…happened on my “off week” when I had to focus on another project, but it felt wrong not to go through the prompts once I had the time, so here’s a compilation of all 7 days✨🤍✨
Showing up on the last day to drop this when I finally had some motivation hit! I hope you enjoy 😊
Slight spoilers for Ash’s main fic “Something’s Gotta Give”
The tiniest blink and you’d miss it nsfw theme so I’ve put the ficlet under the cut.
Sunlight drifted through the fogged windows and the jagged hole in the roof, warming the ends of their bed. Sheets lay tangled and discarded, unneeded when wrapped in the heat of each other’s embrace.
Waking up to Cullen pressing kisses along her shoulder had been a pleasant surprise, much better than Sweetpea’s tiny paws baring all her weight on Ash’s breast. If only she could have felt each tender caress of his lips, but for reasons unbeknownst to her, he’d chosen to lay his affections down the side of her body that could not fully feel. The burns from the Archdemon’s fire. Long-healed, but the stretch of too tight skin and fried nerves plagued her. Yet she’d survived that bloody night in Haven, had remained whole thanks to the spirit of love that now resided within her heart.
“Good morning, vhenan,” she said groggily, a small whine at the end of the endearment as she stretched. “To what do I owe such a lovely awakening?”
His nose nuzzled her neck. “It’s been exactly a year since Haven.” She knew, how could one forget the anniversary of one’s almost death? “And though I grieve our losses, I remain eternally grateful that you lived.”
Ash wiggled to loosen his grip on her hips, and she turned to face him, her hand cupping his cheek, her thumb swiping over the scar that bisected his lip. “Like I would ever have let that creature take me from you when I had so much teasing left to accomplish.”
Cullen snorted a laugh, his grin lighting up his face and her heart. By the Creators, she loved him so much it hurt. “Maker forbid,” he said with a shake of his head.
Curls, mussed from sleep, rested on his forehead, and she brushed them back with delicate fingers. She wanted to see his face, all of him that she adored. “It feels wrong to celebrate on a day when so many perished, but it’s also a day where many survived what could have been a massacre akin to the Conclave. Perhaps we could celebrate that?”
His eyes softened, and he pulled her flush against his chest, her leg hooking instinctively over his hip. “I wouldn’t be opposed.”
She smiled as he kissed her, soft and reverent and chasing away the lingering burn of her memories. Her battered, tired knight, his sword made of sweet kisses and his shield created from arm encircling her waist. Later, they would mourn their losses, but now, they celebrated the life they got to live, and all that was left to come.
Summary — Rook celebrates her very first Satinalia. Not only is this the first Satinalia since the fall of the Evanuris, but she's also spending it in Treviso with the Antivan Crows First Talon.
What Good Is Love on AO3!! Orrrr click Keep Reading for the fic!!
(This one is a doozy! nearly 3k words)
The kisses come first.
Soft, slow, shameless things—trailing down the slope of her nose, dusting across her cheek, touching the side of her mouth like they’re trying to bribe it into a smile. Not the heavy press of a lover desperate to claim. These are lighter than breath. A quiet campaign of affection. And Creators, she’s weak to it.
Her eyes stay shut.
“Mmnh. S’the point of kissing someone who’s asleep?”
Lucanis doesn’t answer. Just hums, and keeps kissing her. One, two, three freckles under her eye. One on the bridge of her nose. Another on the corner of her jaw. He’s tracking constellations, maybe. Mapping her like Satinalis mapped the stars—except instead of a lyre, she feels like a lyrium-struck Templar with a grin she can’t bite down.
“Lucanis,” she warns, groggy. “If this is your way of trying to get me to move out here, you’re cheating.”
A pause. A warm exhale against her collarbone.
“It’s Satinalia.”
Rook cracks one eye open. “That a threat or a seduction?”
He lifts a brow, faintly amused. His voice is low, half-rasped by morning and sleep and his usual brand of deadpan restraint. “You’ll have to get up to find out.”
She groans, loud and dramatic, and pulls the blanket over her head. “No. I’ve got Veiljumper business. Crossroads things. Bellara’s expecting me.”
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
“I checked.”
The covers are yanked back in one practiced motion.
Rook yelps as the cold morning air kisses the backs of her thighs—her nightshirt’s ridden up again. She scrambles to cover herself, half-heartedly, as sunlight floods the room like it owns the place. It paints the bed in bright gold and sets her red hair ablaze, a tousled halo around her head. She glares up through a tangle of it, half-blind in the sun.
Lucanis towers at the edge of the bed, all shadow and smug indifference in loose, low-slung sleep pants. His chest is bare, with pale scars mapping across his olive skin, half hidden by the hair along his chest that trails down his stomach and plummets below his waistband. One hand grips the discarded blanket, the other rakes through his sleep-mussed hair as if to tidy it, but it only makes him look more criminally undone.
And then: the tired brown of his eyes, lined faintly from another too-short sleep. They settle on her. And soften. Not the way most people do, not warm, not obvious. But the smallest breath of it, the subtlest shift in his mouth, the way the corner ticks down instead of up—says he’s glad she’s here.
Before she can say anything smug or loving or ruin it by looking too long, he grabs her by the ankle and drags her toward him in one smooth pull.
“Hey!” she squawks, arms flailing, hands scrabbling for sheets that do absolutely nothing to save her.
He kneels on the edge of the bed, pins her leg over his shoulder with terrifying calm, and sinks his mouth to the soft inside of her thigh—right at the edge of where her nightshirt still hasn’t quite covered. He doesn’t kiss. Doesn’t tease. He bites. Not cruel, not harsh, but deep enough that her breath sticks in her chest.
Then sucks just long enough for heat to spark and spread and for a bruise to bloom, nestled into the already-growing constellation of purpling marks he’s been methodically building on every visit. Like she’s his canvas and he’s been painting her in secret. He pulls back, breath steady. Says nothing.
Rook lies there stunned for a second, blood hot and heartbeat pounding in her thighs, before growling into the pillow and hurling it after him. “Coward!”
Lucanis catches it, of course. Effortless. Barely even looks like he moved.
“I told you,” he says, already walking toward the wardrobe, “it’s Satinalia.”
—
It was more than an hour later before they made it to the streets—closer to two, if she counted all the distractions.
(And she absolutely counted the distractions.)
Now, under a faded canopy outside a crowded tavern in Treviso’s heart, Rook sat with her pointed ears clamped between her palms and her elbows braced on her knees like a woman under siege. A woman trying to survive the battlefield of celebration.
Around them, Satinalia raged.
Trumpets blared sharp as knives, followed by a rolling chorus of drums that rattled her bones like they belonged to someone else. Children shrieked with glee, flinging colored powders in the wake of masked dancers who moved like fire through the streets. Some stomped, others spun in satin and bells. Banners snapped overhead. The cobblestones were slick with wine and ribbons, and somewhere close by, someone had released doves into the crowd, which had—predictably—sent a group of drunk performers into delighted chaos.
And the parade wasn’t even halfway done.
Rook groaned into her hands. Her earrings clinked softly against her fingers, hoops and studs and little gold bits that made every twitch of her head into a full-body chime. The metal felt warm against her skin. Everything did. It was all too bright, too loud, too much. Not in the way that overwhelmed her, not quite—but enough to make her jaw ache from clenching it. Enough to press at the backs of her eyes. Still. She stayed.
Because Lucanis stood beside her, one arm resting on the canopy pole, watching the parade with unreadable eyes.
His own mask—black and bone-pale like an avian skull—was hooked on his belt, forgotten. He hadn’t put it on once. But he had dressed for the occasion: dark embroidered sleeves buttoned neatly at the wrist with gleaming silver crow skulls, a fitted black coat trimmed in violet, rings on his fingers that caught the light when he touched her shoulder earlier, briefly, wordlessly.
He hadn’t spoken since they arrived. He didn’t need to.
Lucanis had guided her here through the winding streets of Treviso, hand at the small of her back, silent but sure. He didn’t speak unless necessary. Didn’t gesture unless to shift her from the path of a drunken reveler or shield her from a burst of flung colored powder. He nodded, once, at a pair of masked Crows perched on a balcony; they nodded back. One met Rook’s gaze and quickly looked away. Others scurried. A few watched
Once, back in the Lighthouse, late into one of those knife-edged nights when he couldn’t sleep, Lucanis had murmured that he missed Treviso—not the missions, not the masks or the poisons or the politics—but the noise. The life of it. The smell of warm oil and fried sweets. The sound of children laughing while the old gods were mocked in song.
He’d said it softly, as if realizing it mid-thought.
As if surprised that he still wanted something.
And now, here he was, watching as his city screamed with joy around him, chaos blazing at every corner. His coat caught confetti on the sleeves. His hair, curling slightly at the ends from the sea air, tumbled loose down his back. When the wind shifted, the scent of fried batter and sugared anise reached them from the plaza.
Rook peeked up at him from beneath her hands.
He looked… not smiling. But close.
Like the tiniest bit of pressure had lifted off his spine.
She took her hands from her ears and winced as another round of drums crashed through the air like thunder.
Lucanis didn’t glance at her, but his hand found hers anyway. Fingers laced slowly. Rings cold against her knuckles. Rook squeezed once, then stood.
The motion wasn’t graceful—her legs were stiff, her earrings jangled, and someone in the crowd threw powdered pigment that missed by a hair’s breadth—but she made it up, up, until she could lean in and press a kiss to his throat. He didn’t startle. Didn’t move at all. Just tipped his chin the barest inch to give her more room.
She lingered, mouth brushing warm skin, tasting the faint salt of him beneath the riot of spice in the air. Let herself feel the beat of his pulse under her lips. She could’ve stayed like that—pressed into him, letting the noise pass them by—but instead, she pulled back, just enough to meet his eyes.
Then reached up and ran both hands into his hair.
Lucanis blinked, the faintest crease forming in his brow, but he didn’t stop her. Didn’t speak. Just watched her through lashes dusted with bits of golden powder—someone must’ve flung it into the air at some point. It caught on his temples and collarbones, softened the sharp lines of him into something closer to myth. She tugged his hair back gently from his face, and with a practiced twist, tied the top half into a loose knot at the back of his head. She’d meant to do it before they left, had even started—but then his mouth had found her collarbone and her priorities had shifted.
Rook ran her fingers along the edge of the knot to smooth it out, brushing away confetti and wind-tossed strands. Her thumbs lingered at his temples, and she leaned in just long enough to whisper, “There. Now you’re festive.”
Lucanis exhaled through his nose, an almost-laugh.
Then he tilted his head, just slightly, as if listening to something beneath the music. “There’s somewhere I want to take you before the fireworks start.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Does it involve fish pudding?”
“No.”
“Then lead on.”
—
The streets fell behind them in a blur of color and clamor, winding deeper into Treviso until the crush of bodies thinned and the air turned a little cooler, touched by salt and stone.
Lucanis said nothing of where they were going.
He led her through narrow alleys where garlands hung crooked and candles flickered in alcoves, up a back stair that creaked underfoot, and through a forgotten side door into a building that looked—at first—like it had nothing left to offer. But then came the final climb: a narrow, spiraling stairwell that opened to a rooftop washed in the last amber-gold of the sun.
They arrived just as it slipped below the horizon.
The noise didn’t vanish, but it muffled, muted beneath tile and brick and distance, so the music turned soft and the drums were felt more than heard. The sky stretched wide above them, shot through with purple and fire-orange, a thousand rooftop lanterns flickering to life one by one.
Rook exhaled, the relief was quiet but sharp, like a stone pulled from her boot.
She crossed to the edge and sat down with a slow sigh, back to the streets below, her dress spilling like spiced wine across the sun-warmed tiles. The wind tugged strands of her hair loose from its braid and tousled the fringe at her shoulders. Somewhere far below, someone sang a Satinalia hymn that had once belonged to Zazikel and now belonged to no one—chaotic, joyous, half-drunk.
Lucanis stood between her legs, facing the city.
She leaned forward into him, her hands drifting toward his chest, idle fingers toying with one of the silver crow skull buttons at his collar. The metal was cool beneath her thumb. Her other hand found the next button down and twitched it back and forth on its thread, slow and aimless. Not trying to undress him—just feeling him. Marking the fact of him with her hands. His fingers brushed against the fabric of her dress, trailing lightly down from her hips to her knees, then back up again. Not quite holding her. Just… touching. Like he was grounding himself. As if he still didn’t believe she was real. As if this rooftop, this dusk, this peace, might vanish the moment he looked away. Rook looked up at him.
His face was mostly in shadow now, but she could still make out the long line of his nose, the slight curve of his mouth, the way his eyes caught the last of the sun. That same smudge of golden powder still lingered on his cheekbone. She resisted the urge to kiss it off.
And then, with no warning but the sudden stillness of the crowd below—
the first firework bloomed.
A whistle, a pop, and then the sky cracked open in white and crimson. Trails of glittering fire arced overhead, flaring out like wings before fading into smoke. The sound hit a heartbeat later, deep in her chest, echoing between buildings and bell towers and the bones of the city. Rook turned and leaned back, tilting her head toward the spectacle, mouth parted in open wonder.
The fireworks didn’t stop. One after another, bright bursts spiraled upward—green and gold, violet and blue, streaking across the stars like defiance made visible. Some whirled, some cracked like lightning, others shimmered in silence before fading out like breath.
Lucanis didn’t look at them, he looked at her.
At the reflection of fire in her gold eyes, the way she tracked each bloom like it was a secret meant just for her. At the shape of her smile, wide and shameless, unburdened by whatever came before. The wind tugged at her sleeves and tossed her hair against her back. Her earrings danced in the light. He watched her take in the sky as if she was trying to memorize it.
“Rook,” he said, voice low.
She didn’t look away. “Mm?”
"Do you want your Satinalia gift?”
She made a noise between a scoff and a laugh, eyes still fixed upward. “You’re going to miss the fireworks.”
“I won’t.”
Another bloom split the sky—green and silver this time, a twisting helix of light that sparked like lightning and scattered embers across the night. Rook gasped without meaning to, grinning like a fool.
And then she felt it. His hand brushing hers. Then something cool and weighty pressed into her palm.
She looked down. An opal, set in gold—the stone catching every color the fireworks could throw at it. Green. Silver. Violet. Then red, hot and hungry, like a blood-soaked sunrise. The band was old, unmistakably Antivan in the delicate, curling filigree that wound around it like vines. It had been worn, clearly. Loved. The metal smooth in places from time and use. But it had been polished. Recently.
The firelight caught in it like it belonged there.
Rook blinked. “Is that—?”
Her throat locked. “Are you—?”
She looked up, and he was already watching her.
Not nervous. Not smug. Just… still. Like this wasn’t a moment. Like it had already happened in his head a hundred times, and this was simply the first time he was saying it out loud.
“You told me once,” he said, low, quiet, steady, “that you didn’t want to be left behind.” His eyes didn’t leave hers. “I don’t want you to feel that, Rook. Let me wake beside you. That’s all.”
Her breath caught.
He kept going, voice nearly drowned by the next crack of light overhead.
“I said I’d kill any god to fall asleep in your arms.”
A pause. Then, softer:
“I want to wake up, too.”
The opal blazed in her hand.
It felt like everything—the end of the world, the start of a new one, a hundred missed mornings and every whisper between their bodies, in the Lighthouse, in Antiva, on rooftops and battlefields and all the places where they'd dared to survive. The crowd roared at the next firework—massive, bright as a dawn that shouldn’t exist, and still, her heart was louder.
Rook launched into him.
Not a gentle kiss. Not a soft one. A full-body, spine-arching, don’t-you-dare-take-it-back kiss. The kind that felt like pulling stars from the sky and pressing them between their teeth. She kissed him with every firework still blooming, every heartbeat they’d missed, every night they’d spent apart.
She kissed him like this was the only city left in the world and they’d carved it into being with nothing but their teeth and want and stubborn godless hope.
Lucanis caught her. Crushed her against him with the kind of reverence that had nothing to do with faith and everything to do with choice. One hand buried in her hair, the other curling tight around her waist like she was the only thing tethering him to the roof.
When they broke, breathless, stunned, she laughed.
“Lucanis,” she whispered, her forehead against his.
