rogue Desire

Chapter 8: Free Fall

Chapter 9: Beneath the Veil

Chapter 10: Soulbound

Chapter 11: 'Till Death Do Us Part

Chapter 12: Catharsis

Chapter 13: The Fallacy of Power

Chapter 14: Devil's Ploy

Chapter 15: Reclamation

Chapter 16: Riddles

Chapter 17: Unearthed

Chapter 18: Unleashed

Chapter 19: Hark Thy Plea

Chapter 20: I Forgive You

Chapter 21: Preparations

Chapter 22: This is Our Sanctuary

Chapter 23: Way Down We Go

Chapter 24: His Hands Hold My Heart & He Won't Let Go Until It's Scarred

Chapter 25: Darkside

Chapter 26: The Edge of Erasure

Chapter 27: Sin and Shadow

Chapter 28: Blurred Lines

Chapter 29: A Lonely Kind of Love

Chapter 30: A Brand, A Tether

Chapter 31: Ice Meets Fire

Chapter 32: Adrift

Chapter 33: A Breath Between Worlds

Chapter 34: If We Are to Be Lost

Chapter 35: Writ in Flame

AO3 [cross-posted]

If you're interested, I also write a spawn Astarion x Tav fic - Shadows of the Past

I also write a much darker fic for named Durge and AA that I post to A03 exclusively. It's dark, gory, and not about fixing AA but about them becoming an evil power couple if you're interested - Lie to Me

[softpascalito]

Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter VII - Bona Dea

! This Fic contains major spoilers for Gladiator II ! Proceed with caution !

Spoiler-Free Summary: Set before and during Gladiator II. General Acacius finds himself entranced by a highly valued priestess of Rome – A Vestal Virgin. Both have taken vows that make sure their paths may never cross. Until they do.

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Vestal Virgin Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 18k+ Tags: Secret Relationship, Vestal Virgins, Religious Guilt, Gladiator fights, Gladiator II compliant (more or less), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ancient Rome, Age Difference, Slow Burn (ish), Injury, Kissing, Historical Inaccuracy, (Attempted) Sexual Harassment, Smut, First Time, More tags to be added

AO3 // Series Masterlist // Masterlist // Fic Playlist

notes: ! last major spoiler warning for gladiator II below the cut !

i was supposed to upload this two days ago but silly me decided to have a mental breakdown instead. anyways, enjoy the new chapter ♡

bona dea - a goddess/her festival subligaculum - underwear

Chapter VII

The house is filled with the overpowering scent of strong wine and blooming flowers. Food and drink is being served, the atrium of the roman villa that belongs to the senior magistrate and his wife transformed into a place of worship as much as a place to celebrate.

The annual winter festival of Bona Dea, one of the most important (and as some argue, fun) nights of the year for the women of Rome. A tribute to the goddess that promises fertility along with chastity and healing, in return asking for her worshippers to hold the values of a good, roman wife. Her celebrations allow strong wine and sacrifices led by the Vestals and most importantly–ban all men from the villa and its grounds. Just laying eyes upon the holy celebration and the rites would be enough to condemn a man to a life of blindness.

It is so different from the worship you are used to from Vesta. She is quiet, a prayer whispered into the flames, the crackling noise of the wood, the only company for women who ask for safety and blessing on lonely nights.

You have barely been able to eat, despite the food seeming worthy of the gods. Bona Dea has always made you nervous, the prospect of trying to effortlessly fulfill the rituals that have been passed down from generations of women before you. But the prospect of meeting Acacius in mere hours had you trembling the moment you rose from your bed this morning. The hours seemed to tick by agonizingly slowly all day, making you wonder if the sun would ever set.

But it did. And with the early darkness of the winter night came the loss of appetite. And the later it becomes, the worse you feel. The comfortable anticipation starts mixing with an anxiety you’ve rarely felt before. Nothing can go wrong.

Of course, something goes wrong. When you reach the large front entrance of the atrium, the one you hoped to slip out of unnoticed after fulfilling your duties, is far too busy. The columns are decorated with skillfully woven vines, the entire room alight with candles and torches. A thin layer of smoke still hangs in the air from the rituals you conducted earlier, making the space feel even more sacred.

You settle on making another round, speaking some words here and there, disappearing into a crowd that has evidently already enjoyed the strong wine forbidden to them on other occasions. You catch a glimpse of Severa chatting animatedly with a few other women and duck away just in time to avoid attracting their attention.

It is already late, far later than you meant to leave. You know Acacius will be waiting. He has no rites to attend to tonight. Instead, he will be able to casually stroll out into his–

The gardens. Just like the other houses, there are spacious gardens attached to the villa you are currently trailing through. There has to be a way to slip out into that direction and get up Palatine Hill, which is rather close. Pretending to long for some fresh air, you step into the lush green, plants and trees imported from places where they do not wither in the winter. They lend themselves to your cause perfectly, barely allowing the guests inside to catch a glimpse of your white stola as you tread the small paths, the light around you becoming less and less. You slip past a few trees, fight your way through bushes–and are met with solid stone. Of course. A wall to keep out everyone who tries to sneak into the gardens. Or in your case, sneak out of them.

Your heart is pounding in your chest. Heading back inside, finding another way–it will take too long. He could be gone by then. With a small shake of your head, you step forward and let your hands run over the cold stone. The moon is hiding behind clouds, giving you essentially no light to work with. Still, you somehow manage to find two crevices to tuck your fingers into and pull yourself up. Panting slightly once you've heaved yourself up onto the stone wall, you look back for a brief moment, catching a glimpse of the lit up villa through the trees, listening to the voices and music drifting over to you.

Suddenly, it feels like you're looking down upon your whole life, like you are seeing yourself from the perspective of the gods you so worship. You try and think of something to hold you back, any excuse to just jump back into the gardens and have no one ever be the wiser about the ideas in your head. You think about the dishonor you may bring to the Vestals, to your family. To him. The punishment they would settle on. The whispers that would follow you, even after death.

You try and think of a good reason to stay. But not a thought comes to mind.

So, you jump down on the side that leads further down the path and up to the house with the lavender gardens, a path you do not wish to leave now that you’ve started walking it. Even if it leads straight down to hell.

***

Acacius sighs quietly as he gets up from the bench he sat down on what feels like hours ago. His mind is as restless as his body, his head spinning a different direction every time the wind carries the sound of what could be someone sneaking toward him through the night. The statue of Mars stands quietly next to him as he begins to pace back and forth, eventually expanding his rounds onto the stairs. Up. Down. Have you changed your mind? Back. Forth. An invisible tug of war with the thoughts racing through his head.

The small pavilion is lit by only a few candles, providing just enough light to see but not enough to shimmer too far through the trees. On Bona Dea, the whole town below is alight with the celebrations of the women. Song, Chatter and Light travelling through the night air, distractions that lay like a shroud around your meeting. A protection not unlike your veil. An indication that what lays below is not to be touched–an indication he so desperately longs to ignore.

It's not any sound that makes him turn his head. It is an instinct that he cannot name that has him turn towards the path below. And there you are. Looking almost like a ghost, dressed in a festive, white stola that swishes around your body as you hurry the last few steps, the top of your head crowned by the very veil he just saw in his mind. And he suddenly feels like he cannot wait a second longer.

Acacius meets you halfway up the stairs, his arms sliding around your waist like they belong there. Like a child resting its head in their mothers lap, like a soldier returning to his village after the war. Like the most natural homecoming, a nestling of a body against that of its lover.

“Acacius–” You whisper his name, a relief that it can finally fall from your lips again. “I’m sorry for making you wait.”

He hums quietly, his thumb rubbing gentle circles into your side. “I would wait all night for you, Dulcissima.” He cannot see the blush that spreads over your cheeks but he can hear it in the small breath that escapes you. “May I?”

Keeping one arm firm around your waist, he leads you up the stairs, towards Mars who stares into the distance. Unlike the stone eyes of the statue that are forced to stare at one point on the horizon for eternity, Acacius’s eyes never leave you. Even when he leans down to the small tray he brought along earlier, grabbing a glass filled with red wine and handing it to you, he keeps his focus on you. You barely get to whisper a thank you before a frown spreads over his face. “What happened to your dress?”

“I had to climb the garden wall,” you mutter sheepishly, embarrassed that your original plan has so clearly gone awry. He watches as you take a sip of the wine before you continue. “I will clean it in the morning, it is not worth speaking of.”

Acacius doesn't agree. It feels like another thing he's making you do. A visual representation of the way he is soiling you, tainting your beautiful white gown with reminiscents of the dirt and grime that stains his armour after returning from battle. “It is my turn for apologies. You should not have to–”

He is shut up by your lips coming to rest on his. He can taste the red wine he picked out for tonight and by the gods, he does not think there is anything he likes more. Picking out what you taste like for him.

There is a small tremor in your body, an insecurity that he immediately recognizes as inexperience. He sighs into the kiss at that, his taunt muscles finally relaxing as he blindly reaches behind himself, finding the stone bench and lowering both of you onto it, never breaking your kiss. Sweet. You just taste so sweet.

He allows you to dictate the pace, only pulling back when you do, your breath coming in short pants. His forehead rests against yours as he reaches down to take his own glass, nudging you until you toast him, glass against glass creating a light melody that fades as quickly as it has appeared. You both drink in silence, only the distant noises of the celebrations and those of the garden around you reaching your ears. 

“May I ask you something?” He hums, his voice low in his throat as he watches you raise your wine to your lips, the flames of the candles reflecting in the glass and liquid, sending smooth shadows over your face. At your nod, he continues. “Why did you ask to meet tonight? Bona Dea must mean a lot to you.”

You smile softly, though there is still a hint of nervousness present in your eyes. “The gods are busy looking down onto the feasts.” It is the unspoken part of your response that makes Acacius feel almost light-headed. If the goddesses eyes are truly on the feasts happening in the city, they are too busy to see you under the cover of darkness. One of his hands is still supporting your waist and he uses the other to set his glass down again before coming up to caress your ankle. A sliver of skin pokes out from under your stola, giving him a taste of what is waiting below the linen and silk that you are wrapped in. He feels you lean in, a hand gently coming to rest on his shoulder for support as he maneuvers you onto his left leg. In one smooth motion, Acacius runs his calloused hand past the hem of your stola and up your calf. You shiver, shifting slightly. “Acacius–”

It's somewhere between a whisper and a begging command. He forces himself to pause, his hand resting on your knee, the fabric of your dress bunched up around his forearm. “Do you want me to stop?” You shake your head silently. And he decides that maybe, he can push a bit further. “Is this why you wanted to meet?”

He can practically see you pause, your eyes flickering nervously back and forth. He may be completely wrong. It may not even have occurred to you–this. That you could do this. Because technically, you can’t.

“Maybe,” you whisper and he smiles at the subtle hint in your tone that sounds less like a maybe and more like a yes. And he'd be lying if he said he didn't have the same train of thought. He just didn't expect you to want him like this. Hell, he barely expected you to show up. Not with how much you are both risking.

“I’m sure you know–” you whisper as his hand travels further, slowly but surely inching up your thigh. “That Vestals are sworn to celibacy.”

He gives as gentle a squeeze as he can, watching with a smirk as you bite your lip, stopping yourself from letting out a noise. God, how he wants to hear that noise. How he wants all of Rome to hear the noise, wants to hear his name fall from your lips as he gives you the pleasure you've been denied your entire life.

“There are other ways,” he muses, his thumb trailing over the edge of what he assumes to be a subligaculum covering your most private area. “Other ways of pleasure.” He cocks an eyebrow at you, his hand gently rubbing over the soft skin of your inner thigh, not quite crossing the invisible threshold yet. “Dont tell me you have not discovered any of them?”

This time, he can watch as the blush spreads over your cheeks and down toward your throat. His gaze softens slightly. “You do not have to tell me, if you do not wish to.” Acacius sighs quietly, his eyes watchful, trying to gauge if he's gone too far. If he should retreat. “Does this feel good? We do not have to–” He can feel himself stumbling over his words. “I do not wish to force myself upon you. We do not have to do anything if you are not ready.”

“What if I'm never ready?” You whisper before you can stop yourself, resting your head against his shoulder and he tuts as he looks down at you.

“Then we will never do anything.”

“Go on.” It is a whispered plea. And Acacius gently obliges. He knows how to give commands that demand to be followed. But he also knows how to take them.

His fingers sneak under the delicate cloth that forms your underwear, his index finger finding the space between your legs already deliciously wet. He can feel himself getting hard at just this. The thought that merely sitting on his lap, kissing him, feeling his hands on your leg, is enough to arouse you to this point. He swipes his thick index fingers through your folds, making you clutch onto his shoulder and whimper in surprise. A low chuckle leaves his lips as he stills his hand again, not wanting to overstimulate you right away. He is keeping that trick up his sleeve for later.

“Your body does not know of your vows, dulcissima,” he rasps, his beard scratching against your skin as he places soft kisses against your neck. He feels you shiver and while he is sure some of it can be attributed to the excitement, he has a feeling the cold is also doing its part. He has a sudden urge to pick you up and carry you inside. If you truly want him to see you, to bare yourself before him–the first man to ever touch you like this–it cannot be on a cold stone bench.

“Let me take you inside.”

(art by art by Gökberk Kaya)

notes: okay, i know, i know, bad moment to stop. i promise the next chapter is in the works! ♡

[rawrsatthetree]

Old Habits Die Hard.

Ascended Astarion x Dark Urge Reader

Set after the events of the game. Lord Astarion falls into old habits and gives his pet Bhaalspawn some much needed enrichment.

Completely gender neutral reader, but they are a bottom.

Warnings: gore like really fucked up gore. Cheating. Smut. Dub-con/non-con. Not at all safe or sane for either parties. Dead Dove, Do Not Eat.

The rite of profane ascension had given him so much. The ability to see his own reflection, the ability to permanently walk in the sun, the power to take whatever he pleased, and the power to keep his beloved at his side for all eternity. However for all these gifts there were many things that remained. Much to Astarion’s disappointment ascension had not magically healed 200 years of torment, it had not fixed the feeling of disgust and loathing.

As much as he wanted to indulge, as mush as he had dreamed of a hedonistic life style awash with blood and sex; he could not over come the deep rooted disgust, the bile in the back of his throat. That night with his dear sweet consort and the two drow prostitutes had been deeply disappointing. Despite his desire to enjoy himself, he hadn’t. All he felt was disgust and anger, it took all of him to hide the hurt it caused him.

He could lie to you, but he could not lie to himself. Yours was the only touch he could tolerate. The only touch that didn’t cause his skin to crawl and his guts to twist. He could hardly stand the idea of any hands, other than the hands of his little love, touching him. He only longed for you and the familiar comfort of you body and blood. Not that he would ever tell you this, gods forbid you ever know the power you command over his newly beating heart. He needed to retain some semblance of dominance and control.

Despite his lack of interest and very public marriage to you, it didn’t stop the suitors of court from throwing themselves at him. How could they not? He was devastatingly beautiful, disgustingly wealthy, powerful, and darkly mysterious. On top of it all no one seemed to respect his marriage to you. Your presence much more suited to presiding over a cult and stalking the sewers than being paraded around court. No matter how he dressed you or how many lessons in educate he made you endure, you stuck out as an outsider. All the young suitors of court and their ambitious families were convinced they could still worm their way into his power and status. Surely the new lord of the crimson palace would be better off with a spouse of noble birth. Little did they know it would take far more than a trip to the court house to divorce you from him.

He could see it in their eyes the way they looked at him. They didn’t see him. They saw his wealth, his power, his status, his body. Unlike you, you looked right through him right down to his twisted soul. Despite your adorable naivety from your amnesia, you had always been deeply wise and perceptive. Your eyes were as sharp as your blades. Oh how they used spark and flare with passion and mischief. But as of late they had seemed dull and heavy. He was happy you had rejected your father’s will so you could be fully his; however, it seemed as though Bhaal had taken an important part of you when he killed you on that alter. All of this, the parties and court drama, it bored you terribly. Sometimes he worried you had grown bored of him as well. He missed the flame of murderous rage and manic hunger in your eyes. His consort, his dearest friend, his most precious spawn, his first, his baby.

He watched you now from across the crowded ball room. You sat bored out of your broken mind on your thrown, simply watching the party with empty eyes. He was standing in the middle of the ballroom floor, the center of attention as always. He had become completely lost in thought gazing at you so far away from him atop your perch. He hadn’t been giving any attention to the gaggle of young lords and ladies the had been fawning over him. Apparently long enough that one lady had the gall to grab his arm pressing it firmly into her breast.

“My lord Ancuin, you seem so distracted.” The girl spoke low in a voice dripping with lust. Gods she was practically humping his side like a dog. “Perhaps you and I should go get some air,” she paused before leaning into his ear. “Somewhere private.” She punctuated her words with a soft playful blow of air on his sensitive ear.

His gut turned and twisted at the feeling. He should push her off, humiliate her for being so forward, hells he should kill her as an example to those who would dare touch him. But something about her forward advance caught him off guard, triggering an instinct that had been beaten into him centuries ago.

Instead of pushing her away, he turned and pulled her by her waist. Pushing her body against his, as he eyed her plush pink lips. He could feel the warmth radiating off of her, hear her little heart hammering in her chest pumping heated blood through her veins. “So forward my lady, surely you wouldn’t pull me away from such stimulating company.” He voice dripped with charm and seduction.

The girl almost swooned in his arms but she was determined to claim him. Instead she took his return of her embrace as an open invitation. She leaned into him, pressing a burning kiss to the under side of his jaw. She pulled back, mere centimeter above his lips as if daring him to kiss her right there on the ball room floor. Her hands wandered dangerously low. The feeling made Astarion want to crawl out of his own skin but he choked down the feeling like he had done countless times before.

The crowd of young eager bachelors and bachelorettes that surrounded him watched with baited breath. Their eyes all burning into him with jealousy and lust. The girl leaned in just a hair further, he could feel her breath on his lips and smell her pheromones. He took her jaw into his hand, cradling it gently rather than grabbing it harshly as he had intended. “Not here my lady, in front of so many prying eyes.”

However there was one pair of eyes he didn’t feel, the only pair of eyes he did want on him. He spared a glance over to your throne. He expected to see you sitting there burning with jealous, eyes filled with rage and blood lust. But to his disappointment, you were gone.

His heart broke. You had left him. Did you not even care that he was holding another? Had you truly lost your love for him a long with your murderous urge? A profound emptiness and sadness washed over him before it was quickly replaced with anger and hatred. In his spiteful fury, he turned back to the girl. She flinched at the intensity in his eyes but he held her firmly. Astarion forced his lips against hers locking her into a fierce passionate kiss. The crowd gasped and she melted into him. He kissed her till the poor thing was dizzy with desire before pulling away just enough to whisper in her ear. “Ask the servants to escort you to the boudoir and wait for me there, my dear.”

With out another word the girl ran off to do as she was told. Astarion turned to his party now in an uproar over what had just occurred. They lavished him in their attention desperate for even a taste of his. He let the party go on watching to see if he caught any sign of you but you had fully vanished. It hurt to think of how you had abandoned him.

As the party died down and the last of the guests took their leave, Astarion thought of the girl he had stupidly sent to the boudoir promising a night of passion. He felt like an idiot now, what had come over him in that moment? No he knew what, he fell into old habits and when you didn’t run to his rescue nor lashed out in jealousy, he had wanted to hurt you. Maybe if he hurt you enough you would come back to him, he could shock you into being yourself again. But you hadn’t even been there when he kissed her and promised to fuck her. Stupid. Now he has a horny young lady awaiting him. He wished the thought thrilled him but it only filled him with an old anxiety.

He supposed he could just retire to his courters and have a spawn deal with her. However something in the back of his mind told him to go to her. If anything it would give him the opportunity to tell the audacious girl off and perhaps even kill her. Or maybe he would swallow his disgust and fuck her, just to spite you further. As he approached the door to the boudoir he hesitated. His instincts told him something was terribly wrong. But what had he to fear as the vampire ascendant. Swallowing his fear he threw open the door.

The sight that greeted him made his blood run cold. What lay before him was definitely on the list of the most gruesome twisted things he had ever witnessed, even during his time under Cazador. The room reeked of blood, bile, and piss. On the bed was what he had to assume was the young girl and his beloved consort giggling to themselves.

“Little love what have you done?” Astarion asked just above a whisper. In your free hand you held your sister’s old blade. The girl he had sent to wait for him lay back against you. You kept her propped up in full display proud of your work. The skin of her once pretty face had been carefully peeled away, large frightened lidless eyes watched him. Her dress and under garments cut from her body, breasts and cunt on full display. Her torso had been expertly sliced open from the bottom of her rib cage down almost to the top of her clit. Layers of flesh and muscle had been peeled back. Her organs gently pulled from the cavity but still fully intact. He could see them pulse and squirm. Gods above the retched thing was still alive. You had vivisected the girl like a true expert.

You only giggled sweetly, “I thought I would come down and get her ready for you, help her strip.” You where clearly pleased with your self. You caressed the girls exposed intestines as you trailed you hand down to her cunt. The girl only gasped and sputtered in horror. Astarion watched eyes darkening as you caressed the girls sex. Running your fingers along her slit, you spread her lips open exposing her pink vulva and clit soaked not from arousal but from having pissed herself.

“Come my love, she’s ready for you.” You taunted him, dared him to fuck her in this state. You had expected him to react in anger, in horror and fear. However Astarion’s eyes were filled with nothing but carnal desire. Rage filled you as he stalked towards the bed stopping right before the edge. He reached forward, just as you thought he was about to touch her cunt he grabbed you wrist instead pulling you harshly to your feet.

“What are you doing!?” You fought against him trying to pull your wrist away. “You’re not going to make me leave! If you want to fuck the whore’s putrid carcass so bad you can do it in front of me.” You spat venom at him letting him feel the full fury of your anger.

Astarion only watched you with that hungry gaze before wordlessly scooping you up into his arms. He carried you out of the boudoir, only stopping to tell one of his spawn to “take care of the mess” as he headed for your shared chambers. You squirmed and fought him trying to escape, even attempting to stab him, but Astarion was far stronger than you now, it was hopeless to fight him.

He tossed you down onto your grand bed prying Orin’s blade from your grip tossing it aside and out of reach. With out letting you utter a word of protest he kissed you. It wasn’t a sweet kiss but one filled with passion and desire, the desire to consume and dominate.

You fought against him fruitlessly, pushing helplessly at his shoulders as he pinned you down with his body. You could feel his erection, heavy against your thigh. He finally released you lips, now raw and bruised, to move his attention to your neck.

With your mouth finally free you could tell him off. “What!? Did that whore arouse you so much you’ve lost control my lord.” Your voice oozed with venom, desperate to hurt him even a fraction of how he had hurt you. “How dare you kiss me with those same lips that kissed her.”

Instead of answering you he bit down hard enough to make you yelp. As he drank your blood, he forced your leg apart so he could grind his hard clothed cock against your sex. You began to feel light headed as he took his fill before releasing your neck with a low groan.

“You fool,” he rasped starting to loose himself to the taste of your blood and the pleasure of your body. “You did this to me, you’ve driven me to this madness.”

He released you only for a moment to lower his trousers releasing his throbbing cock. Just as you were ready to fight him again he spoke.

“You,” he groaned as he tore through your clothes baring your sex to him. “I only want you my love.”

You were left stunned by his confession and the tenderness beneath the burning lust in his eyes. He took full advantage of your shocked state by pushing you back down and forcing the head of his cock into your entrance. You cried out, far to tight and ill prepared to take him, but your cries of pain fell on deaf pointed ears. Astarion was determined to take you even if he had to rip you open.

“Hells your tight,” he hissed as the pleasure of taking you over took him. He speared you on his cock, forcing inch after inch deeper. Tears welled in your eyes as you tore at his fine silk doublet. Normally he’s scold you for ruining his clothes but he was too far gone, lost in your comfort.

“My dark consort,” he moaned as he bottomed out. Astarion paused giving you a brief moment of relief. He looked down at you taking in the sight of your teary eyes filled with agony. His expression was unreadable to you, perhaps a strange perversion of affection and regret.

He maintained eye contact as he began to fuck you. Slowly dragging his cock along your walls, making sure you felt all of him.

“My dearest spawn,” he called out to you as he pumped his cock in and out at an agonizing pace. His slow pace eased the pain caused by his forceful insertion. The burning stretch melted into pleasure.

“My baby,” he caressed your cheek gently, maintaining intense eye contact. Your head started to grow fuzzy with pleasure, the slow brag of his cock calming the fury in your heart.

“Master,” you moaned softly, your eyes falling closed.

A sharp smack to your cheek pulled you from your haze. “Don’t,” Astarion reprimanded you, he hip stopping as he grabbed your face forcing you to look at him. “Say my name, like only you can.” He let go of your face and rubbed the sore spot on your cheek. Astarion restarted his slow but strong thrusts. “And keep your eyes on me darling.”

You do as your told holding his gaze only breaking it to blink away tears from being struck. “Astarion,” you call his name, pleasure building again at an unbearable pace.

“Yes, gods just like that.” He smiled down at you. Hearing you call his name a balm to his broken heart. “Tell me little love, why did you kill the girl?”

The mention of her while he made sweet love to you soured your mood. Anger bubbled back up in your heart. “Because she dared touch you, you hissed. “And even worse, you kissed her putrid lips and promised to fuck her.” Rage settled back over your pretty face.

Astarion picked up the pace only slightly, your anger arousing him further. “Why didn’t you stop her when she dared touch your master and husband?”

“Gods Astarion, all these questions.” You groaned trying to focus and failing as he fucked you.

“Humor me pet,” he tried to play it off as playful curiosity but the hint of insecurity still lingered.

“I couldn’t, ah fuck- I wouldn’t have been able to control myself.” You could tell from the look he gave you, he wasn’t convinced. “Ah- if I had tried to confront her in the ballroom, I would have killed her in front of your guests.”

“How oddly considerate of you,” he teased. “I guess those educate lessons are paying off after all.” He rewarded your answer by bring his hand to you sex adding to your pleasure with gentle ministrations.

“Oh gods Astarion,” you try to move you hips his slow pace edging you. “I can’t take this teasing much longer.”

“Patience love,” he hushed you holding your hips in place. “Tell me how it felt to kill her.” He picked up the pace growing sensitive himself.

“Fuck- ah- it felt amazing!” You arched you back, pleasure now building at a blinding pace. “Gods it felt so good to slice the flesh from her pig face.” You clench around his cock at the memory. “The relief of her guts squirming in my grasp, ah how I’ve missed it!”

“Oh fuck,” Astarion’s pace grew frantic chancing both of your ends. He was getting close, the slow pace having teased him to the point of over stimulation. He takes you lips in a desperate kiss, needing to be closer to you.

“Astarion!” You call out to him, wrapping your arms around him holding him close. “I’m gonna come.” Your walls squeezed him as your eyes rolled back.

“Say you love me,” he begged into the crook of you neck. His hips stuttering so close to the edge.

“I love you Astarion,” you cried out. Your whole body trembled as your walls contracted wildly, pulling him over the edge with you. “I love you! I love you I love you” you moaned into his shoulder, holding him so tight your claws pierced his skin.

Astarion just whimpered and gasped as his seed filled you. He continued to fuck you through your orgasm, wrapping himself around you trying to hold you as close as possible.

You bit him possessively, growling as you body tingled from overstimulation. Astarion just groaned, cradling your head as you drank his blood. He tugged at your hair gently when he began to feel faint. You bared down for a moment making sure he felt you before reluctantly releasing he neck.

He kissed you tasting himself on your lips. He didn’t pull out, not ready to leave the embrace of your body. But your poor little body shook as your walls still contracted around him. You were both completely fuck out and sensitive to the point of pain. Astarion deepened the kiss as he let his soft cock slip out of your hole.

Tears rolled down your cheeks again, over whelmed by all the emotions of the night.

“What’s wrong my little love?” Astarion cooed at you, whipping your tears.

“I lost control,” you sobbed. “We fought so hard to be free but I still yearn to kill like I’m Bhaal’s bitch.”

“Oh my love, do not fret, you are mine and mine alone.” He laid down beside you, pulling you to lay on his chest. “Don’t forget you’re a vampire now, your bloodlust is hardly unnatural.”

You cuddled into his side. “Why did you kiss her Astarion? Why agree to fuck her?” Your ask voice still wavering from your sobs.

Astarion stiffened, hesitating as if he’s not sure how to answer. He hates to be weak in front of you but lying would do nothing to ease your hurt. “Old habits.” Was all he could bare to say. You didn’t need to know how he had desired to scorn you.

You grew quiet, knowing what he meant. You felt foolish, like you had failed him. That whore had upset your master, triggering old instincts from when he had to seduce whatever tramp threw themselves at him. You knew ascending hadn’t healed his past, even if he wanted to pretend it was all behind him. Despite his power, he still awoke from nightmares and dissociated from time to time.

“I’m so sorry my love,” you shift to were you can gaze into his eyes. “Next time someone dares to lay a hand on you, I’ll naw it off.”

He smiled at you fondly, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. “How sweet.” He turns to kiss you. “I do appreciate your restraint though, we can’t have you staining the floor of my ballroom.”

“But master,” you protest. “How am I to protect you?”

“Hush love, I’m not saying you can’t kill them. I would just prefer if you kept the mess to a minimum. Ugh speaking of mess.” He gestures to the two of you coved in various dried bodily fluids, the shredded remains of your clothes barley hanging off of your bodies. He scoops you up in his arms, “I think a long hot bath is in order.”

“Oh gods the poor servants,” you think of the mess you left in the boudoir, embarrassed at the over dramatic display you had made of the girl.

“They better have the boudoir spotless by morning or I’m putting those useless wretches on pikes.” You weren’t sure if he was joking or not but you laughed all the same.

[prythiansprincess]

CHAPTER SIX | TSOFAS.

pairing: azriel x reader.

word count: 4, 714.

author's note: we are officially in the autumn court now. the vanserras have intrigued me for a such a long time and getting to write about them is so fun because I have so much creative freedom to portray and explore their complicated family dynamics. all in all, the song inspo says it best: take what you want, take what you can, take what you please, don't give a damn, ask for forgiveness never permission; it's in the blood and this is tradition. hope you all enjoy x

♫ tradition - halsey. nav. series. moodboard.

The shadowsinger brooded in silence as the golden carriage brought him closer and closer to his doom. 

Azriel was convinced that the Mother was playing a cruel joke on him. The punchline of which involved pretending to be betrothed to her, of all people. He had gone into this mission knowing that the odds were stacked against him as it were, but adding this ridiculous farce on top of everything else was enough to tip the shadowsinger over the edge. 

Forget stealing the scepter. Convincing an entire court that he was engaged to a female who was hellbent on making him her sworn enemy would be the most challenging mission the spymaster had ever faced. Regardless, he was determined to approach the task like he would any other — with a clear head and a foolproof plan. 

“I need you to tell me everything there is to know about the bride rite,” Azriel said. He hunched over, his dark wings barely fitting within the confines of the ridiculous ornate carriage he was currently crammed in. 

“How do you expect me to sum up the most complex and deeply patriarchal practice of the Autumn Court before we reach the Forest House?” 

Azriel bristled with annoyance. “Quickly and without complaint,” he said in a clipped tone. “Unless you want Beron to throw us out of his borders before we can even lay eyes on the scepter.”

The assassin scowled at him in return, but seemed to put aside whatever sarcastic remark she was dying to voice to summarize the bride rite. In essence, the tradition revolved around four events. A tea and luncheon hosted by the bride’s family, a tourney in honor of the engagement complete with joust and melee, a hunt that is meant to exhibit the groom’s ability to provide, and finally a betrothal ceremony held in the temple. The passage through the eternal flame, the assassin explained with a scoff, was a formal acknowledgement that the groom had deemed the bride worthy of marrying. 

The shadowsinger listened intently, ignoring the tension in the assassin’s shoulders and the obvious fury simmering in her gaze. Azriel couldn’t be sure who she was most irate with at the moment. Eris, for springing this news on them. Rhys, for not informing them of the arrangement in the first place. Or Azriel himself, who had nothing to do with this disastrous turn of events yet still managed to bear the brunt of her wrath. 

“We need a plan,” Azriel said when the assassin concluded. 

“Did you hear any of what I just said?” she asked incredulously. “The rite is the oldest tradition of the Autumn Court and for whatever deranged reason, the nobles and common folk hold it in the highest regard, which means there is no room for error. They scrutinize every couple with brutal efficiency and swoop in like vultures at the first sign of suspicion. Real couples are put through the wringer and many do not make it to the altar before the end of the rite,” she sighed in resignation. “Face it, shadowsinger. This entire thing is a disaster waiting to happen.”

“Not if we come up with a compelling story.”

The assassin gave the shadowsinger a wide berth. “You’re not honestly suggesting that we go through with this?”

Azriel pursed his lips. “I have never backed out of a mission and I don’t plan on doing so today.”

“This is Beron we’re talking about. Stealing the scepter is one thing, but pulling this off would take nothing short of a miracle. Do you not think the High Lord will find it odd that we can barely tolerate each other’s presence?” 

Azriel shrugged. “I’m a spymaster, you’re an assassin. We’re both experts in lying and deception. Surely we can pretend to be betrothed for a few weeks.”

The assassin crossed her arms, seemingly mulling the idea over. Azriel was well aware that he was grasping at straws, but it wasn’t like either one of you had much of a choice. You needed to gain access to the scepter and this was the only way Beron would continue to permit your presence in his borders. Not to mention, the bride rite bound the High Lord to abide by the law of hospitality, which meant that Beron couldn’t inflict any harm upon either one of you for the duration of your stay. 

It was a cunning and calculated plan and it reeked of the High Lord’s plotting. Rhys had to have known how angry the assassin would be with him. The lengths his brother had gone through to ensure her safety sobered the shadowsinger. Promise me, Az, his brother had pleaded. Promise me that you’ll keep her safe. 

“I’m going to kill Rhys,” she muttered under your breath. 

“I’m sure Rhys had his reasons for keeping this from us.” As annoyed as Azriel might be, he knew Rhysand had good intentions. He just wished his brother filled him in on the plan beforehand. “Regardless, we’re here now and we need to find a way to get through it for the sake of retrieving the scepter.”

She sighed. “Right. What’s our great love story, then?”

“It’s best to keep it simple,” Azriel said, ever the pragmatist. “If we stick close to the truth, there’s a less likely chance that we’ll be caught in a lie.”

Azriel tapped his fingers against his knee, plots and schemes flashing through his mind. His shadows curled through his ear, whispering useful information. The memory of his first encounter with the assassin snagged his attention and he began to construct a plan with its foundation. 

“We met at the House of Wind when you were visiting for Winter Solstice.”

“When I knocked you on your ass,” she added with a satisfied smile. 

The shadowsinger fought the urge to roll his eyes. “You caught me off guard.” The smirk on the assassin’s lips agitated him all the more. “Despite the rather violent interaction, a spark formed between us.”

“So what?” she asked skeptically. “Beron is supposed to believe that I charmed my way into your leathers all those years ago and you only now decided to make an honest female out of me? It doesn’t sound very convincing.”

Azriel frowned. “If you would let me finish, then I’d gladly get to the point,” he responded testily. The corner of the assassin’s mouth twitched in amusement as she gestured for him to continue. “I didn’t pursue a romantic relationship because of the possible fallout it would cause with Rhys. You’re like a sister to him and he tends to be overprotective. But then Feyre freed us from Amarantha’s curse and when you returned home, I decided that I didn’t care any more. I pursued you, consequences be damned.” 

The shadowsinger watched as she digested the information. Truth be told, it wasn’t a love story that would rival those novels that Nesta loved to read, but given the circumstances, it was the best Azriel could do. The two of them had enough history together that could potentially overshadow the sudden decision of the betrothal. No one outside of the Inner Circle knew of their rivalry, except Eris apparently.

Azriel tucked that information away for later. He’d have to deal with it eventually. 

The assassin tapped her slender fingers against her chin, “You’re forgetting one crucial ingredient in any romance,” she said with a piercing gaze. Azriel raised a brow. He was fairly sure he’d covered the bases. “Chemistry. Devotion. Affection,” she listed rather sardonically. 

“That’s more than one,” the shadowsinger couldn’t help but quip. 

“Congratulations, you’re capable of basic arithmetic,” she shot back with derision. “The point is, people will expect passion from a betrothed couple and not the someone pissed in my soup expression that you so kindly bestow me with every chance you get.” 

The shadowsinger crossed his arms. “I am capable of treating you with civility.”

“Very convincing,” the assassin said with a snort. “It’s going to take more than civility to persuade the court. There’s a certain type of closeness one expects from those romantically involved. If we’re to go through with this farce, we have to commit. We’ll have to appear to be intimate.”

Azriel’s eyes widened in alarm, which made her roll her eyes in exasperation. 

“Don’t get your wings in a twist, shadowsinger. I’m not suggesting we have sex in front of the whole court. We just need to act as though we’ve at least seen each other naked, which might I add, your pervy little glimpse in my flat the other day should give you plenty of material to work with.” 

At the mention of the incident, Azriel found his imagination drifting to those giant wings tattooed on her back. He could’ve sworn that they had moved, fluttering against her skin like real Illyrian wings, but she had slammed the door in his face before he could further investigate. Azriel was curious about the magic. That was the only reason why he had stared. At least that’s what he told himself. 

The shadowsinger brushed the thought away. “Don’t flatter yourself, princess. I was merely admiring the tattoo.” His gaze met the assassin’s as he slid on a smirk that he knew would annoy her. “Besides, I don’t get a female naked unless I intend on finishing the job.”

As petulant as it was, satisfaction coursed through him as the assassin flushed and avoided his gaze. His smile spread even further when she cleared her throat, ignoring the comment altogether. 

“Just try to appear as though being in the same vicinity doesn’t physically sicken you.”

It was Azriel’s turn to snort. “Easier said than done,” he muttered under his breath. If looks could kill, he’d currently be six feet under. “I’ll manage. One more thing. If we’re to parade around like some grotesque circus act, you’ll need this.”

The shadowsinger fished around in his pocket before producing an enormous sapphire ring with a silver band. It was only logical for the court to expect a ring and seeing as this was the only one he kept on his person at all times, Azriel presented it with as much nonchalance as he could muster. 

How’s that for committing to the bit? he thought drily. 

“Where in the Cauldron did you get that from and why are you just carrying it around?”

The ring had a rather complicated history. None of which Azriel was particularly keen on explaining to the assassin. In all honesty, she was the last female he ever thought he’d be presenting it to. Not that anyone else had come close. 

He merely waved a hand in dismissal. “It doesn’t matter. For now, it’ll accomplish what it needs to.”

Azriel hesitated for a beat, his scarred fingers twitching at his side. There was a flash of recognition in the assassin’s eyes as she silently held out her left hand. He schooled his features into neutrality as he slipped the ring on. Curiosity danced in her gaze as she examined the enormous sapphire stone surrounded by a crown of sparkling diamonds. The ring fit perfectly on her finger. 

A pregnant pause buoyed between them before Azriel quickly withdrew his hand. The assassin’s skin was smooth and silky underneath his calloused palm, but if she was bothered by his scars, she showed no indication. The shadowsinger wasn’t sure if that unnerved or comforted him. 

“Remember, we’re madly in love.” Azriel said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. 

“With this rock on my finger, I might even be inclined to be pleasant to you.”

The shadowsinger held back a grin. “You’ll have to do more than that, princess. I believe the words you used were chemistry, intimacy, and passion.”

The assassin rolled her eyes. “Like you said, easier said than done. Fortunately for you, I like a challenge.”

“I’d hardly call this fake betrothal a challenge. Weren’t you courted by a vampyr once?”

The mention of her past paramour piqued the assassin’s interest. Azriel wasn’t sure why he’d brought it up. Perhaps because it felt like another mismatched piece of the puzzle of her past. He remembered Serena bringing it up once, urging the assassin to invite the vampyr to Rita’s, but she dismissed the suggestion as though the idea of the male meeting her friends was absolutely absurd. She was notoriously guarded in regards to her personal life, even back then. 

Love is a luxury most cannot afford, the assassin had said. Azriel wondered if he was about to uncover the reason for her cynicism during this homecoming.

“I forgot all about Nikolai,” she said, wrenching him out of his thoughts. “He wasn’t all that challenging though. At least he knew not to argue with me.” A pointed look his way. “In any case, I don’t see how my dalliance with the vampyr is relevant, unless you plan on feasting on my flesh.”

Payback for his earlier comment. She really never let anyone have the last word. “You’re incredibly crude, you know that?” 

The assassin shrugged irreverently. “You brought it up. Besides, do you really think it’s a wise idea to dig up each other’s romantic histories?” Delight danced in her eyes as Azriel shot her a glare that would have withered the lush forest around them. “Let’s evaluate, shall we? We have a plausible story. A gorgeous ring. It’s time to establish some rules, as all fake relationships are wont to have.” 

Azriel raised a brow. “You say that as though fake relationships are a norm.”

His companion sighed in exasperation. “It’s a very common trope,” she explained as though Azriel was the ridiculous one. “Haven’t you ever read a romance novel?” 

The blank look he gave her was enough to answer. “Point taken. Anyways, all effective fake relationships abide by a set of rules, which begs the question. How comfortable are you with public displays of affection?” He winced, earning him a long suffering sigh. “A promising start. My people are known to be passionate. Hot blooded. They will likely suspect something is amiss if you flinch every time I come near you.”

“I know how to act affectionately,” Azriel said with a sharper edge to his voice than he intended. He took a deep breath, tried again. “I will play the part of head over heels, lovestruck idiot.” His mouth quirked. “Perhaps living in the same house as Cassian and Nesta will finally pay off. Either way, I’ll behave accordingly.”

“We won’t be sullying any dinner tables in the near future, but you seem to grasp the gist of it.” The double entendre did not escape his notice. “Though I imagine you’ve had ample opportunity to practice during this past lonely winter.”

“Not nearly as lonely as you think, princess.”

“Your hand doesn’t count, shadowsinger.”

“Then neither does straddling that lordling,” he said with a knowing glance. The assassin balked at the statement, narrowing her eyes. As unwise as it may be, Azriel enjoyed baiting her more than he should. “I’ve known you long enough to notice the pattern, Thorne. You never take lovers during an active mission. It’s been months since Rhys sent you to the Western Isles. Perhaps that’s why you’ve been a bit cagey lately.”

To his absolute amusement, the assassin’s face flushed with heat. “Now who’s being crude?”

“Deflecting only confirms my suspicions.”

Not to be outdone, she crossed her arms and huffed with indignation. “Who and when I fuck is none of your business.” 

The grin on Azriel’s face grew wider. “Is that any way to talk to your future husband?

“Sleep with one eye open, shadowsinger.”

“With a fiance like you? I’d keep a dagger in bed, princess.” 

The assassin retorted with a vulgar gesture just as the carriage shuddered to a stop. From the small window, the looming shape of the Forest House filled the landscape. Azriel thought he saw a trace of apprehension mar her expression. 

“Just follow my lead and this godsawful plan may just work.”

The shadowsinger nodded emphatically. “Lead the way, my lady.”

In the twisted maze of the Forest House, you felt lost. 

As the carriage rolled up to the behemoth structure looming above the jewel toned trees and rushing waterfall, Azriel stared in awe. There was a time when your younger self mirrored the shadowsinger’s astonishment, full of curiosity and excitement as you first walked through the house upon your first visit, but those days were long gone. 

In the present, the high beams and curved archways jutting out from the steep hillside drew sinister shadows beneath your feet, illuminated by the torches lining the granite walls. The Forest House felt cold, empty. Devoid of the warmth that once colored your childhood. It was strange to think that the place you once called home now greeted you like a stranger. You didn’t take it personally. You never belonged here in the first place. 

You didn’t belong anywhere. 

Up ahead, Eris led the way through the portcullis. You walked in silence as the sentries marched into the fox’s den. Curious glances landed briefly at the sight of you and Azriel strolling side by side. The pairing definitely turned heads — the exiled priestess and the shadowsinger. Villains in their sight. You certainly looked the part in a scarlet corset dress that matched the fiery tone of your hair which trailed behind your back like ringlets of flame, covered by the cloak of the onyx hood that obscured your face. 

In similar fashion, Azriel was clad head to toe in his Illyrian armor, the dark leathers accentuating his muscled form and embodying the threatening aura of one of the most feared warriors in Prythian. Those powerful wings of his flared slightly at the attention of the court dwellers, whose eyes widened in fear and shrunk back to let you pass. 

At the center of the Forest House, the great hall glittered in all its opulence. The ceiling was enclosed by a glass dome that scattered shades of gold, ruby, and topaz across the polished surface of the mahogany floor. A scarlet carpet embroidered with golden leaves paved the way to the High Lord’s seat of power. Perched on the rosewood throne, the High Lord surveyed you with hateful eyes as you strode up to the dais. A golden wreath of leaves rested on his temple like a crown while his cold stare greeted you like a ghost from the past. 

Eris stooped low, crossing his arm over his chest as a sign of respect. Beron gestured for his eldest son to rise. Your cousin took his place behind his father’s throne while the court herald ushered you forward. 

“My lord, I present to you Lady Y/N Thorne and her betrothed, Azriel the Shadowsinger of the Night Court.”

As if on cue, you curtsied before the male. To your surprise, Azriel didn’t miss a beat and bowed gracefully as though he had been drilled with the same court etiquette lessons as you had when you were a child. 

“My prodigal niece comes to return,” Beron greeted with a predatory smile. “I never thought I’d see the day that you’d haunt these walls again, Y/N.”

Beside him, three red haired males sneered with mild amusement. Your treacherous cousins. Avoiding their gazes, your focus turned upon their patriarch. 

Beron Vanserra appeared as he always did — vain, cruel, and proud. His brown hair and rugged beard were peppered with a few white streaks, the only sign that he was well over five centuries old. You immediately noted the missing presence of your aunt, but didn’t dare inquire of her whereabouts. Perhaps the Mother granted you the small mercy of sparing you the pain of a public reunion.

“My lord, it is a pleasure to be welcomed into your court.” 

The whispers that swept through the room made your palms itch for your blades. Courtiers and servants alike gaped at your presence as though the Cauldron itself spit you out at their feet. You could feel their stares directed at the bloodstone that hung around your neck rather than your temple. A reminder of your unfinished training. 

A hush fell over the crowd as Beron raised his hand. “A court that you seem eager to return to, it seems. When Eris told me of your intent to visit, I was surprised to say the least. It’s been nearly three centuries since your absence.” 

Three hundred and twenty seven, to be precise. But who was counting? 

You plastered on a saccharine smile. “We were long overdue for a family reunion,” you cooed sweetly, leveling an icy stare at your kin. “I’m sure we have plenty to catch up on.” 

The three males had the good sense to appear wary. Though they were unaware of the true extent of your power, your cousins knew enough to avoid getting on your bad side. The presence of Azriel beside you seemed to reinforce the threat you posed to this court should they give you reason to unleash your magic.

“Starting with your betrothal,” Beron said as he inclined his chin towards the shadowsinger. “An interesting match, given the stark difference in your stations.” 

The snide comment made you bristle. You and Azriel may not get along, but the thinly veiled jab at his lack of noble parentage rubbed you the wrong way. Never mind that his cruel father was an Illyrian lord in his own right. In Beron’s eyes, illegitimate offspring were beneath the nobility he hailed from. Especially if the child wasn’t publicly acknowledged, just as you weren’t. 

The rage you kept hidden away coursed through your veins, causing you to ball your hands into closed fists. Keeping a neutral expression was proving harder than you expected. Luckily, you were spared from having to respond as the male beside you spoke. 

“I consider myself lucky to have caught my lady’s attention and even more so to be able to accompany her to the court she once called home.” 

Azriel’s hand slipped to the middle of your back. A casual show of intimacy as though it were the most natural thing in the world. The anger clawing within you dissipated as Beron carefully surveyed you. The High Lord appeared to be assessing his next words carefully. 

“Welcome to the Autumn Court,” he proclaimed with little warmth. “The law of hospitality binds me to be a gracious host, so long as the two of you remain gracious guests.”

Make one false move and you’re free game, the High Lord’s unspoken threat seemed to challenge.

The shadowsinger gave him a curt nod, meeting his gaze with the promise of violence. The two males stared at one another. Your uncle sizes up the Illyrian warrior, whose cold exterior gave nothing away. Blue siphons thrummed menacingly through Azriel’s armor and only then did Beron relent, remembering exactly what the seven stones contained. The well of power that surged through them. 

“Very well then. Eris will escort you to your lodgings so you may have time to settle in. A carriage will be sent to bring you back to the House so you and your betrothed may join the rest of the court for the afternoon luncheon.”

Beron didn’t wait for a reply before rising from his throne and waving a hand in dismissal. The courtiers lingered, shooting curious glances your way before scurrying off to attend to whatever miserable business they had in the Forest House. 

“Well, that went about as well as I thought.” Eris exclaimed with a grin. 

His brothers peered over his shoulder, their scornful gazes burning holes through your skin. The middle one and the most cruel out of Beron’s sons, sneered in disgust, but stopped short at the reprimanding glare of his eldest brother. With a single foreboding glance, the three males retreated into the main hall. At least your cousin seemed to be in control of his siblings. 

“Let’s take the long way, shall we?” He announced, nodding towards the opposite corridor. 

You could feel your body freezing up at the thought of walking through these horrid halls once again, but you forced yourself to take one step after the other. Azriel discretely glanced at you, hazel eyes flickering with some unknown emotion. 

The walk through your former home dredged up a mixture of good and bad memories. Eris led you to the uppermost level where the atrium enclosing the indoor garden revealed a stunning view of the cloudless sky. Sunlight streamed in through the stained glass, coloring the marble fountain with the brilliance of polished jewels. This place had once been your safehaven and many days were spent lounging by that same fountain with Eris and Lucien, all three of you hiding from your governess and her overzealousness. Back when you were still allowed to sit in on your cousin’s lessons.

Two figures sat side by side under the shade of the enormous oak tree now, straightening when they sensed your presence. Alyanna’s daughters, Fallon and Astor, greeted your approaching party with low curtsies. The fair haired twins were dressed in fine clothing and appeared healthy, but the pallid coloring and blue tint under their eyes told you enough. Being away from home was eating away at them. 

“Lady Thorne, please forgive us for our absence during your arrival,” Fallon said. The taller one of the twins inclined her head with an apologetic expression.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” you replied with a warm smile, kissing each of them on the cheek in customary greeting. “I’m only sorry that I didn’t visit sooner. Look at you two, I’m sure the males of this court are eating right out of your hands.” 

The twins blushed, their bright cerulean eyes twinkling with delight. “Everyone has been very accommodating, especially Lord Eris.” 

“Now, now, I thought we had an understanding,” Eris drawled smoothly. “I was under the impression that we’ve moved past the presumptuous titles, have we not?” 

Fallon flushed. You forgot how easily Eris wielded his charm. It was as sharp and dangerous as any sword. “We have, Eris.” 

You raised a brow at your cousin, but refrained from commenting. The younger of the sisters fawned over the sapphire stone adorning your ring finger. The jewel reflected the sunlight streaming through the marble pillars, nearly blinding you with its brilliance.

Astor glanced shyly at Azriel. “Congratulations on your betrothal.” 

The Illyrian warrior curtsied gracefully and you could have sworn that the priestesses sighed in appreciation. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” 

Fallon suppressed a giggle, but straightened at the sight of a High Fae female beckoning them over. You didn’t miss the way Astor’s smile faltered. 

“My sister and I must return to our lessons, but we hope to see you again.” 

The twins enveloped you into a hug while Fallon not so discreetly whispered, “Handsome and well-mannered. You did well, Y/N.” 

The grin that tugged at Azriel’s lips told you that he heard every word. After bidding the twins goodbye, you turned your attention towards Eris.

“Who was that?” 

“Ismilda. One hell of a female. She makes our old governess seem like a saint in comparison, but she is under my employ. As long as the twins are with her, no one will deign to trouble them.” 

You frowned. “See to it that Ismilda provides them chrysanthemum tea in the evening. The twins don’t appear to be sleeping well.” 

Eris nodded, his gaze flickering to the corridor beyond as though he was assessing why he’d missed a sign that you so clearly picked up on from a single interaction. 

“I meant what I said before,” your cousin added. “No harm will come to them in this court.” 

A surge of emotions coursed through you. Anger coated your tongue, leaving a bile taste in your mouth, but disappointment weighed even heavier than the simmering rage. The words Eris casually tossed around sounded too familiar for comfort.

“Do not make promises you can’t keep, Eris.” 

The red haired male opened his mouth, but you cut him off before he had the chance to speak. “I remember the way back to the carriage.” 

With the curt dismissal, you left Eris standing in the atrium. Hot on your heels, Azriel remained silent while he followed you through the lower levels of the Forest House. 

For once, the shadowsinger was smart enough to stay silent.

₊˚⊹♡ thank you for reading. as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated. feel free to drop an ask too — i’d love to yap & chat with you all.

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[the-greatest-magic-of-all]

With such a God-focused season, one day, once Junior Year is finished and I have both the time and energy to do it, I want to make a Fantasy High God AU zine. It'd be from the pov of a mythologist/theologian in Spyre who's found strange links between minor deities throughout different regions' pantheons.

Half-Elves have a God of Dance and Flames who has been said to have defeated a Tiefling vagabond (and tamed his Hellhound mount) and charmed Fire itself with only a dance and his silk battle sheet. And if you look deep enough into his history there are rare depictions of him wearing an oddly shaped pendant and riding into battle with a sling-wielding Goblin peeking out of his rucksack. Interestingly enough, there's a minor Goblin God of Justice and Mysteries, the son of a Goblin Folk Hero and the Goblin Goddess of Knowledge, Laws, and Justice, who famously wields his father's enchanted sling. Though he and his father are often shown with angelic wings. So, why would he dally with a God so closely associated with Fiends?

Tieflings have a trickster Goddess of Music, Rebellion, and Devotion. The daughter of an Archdevil and a Wood Elven Goddess of Archery & the Wilderness. She's said to be a paramour of a Half-Phoenix Pirate Goddess of Wizardry and Knowledge and once toured the lands, performing with a Half-Orc companion. A lot of artistic recreations of that tour depict the Half-Orc companion with flower motifs that correspond with a Gnomish/Half-Orcish God of Tinkering and Rage. One that once outwitted a Sphynx and regained his spurned Saytr paramour's love by speaking to/reaching the stars with the help of a band of Tinkerer Gnomes.

There are tales of a Twice Risen Goddess who was once the chosen one of the Demigod Helio, but took one look at him and thought she could do better. With the wisdom to raise Gods from the dead and remove unholy rites without any divine power other than her own, this God-Saint of Doubt travels across Spyre not to spread her own religion but to inquire about others. This deep curiosity is probably how she ended up in some Fallinel depictions of the First Elven Oracle, who upon death ascended to becoming the Goddess of Sight, Intelligence and Righteous Fury. There are even short hymns written about the Oracle foreseeing the God-Saint's rise (against the Elven Moon Goddess' wishes) and of the God-Saint banishing some dark entity from possessing the Oracle with only a profane curse of its name.

And even more stuff connecting them all. Like the fact that all of them have tales of them defeating an Ancient Red Dragon. Or the tales of The Festival of the Crab King: a strange, delirious story of mortals witnessing a euphoric revelry of the deific kind that involved all these Gods from different pantheons.