Chapter Text
The rain hadn’t stopped all day. It started as a slow drizzle in the morning, and by the time Clarke Griffin stepped out of her shift at Eli’s Diner, it had settled into a cold, miserable downpour. She pulled the hood of her jacket up, shoulders hunched as she power-walked toward the bus stop. Her sneakers were already soaked, the dampness creeping through her socks like a personal insult.
Today had been a shitshow.
Rent was overdue—again. The red “FINAL WARNING-EVICTION IMMINENT” slip was still crumpled in her pocket, as if ignoring it would somehow make it disappear.
Her latest painting hadn’t sold. The gallery sent a polite email. “We appreciate your submission, but at this time, it’s not quite what we’re looking for.” Clarke had stared at those words for a full five minutes before slamming her laptop shut.
Her boss was an asshole. One of the kitchen staff called out sick, leaving Clarke and two other servers scrambling to keep up. And of course, she got chewed out for being “too slow” when she forgot to bring extra ketchup to Table 6.
By the time her shift ended, Clarke was exhausted. And bitter.
She checked her phone, hoping for a text from Raven—maybe an invitation to hang out, a distraction. Instead, her mother’s name flashed across the screen.
She let it go to voicemail.
The bus was late. Clarke stood under the awning of a closed bakery, arms wrapped around herself, listening to the voicemail because she couldn’t help herself.
"Clarke, sweetheart. I know you’re trying, but maybe it’s time to stop pretending you can make a living off painting."
Clarke clenched her teeth.
"There’s a position at the hospital, or if you don't want to be around me, your father’s old colleague can get you an interview. You could move back home, get some stability. Think about it, okay?"
She deleted the voicemail.
---
By the time she got off the bus, Clarke was cold and pissed at the world.
She had stopped at a bar on the way home, knocking back three shots of tequila because, screw it. If she was going to be miserable, she might as well be drunk and miserable.
That was when she saw it.
A tiny thrift store she had never noticed before, wedged between a nail salon and a shuttered laundromat. The wooden sign above the door was blank, as if whatever name it once had had long since faded away.
The door was open just a crack, warm light spilling onto the wet pavement.
Clarke wasn’t sure why she went inside.
Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was the fact that the universe seemed determined to kick her ass today, and she wanted to pretend for five minutes that she had some control over her life.
Inside, the air smelled like dust and old paper, with something faintly metallic beneath it. Shelves were stacked high with odd trinkets and forgotten books, the kind of place that looked like it belonged in an old mystery novel.
Clarke ran her fingers along the cracked spines of books, flipping through pages of forgotten stories, faded maps, strange symbols.
One book caught her eye.
Bound in black leather, worn with age.
No title, no author.
The pages felt thicker than normal paper.
She opened it.
The words were strange. Some were in Latin. Others in a language she didn’t recognize. The ink was deep, almost glossy, as if it had been written recently.
"A pact to summon a benefactor. Offer your wish, and the spirit shall grant it in kind."
Clarke huffed a laugh. Really? Some genie bullshit?
“That one’s quite old,” a voice said.
She looked up to see the shopkeeper. An old woman, wrapped in a shawl, watching her with an amused expression.
“How much?” Clarke asked, holding up the book.
The woman smiled, slow and knowing. "On the house. Consider it a gift."
Clarke hesitated, but then shrugged and stuffed it into her bag.
---
By the time Clarke stumbled into her cramped apartment, she was half-drunk and fully pissed off at the universe.
The place was a mess. Paintbrushes scattered across the coffee table, canvases stacked haphazardly against the walls. A half-empty bottle of wine from three nights ago still sat on the counter.
She dropped onto the couch, kicking off her wet sneakers with a sigh. The thrift store book tumbled out of her bag, landing at her feet.
Clarke picked it up, flipping through the pages again.
The symbols were weird.
And the instructions were even weirder.
But she was drunk. And pissed. And the book said she could ask for anything.
“Alright,” she muttered, grabbing an old candle from the counter. She flicked her lighter, watching the flame flicker before setting the candle in front of her.
She drew the circle, but it was a bit crooked because she was drunk and cold. But she didn't think too much of it. Didn't believe it would work, but she did it anyway.
She read the incantation aloud after she said what she wished for.
At first, nothing happened.
Then—
The candle flickered violently.
A low hum vibrated through the air.
The temperature dropped.
Clarke shivered. A strange pressure settled over the room, like something was watching her.
Her stomach twisted.
For the first time, she hesitated.
"Alright, that’s creepy as hell."
But nothing else happened after that. The flickering stopped. The hum faded.
Clarke exhaled. "Figures. Can’t even summon a ghost properly."
She blew out the candle and passed out on the couch.
---
Lexa never cared much for the human world.
It wasn’t hatred—more like disinterest. Humans lived short, chaotic lives, always rushing toward something, always chasing. Some demons found them fascinating, even studied them at the academies. Some made contracts for power, knowledge, or just for fun.
But Lexa? She had better things to do.
Until she stumbled upon Clarke Griffin’s paintings during her last visit to Indra's place in human world. As a Lord, Lexa had many responsibilities, one of them to keep records and control over the Kongeda's citizen who decided to venture into human world; as punishments or appointed by the Lords of their realms. Lexa was appointed to oversee them. Because her realm, the Fifth Realm of Kongeda, was the most peaceful one. And well, it left Lexa with nothing much to do anyway.
At first, it was just curiosity. A struggling human artist, pouring her soul into every brushstroke. A woman who refused to give up, even as life repeatedly punched her in the face.
Lexa found herself checking in. Not too often. Just… occasionally.
Okay, fine. More than occasionally.
And now, this human had summoned a demon with a powerful circle that only a Lord can get through.
Lexa sighed.
Of course Clarke Griffin would do something reckless.
---
"Griffin, huh?"
Lexa barely glanced up as her cousin—and general, and constant headache—Anya leaned against the stone table in her study, arms crossed, golden eyes filled with mischief.
"What about it?" Lexa asked, focusing on the summoning sigil glowing on the floor before her.
Anya smirked. "You ever pay attention to the Third Realm?"
Lexa snorted. "No. Why would I? It’s a mess. Ever since their Demon Lord abandoned the throne—"
She stopped.
Anya’s smirk widened.
Lexa scowled. "No."
"Yep."
Lexa shook her head. "Coincidence."
"Yeah, sure."
Lexa rolled her eyes and turned back to the sigil. Clarke Griffin had summoned a demon. And Clarke Griffin was about to get one.
The rest? Didn’t matter.
Anya watched her for a long moment, then muttered to herself, "Somehow, I don’t believe in coincidences."
---
The sigil pulsed ominously, sending waves of power through Polis'—The name of The Fifth Realm of Kongeda—Grand Citadel.
Summoning spells were rare these days. The last recorded human contract had been over a century ago.
So, naturally, every young demon, fairy, and elf at the academy lost their minds.
"A summoning spell?!"
"Is that even real?!"
"If I answer it, do I get extra credit for my trials?!"
A young fire demon cracked his knuckles.
"Alright, this is my moment—"
He barely touched the sigil before an unseen force yeeted him across the citadel.
The crowd winced as he crashed into a distant tower.
Silence.
A fairy whispered, "Uhh…"
An elf adjusted his glasses. "That’s… not a normal contract sigil."
"No shit."
The air hummed with magic, dense and ancient. This wasn’t some minor pact for power or wealth.
This was something only a Lord could answer.
And right on cue—
Lexa stood from her throne.
She stretched lazily, like a predator waking up.
Then she looked at them.
Just looked.
The young demons froze.
The fairies held their breath.
The elves? They were already calculating the fastest exit routes.
"Be mindful of your capabilities," Lexa said smoothly.
Her voice was calm. Too calm.
"This sigil would have devoured your soul."
A few demons gulped. A fairy hid behind his friend.
Lexa stepped closer.
"It is meant for a Lord."
Another step.
"And this human is mine."
The entire hall shuddered as Lord Lexa's eyes glinted with something akin of challenge.
And at the way she stake her claim.
Possessive. Unyielding.
Undeniable.
No one dared speak.
No one dared move.
One fairy, whispering, muttered, "Holy shit. That was so hot."
Lexa ignored them.
She stepped into the sigil.
The last thing she saw before vanishing was Anya smirking.
"So possessive, Lexa. You sure you don’t have a soft spot for this human already?"
Lexa scoffed.
She didn’t care about humans.
She was only answering because the contract was hers. And because Clarke Griffin’s paintings were too beautiful to be ignored.
---
Lexa materialized in a dim, rundown apartment.
The air was stale, thick with dampness and the unmistakable scent of mold creeping along the walls. The heater was either broken or nonexistent because it was colder inside than it was outside.
Lexa sighed, running a hand through her hair as she took in the space.
A sagging couch. An easel covered in half-finished paintings. Paint tubes, brushes, and discarded sketches littered the floor. A single desk lamp cast long shadows across the mess, highlighting the stack of unpaid bills on the table.
Then her gaze landed on the notice on a small table next to the door.
FINAL WARNING – EVICTION IMMINENT
Lexa's jaw tightened.
"Of course."
Clarke Griffin—stubborn, reckless, talented Clarke Griffin—was losing everything.
Lexa could already hear the frustrated voice of her cousin in her head. "You are not supposed to interfere this much. Contracts have rules."
Lexa ignored the imaginary lecture.
She flicked her wrist, and the paper burned to nothing.
With another casual motion, she reached out with her magic, tracing the invisible web of human bureaucracy. It took seconds to access the right channels.
The rent was paid.
Another wave of her fingers, and Clarke’s bank account balance jumped.
Lexa didn’t dump a fortune in there—that’d be too obvious. Just enough to cover bills, buy food, and maybe splurge on a good paint set.
She smirked. Sugar demon privileges.
Satisfied, she turned, ready to head back to Kongeda.
Just then, a soft glow pulsed against her skin.
Lexa frowned, lifting her hand.
Her ring finger was glowing.
Lexa’s entire body froze.
She knew this spell.
Oh. Oh!
Clarke Griffin hadn’t just cast a demon summoning spell.
She had cast a soulbond spell.
A contract beyond contracts. A bond beyond temporary agreements.
Clarke had bound herself to Lexa.
Not as a contractor.
Not as a benefactor.
But as a wife.
Lexa stared at the soft golden light encircling her finger, brain stalling.
Then, slowly—oh-so-slowly—her lips curled into a grin.
"Oh… this is even better."
A standard contract would have limits. There would be rules. She would have to be careful with how much power and wealth she handed over.
But as Clarke’s very—much—legal—demon wife?
There were no penalties for pampering her.
No annual sacrifices needed to maintain the contract.
(Not that they actually needed blood or human souls—those were just rumors spread by the nastiest, most deceptive ones. The real sacrifices were things like rare foods, lost knowledge, or an offering of artistic creation.)
And Lexa? Lexa had millenias' worth of wealth.
A few more paint supplies and financial security? Absolutely.
Lexa chuckled.
Then she full-on laughed.
With a snap of her fingers, she vanished, leaving nothing but the lingering scent of cinders and amusement.
---
Back in Kongeda…
Lexa stepped back into the grand halls of her domain, still grinning like a lovesick young demon.
Anya, waiting by the throne, raised an eyebrow. “What the hell happened to you?”
Lexa stretched, feeling exceptionally pleased with herself.
"Clarke Griffin," she announced, practically glowing.
Anya groaned. "Oh no."
Lexa dropped into her throne, still smiling.
"She’s mine now."
Anya stared at her.
Then at the faint golden glow still circling Lexa’s ring finger.
Then back at Lexa’s stupid, satisfied expression.
Realization hit.
Anya choked. "You got married?!"
Lexa just grinned wider.