Tag: trauma healing

  • Author’s Note

    Dear Reader,

    What follows is a journey into shadow and flame, a world where desire and devotion intertwine with pain and longing. This chapter introduces you to a sacred chaos—where hearts are laid bare, boundaries tested, and love wears a crown forged from fire.

    The story is intimate, intense, and not for the faint of heart. It explores consent, power, and the reverent surrender that can exist in the space between darkness and trust. Approach with an open mind and a willing heart, and let yourself be seen as the characters see each other: raw, unhidden, and wholly human.

    Step carefully. Step willingly. Step into the Chapel.


    Lilith stands barefoot in black lace and leather, holding Gabriel’s chin as he kneels before her in a ruined chapel, surrounded by candles and shadows under a bruised pearl moon.
    “The Chapel” – Chapter One of Of Ashes & Reverence. Lilith claims Gabriel in shadow and candlelight; desire, devotion, and power intertwine in Neo-Gothic intimacy.

    Of Ashes & Reverence


    Chapter One
    The Chapel

    [Gabriel]

    The moon was a bruised pearl in the sky, casting its pale rot across the dead hills. The air tasted of rust and ruin, and still—I followed the pull.

    It wasn’t a voice that called me. Not really. It was a sensation: a whisper threading through marrow, an ache that bloomed behind my ribs. I walked the crumbling path without hesitation, past the graves half-swallowed by moss, until I saw her.

    She stood in the center of the ruined chapel, barefoot on the cold stone floor, surrounded by flickering candles like stars caught mid-fall. Her head tilted back in laughter, the sound low and strange and sacred. Candlelight licked across her skin, dancing over the sharp lines of cheekbones and collarbone, casting shadows like claws.

    “You came,” she said. Her voice was not a question—it was a certainty.

    I stopped just past the threshold. “I always do,” I said, and in that moment, I didn’t know if I meant it literally or metaphorically. With her, lines blurred.

    She moved like wind wrapped in lace—slow, deliberate, a force that didn’t ask permission. She circled me, one finger trailing along my arm, the fabric of my sleeve doing nothing to dull the heat. Down my ribs, up to the base of my neck. A touch that was not gentle, but purposeful. Claiming.

    I shivered.

    “You’re trembling,” she said, and there was delight in her tone. “Good.”

    She stopped in front of me, staring up into my eyes. Hers were obsidian rimmed with starlight—impossible and undeniable. “You want to suffer beautifully, don’t you?”

    “Yes,” I whispered.

    She didn’t ask for permission after that. She didn’t need to. It was already written in every breath I took in her presence. I was already hers. Willing. Waiting.

    Her palm pressed flat against my chest, and with a single push, I sank to my knees—not from force, but from instinct. Gravity bent around her.

    She smiled. “There. That’s better.”

    Her fingers wove into my hair—not cruelly, but with ownership. Possession. As if my body was the altar, and she the priestess anointing it.

    She lowered herself onto my thigh, one knee on either side, the weight of her like a crown I had longed to wear. The leather and lace of her garments rasped against me as she moved, grinding slowly, deliberately, as if painting a sigil of control across my skin.

    “You crave the chaos I bring,” she murmured, her lips brushing my ear. “You want to be ruined by me.”

    My moan was answer enough.

    She laughed again—a low, wicked sound that slipped beneath my skin and stayed there. Her mouth crashed against mine, and it was not a kiss, but an ignition. Her lips were fire. Her teeth were command. She kissed like she meant to leave marks.

    When she pressed her fingers to my lips, I opened without hesitation. She fed me her desire like it was sacred wine, and I drank with reverence.

    “You are mine when I want you,” she said, her breath a storm. “And I always want you when I’m wicked.”

    And I—wept. Not from pain. Not even from pleasure. But from the way it felt to be seen like this: raw, unhidden, and holy.

    That night, I became part of her ritual.

    Marked by her fire.
    Owned by her will.
    A moth, finally consumed
    by the flame that called me home.


    Closing Note

    The first chapter has opened the doors to a world of shadow, fire, and sacred surrender. Lilith and Gabriel’s connection is one of reverent intensity—where power, trust, and desire collide in ways that are both beautiful and dangerous.

    As you linger in the chapel’s candlelit darkness, remember: what unfolds is not for the faint of heart, but for those willing to witness love in its rawest, most unguarded form. Let the fire linger, and step carefully into what comes next.

    —Rowan Evans


    Of Ashes & Reverence

    Chapter Two | The First Spark
    The first sparks of desire ignite between Lilith and Gabriel. A chapter of observation, fascination, and sacred chaos where glances and gestures become incendiary. Step into a world of shadows, fire, and devotion.

    Chapter Three | Scorchmarks
    Chapter Three of Of Ashes & Reverence leads you into the silence after fire—the place where worship and ruin are inseparable. Lilith and Gabriel step deeper into their sacred chaos, where strength is redefined, and surrender leaves scars that feel like prayer.

    Journey into the Hexverse

    Coven of Chaos B.D. Nightshade & Hex Nightshade
    Fire and ink collide. Warriors of ruin and witches of reverence rise in a covenant forged in chaos.

    Hymn & Heresy — HxNightshade
    Feral devotion. Sacred ache. Worship and blasphemy entwined in desire’s dark embrace.

    XIII Psalms for the Goddess in My Mouth — HxNightshade
    Thirteen psalms of flesh and shadow. Kneel, surrender, and awaken the goddess within your mouth.

    Sanguine Serenade — HxNightshade
    Craving tastes like blood. Passion flirts with danger. Step into forbidden night, and let the fire consume you.

    Feral Cathedral — Hex Nightshade
    Chaos and desire entwined. Wolves of want, teeth and pulse as scripture. Worship, collide, and become a cathedral of fire and breath.

    … from across the Hexverse…

    Litany & Tongue — Rowan Evans
    Devotion in breath and tongue, confession in fire. Verse as worship, ache as scripture.

    Unapologetically Biased — Rowan Evans
    Loyalty to chaos, desire for flaws. Worship the storm that leaves you undone.

    The Church of You — B.D. Nightshade
    Flesh as scripture. Desire as religion. Kneel in fire, rise in devotion.

    Claim Me — B.D. Nightshade
    Power, touch, command. Skin as altar, resistance undone, desire the only law.


    ✦ Poetic Commissions by Rowan Evans ✦

    Every word I write is a devotion, a fragment of shadow and light carefully shaped into verse. On my Ko-fi, I offer custom poems, personalized rituals in language, and lyrical messages crafted just for you—or someone you wish to honor, surprise, or remember.

    Whether you seek:

    A poem for a loved one, friend, or muse

    A ritualized or thematic verse for special occasions

    A written reflection to say everything you struggle to

    …each commission is approached with care, reverence, and the intensity of my signature Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.

    Special Offer: Use code NGCR25 at checkout to receive 25% off any commission until the end of the month. Let these words become your keepsake, your offering, your moment of devotion.

    Commission a Poem on Ko-fi →

  • ☽ Introduction ☾

    Every cathedral remembers the hands that built it — and the hands that broke it.
    This is the testament of Gotham’s laughing apostate:
    once kneeling in carrion chapels beside the king of rot, now risen, bruised and unbound.
    Not crowned by grace, but by ruin reclaimed and ribs that still remember laughter turned lash.
    This is…


    Cracked marble cathedral with a harlequin mask, moonlit stained glass shards, and wilted rose — symbolizing Harley Quinn’s vigil and rebellion.
    Painted in grief, stitched in giggles — her vigil isn’t for salvation, but for the self she swore she wouldn’t bury.

    The Vigil of the Twisted Harlequin
    Prose by Rowan Evans


    I keep vigil in the bones of his cathedral —
    the funhouse we called sanctuary, walls lacquered with spit-laced prayers and blood that never dried.
    The city itself? Our slaughterhouse chapel — gutters still gargle our shared delirium, alleys still echo jokes that tasted like venom.

    I wear the scars he left me like relics — bruises reborn as ink, ribs tattooed with the punchlines that almost broke me.
    My prayers? Crooked confessions spat between cracked teeth — not to be heard, but to remind myself I still have a voice.

    The stained glass? Daggers we shattered together — now each shard remembers both of us:
    the Clown Prince crowned in carrion, and his harlequin kneeling at an altar built of bone and betrayal.

    Moonlight slices through ruin — casts my grin across cracked marble, where I once begged him to see me instead of the echo.
    The gargoyles remember the girl who painted devotion in red and white, only to find madness demanded her marrow, not her heart.

    Agony was our liturgy, ruin our gospel.
    His laughter crowned me queen of decay — but in the silence after the last joke curdled, I found my own feral hymn.

    Some nights, the rot still whispers his name in the marrow of my grin —
    a phantom crown of splintered love pressing blood to scalp, laughter curling like a noose.
    But my devotion decayed; my grin grew fangs.

    The creed that beats behind scarred ribs:
    I knelt in carrion for a king who mistook love for leash. I rose when I learned laughter could be mine alone.

    Now I haunt these pews not to mourn him, but to remember what ruin cost me —
    and what marrow-deep rebellion gave back: breath unbroken, knuckles bloodied but free.

    His vigil rots on the throne of carrion.
    Mine stalks the shadows — not in his name, but in spite of it.
    The marrow remembers, but the marrow is mine now.


    ☽ Benediction ☾

    May the ruin remember why you unstitched devotion from your ribs.
    May your laughter remain feral — marrow-deep and sovereign, a psalm no king can claim.
    And though no god dares crown you,
    may your vigil remain eternal — a testament carved in scars, rebellion, and ruin reclaimed.


    🔗 You might also like…

    Every vigil casts its own shadow.
    If The Vigil of the First Son has found a quiet corner in your marrow, you may also wander these chapels of ruin and devotion:

    The Vigil of the Broken Saint
    The Vigil of the Clown Prince
    The Vigil of the First Son

    Each is a prayer, a confession, a testament carved in bruise, bone, and breath.

    Psalm of the Spiraling Tongue — A Prayer Against Goodbye
    Psalm of the Half-Loved — A Prayer for the Mercy of Goodbye
    The Scourge They Named in Whispered Psalms

    If my words speak to you, and you’d like to help keep this flame burning — or if you’d like a custom poem woven just for you (or someone dear) — you can do so here:

    Ko-fi — Poetry by Rowan Evans

  • You are a cathedral of fractured glass—
    every pane kissed by catastrophe,
    every color a hymn forged in flame.
    I see the story etched
    in the way you flinch at praise,
    the slight hitch in your breath
    when silence dares to stretch too long.

    You were made not by ease,
    but by impact—
    a mosaic of once-shattered grace.
    I do not look away.
    No, I kneel in reverence.

    Your scars are constellations
    and I have mapped them all—
    tracing the stories in your skin
    like star-charts of survival.
    There is beauty in the broken,
    not despite it, but because.

    So let me be the quiet sky
    you rise into,
    where you are not reduced
    to memory or martyr.
    Let me lift the ruins from your chest,
    name them sacred,
    and hang them like relics
    in the chapel of my care.

    I’ll clear your slate—not to erase,
    but to rest it.
    To archive your ache
    in the folds of my own soul.
    Your memories are safe with me.
    The weight you bore—
    I’ve room for it in my ribs.

    I don’t want to be the shadow
    that steals your sun,
    but the lighthouse
    that stays burning
    when your horizon blurs again.
    Let me be the firmament
    under your tremble,
    a psalm against the silence.

    You don’t have to stumble alone.
    You never did—
    but now,
    you don’t have to believe that lie again.