#the devil and the blacksmith

[sheena-isa-punkrocker]

some self ship x sartael

art by me

[heartfullofleeches]

(Minor Blood)

"May eternity never do us part, My Lord..."

A quick doodle of a traditional wedding ring in The Blacksmith's culture. There are a few varieties. None any less pain as that is the way of old gods.

Will you accept their proposal?

[chainsxwsmile-personal]

Sartael needs to make a long-distance call to his former home. Aaaaand we’re on hold.

original audio belongs to thehexbaby and artycycle on Instagram

[meddling-in-horror]

Halloween 2023 Content Round-Up

So........my October was a lot more packed than I thought. I ended up extremely busy across the board with school and shows, so I wasn't able to watch every single thing on my list. However, I ended up getting through a lot more than I thought I would.

Here's the rundown:

Ginger Snaps (2001) - thesis research, more to come

Blood Red Sky (2021) - monsters, motherhood, and the monstrous-feminine, more to come

El Conde (2023) - I was confused, but in a good way?

Flux Gourmet (2022) - really bizarre, but really really good

The Lighthouse (2019) - very odd, unsure how to feel about it

Woodlands Dark and Days Bewitched: A History of Folk Horror (2021) -folk horror is really cool, more to come

The Most Assassinated Woman in the World (2018) - super interesting examination of trauma and escapism

Errementari: The Devil and the Blacksmith (2017) - again, folk horror is really cool

Ganja and Hess (1973) - thesis research, more to come

The Pale Door (2020) - depiction of witched, more to come

She-Creature (2001) - thesis research, more to come

Birdboy: The Forgotten Children (2015) - lore is a bit confusing, but it's beautiful

Freeway (1996) - fucks with me every time I watch it

Midnight Mass (2021) - I think about Riley Flynn literally every single day of my life

The Fall of the House of Usher (2023) - this show fucks 10/10

Creepshow S4 (2023) - perhaps the best season of the show yet

Considering three of these are tv shows, I'd say I did pretty well.

[shippingsincebeforeyouwereborn]

I spent much of my day doing cryptic crossword puzzles instead of doing work. Because I am not apparently an old nerd not just a regular nerd.

Quick someone, send me more lesbians before I keel over.

[ksbdfanart]

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Main Masterlist || Navigation || All works are F!Reader || All images sourced from Pinterest ||

SONGS THAT SOUND LIKE SEA-FOAM || Mini-Series || Completed

PAIRING: Fisherman!John Price x F!Mermaid!Reader

SYNOPSIS: In which a lone mermaid finds good company with a handsome fisherman who trespasses in her cove. But the word isn't what it used to be...hunting ships patrol the waters.

CHAPTERS: Part I, Part II, Part III

FANART: “You’re somethin’ beautiful, y’know that?” & "Mermaid Interpretation" by @thedevillovesflowers

2. RUN AWAY TO ME || Mini-Series || Completed

PAIRING: Blacksmith!Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Runaway Bride!Reader

SYNOPSIS: The night started with wine and ended with blood. Racing through the woods after having escaped your wedding, you find a lone homestead in the middle of a rainstorm. Alone, wounded, and bordering on unconsciousness, you have no option but to knock.

CHAPTERS: Part I, Part II, Part III

3. BLOOD-STAINED WOOL SPUN AT MIDNIGHT || 18 + Mini-Series || Completed

PAIRING: Werewolf!Ghost x F!Tailor!Reader (Set in Van Helsing Era/Aesthetic)

SYNOPSIS: When you left the town in the year of our Lord, 1897, to buy more wool from the local farmer, the cobblestone streets had come up to meet the hooves of your neighbor's horse.

Along this trip of false hope, the open fields at your sides had led to the backdrop of a brimstone forest; an old shadow seems to loom there. A black thing. A devil with eyes like a burial mound. You were told to fear the Ghost of the Forest, but never had you known you'd be caught in his blackened claws.

CHAPTERS: Part I, Part II, Part III

4. BLACK METAL AND BOURBON || 18+ Mini-Series || Completed

PAIRING: Biker/Mechanic!Ghost x F!Bartender!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You've been in this small town for your entire existence, giving up dreams and aspirations to carry on life as a simple bartender despite your hatred of two things: the smell of cigarette smoke and the disrespect from regulars, namely, your ex and his buddies. But on a still-air Sunday, almost overnight, a mechanics shop pops up right across the street - giving sight to new faces and a fresh group of men with a love of motorcycles. One, in particular, seems to only like Bourbon.

CHAPTERS: Part I, Part II, Part III

5. TO HUNT A SILVER STAG || Mini-Series || Completed

PAIRING: Knight!Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x Fae!Princess!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Promised to a greedy king to try and preserve the magic of the land, a princess instead finds herself drawn to a chivalrous knight and his gentle words. But everyone knows magic has a mind of its own.

CHAPTERS: Part I, Part II, Part III

6. HOW TO ADAPT TO FIRE || Mini-Series || Completed

PAIRING: Fireman!John 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Journalist!Reader

SYNOPSIS: There is an arsonist in your city, and you're going to catch him. As one of the most prolific investigative journalists in the city, you make a lot of enemies the second your papers are released to the public. Your informant - and perhaps something more - in the local fire department makes a point to tell you to be careful.

But everyone knows he's right beside you when the fires start sparking.

CHAPTERS: Part I, Part II, Part III

7. MOSS, BONE, AND A FALLING STAR || Mini-Series || Not Started

PAIRING: Witch Hunter!Price x F!Witch!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Humans have not been kind to you, but they usually are to things that they don't understand. You're offered a deal when a rugged-looking Witch Hunter shows up at your secluded hut. Make him see you for what you truly are in three stories or less. You oblige and give him the limit - a story of moss, of bone, and of a falling star.

CHAPTERS: Part I, Part II, Part III

8. VIVAMUS, MORIENDUM EST || Undetermined || Not Started

PAIRING: Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Reader (Reincarnation AU)

SYNOPSIS: In every lifetime you made a promise to one another: even if you must die, you will find a way to live together for all of eternity, be that five or a hundred years from now. You'd not broken your promise yet.

CHAPTERS: Undetermined

[qwimblenorrisstan]

Trophy | 141 x Reader

Day 15: Fantasy AU w/ Task Force 141

Summary: When the MacTavish Clan raids a neighboring clan who grew a bit too bold, they don’t expect to find the feisty, beaten wife of the other clan’s chief.

Word Count: ~1.2k

Warnings: Violence, blood, implied abuse, death, implied rape, kidnapping

A/N: well this was supposed to be fluff, but I hope you enjoy regardless, lmk what you think<3

Requests are open!

The MacTavish Clan had been preparing for a raid on a neighboring clan that kept pushing boundaries, with local women disappearing into the night with no explanation at all, weapons disappearing, and footsteps discovered that weren’t of the style of shoe anyone within the clan wore, and that was among the less suspicious things.

The most talented and local blacksmith, Simon, known for his welding mask in a skull shape, had been honing the weapons for it.

Johnny, the leader of the Clan, had been discussing plans with Price, the leader of their men, and Gaz, his advisor. The general idea was simple, keep it undercover as long as possible, or until signs of their missing women and supplies were found, then they would go loud, letting every other man flood in.

Plunder what they could from the Gravison Clan, take their resources, and lives, and maybe take a few women from them in retaliation.

A few hours later, things were progressing smoothly, Price having infiltrated their walls under the cover of darkness, most men settling down for the night already, when the warlord discovered just what he’d been expecting in a large boat just offshore: the women of the MacTavish Clan bound and gagged in the storage compartment in the bottom.

One flaming arrow was shot into the sky, and just like that, every man from the Clan was flooding the Gravison Clan’s walls and defenses, slaughtering everyone they found save for the women and children, hunting down their leader, going through every house and home, Johnny wanting the kill for himself.

When he finally found the man, cowering inside a large home, he slit his throat after distributing more than a few hits to his body, and more than a few barked insults and curses at him.

The man’s head was soon put on a pike to be displayed, a sign of warning.

But what he hadn’t expected to find was a feisty woman, the wife of the Gravison Clan’s leader, fighting more than even her husband had, yelling and hissing and cursing at Johnny as he grabbed her, throwing her over his shoulder even as she kicked and clawed, nails drawing a bit of blood. It wasn’t often he took a prize from his battles, but you were intriguing, he’d never seen a woman with so much fight.

“Quit yer yappin’, woman.”

He grumbled as you pounded at his back, cursing him out so severely that the Devil himself would blush. The smell of smoke was thick in the air as huts and buildings were burned, leaving behind ashy remnants of what had been of the Clan.

Burnt bones crunched beneath his feet as he walked back to what had been of the gates, approaching his short, sturdy horse, hopping on in one smooth movement, one hand gathering both reigns as Price joined him on his own horse, following as Johnny took point back to the MacTavish Clan’s lands.

His warlord only raised a brow at the yelling woman thrown over his shoulder but didn’t question it, the ride silent back to their lands as your throat eventually grew too raw to keep screaming, body shivering from the cold and the exhaustion quickly seeping deep into your bones. Whether you had fallen asleep or passed out was lost on him, but he didn’t care either way, Price only spoke once he was sure your breathing had fallen into a deeper rhythm indicating unconsciousness.

“Didn’t take you as one to take a prize mare.”

Price commented, carefully eying his Chief, trying to read his mood based on the little tells. Johnny shrugged.

“Not a prize mare, just felt different about this one.”

And that was that. The conversation had ended, Price only giving a little grunt in return before they continued on the path home.

When they finally arrived, they had plenty of work to do.

~

When you woke, you first registered the pounding headache between your eyes, the loud sounds outside of work being done, people shouting, wood being sawed, and metal being hammered, only adding to your discomfort.

You tried to sit up, quietly groaning, leaning against the wall behind you.

It was a wonder you weren’t dead yet, honestly. But maybe that was part of their game, maybe they would just give you a glimmer of hope only to slaughter you like cattle, or turn you into a sex slave, or just an object to take their anger out on. It wouldn’t surprise you.

Your clothes had been changed. From the thin nightgown you’d worn the night earlier, now to a thin white smock, a strap dress sewn together at the sides hanging nearby.

Splotchy bruises were spread across your skin from the night earlier, though you couldn’t tell if they were from the other Chief, or your husband’s hands nights ago. They felt tender when you brushed a hand against them as if someone had rubbed against them.

You were in what seemed to be a separate section of a longhouse, a lit torch burning mildly as it hung from the mud and stone walls. Your eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness that still prevailed in the room, just as you heard a door creak, scrambling away as a man with honey-brown skin and short, tightly curled hair stepped in.

“Easy, I’m not here to hurt you.”

He said, offering a small smile that would’ve been reassuring in any other predicament. There was a platter in his hands, looking as if it was made of terracotta, a small roasted bird resting on it as he stepped further in, shutting the door behind him.

You watched warily as he set the plate down on one end of the bed you were in, moving to lean against a wall opposite the bed. He watched as you slowly picked the plate up, glancing at the food, before pulling the wing part off with cracked nails, taking a bite, and reluctantly deciding it was delicious.

“I’m Kyle, but everyone calls me Gaz. You are..?”

You looked him dead in the eye, chewing your bite of food, dead stare unnerving him slightly, before you swallowed, a flicker of pain in your eyes from how your throat ached until you finally responded.

“Y/N.”

You croaked out, and he nodded, but frowned slightly, giving you a glance over, before his gaze went back to your face.

“I'll be honest, I wasn’t expecting you to be so docile, considering you just watched your husband die by our Chief’s hand—“

“Good.”

Your raspy voice interrupted, eyes boring into his as you took another bite of the meat, and you watched his brows furrow for a moment. You shifted in the bed slightly, moving to pull your knees to your chest, plate balancing on your knee as the smock was pulled up slightly, showcasing one of the nastier bruises on your thigh.

His eyes darted to the bruises, quickly piecing things together as he carefully spoke his next few words.

“Your husband wasn’t a good man, was he?”

You shook your head, and he gave a little thoughtful nod, getting up, opening the door, walking out, closing it while muttering to himself. You managed to hear only a quiet,

“Bloody hell,”

Tags:

@hawke1917

@flufftober

[randoimago]

May I ask for Astarion, Wyll, Shadowheart, and Gale having a 'Wait, why am I jealous?' realization of their romantic feelings for Tav? (For the record, Tav is romantically interested in the companion, too, because I can't handle angst right now 🥲)

Realizing They Have Feelings

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Character(s): Astarion, Wyll, Gale, Shadowheart

Type of Request: Headcanons

Note(s): Might be tiny hints of angst just because of character backstory mentions, but I did my best with these for you!

Astarion

He doesn't get jealous. People get jealous because of him. And yet, the way he sees one of the harpers at Last Light look at you. That look of reverence for saving them.

One that almost looks at you like a god and a face that flusters when you catch their stare. Astarion, feels the twisting in his gut and it causes him to pause.

Yes he's flirted with you. He's lied and said he's into you. But now, he's not sure it's lies anymore.

And that scares him a bit. With how uncertain the future is, his survival, dealing with Cazador, well it's just a lot of uncertainty and does he even have the time to think of his feelings? Well, Astarion is nothing if not selfish.

Of course he knows your feelings towards him and that makes his admittance a bit easier on his part. The confessing about his intent on manipulating you was a bit harder to get off his tongue especially with the hurt you display.

But you accept his apology and Astarion is so lost on how an actual relationship or whatever you both have is supposed to go. But he's happy to explore it with you.

Gale

Gale flirts with you quite a bit. He doesn't even hide the fact that he finds you attractive. You have a very attractive face, why would he hide his affection? But it never really was anything beyond just simple flirtations.

And then he sees how that tiefling blacksmith smiles at you, how you smile back and he can't help pouting.

For a split second, he's a bit frightened that the weird feeling in his stomach is the orb before he sighs in relief that it's just jealousy.

And then he gets more pouty at the fact that he is jealous. Perhaps his fondness of your pretty face is about more than just your face.

It takes a bit of practicing his speech, redoing certain sections and sighing loudly at how ridiculous this is (but he also finds the amusement in it too).

Eventually, he tells you the truth of his affections. His harmless flirtations had evolved into actual romantic feelings towards you. And the brightest smile crosses his face as you return them. Now you just got to help him not explode and you'll be great.

Shadowheart

Shadowheart thought she was ready to kill Lae'zel before. But now she's hearing comments about your scent and how the gith wants to claim you.

The cleric can't help but scoff and take a sip of one of the thousands of bottles of alcohol that you have in your pack for some reason. Maybe she could throw one of the copies of Traveler's Guides books at her since you have so many copies for some reason.

What Shadowheart doesn't understand is why she's so upset. You're an adult, you can make your own decisions and enjoy yourself with whomever you wish.

And yet, you saved her. You've accepted her silence and wish to keep secrets. And it's at that moment, Shadowheart realizes that she's jealous and she can't help scoffing again because how did she get so pathetic?

She wants to stay silent, keep her feelings a secret as well, but she can't hold them back. Especially when her secrets are revealed to you and then you ask about her favorite flower of all things.

Her feelings end up coming out and instead of turning away and rejecting her (like she expected of all her reveals), you accept them as well. And even reciprocate. She's going to need another bottle of alcohol and this time, she hopes you join her in the drink.

Wyll

He's not really one for jealousy. A dash of disappointment, maybe, but he's got enough demons and devils that he doesn't need to think about the green one.

That's why whenever he sees you flirting with another, well it does give him some disappointment that perhaps he is too late due to his slow realization.

There's also some self consciousness that comes with it too. After all, Wyll isn't as charming or handsome as he once was with the new horns growing out of his head.

Still, he can't help but cherish the memories he had when asking for a dance and you agreeing.

Considering he had gotten this far with a dance, Wyll decides that he might as well tell you his feelings that have been slowly, but surely growing.

Imagine his surprise when you accept him, half-devil appearance and all. Wyll can't help finding his worries silly in hindsight, but he'll laugh at himself later. After he's had that dance.

Taglists: @reo-the-leo @unhelpfulnpc

[limpfisted]

Something I think taken for granted for "good and heroic" characters like wyll is

How hard it is to be a hero in settings like this in gen. especially a solo hero.

And then u look at will especially at 17, especially after just losing half of your vision, and now being obligated to hunt devils for mizora, and not being able to tell people who you are or why you have magical powers

Wylls life has been extremely difficult.

Hes not "some rich boy." In fact, he tells you himself, he never really was. His father became grand Duke when he was 17. His father was a Duke before that, but his father was born to a poor blacksmith father and he was the youngest of six, so he worked his way up the ranks. Even as son of a Duke and grandduke---ulder was champion of the poorer "mythical middle class" lower city. All nobles and patriars are from the upper city. There's no way wyll wasn't looked down on by the upper city and then held to a certain untouchable standard as the flaming fist brat by the lower city/outer city people

And yet even at being some "rich boy" he excelled thru hard work and dedication, making things into a competition if nothing else, in which despite his Father's unsurpance to power, he still had PROOF he was the most charming, after all, he held the record for most sarabandes danced in a single evening, much to the exhaustion to the good lords and ladies of the courts.

But even so, with this "cushy life" (where he would get into trouble, mind you! Where his father would encourage him to get into fights, who would train him with a rapier, where he would drink in taverns in the lower city at 14 despite being "a noble rich boy" and hand deliver letters from his father to sharess's caress before he ever knew what went on with the pretty men and handsome ladies behind closed doors.)

Have you ever been camping, like experienced the holy shit, Outside of it all? I dont even like leaving the house without my phone. Wyll, 17, traveled all over the sword coast, with one eye, who knows how many supplies.

While wyll laughs off the trauma of it, losing an eye is a real ass disability that affects your motor skills. It can be difficult to do things like cut food at first, and it can take like 6 months WITH THERAPY for everything to feel "normal" again. Now imagine fending off goblins, and minotaurs, with no therapy, no physical therapy, no doctor. Having to navigate the cold of winter, cursed lands, mountains, all by yourself.

Having to learn to use you sword again, this time without your father. Remembering him every time you pick it up. Remembering the way he looked at you every time you face down a "devil." Spitting the words he would later say to you at them. They stink of avernus, they have brought ruin

Wyll dedicated his life to laboring for the people of the Sword Coast. It's not easy. He makes it look fun, because he's so proud of himself and happy to be helping people

But its actually hard and lonely. And it doesn't come easy, even to Wyll, I think. He had to train himself, it probably took him a long time to figure out what he was doing

I dont think wyll is really as inexperienced and naive as people think. Hes been to avernus, he's fought dragons and minotaurs. He's seen terrible things, he's STOPPED terrible things, and he's going to continue doing so, and choosing to do so, with the full knowledge of what that decision means, and the hard work and sacrifice it requires.

he's fully aware of who he is and what he's capable of, and he's extremely brave and strong and competent

Its good to be good for the sake of being good! And wyll does believe in fairy tales. But his dedication to the blade doesn't come because he's misinformed. Is he as experienced and powerful as he thinks he is? No, he's 24 LOL. But he's still done a lot! Has YOUR muse hunted devils thru avernus? Has ur muse even BEEN to avernus?

Wyll ravengard genuinely is improvising half the time---but more important than simply "being" good and wanting to do good----Wyll has the experience, practice and competence in serving a community to actually BETTER and protect communities.

In fandom spaces we often talk about how certain characters are "just so good" but we like. We forget about the effort it takes to actually commit to acts of doing good, the practice and perservance it takes to competently serve the community.

You can give the people the shirt off ur back but u run out of shirts eventually. Wyll has made himself an important resource on the Sword Coast for its safety. And I think we take that for granted bc its a genre staple, but like. He worked really hard. He dedicated himself to this.

He sold his soul, and he kept living and doing good anyway

[hrefna-the-raven]

Hope in hell

Masterlist - BG3 masterlist

Part 1 - Drunken minds speak sober hearts

Words: 2138

Warnings: smut (18+)

Summary: The dreaded morning after ;)

Raphael let out a groan, his head pounding like a piece of metal relentlessly being hammered into shape by the most skilled dwarven blacksmiths, the constant painful throbbing clouding his memories, making it difficult to piece together the events of last night, despising how he felt like a common mortal after a night's out. He attempted to sit up but froze as he felt something soft resting on his chest, accompanied by a comforting warmth. Taking a deep breath, he glanced down and let out a sigh, his heart suddenly feeling heavy. Haarlep must have slept with you, assumed your form and then... his eyes shot wide open and he muttered a curse under his breath as fragments of the previous night's memories flickered through his mind.

That damned incubus got him drunk and then you showed up and... His hands delicately traced the contours of your slumbering figure. It was truly you, his beloved little mouse, curled up against his chest. His heart raced, a twinge of pain accompanying the rapid beats, as he pondered how to proceed. What clever remark would he throw at you once you woke up? Would he even need one? Would you recoil and attempt to flee from the sight of the devil beneath you? He didn't get enough time to find an answer to all his questions as you slowly stirred awake, your eyes were still closed as you lazily stretched and your hips accidentally brushed against his growing arousal.

A deep growl rumbled in his chest, causing you to quickly raise your head and look at him, eyes wide with surprise. A thousand thoughts raced through your mind, swirling in chaotic circles, expecting to be scolded, pushed away, or even punished. But to your astonishment, nothing happened. You still remained lying there, on top of him, silently gazing into each other's eyes, both afraid that any spoken word might shatter the peaceful and loving moment you were sharing. But the silence grew heavy and a sense of unease slowly crawled up your spine, threatening to consume both your thoughts and body. It was unusual to witness Raphael in such a state of quietude, after all that happened, it didn't sit right with you that he was so calm, devoid of any movement or speech. It almost seemed as if Haarlep had managed to shatter him completely, that one evening of unfiltered truth had stripped away every trace of his self-centered arrogance, leaving him exposed and vulnerable before you. You were the first to ever glimpse at the raw essence of Raphael's entire being and, despite your constant cat and mouse game, you felt no desire to exploit it; on the contrary, you cherished this side of him, the devil laid bare, and at this very moment, you yearned to love him more than ever.

"About last night-"

"I feel the same!", you interjected, cutting off Raphael mid-sentence, "but if you..."

Any further words you were about to utter were engulfed by a provocative moan as you sensed his growing arousal pressed firmly against your hips the moment you attempted to readjust your position. Raphael's eyes fluttered shut, his mouth hanging open, unable to withstand the overwhelming sensation of pleasure that washed over him.

"To hell with this, I want you!", the words escaped your lips almost simultaneously, filled with an urgent longing.

Raphael snapped his fingers, and in an instant, both yours and his clothes disappeared. He pulled you towards him so swiftly that you had to clutch onto his horns to prevent yourself from toppling over. As his mouth met your dripping folds, you couldn't help but whimper. It was at this moment that you realised how much of the Raphael you came to know was still present. The damned devil teased you with the anticipation of his hot tongue caressing your arousal but you simply wouldn't have it, not now. You lowered your hips, grinding gently against his face, yearning for any kind of friction. His claws dug into the tender flesh of your thighs, firmly keeping you in place.

"My little mouse", the devil chuckled, "so eager to be eaten."

With a tantalising slowness, he dragged his tongue through the delicate contours of your folds, briefly encircling your clit before sucking on it with an insatiable hunger. The air was filled with the intoxicating symphony of your sinful moans and your grip around his horns instinctively tightened. This was a desire that had consumed your thoughts for countless nights, the fantasy of being pleasured by your very own devil. And now, as it finally became a reality, you couldn't hold anything back. The intensity of your climax approached rapidly and just as you were about to reach its peak, his licks ceased. Frustration welled up within you, ready to protest, but then he pressed his tongue flat against your throbbing clit while simultaneously thrust two of his large fingers deep inside you. The rhythmic pumping intensified, driving you towards the edge once more. Within mere moments, your inner walls clenched around his fingers and you experienced a mind-shattering orgasm, screaming his name in ecstasy.

With an unexpected tenderness, he released his grip on your hips and gently cradled you in his arms, carefully laying you down on the bed beside him. His face turned towards you, his eyes filled with love as he gazed upon your blissful expression. As soon your eyes met his, he understood that there would be no turning back anymore, he was in love with this fragile mortal and he would curse himself to an eternity of anguish if he'd deny himself the bliss of your love. The hells and all its devils be damned, he would see that you'd remain at his side for as long as you'd live.

"You now know about my best kept secret", he whispered, as if afraid that any disruption would shatter the fragile balance, "and rest assured my feelings for you will not easily waver. However this is hell and I'm not just any devil but the son of Mephistopheles, I, I can't", he faltered, uncertain of how to proceed as it felt wrong, for the first time in his existence, to utter those words.

"You can't show weakness to others, you can't show your love to me", you offered, the pain your voice obvious.

You turned your eyes away, unable to bear the increasing sorrow, but his hands swiftly moved to cradle your face, redirecting your focus back to him.

"If you're willing to stay by my side despite the laws of the nine hells working against us, I will vow my love to you within my House of Hope for as often as you desire it and I promise you that beyond these walls, I will always treat you with utmost respect and defend your honour, for you will be the lady of this house", he paused briefly, attempting to discern your reaction before continuing, "if you'd be willing."

His words left you in astonishment as you blinked. Did he truly express his desire to commit to you, vowing to cherish and safeguard you? It was a proposal you should have considered longer before answering, yet your body instinctively reacted before your mind could fully comprehend the situation. You crawled towards him, pushing him down on his back as you straddled him, gently, to not hurt his wings before you leaned down, capturing his lips in a fervent embrace. Raphael moaned your name as he felt you positioning his hardening member at your entrance, sinking down on him just enough for the tip to enter. His hands found your hips, holding you in place momentarily as he broke the kiss.

"What are you doing?"

"We're not done until we both had our fair share of pleasure", you breathed as you sank down on him, swallowing a moan, "besides shouldn't the lady of the house keep her man satisfied?"

Raphael's smile widened as he guided your motions, starting off slowly and then picking up speed. Feral growls escaped his lips as he he could feel himself approaching the peak of his own pleasure fast. He had been intimate with many throughout the decades, including Haarlep, a being existing ultimately to provide pleasure, but there was something special about you. The closeness, the shared emotions, the intimacy - all of his previous encounters paled in comparison to the connection he felt with you in this very moment. But you felt just as good, riding a devil, having his cock buried deep down inside you, filling you up perfectly while hitting that sweet spot over and over again, transforming this sinful act into something heavenly. The feeling of pure bliss cursed through your whole body as you moved your hips in a perfect rhythm, the heated embrace of desire and lust unleashed as both of toppled over the edge. In this moment of tenderness and passion, it was clear that your connection went beyond physical pleasure. It was a union of souls, an experience that transcended mere satisfaction. 

"Raphael", you moaned loudly as your walls clenched around his cock, feeling it twitched as his seed spilled inside you.

Both of you panted heavily, a contented smile playing at the edges of your lips as the devil sat up, his arms wrapping around you to pull you into a tight embrace.

"I love you", he whispered tenderly, chuckling as you hummed your consent, too spent to utter a word.

"Oh my, what a perfectly delicious sight", a familiar voice chuckled, drawing nearer.

Your eyes snapped open and you blinked in disbelief as you spotted Astarion standing in the boudoir, bearing a smug grin as he observed the two of you with obvious amusement.

"Astarion?!", you shrieked, scrambling off Raphael, hastily covering your exposed form with the silk blanket to hide both your nakedness and your embarrassment from your companion. The vampire merely chuckled, his gaze shifting between you and the devil.

"Guess again, little mouse", the pale elf playfully teased, giving you a sly wink, his crimson eyes glowing up for just a second, "it seems my plan worked rather well."

Before you had a chance to fully comprehend who was standing before you, Raphael, still unclothed, swiftly leapt out of bed and lunged towards the elf. His fingers clenched tightly around Haarlep's throat, exerting a dangerous pressure. You wanted to scream, to implore Raphael to stop, but Haarlep calmly transformed into his master's form, causing Raphael to immediately release his grip on the incubus' throat.

"You wretched creature!", Raphael spat, "you poisoned me! Do NOT forget your place in this house, slave!"

Instinctively, you retreated further onto the bed, clutching the blanket tightly as sudden fear surged through you. You had witnessed many facets of Raphael's personality, but this seething rage terrified you beyond measure, especially coming from the same being who had cradled you tenderly just moments before but a part of you also understood his anger.

"You misunderstood, my dear master, my intent was never to poison you. I simply intended to", the incubus gestured towards you, "enhance your chances with your favourite misadventurer, all in your best interest I assure you."

Raphael was fuming, wishing he could obliterate Haarlep into countless fragments. However, he recognised that he couldn't afford to destroy such a gift from his father, at least not yet, and deep down Raphael knew that the incubus was right, without his involvement, last night and this morning wouldn't have unfolded so magnificently. Haarlep, of course, fully grasped the advantage he currently held over his master and decided to push his luck even further, knowing that such a perfect opportunity would not present itself again in the near future.

"If you'll excuse me", he hummed while transforming back to Astarion's form, "I have to get back to my new, rather passionate, lover. It's quite nice to be in the receiving end for once."

He gave you a sly wink and blew a quick kiss your way before disappearing once again, leaving you alone with the annoyed devil.

Rising to your feet, you cautiously approached Raphael, still wrapped in the warmth of a blanket. Your fingertips lightly traced along the edges of his magnificent wings as you circled around him.

"Why not free the incubus from his duties?", you suggested, tugging at his hand and bringing it up to your lips, planting kisses along the inside of his arm, "no more Haarlep means no father watching your every move."

Raphael chuckled, pulling you close and lifting you effortlessly in one swift motion.

"Well, well, my little mouse," he whispered, planting a sweet peck on your lips, "not only are you full of delightful surprises, but it also seems that I couldn't have asked for a more perfect lady of my House of Hope."

Tags:

@dark-and-kawaii

[knightinink]

Yes hello I am here😌

thank you for the food I am now imagining more scenarios with them

[wings-of-fire-confessions]

Gonna yap. But did we even read the same book series? Darkstalker was like immortal (re: page 214, Legends Darkstalker: *""Enchant Darkstalker's scales to be invulnerable to harm of any sort, to heal instantly if injured, and to shield him indestructibly from any threat of death." and page 345, Legends Darkstalker: no known phase, and page 351, Darkness of Dragons, to make himself immune to other animus spells (aside from his own).

No one could kill him, no one could put a spell on him even if they tried. The only way was to use Darkstalkers magic against him.

And that was using what was left of the scroll, and feeding it to him. And turning him to Peacemaker.

I do not think Foeslayer (Hope) could kill her own son, even if he was basically a devil, so she gave him that choice to start again and be a better mother (as I don't think she was innocent, not as bad as Arctic no way), which Darkstalker did refuse. And neither could Kinkajou who wrote the spell, who could have written it that he turned to stone himself or be vanished in space and time for the next era of Pyrrhia history (Aldiun from TES style lol).

Did Darkstalker deserve a second chance? I personally don't think so. But he was a child when it all happened, he was what? Five years old? Still a dragonet. Even if he was asleep for thousand of years, he was still mentally the same age as Qibli and Moonwatcher. He was abused by his own father for not looking much like an IceWing, found his name creepy. And Darkstalker, who with powerful mindreading and futuresight and being an animus??? He had an ego problem, he realized with magic that he was unstoppable. And that type of shit does some weird stuff to the brain (something something psychology).

Could it have been written a little better? For sure! I hope in the next Arc there is some character to Peacemaker, sure in a vision from Moon it is hinted he'll marry the tribes blacksmith and have kids of his own. He is the opposite of Darkstalker for sure, but I do hope he'll have personality.

Of course, kids are kids. He is like a five-year-old human child right now and that's okay. Let Peacemaker be a child, another chance at life even if it's undeserved.

.

[chainsxwsmile-personal]

Sartael’s design is so beautiful and so intricate and so very very difficult to animate OTL

WIP of a tiny project I’m working on

[theoutcastrogue]

Cold Iron in folklore, fiction, and RPGs

'Gold is for the mistress—silver for the maid! Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade.' 'Good!' said the Baron, sitting in his hall, 'But Iron—Cold Iron—is master of them all!' — Rudyard Kipling, “Cold Iron”

Folklore

Drudenmesser, or "witch-knife", an apotropaic folding knife from Germany

The notion that iron (or steel) can ward against evil spirits, witches, fairies, etc is very widespread in folklore. You hang a horseshoe over your threshold to deny entry to evil spirits, you carry an iron tool with you to make sure devils won't assault you, you place a small knife under the baby's crib to ward it from witches, and so on. Iron is apotropaic in many many cultures.

In English, we often come across passages that refer to apotropaic cold iron (or cold steel). "All uncouth, unknown Wights are terrifyed by nothing earthly so much as by cold Iron", says Robert Kirk in 1691, which I believe is the earliest example. "Evil spirits cannot bear the touch of cold steel. Iron, or preferably steel, in any form is a protection", says John Gregorson Campbell in 1901.

Words

So what is cold iron? In this context, it’s just iron. The “cold” part is poetic, especially – but not only – if we’re talking about either blades (or swords, weapons, the force of arms) or manacles and the like. It just sounds more ominous. There are “cold yron chaines” in The Fairie Queene (1596), and a 1638 book of travels tells us that a Georgian general (in the Caucasus) vowed “to make the Turk to eat cold iron”.

Green’s Dictionary of Slang defines “cold iron” as a sword, and dates the term to 1698. From 1725 it appears in Cant dictionaries (could this sense be thieves’ cant, originally? why not, plenty of words and expressions started as underworld slang and then entered the mainstream), and from ~1750 its use becomes much more common.

NGram Viewer diagram for 1600-2019.

In other contexts, cold iron is (surprise!) iron that’s not hot. So let’s talk a bit about metallurgy.

Metals

In nature, we can find only one kind of iron that’s pure enough to work with: meteoritic iron. It has to literally fall from the sky. Barring that very rare occurrence, people have to mine the earth for iron ore, which is not workable as is. To separate the iron from the ore we have to smelt it, and for that we need heat, in the form of hot charcoals. Throwing the ore on the coals won’t do much of anything, it’s not hot enough. But if we enclose the coals in a little tower built of clay, leaving holes for air flow, the temperature rises enough to smelt the ore. That’s called a bloomery.

clay bloomery / medieval bloomery / beating the bloom to get rid of the slag

What comes out of the bloomery is a bloom: a porous, malleable mass of iron (that we need) and slag (byproducts that we don’t need). But now we can get rid of the slag and turn the porous mass to something solid, by hammering the hot bloom over and over. And once the slag is off, by the same process we can give it a desired shape in the forge, reheating it as needed. This is called “working” the iron, hence “wrought iron” objects, i.e. forged.

a blacksmith in his forge, with bellows, fire, and anvil (English woodcut, 1603)

This is the lowest-tech version, possibly going back to ~2000 BCE in Nigeria. If we add bellows, the improved air flow will raise the temperature. So smelting happens faster and more efficiently in the bloomery, and so does heating the iron in the forge, making it easier to work with. And that’s the standard process from the Iron Age all through the middle ages and beyond (although in China they may have skipped this stage and gone straight to the next one).

If we make the bloomery bigger and bigger, with stronger and stronger bellows, we end up with a blast furnace, a construction so efficient that the temperature outright melts the iron, and it’s liquified enough to be poured into a mould and acquire the desired shape when it cools off. This is “cast iron”.

a blast furnace

So in all of this, what’s cold iron? Well, it’s iron that went though the heat and cooled off. (No heat = no iron, all you got is ore.) If it came out of a bloomery, or if it wasn’t cast, it’s by definition worked, hammered, beaten, wrought, and that happened while it was still hot.

Is there such a thing as “cold-wrought” iron? No. In fact, “working cold iron” was a simile for something foolish or pointless. A smith who beats cold iron instead of putting it in the fire shows folly, says a 1694 book on religion, so you too should choose your best tools, piety and good decorum, to educate your children and servants, instead of beating them. When Don Quixote (1605) declares he’ll go knight-erranting again, Sancho Panza tries to dissuade him, but it’s like “preaching in the desert and hammering on cold iron” (a direct translation of martillar en hierro frío).

Minor work can be done on cold iron. A 1710 dictionary of technical terms tells us that a rivetting-hammer is “chiefly used for rivetting or setting straight cold iron, or for crooking of small work; but ’tis seldom used at the forge”. Fully fashioning an object out of cold iron is not a real process – though a 1659 History of the World would claim that in Arabia it’s so hot that “smiths work nails and horseshoes out of cold iron, softened only by the vigorous heat of the sun, and the hard hammering of hands on the anvil”. [I declare myself unqualified to judge the veracity of this statement, let's just say I have doubts.] And there is of course such a thing as “cold wrought-iron”, as in wrought iron after it’s cooled off.

Either way, in the context of pre-20th century English texts which refer to apotropaic “cold iron”, it’s definitely not “cold-wrought”, or meteoritic, or a special alloy of any kind. It’s just iron.

Fiction

The old superstition kept coming up in fantasy fiction. In 1910 Rudyard Kipling wrote the very influential short story “Cold Iron” (in the collection Rewards and Fairies), where he explains invents the details of the fairies’ aversion to iron. They can’t bewitch a child wearing boots, because the boots have nails in the soles. They can’t pass under a doorway guarded by a horseshoe, but they can slip through the backdoor that people neglected to guard. Mortals live “on the near side of Cold Iron”, because there’s iron in every house, while fairies live “on the far side of Cold Iron”, and want nothing to do with it. And changelings brought up by fairies will go back to the world of mortals as soon they touch cold iron for the first time.

In Poul Anderson’s The Broken Sword (1954), we read:

“Let me tell you, boy, that you humans, weak and short-lived and unwitting, are nonetheless more strong than elves and trolls, aye, than giants and gods. And that you can touch cold iron is only one reason.”

In Peter S. Beagle’s The Last Unicorn (1968) the unicorn is imprisoned in an iron cage:

“She turned and turned in her prison, her body shrinking from the touch of the iron bars all around her. No creature of man’s night loves cold iron, and while the unicorn could endure its presence, the murderous smell of it seemed to turn her bones to sand and her blood to rain.”

Poul Anderson would come back to that idea in Operation Chaos (1971), where the worldbuilding’s premise is that magic and magical creatures have been reintroduced into the modern world, because a scientist “discovered he could degauss the effects of cold iron and release the goetic forces”. And that until then, they had been steadily declining, ever since the Iron Age came along.

There are a million examples, I’m just focusing on those that would have had a more direct influence on roleplaying games. However, I should note that all these say “cold iron” but mean “iron”. Yes, the fey call it cold, but they are a poetic bunch. You can’t expect Robin Goodfellow’s words to be pedestrian, now can you?

RPGs

And from there, fantasy roleplaying systems got the idea that Cold Iron is a special material that fey are vulnerable to. The term had been floating around since the early D&D days, but inconsistently, scattered in random sourcebooks, and not necessarily meaning anything else than iron. In 1st Edition’s Monster Manual (1977) it’s ghasts and quasits who are vulnerable to it, not any fey creature. Devils and/or fiends might dislike iron, powdered cold iron is a component in Magic Circle Against Evil, and “cold-wrought iron” makes a couple of appearances. For example, in AD&D it can strike Fool’s Gold and turn it back to its natural state, revealing the illusion.

Then Changeling: The Dreaming came along and made it a big deal, a fundamental rule, and an anathema to all fae:

Cold iron is the ultimate sign of Banality to changelings. ... Its presence makes changelings ill at ease, and cold iron weapons cause horrible, smoking wounds that rob changelings of Glamour and threaten their very existence.... The best way to think about cold iron is not as a thing, but as a process, a very low-tech process. It must be produced from iron ore over a charcoal fire. The resulting lump of black-gray material can then be forged (hammered) into useful shapes. — Changeling: The Dreaming (2nd Edition, 1997)

So now that we know how iron works, does that description make sense? Well, if we assume that the iron ore is unceremoniously dumped on coals, it does not. You can’t smelt iron like that. If we assume that a bloomery is involved even though it’s not mentioned, then yes, this is broadly speaking how iron’s been made since the Iron Age, and until blast furnaces came into the picture. But the World of Darkness isn’t a pseudo-medieval setting, it’s modern urban fantasy. So the implication here is that “cold iron” is iron made the old way: you can’t buy it in the store, someone has to replicate ye olde process and do the whole thing by hand. Now, this is NOT how the term “cold iron” has been used in real life or fiction thus far, but hey, fantasy games are allowed to invent things.

Regardless, 3.5 borrowed the idea, and for the first time D&D made this a core rule. Now most fey creatures had damage reduction and took less damage from weapons and natural attacks, unless the weapon was made of Cold Iron:

“This iron, mined deep underground, known for its effectiveness against fey creatures, is forged at a lower temperature to preserve its delicate properties.” — Player’s Handbook (3.5 Edition, 2003)

Pathfinder kept the rule, though 5e did not. And unlike Changeling, this definition left it somewhat ambiguous if we’re talking about a material with special composition (i.e. not iron) or made with a special process (i.e. iron but). The community was divided, threads were locked over this!

So until someone points me to new evidence, I’ll assume that the invention of cold iron as a special material, distinct from plain iron, should be attributed to TTRPGs.

[comfortless]

hi syl! omfg i cannot believe we are mutuals, i love your works so much. but have you heard of the midieval concept called “marriage on the gallows?” basically, a person who was given death penalty can still be saved when someone promises to marry them. all i can think about is könig going to a live hanging/ burning at the stake and using marriage on the gallows to have a wife.

not like she was framed or anything, right(????) but don’t worry, könig promises to make her happy and alive now that he’s her husband. or maybe knight! ghost was the one who was about to be killed but y/n is like “I CAN FIX HIM” and marries him instead.

chanting Torta, Torta, Torta hi!! i am hugging you for this. <3 i have heard of it! but never did i think to apply it to König and now here we are… ^^

content/warnings: forced marriage?, vague religious imagery, injury, threat of public execution, vague smut.

When you sell your soul, really sell it, you’re cutting away from the umbilical cord that tethers you to whatever waits in the darkness of the afterlife. You kneel, you pray, you bathe yourself in sacred water and parrot divine words, but you don’t realize you’ve become obscured in invisibility, a shadow, a husk.

He’s clipped her wings and the only thing left to do is end her flight, let her go tumbling down into a pit of sulfur from the rope lead tied to her neck: to die before a sea of jeering faces, horse shit and fine wine, gilded paintings and the darkened splatter of blood, dried and crisp against a wooden stage.

König knows something about that, because there’s a dense, thorny guilt curling in his chest as he looks up at the little sparrow led up to the rope with her face pushed down by a hand that doesn’t belong there.

She’s done no wrong; smiling sweetly at a man like him shouldn’t have resulted in this. His heart shatters when he hears her begin to cry, her battered face wrenched up to face the crowd by the hangman’s cruel hands.

A little, flightless bird like this could never have done what he did to get her here. Gentle, sweet things knew so little of the very blood that pulses in veins, of what a man’s innards look like spilt out on a thick blade.

But of course they will believe anything— she’s a commoner, no special asset to the village. They needed their farmers, their tailors, and men like him— the blacksmith they all shunned as though he had risen from the fiery pit he worked away at himself. They didn’t need her.

Only he did.

So when he steps through the crowd of vultures to watch as the rope is tightened around her delicate neck, his voice comes in a roar. He propositions the hangman that he will take her as his wife, haul this devil back to his shack at the village’s edge and ensure that she— he will spill no more blood.

She weakly raises her head to eye him, recognizing him immediately as the man who had accused her of murdering that stable boy only two nights prior. Her stare is not judgmental or accusatory: she doesn’t have a clue of the lengths he has went to- would go to- to tether her to him.

A fortnight later, the woman becomes his bride.

She doesn’t know what brought her such a malison, how she came to be the wife of a man who once cast his accusations toward her, but she’s grateful to the man who’s cursed her to suffer him.

There’s no celebration, no flowers or dancing. There’s a kiss she nervously leans into at the chapel, shy, while his heart bursts into flames.

She isn’t blessed with meaningful vows, only a pleading profession whispered into her ear when his kisses reach from her neck to the curve of her jaw.

It’s consummated in that darkened shack, not a candle lit where smoke has painted the walls black with ash and dust; a place where she curls her arms over him sweetly and breathes her thanks against his shoulder, where his fingers commit every curve, dip, and ridge of her to memory. His words are lost in her hair, her shoulder, her chest as he devotes every remnant of himself to her entirely. He isn’t gentle, but he tries when her tight whines and whimpers fill his ears, drowning out even his lamentations.

She tolerates him four times over before he can will himself to pull away from her warmth. The guilt is replaced by a sense of purpose, a certainty that all he’s done has been entirely for her. She tells him that she would never hurt another thing, and he whispers against her skin, “I know.”

His flightless engel does not remain downtrodden.

Each morning she wakes him with giggles, face warmed in memory of the night’s prior rapture. She bakes for him, sweet things that he’s never thought himself worthy of prior while he buries himself against her, yearns to pry apart her ribs and bury himself in her softness for all time.

He kisses at what remains of the scars along her neck when she finds him melding down steel for a new weapon, takes her into his lap just to watch the flames dance in her eyes.