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maegalkarven · 6 months

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Empty Prayers AU pt 4.

Aftermath of the Urge trying to take a hold on Nemo.

Characters: Enver Gortash, Astarion, Durge (Nemo).

Dark Urge x Gortash, implied/hinted Dark Urge x Astarion.

It would be easy to hate Nemo, if not for this, not for the way Bhaal commands, demands and straight up takes control over his body.

If not for the fact what apparently he, Gortash, is the reason of Bhaalspawn's defiance.

It started with him.

It started with Nemo, the perfect murderer created out of the god's flesh, caring for him.

Which would be considered a sin in Bhaal's eyes. And it was considered just that.

And this is where it led them both.

Nemo is in the heap of blankets on the floor; his companions are like birds or small animals, really. The moment bhaalspawn's head hit the surface - gently as the vampire lowered him down - they immediately went into building this freaking nest of pillows and blankets around the man.

Like it would help, like a small comfort provided to Nemo in his restless feverish sleep would change a thing. Would fix a thing.

Adding the God of Murder into the seemingly endless list of people Enver despises is a useless thing, yet he does it anyway.

Nemo is his, not some mad god's. He made his bhaalspawn stray from Bhaal's intended path and he will keep him there. There and alive, because Nemo is-

Nemo is-

He is not allowed to die. Not after the mess he made, not after the mess Enver got dragged into because of him. Not after everything they have created and everything they have lost and those small scraps they have gained back.

Nemo has to stay alive, because without him alive Enver has...What, two allies? Some old contacts, some half-assed alliances, some services he is not able to pay for?

His plan is lost, his Steel Watch is stolen, a puppeted by the Brain Florrick hunts him down like an animal, and it's all because of Nemo.

That's what caring for someone brings him. A failure.

There's not a sign of banite activity in the city; all dispersed, disappeared as if there was never such a thing as the Church of Bane. Where Lord Bane commanded them to move Enver has no idea, but Lord Bane clearly decided to wash his hands of this mess.

Gortash heard there was a fight in the Steel Watch Foundry: what Steel Watcher attacked some of the faithful, what they had to flee. Perfect creation, that of his Steel Watch. Now in the wrong hands, overseen by the True Souls.

The weapon you can't use should be destroyed, as much as it pains him to bring that particular feat of his genius down.

He will rebuilt the watch, make it invincible to any outsider's influence. With time, but Enver will fix things. And he needs no gods for that, no allies.

Well, maybe one ally.

A pathetic excuse of a man; pale, with hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, battling his father for control even in his sleep.

Nemo, the cause of the entirety of Enver's latest misfortune.

Nemo, his perfect-

Nemo moves, trying to break a hold of the chains tying him down. A low, pained growl erupts from his chest. His fingers move, long, sharp claws at the end of them reaching for something. Digging into his own flesh, bloodying the blanket he is tucked into.

"No, no, no," the other spawn, the vampire spawn comments. "This will not go. Leave these poor hands alone, you little monster."

There's the undeniable affection in his voice, as well as the noticeable amount of concern. Astarion reaches out and forces the palms open with his own, surprisingly strong fingers.

Enver takes his time observing the vampire, the way the man handles his lover. Ever since he has found Nemo lets the vermin bite him, he has known no rest.

He asked why, mocked, tainted, but apparently this was the hill Nemo decided to die on.

"We are alike," he kept repeating over and over again like a broken music box. "More alike than you could ever understand."

It felt like a slap, like a hit it was intended to be.

Nemo too blames Enver for his downfall. He cares, but does not forget who made him fall out of his father's graces.

Some part of bhaalspawn has to hate Gortash for it.

And this...spawn, this Astarion; Enver isn't sure the man himself is aware, but he is clearly interested in Enver's lover the way Enver does not approve of. Nor should he tolerate.

"You don't really have to worry about that," the pale elf comments, as if sensing Gortash's ire. "He has already turned me down."

So the elf made a move on Nemo, and Nemo refused. Good.

Wait, turned down how?

"And what exactly were you proposing?" He can't help but ask.

Enver has a bad feeling about it, the unkind type of a suspicion.

What cause Nemo would have to refuse? He didn't use to deny himself a little fun here and there, no matter how big of a bloodbath it ended up in.

After all, he, Enver Gortash, was the only lover who bedded Bhaalspawn and lived to see the day.

"Night of passion, of course!" The vampire makes a dramatic gesture. "There I was, offering him the best night of his life, and then he just...brushed me off. Said I'm better off without him snuggled up to my insides."

Well, that's...something.

Gears turn in Enver's mind, quick and relentless and cruel in that.

"Anything else he said?" Asked almost innocently, as if he doesn't care.

He cares so fucking much he wants to end Nemo's life while he's asleep. To strangle him or stab through the heart, or better yet, gain control over Absolute again, toss this damn astral prism away and make Nemo love him.

Make bhaalspawn see only him, care only for him. He wouldn't take all the free will of his favorite monster, of course not, just enough to not let him stray away, just enough so he would stop seeing other people for...well, people.

Now it's the vampire spawn who's watching him, unblinking. Enver suppresses the urgent need to stab him now.

"Yes," the spawn mulls it over. "Nemo said a single night with him is not worth it." there's a crease between his brows now. "Worth what, I wonder?"

Enver doesn't have to say anything. He can just get up and leave; away from this conversation, away from these ugly feelings, from the awful pathetic man who causes them, from the way Nemo makes him weak; wanting and needing and hurting-

"He would kill you," falls off his lips faster than he catches his thoughts. "He kills everyone he brings into bed, with just one single exception." This exception currently sitting next to the vampire, feeling like shit.

He felt so special, knowing Nemo killed all his other lovers, so mighty, so in control.

Knowing Nemo willingly strayed his hand to keep this vampire spawn alive is worse than if it would happen by accident, if Bhaal's hold simply...slipped.

The elf's face contorts, eyes growing wide, lips parting, but no sound comes.

"Oh," he finally lets out after a pause what feels like eternity. "All of them?"

"Yes."

"All but you?"

"Obviously."

"So is this why?" The man turns to the spawn on the floor. "He didn't want to- And I thought- But this means-"

"It means nothing," Enver snaps and there's anger in his voice, and irritation, and command, and-

The elf looks back at him, his expression slowly turning smug.

"Oh, but it does," he hums and this would be a perfect moment to strike. He can say Nemo did that, not like Nemo could testify otherwise. And how poetic it would be, Nemo not wanting to kill a spawn, the higher power moving his hand... "And don't think of killing me now, no one would believe Nemo did that."

"I can make it look convincing enough," Gortash tries regardless.

A spawn laughs into his face.

"I will raise ruckus what will wake up everyone in this house and then beyond. I will not go down quietly, especially not now," a defiant stare that stretches into eternity.

"You think you own him, don't you? A poor little Bhaalspawn, haunted by his father for the crime of having a lover. Your perfect little pet, your bloodthirsty attack dog," the spawn leans closer. "Well, let me tell you something, lordling. Nemo belongs to no one. He is his own damn person and he will stay exactly that."

This actually surprises Enver; he had expected the elf to voice his claim on the man in question, and instead this fool rushed in to defend Nemo's integrity.

And Nemo isn't even awake to hear it.

What an idiot.

"He will never choose you, you have to know that," his words are sure, have to sound sure. He can't allow the spawn to see the uncertainty underneath.

Regardless of what this nobody says about it, Nemo indeed is his; his lover, his ally, his. No one else will see Nemo for who he truly is, no one will understand him like Enver does-

"We are alike. More alike than you would ever understand."

His face has to give it away, for the vampire smiles; sharp teeth glaringly obvious, predator lingering in the unnatural redness of the eyes.

"Will he not?" The bastard hums. "Maybe he won't, or maybe he will. We won't know till I try. And if, per chance, Nemo does choose me, whatever is it you'll do then, lordling?"

Enver hits him straight into the jaw. He can't help it, it's almost instinctual, this knee-jerk reaction of his.

They descend into the flurry of kicks and hits, a mess of limbs and teeth and bad intentions.

Then someone clears the throat.

"Very sweet of you two to provide me some entertainment," the voice is raw and hoarse from the strain it was under before, but it's unmistakably Nemo's.

Astarion moves to push Gortash away.

"Darling," he exclaims, ever the opportunist. Enver would admire him for that if he wasn't so damn angry. "You're awake!"

"So I am," the bhaalspawn agrees, his golden eyes meeting Enver's. "Had fun while I was down?"

There's suspicious glint in his eyes Gortash matches with his own. A single, troubling thought breaches his conscience; just how much of the conversation to pass did Nemo hear?

***

Everything is a blur, everything hurts. Nemo can't even tell up from down and left from right. He struggles to open his eyes to no avail and fears for the worst, until-

"Anything else he said?" A familiar voice, a beloved voice, but sounding...strained?

Why?

"Yes," Another familiar voice, the one Nemo grew to be accustomed to. Somewhat comforting, this voice. "Nemo said a single night with him is not worth it. Worth what, I wonder?"

Well, well, well, would you look at that.

An interesting conversation the two of his favorite people are having. It would be a shame to reveal he is awake now; surely that can wait.

And it does indeed wait.

#empty prayers au #durgetash #dark urge x gortash #dark urge: nemo #bg3 astarion #I'm putting them all into the Situations and enjoying it #Gortash is my fav I say as I make him as miserable as possible. As I ruin all his plans #take his cult away. his power. his everything #Nemo waking up and hearing Astarion defend his integrity: it better not awaken anything in me #joke's on him it's already too late for that #this is NOT a love triangle. this is idiots not knowing how to navigate relationships because they have evil tendencies and trauma (tm)#are they ooc? mayhaps. Do i care? hm. not that much

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exmotranny · 7 months

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god i hate mormons.

#im sorry im sorry im sorry cause ik ur not all bad and are probably very lovely #but looking at the t/mblrstake tag for 5 minutes made my stomach drop #this cult fucking ruined my life! i genuinely cant comprehend queer people being happily mormon #i fucking hate it i fucking hate everything about the church it makes me sick #sorry im not usually this angry but. hell weekend.#vent

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lalaloobzy · 5 months

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sawvhs · 9 months

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loool hi you dont have to respond to this but i just wanted to answer ur questions in ur tags ^_^ i like to think its a small world and daniel and adam have bumped into each other kinda like amanda and he promoted wotg to daniel. so he checks it out but he kinda just goes for adam cuz i think they kinda become buddies after that. he was prob forced into getting merch by one of scotts bandmates tbh LOL. just fun to think about and then it makes it possible to think of apprentice adam and daniel interactions <delusionalism. but yeah loool i love making shit up about daniel hes so fun(heart hands emoji)

AH yeah thats totally the train of thought i was going down thinking daniel must have found out about them from a flier or soemthing.. Daniel being an honorary ‘sorry we killed your bastard cop dad’ member of the jigsaw squad is so fun to me esp in silly adam lives scenarios so i love that..

(sorry about the tag dump oops)

#amanda collecting emos 2 recruit because the other 2 accomplice guys there suck and are stuffy #daniel pov is so funny #daniel is nervous but the grungy dude who clocked him and gave him a flier seemed on the level so he sneaks out of his house and goes #2 the show w a friend. the music sucks but daniel thinks its sooo cool being around a bunch of degenerate young adults #maybe the dude (cough cough adam) who gave him the flier is in the corner not having any fun and when daniel goes to say hi he gives him #a shirt off the merch table #(queue adam getting yelled at and having to pay for the shirt or whatever)#all this and then months later he gets put in a jigsaw trap and his dad gets killed but the girl who probably killed him was kind of his #only friend in the jigsaw trap. and looked out for him the whole time and had her life ruined hardcore by his now dead dad #so hes pals w amanda even tho he probably feels super fucked up abt everything #he goes to the jigsaw lair w her because amanda is psuedo trying to recruit him but is making it more than obvious shes fucked up abt #doing any of this and is being super manipulated by the head serial killer guy but ehatever hes 17 and traumatized and wants to stick around #and holy shit the flier guy is there and apparently he was also in a jigsaw trap and is also very aware this is a cult #but he set up a wii so daniel takes turns playing guitar hero w adam and amanda #click #daniel

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soldier-poet-king · 2 years

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Everytime I think the saga of highschool friend drama weddings is over ...

How can it not already be over

Ex highschool bff got married again??? Or rather, I think they had a small church wedding right at the beginning of COVID for legal and religious reasons, but had ig a renewal ceremony today and the actual wedding reception with a billion guests and all the dresses etc etc etc

Ofc I did not know about it until I opened instagram and saw it plastered everywhere

And ofc all my horrible terrible feelings that I ignore 99% of the time resurfaced and I'm drowning, and I can't even just wine and game to decompress BC I have COVID and booze is off limits and it's just ....

I'm really going to just have to live with having fucked up my whole life for the rest of my life? But always being unsure if it was really my fault? No real closure, just guilt and regret.

Fight down the pang of jealousy that my friend married a man I introduced her to and is now tight knit friends with the friend group I brought her into, it's all the same, I'm just no longer there

Do they miss me? Do they think of me? On days like today, big occasions we'd dream and giggle about as teens, is there even a passing memory of me? Or was I not worth even that much?

I am not so old that this is distant past, no matter how I lie to myself, say I am okay most days, convince myself that what ifs are useless and i needed to leave the city to survive, no matter that I ended up stuck back here anyway

#personal posts #sorry folks. ill log out and be quiet:/#go back to my strange sad little books and songs and poems #since that seems to be my alotted part in life #am i always to be lonely? not even romantically. it seems i cant hold onto friends either. no matter how hard I try #either i fuck up. or adulthood and distance and time do that job for me #i am very tired. and even i am only so introverted. media is only so much a distraction and a balm #not even just indulgent media. but good and great works too. even they are not a replacement #ah well. time to read lonely stories. a creature of sad strange small things #i finished the sparrow last week and i think of emilio again.#trying to make sense of the course of his life. what do you do when you feel god has led you somewhere #and then everything is ripped out from beneath your feet #how do you make sense of the wreckage #i am tired of being a person some days #i cannot sleep. the covid cough has arrived and lying down is horrible. but i cant just pull all nighters #i won't heal and ill ruin myself for when i do have to go back to work #sit propped up in the dark it is i suppose #i apologize for the theatrics but really it has been a lot lately. today especially #not to be like. i will go use cult following video games and weird poetry and sad music to cope #but i will #also i will take the meds and drink water and do all the dumb human necessary stuff. but this isnt really a physical ailment

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jules-hoard-of-stuff · 1 year

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I'm tired of my brain going "what if we just stopped working altogether" or "what if the country rose up against its superiors"

That's not going to work. It never was. The country is too divided and I'm... sick and tired of it

I see countries banding together over their fucked up overlords or doing their best to start a revolution and I know that it will never happen here because of the hold westernized christianity has on the United States.

I wish I didn't live in a country ruled by a cult that performed metaphorical blood and body sacrifices(communion), sang songs about how death will be a release from life and how the saviors blood washes us clean, kills and maims and then uses that blood in their sermons on sunday mornings, and shuns the original religion they came from like they're somehow no longer fit for their standards

I wish i hadnt grown up in it

I almost wish a mass hallucination of god condemning all priests and church workers to step the fuck down would happen

Can someone make that happen? Just like. Put out a mass unskippable youtube ad of god telling hateful christians that they have done wrong and have blood on their hands or???

#Like. even my parents who used to be die hard christians are now removed from the church enough to realize that 90% of it is fucked up #i'm so tired of this cult ruining literally everything about this country #i wish every christian politician a very plagues of egypt upon your household

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jeniffercheck · 8 months

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sorry ur sunk cost fallacy post intrigued me and im scrolling through ur blog now and i need to know which yj character ur talking about in the tags bc i feel the exact same way abt miss matthews unfortunately like love the material! don’t love the fanon interpretation!

it was about miss matthews

#all of my friends are ride or dies for her but they're on twitter so hopefully they stay there today #and i definitely have bias bc i was a m*styn*ater first and season 2 i think completely ruined them #also i didn't fully agree with how they wrote n*t in season 2 and how they wrote her out #but thank god i have ta*v*n my messy milfs #i like l*tt*e but i don't see her as this forgivable blorbo that everyone else does #the teen timeline is whatever like they're kids i dont care about happens there #but a holistic cult compound is particularly also not my cup of tea #IDK i love the acting and everything and i do like her storyline but i HATE how it was singularly a device for n*t's demise last season #that's just what i feel like it was #god help i hope nobody finds this that shouldn't

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purple-goo-writes · 6 months

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What if....

Klarion the Witch Boy was Dan? Slightly reformd no longer destroying the world and de-aged back to 14 Dan Phantom? Except even reformed, Danny's Gremlin Nature and Vlad's Need for Dramatics results in one Chaos Lord fucking with the DC world cause his good older self and Guardian only told him he couldn't kill anyone again.

Plus these mini heroes are so stuffy, they need to live a little! The Light was a bit boring though.

Everything is fine and Dandy until some cultists asshole tries to summon his Dad, thinking the Ghost king was still Pariah Dark. Now he is teaming up with the mini-heroes in order to take down a dark magic cult to stop the summoning, much to their confusion and suspicion.

Robin: why are you helping us?

Klarion/Dan: because Pariah might not be king anymore but who is King will ruin my fun!

YJ: ?!?!

Klarion: *mentally* Dad is soooo Embarrasing! If he is summoned and sees me with the mini-heroes he will he will think I have /shudders/ friends.

#danny phantom #dc x dp #batman #dc x dp prompt #dp x dc #dpxdc #justice league #dp x dc prompt #dp x dc au #young justice

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angeloshadows · 1 year

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#glad to see that theres so many fun games / games that were suggested to me being ruined because the game designer / maker is a pos #ig its time to just become a hermit again.#id rather that than having to deal with the moral dilemas #everything is shitty everyone sucks i dont fucking care anymore im going to bed #vent #ugh no wait im not fucking done im still pissed.#this shit keeps happening but then theres a game literally about cults and people are like Yaay! Nothing wrong with this :D! god #the game makers suck but so do the gamers.

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chococolte · 9 months

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☼ — pietas maris

♱ : my take on sagau childe

including ☆! — him as a worshiper, and his reaction to being your lover ⛧

word count. 5.6k

୨୧ — ꒰ cw. yandere, unhealthy relationships, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, religious + cult themes, cult au, g/n reader. i do not condone yanderes irl. ୨୧ — ꒰ a/n. now time for me to disappear back into the aether for another 6 months

The abyss is cold.

It is unfeeling, lacking warmth and passion. It is relentless, cruel, and unkind. It corrupts, ruins, and does so freely, without remorse or thought. It leaves you clinging to the hot blood in your veins, curled up and hidden in the dark reaches of its void.

Childe had always been versatile; quick to adapt, even at such a young age. He grew used to the emptiness, the swelling numbness, and the eventual gnawing loneliness left in his abdomen. They became a part of him as his lungs, as integral as air; to be without felt odd, foreign.

The glimmer of your existence kept Childe company. He did not know who you were, or how lucky he was— only that you brought him comfort, like an old lullaby, or a blanket worn from overuse. He reached for you when the darkness grew too much, too heavy a burden on his small shoulders.

He came to you with little offerings; small trinkets, tomes of unreadable text. Useless to him, but perhaps you would take pity on him in exchange, and let him take comfort in your presence for another day. Childe came to you with rubble shaped in hearts, the gentle breath of his voice as he spoke of his anxieties. He did not think of them as offerings then, merely gifts— pleadings for you to stay a little longer.

His hands, then unruined and soft, made you a makeshift altar crafted out of whatever he could find. He made sure to build it where he felt your whispers were strongest, where your light entirely overwhelmed the darkness overhead. Childe didn't think of it as an altar then, just a place to settle his findings, where he could pretend his sad, little effigy made of you was actually you.

The idol didn't look much like a person at all, and at the time, he didn't think of his behavior as odd. He desperately clung to you for survival, and with no other warm body besides his own, you were the only one he could talk too.

At times, he thought he was going insane. There was a pleasant buzzing in his ears whenever he neared your doll, as if it were calling him. Despite the fact that he had made it, proven by the tiny scars on his palms, he still felt as if it was yours.

In the darkness, Childe whispered to you. He said everything his mind could think, childishly exaggerated tales in hopes of impressing you. A foolish endeavor, considering you were a God— but he still hoped that maybe you'd think of him kindly, and let him bask in your protective glow for just one more moment.

He couldn't hear your words, but he could feel them. The twinkle of your laughter was like a soft whistle in his ears. When you were pleased, the air would lightly ruffle his hair. Despite how agonizing his loneliness was, at least he had you by his side.

Childe's innocence, as all things do, eventually withered away in that malevolent black.

He thought of you as his teacher; a guiding hand that trained him, molded him to fit against your palm. When he struggled against the abyssal beasts, he could feel you— a soft brush against his hand, a firm hold on his back, keeping him focused. You taught him when to still his blade and when to strike.

In the arches of his sword and polearm, in the taut and tense pull of his bow, in the whirlwind of his catalyst— you were there, shining from beyond the thin veil separating you.

When Childe was ripped out of the abyss, so was his connection to you. Like a thread snapping, he could no longer feel you; not in the darkness overhead, not in the grip of his blade, of the depths of his soul. You were gone, and he was once again nothing but a boy, lost and alone. Friends and family surround him, thankful for his return, but his mind is still reeling, still stuck in the abyss and the sudden emptiness left in your wake.

Despite himself, Childe had hoped you would have stayed, even once he was out. He thought he was done with being naïve, but that clearly wasn't the case.

He can’t feel you anymore. Where did you go? Why did you leave? What did he do wrong? Questions swirl in his head like whirlpools of thought. Childe feels like he's drowning, suffocating in the mess of his mind. His breaths come out short, quick and sharp. His throat squeezes, constricting his airways, as he realizes what's unfolded.

You left him.

He should've known better. On that first day, all you had done was take pity on him by letting him linger in your light. It was his fault for ever believing that he would never have to be alone again. That even if he had no one else, at least he had you.

This was the result of his own failure. If only he had proven himself worthy.

When his family found him, they found him gripping a small, rudimentary doll. Even when they reached their home, Childe was still clutching the thing as if possessed. When they tried tugging it out of his hands, saying it would help him eat better, he ripped it from their grasp, holding it to his chest.

Childe couldn't accept that you had left him so easily. At night, back in his warm bed, Childe tries to whisper to you again. The familiar warmth sinks into his pores, but it's nothing like yours. He nuzzles closer to the doll, ignoring how it tears into his skin.

"I'm here," he whispers.

Maybe you got confused. He knows you're a God, but even the Seven are not omniscient. When he was torn from the abyss, it was possible you hadn't meant to so cruelly cut the connection between you. Maybe you couldn't find him, and so he just has to tell you where he is.

So he whispers to you in the dark, just as he has so many times before.

Only this time, he's met with silence.

In the years that pass, you linger at the forefront of his mind, haunting him like a wraith. Childe can't bring himself to be rid of you, despite how it hurts every time he thinks about you for a little too long. He's still stuck, perpetually waiting for your return, despite how he knows you've long given him up.

Childe becomes Tartaglia, the 11th Harbinger under the Tsaritsa. He takes a new name, a new mask— he executes her orders dutifully, and he does his role perfectly. He acts as if she's you, despite how desperately he wants to believe otherwise. If he closes his eyes for long enough, he can pretend that the cold that seeps into his bones in her presence is yours.

But no matter how many names and identities he takes, he'll always just be your Ajax; the boy who still misses you, despite how short your time together was. And that fact is what burns him the most.

Maybe he should be angry. He knows he has every right to be. Angry that you left him, that you discarded him as if he was nothing. Maybe he should hate you— hate you for leaving him alone, as if you weren't the only thing keeping him sane. Hate you for leaving as if his love didn't matter to you.

He comforts himself by thinking of the time dilation he experienced in the abyss. You cared for him so much that you spun three days into three months. He likes to believe he meant something to you; he must've, because why else would you lengthen your time spent together?

Childe knows it isn't true. He didn't matter enough for you to stay, after all.

At night, Childe finds himself listlessly thinking of you. It's a silent mourning. Quiet tears fall down his cheeks, soaking the pillow beneath his head. He chokes down every heaving sob that threatens to break from his throat; clenches his jaw when they claw too close to his lips. He slaps a hand over his mouth when he's too loud, biting his fingers until they're bloody and marred by his teeth. What would you think if you saw him this weak? Saw the boy you built up crumble, all because he can't feel even the softest traces of your presence anymore?

You would find him pathetic. All he's done is prove that you were right in abandoning him.

When the memory of you is too much to bear, he clutches the effigy in his arms, squeezing it against his chest until it's sharp edges dig into his skin. Even after all these years, he's still kept it close. He tries to feel the visage of you that was once attached to its bearings, whispering for you under the night sky, hoping it'll remind you of your time in the abyss— hoping that tonight he will feel you again, ruffling his hair with tendrils of wind.

He never does.

Childe barely sleeps, but when he does, he dreams of you. You have no body, no face— he can't even begin to imagine what you look like, and he doesn't dare too, even when he knows he has nothing to lose.

He's back in the dark, but you're still there with him, providing him light and comfort. If he knew that leaving would entail being without you, he never would have left at all. Better to be with you than to die without.

Sometimes, he dreams of you staying with him even after he escapes. Your warmth is ever-present. He gifts you riches, now. You have a voice in his dreams, and he can hear you speaking to him. You're kind, and gentle, and he wants for nothing. He has you, and there is nothing more to want.

He dreams he never lost you at all. It makes reality all the more painful.

In a way he knows is pathetic, Childe hopes you at least found him fun. He hopes you found him entertaining, despite how the thought twists his heart and guts into little knots, until he feels vaguely nauseous at the notion. At least then you would have reason to remember him. At least he could say he meant something to you.

In a hidden corner of his room, there sits an altar for you. His wealth as a Harbinger means he has no lack of resources, and so he bejewels the altar until it glimmers even without light. It's obnoxious and opulent to the point of vanity, but he figures that if you like it, he'll earn another whisper of warmth from you— in the vain hope that you hear him at all anymore.

With his hands, now calloused and worn, he carves sigils into whalebone. He doesn't know what they mean, but they were numerous in the abyss; and so he etches them into bone, hoping that whatever they mean, it reaches you.

Childe pushes himself more than he should. His back aches from all the weight he carries on his shoulders, but he trudges forward despite how it hurts. He is more fervent in conflicts, and spectacular scenes of blood and viscera follow him every time he walks onto a battlefield.

His tongue forms words of devotion for the Tsaritsa as he slays another enemy, blood staining his fingers, but in his heart, he only ever speaks of you.

When he fights, Childe can lose himself. He can focus entirely on the movement of his feet, the precision of his blade. He can ignore how badly he misses you, and how in the back of his mind, he desperately hopes that the more blood he sheds with your teachings, you'll find him satisfactory.

Adrenaline rushes through his veins, and once again he lets himself be drowned by the rush, letting himself forget all of his pain.

Childe is proud of the way that no one can recognize his style of fighting. It is exact and sharp— every strike hitting its target with ease, filled with vigor and intensity. He enjoys the gazes of jealousy, but remains silent when asked. My teacher taught me, he says. He sheds no further light on the matter, and any instance someone shows interest in learning from him, he instantly refuses. Childe wishes to keep you close to his chest, a guarded secret known only to him.

Childish, perhaps. He knows it is. But if he can't have you, then he will have the knowledge of you. He will keep it to himself, and there it will stay, safe in his tight grip.

It drives him insane, the way sees you in everything. When night falls, covering the sky in a blanket of stars, he wonders if you're staring at him from above. When the tides of the sea brush against the shore, he finds himself thinking of you as the moon— you are what anchors him, despite the fact that he hasn't felt you in so long. In his eyes, there is nothing you could not be, and with every breath, he only ever misses you more.

It's during his mission in Liyue that he feels you again. Childe is unable to breathe when he meets the Traveler, sensing you watching from their eyes. His heart thunders in his chest, tempestuous as a storm over the sea.

For a moment, he's happy. You're finally back. He wants nothing more than to run to you, to ask you why you left for so long, to ask how he can make you stay, but then he feels you— a familiar pressure bearing down on him, forcing him to say anything but what he wants to.

Childe watches the Traveler's back fade as it finally clicks for him.

You abandoned him for someone else. You left him... for this. The thought sends him reeling. You left him, just to go spend time with someone else— to give them the same company you gave him, to give them the same guidance you gave him— was he merely replaceable to you?

Was he just a test for you?

He should be angry. And he is, but the heartbreak overwhelms him. He's left choking, battling for air. The agony of having been tossed to the side, of having it be affirmed in front of his eyes. He wants to scream and cry, beg for you to return; but his throat squeezes every time he meets the Traveler, and the words die on his tongue.

You don't want him to speak. He's meant to play along.

Childe had waited for you for so long. Even after all this time, he couldn't get rid of the painful hope that you'd return. He had done his best to bottle his emotions, to keep them shut and locked inside, so that you wouldn't be disappointed in him upon your arrival. Proud that he never doubted you for a moment.

But he had. He had doubted you, cried at the lack of your comfort. Afraid of what it meant to be without you. Fearful of living, never getting to gleam your existence for a second time— and now you want him to pretend as if he never knew you.

As if he can't see the slight smugness in the Traveler's eyes.

His fight with the Traveler is personal. He bares his teeth, snarling like a rabid dog. His every strike is fast, precise with the intent to kill and maim. Childe hopes his emotions reach you, that you know of his bitterness and acrimony. That you know of how long he wished for you, how long he yearned for you to come back— how his frustration has twisted into pure rage, turned into a fine point.

He just has to simply show you how he's better. He has to show you that he's superior in every way to your choice. That you should've chosen him over them.

They are undeserving; watch how he rips through them like they are nothing, slicing through them like they are mist over sea. They are unworthy; see how easily he beats them into submission, how easily they crumble at his feet. The matter of the Gnosis is nothing to him, now— only whether you see how he should be the one you prefer.

It's then that he feels it. Your rage. Your anger at having been battered and bruised. The Traveler stands back up, but something is different now. Their strikes are fluid, prowess and skill increased by an outside force.

You.

Do you hate him that badly? Detest him so much, to go so far as to bless another with your strength so they can prove themselves to be his better? Even in his Foul Legacy form, Childe is forced to retreat; forced to bow his head in defeat, weakened by the burden of his transformation.

The realization leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He's done the exact opposite of what he set out to do. All he's proven is that your right.

Childe feels your crushing weight bearing down on him. He spits the words out, calls them 'friend' through clenched teeth. He dances to your whims, just as he had previously. Unnatural, stiff movements and words that speak the opposite of what he means.

And then you're gone, left along with them. He stares at their fading back. He can almost imagine you beside them, walking by their side just as you once did his.

It hurts.

The next time he feels you, there is no sign of the Traveler. Only a tight pulling in his chest.

He doesn't know what it means, or what it entails. But he follows, sensing you at the end, waiting for him. Childe doesn't allow himself to hope; that maybe, you have come around. That maybe you do care. That maybe, you never hated him— not truly. That you missed him just as he missed you.

Maybe he meant something, after all.

When he reaches you, he feels it. You're happy. You're happy with him. He feels you reaching out, tickling him with strands of your will. You brush against his skin, burrow deep inside. Childe lets you, still unable to breathe.

He wonders if this is really happening. Have you come back to him, truly? Have you finally realized how much better he is? He feels you graze his soul, reaching deep within. Childe feels you envelop him, swathing him in warmth and comfort.

You're home, you whisper.

He only hears the ghost of your voice, a chime in the wind; but he hears the intent, the meaning behind your unintelligible words, even though he can't understand them.

Childe breaks.

SANGUINE NATUS ; first meeting/as a worshiper

If even just your breath could leave him weak, then seeing you for the first time makes his knees give out underneath him.

It's a foolishly embarrassing display, but Childe can't find it in himself to care. He falls to his knees quicker than his mind can catch up, unconsciously posturing himself to make himself seem as small and harmless as possible— anything to make you stay, even if it means sabotaging his image.

He tucks his shoulders inward, struggling between looking at you until his eyes burn and your image is seared into the back of his eyelids, or averting his gaze because just touching you with them feels like he's sullying you somehow.

His breath comes out short and sharp, his entire chest heaving with each shuddering, raspy exhale. Before he can even manage a sound, he's sobbing, crumpling to the floor— there's no care taken to your perception of him now, only the wailful cries of one lost in the weight of your eyes. Childe knows he's being pathetic, a mess of airy desperation and red eyes; everything he was when he felt the ghost of you leave him, and everything he wished you'd never see. But it's you, and for the first time, he can truly feel your eyes on him.

It's all too much to bear.

"I-It's you, it's you—!" Childe manages to choke, wet tears caking the apples of his face. His eyes strain, burning to see the visage of you through the blur of his vision. Nausea bites at him, his abdomen a sudden storm from the tears that lick at his cheeks.

Childe has always been austere in his worship; strict, solemn in how he acts out every religious rite. There is an icy silence unlike him as he moves, particularly whenever your sanctity is involved. His fingers still tremble despite his stiffness, the desperation loud in every twitch of his limbs. The desire to see you, after all is said and done.

Seeing you for the first time feels as though a wave has overtaken him, drowning him in brine and the cerulean of muddy waters. There is no hiding what he could barely contain before— jerky movements filled with need and the dolor of one disappointed before.

Childe no longer finds himself able to veil it by lies and rushing fights of adrenaline; now, it lies bare, and there's no burning ache to keep it hidden.

His fervor is relentless; a feverish desire to please you coalescing until it's unbearable for his skin. Your reaction to his cries could have been cruel or kind, and it wouldn't have bothered him; all that matters is whether he has finally proven himself worthy of standing by your side.

His worship is eager words spilling from his lips at night, the echo of your name a murmur from his mouth like the sigh of the ocean's waves-- his blades stained red, limp at his sides-- the burning in the back of his throat that comes from years of pleading.

You're here now, even if he can't be with you at all times; and that knowledge leaves him whispering to you, uttering every thought without a moment of reconsideration. It is a ceaseless endeavor, as every word is listless praise and endless adoration. There isn't a moment where he isn't thinking of you in some way, and the mere thought of the opposite leaves him feeling vaguely sick.

He wants to think of you all the time. Though it's such a small thing, in his mind, he has you all to himself— in the sense that there is no one else to take your eyes off of him— there, he can make you happy; there, he can make you proud of him. In that world, you have no reason to be rid of him.

Childe's always kept his habit of crafting you makeshift gifts. They're rugged, imperfect things, but laden with his fingerprints and the palms of his hands. Before, he could only set them still on his altar for you, and hope that it pleased you somehow. He was only ever met with silence, but he could pretend you were happy with him, and the idea alone was enough.

When he catches sight of a sea conch, its pale marks swirled across its smooth surface, he can only think of handing it to you. It's a beautiful thing, and so simple and crude a gift; but maybe you will find worth in such a thing, the simplicity of its nature, and praise him for it.

He gives them to you physically now, unable to shake the urge to do so. His hands always tremble when he hands them over, his knees threatening to buckle underneath him whenever your fingers brush against his. He will never fail to drown in the sensation, allowing everything that he is to become thoughts of you.

Childe has always worshiped you in bloodshed. In the past, he hoped it would leave you satisfied enough to come back; now, it's to prove how much better he is than everyone else. His fear runs deep, like cracks in the earth far below the water's surface, and the sickening feeling of dread whenever you praise someone else suffocates him.

It's unreasonable, he knows, and he has no reason to fear, not anymore— but his heart still quickens at the thought, and his stomach still twists.

It's an all too familiar feeling. When he was first torn from you, he felt as though his heart had been ripped right out of him; and the panic he feels only reminds him of it.

When he's inevitably forced away from you on another mission, he deals with it as quickly as possible, no matter how bloodied or bruised he leaves it. He is brutally unkind in his workings, his words always terse and clipped; a slight edge that never really seems to go away until he knows you're somewhere nearby.

It's when he's forced to stay away from you for a longer period of time that he breaks completely. Upon his return, he is instantly back at your side, heaving sobs and ugly tears running down his face. He can barely think, and a flurry of slurred words leaves his lips— begging to never leave your side again.

Childe knows better than to think he is deserving of your kindness, but he’s desperate to at least stay in your shadow. There, he could stay near you, even if he was swathed in black— even if his only glimpse of you was your back, he would be in bliss. To be near you in some form is all he could ever ask of you.

For all of the power you have granted him, it's only right that he use it for you. A mere word from anyone that isn't pure praise has his grip on his weapon tightening, the tendons on his hand taut and his knuckles pale. He remains entirely oblivious to any moral ambiguity in your actions— whatever you do is right and just; as you are the only one worthy of judging yourself, he does not dare too.

Instead, Childe draws his blade in judgement of others— he will act as your hand and executioner, the arbiter of your faith; it's with only vigor that he hands out punishment, a ferocity bold and true.

AMANS IN SPINIS IACET ; as your lover

Childe's dreams have begun to take a sudden turn.

It's not anything he can control, despite how hard he tries too. They pleased him at first, even though he still couldn't help the way his heart tightened at the idea of you somehow knowing. At that time, they weren't occurring enough for him to be worried, and the content themselves were innocent enough for him to think nothing of it.

You held him close to you, pressing benign kisses across his freckled cheeks, playing with his hair with soft fingers; little things that he could believe meant nothing at all, just a desire to feel your affection in the only way his mortal heart knew how.

The dreams turn nightly, and Childe finally realizes it's much more than that.

It begins at signs of your favoritism. Glances that last more than they should, summoning him to your chambers more frequently; Childe does not deny you, and he can't help the faint giddiness that clouds his mind every time he feels your gaze linger on him. It's a euphoric sensation to know that he is the one you are looking at; no one else. Only barely does he manage to rein in his emotions every time.

You speak much softer to him, and your touch is more affectionate. He turns drunk on your approval, willingly dancing to your whims if it meant having your fingers coiled in his hair for another moment. Before he can stop himself for even daring to think it, Childe lets himself believe he's special to you— and that is where the problem arises.

The thoughts don't stop. Even if he screams to drown out the noise, they still manage to be so loud. The dreams are relentless, more loving, more vivid. He can feel the warmth of your palms as you caress his cheeks, the weight of your breath when you draw your head near; they feel so real, that for a moment, he thinks you're the one sending them to him.

He feels as though he's dirtying you in some form, as if he is the one committing an unforgivable sin against you; somehow managing to desecrate you with just his thoughts alone. The idea sends him into a panic-induced frenzy, kneeling before his altar with rushed, unintelligible apologies on his lips.

Despite his self-hatred, whenever he wakes from one, Childe is left blissfully dazed, nuzzling into his pillow with hazy clarity— pretending that it's you, instead. He wonders what it would be like if his dreams were real, if he could really be so special to you in such a way; entirely irreplaceable, entirely yours.

It doesn't take long for his will to be eroded by his desperation. His desire to resist was already hanging by a thread, and as the dreams persist, any resistance on his end is lost. He falls ever deeper into an abyss of his own making, allowing himself to be undone by his own creation.

Childe has always been needy, but as his feelings rear their ugly head, it only grows worse. He has always loved you— and he had been struggling to choke his own feelings down for as long as he could, fooling himself into believing that they didn't exist in the first place. In his eyes, it's only right that you be the one to shake the foundation he lay; making him crumble until every dark part of himself is laid bare in front of you, only for your eyes.

There's a drastic increase in his desperation to be near you, and any lack of refusal on your part only exacerbates it. He neglects his duties entirely in favor of staying by you in some way or another, be it either by your side, or following you from a distance like a lost puppy.

Your admittance of feelings only makes Childe more fervent. He can barely hear himself speak, his heart fluttering against his ribcage like a caged canary. He can barely believe anything you're saying, and for a moment, he wonders if he's lost in another dream of his.

At your assurance, Childe doesn't dare to doubt you any longer. He falls entirely into you, allowing you to consume his every thought. He doesn't think to fight back, letting you envelop him until his every breath is coated in your name. He is yours, and he has no desire for anything more.

His desire for your approval now emboldens him. Childe's always acted out of an interest in garnering your attention, and though he now knows of your feelings, it does nothing to satiate him; instead, it leaves him hungrier, greedy with an eagerness to please.

He doesn't take from you without asking, but he asks enough for it to be a nuisance. Your affection is everything to him, and he can't bear to go a moment without it. He asks to lay his head in your lap, for you to play with his hair— the loss of your touch is the loss of himself, and sends him reeling back to memories of when he was without you.

The first time you kiss him, his legs instantly give out underneath him, a small groan leaving his lips. Childe doesn't bother to dull his reactions; you deserve to know how easily weakened he is by your touch, with even a brush of your fingers enough to leave him breathless and wanting.

As your favorite, Childe is quick to be rid of any competition. Whether or not you see them as possible suitors doesn't even cross his mind— the fear that snakes around his heart is ever-present, and if they're better than him in some form, it only grows in persistence. He doesn't hurt them, because surely that would upset you, and any devotee of you is worthy of respect— but he is quick to showcase his superiority, and to do so broadly without shame.

Childe grows used to his new status, and uses it to stay by your side constantly. Any attention you give to others is met with instant jealousy, seething glares sent to whoever stole your gaze, even if they only preoccupied a second of your mind.

He could never be mad at you, as clearly the fault lies within himself.

Any signs of your likes and dislikes are instantly noted. If you compliment someone for their behavior, he begins to emulate it, or at least he tries too. If you like Zhongli for how well he executes your orders, then Childe will be the same; only he will do it better, quicker, and prove himself still deserving of your love.

If he were perfect, then you would have no need for anyone else. If he were perfect, he would never have to worry about whether you'll grow bored of him the moment he stops being entertaining enough.

The thought of you with another leaves Childe sick without fail. He knows he has no control over you, and that if you wished to be rid of him, he would willingly walk into whatever punishment awaited him— but now that he has tasted what it feels like to be so utterly yours, he can't bear to imagine another sharing the same treatment.

You kissing another, holding another, letting someone else lay against you; all of it only serves to further blur his vision. Even if it is sinful of him to feel, he can't stop the emotions from swirling in his chest.

You are everything; the earth laid beneath his feet, the foundation of which he relies on. To be without you is to fall, to be without you means death; and if he must carve his skin and bone to fit the picture you want him to be, then he shall.

#[🦇] — my writing #genshin impact #yandere genshin #sagau #yandere male #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #genshin x reader #self aware genshin #yandere childe #sagau childe #self aware childe #genshin cult au #cult au childe

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tarjapearce · 7 months

Text

Laus Be

WARNINGS: SMUT. Double cock Demon Miguel, Not proofreaded, Mild dub-con, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

A/N: I'm high af on Advil and had to take this out of my system before I forgot. And yeah jskjs. Probably comes out as crack fic jsksj.

[Laus Be - Praised Be]

Summary: A cult offers you as a tribute to the Demon King himself ~

Viscous crimson liquid rolled off your chin as you were forced the goblet on your lips. Some of its remnants seeping and sliding down your throat.

The chants of cloaked figure around you intensified as they prepared their sacrificial lamb for slaughter. You.

They had not only kidnapped and kept you in the shadows for a while, depriving you from external stimuli that could soil what they had in hand.

Silence had turned your biggest company in the dark, stony, fusty and humid cell, you were being fed with selected things. And no matter how much you begged, they never released you.

You didn't know them, neither their faces, as them remained perpetually obscured by the cloaks. The only indicator they were human was the fresh smell of charred flesh in the back of their palms. A skull like spider symbol burned and forever marked into their skin.

You were kept in the dark until now. Everyone spoke in a foreign language you've never heard before.

One of them dragged you away from the twisted comfort your cell provided you, another group, bathed you in such delicate oils and perfumes, a common practice among the royals, and finally donned in nothing but a white silky and lace robe.

Then you were taken to another room, more like dragged, a golden chalice brought to you. The sickly sweet smelling concoction stared directly at you, but naturally, you refused.

Do not ever accept a drink from a stranger.

Wise words from your old man came into mind, but the wistful thought was shaken away as the liquid was forced down on your throat. Some droplets staining your angelic appearance. Their cloaked leader seemed annoyed you had ruined the immaculate purity your dress limned.

But it mattered not. Not when you were guided to a different room. A room that immediately lit on its own, revealing several pentagrams carved on the floor and walls. Candles melted, but they seemed perpetually alight, neverending incandescence illuminating and warming the room.

An appalling contrast from your cell, from the place in general. There was no windows, not a glimpse of anything that could dictate you who reigned over the skies. Day or night. Your sense of time had been so warped you couldn't even tell how many days your stance in this place had been.

Your eyes felt heavy, droopy and your body shivered. The perkiness of your breast peeking through the silky and soiled gown. One of the cloaked figures pulled you inside the outer circles of the first pentagram.

The contact of their skin made you whimper. You didn't know what had came over you, but certainly that sweet drink you were forced down a little ago, had everything to do with it.

The gates closed behind you, as the mystery people surrounded you. All of them kneeled as their voices united in an ancient chant.

Your mouth panted as they repeated the chant.

Laus be, Rex tuus [Praised be, Our King]

Your heart thumped harder, as your temperature increased. Heat and fear spreading through your body as the circles of the pentagrams begun buzzing with dark energy, soaring into life.

The chants increased, and so the smoldering heat between your legs.

An Aphrodisiac?

You didn't know not cared. The only thing in your mind was to run, as fiery red eyes emerged from the dark mist that disippated into tangible black spiders. Spiders that approached to you in a freakish speed.

Egredere de requiem tuam!

[Rise from your slumber]

You fell on your knees. The presence of the emerging entity had your insides cry in sheer need. Your body was rioting against all rational thought. Need clawed and begged to be acknowledged, but fear clung so hard you tried in crawling away, only for a hand to reach for your ankle and drag you back.

"No!"

You whimpered as the spiders crawled on you, panic rose at seeing them jumping all over your body, you tried to shake them off in your haste, but a low growl made you still. Deliciously low and dangerous. Your heart and clit pulsed.

No, no, no! Run!

The little crawlers hopped on your body again, to your shock, they melded together, taking the shape of hands that were now caressing whatever exposed piece of skin you had as other tugged and tore at the ceremonial robe, forcing you deeper in the pentagram circles, right before the demon.

Palms brushed on your bare body, by instinct you tried to cover up, a pair of hands stopped you. Black mist hands held your arms above you, wrist together as the rest proded at your outer folds, squeezed your breast together, pinched your nipples, kneaded your hips and ass.

"S-Stop!" You mouth lied and the demon before you smirked. His sharp and well sculpted factions revealed to you. Despite the horns attached to his forehead, he was as beautiful as terrifying. Sharp teeth shone when he plunged his big thumb inside your lips, toying with your warmth and moist tongue.

"Don't fight it"

Raspy and underwordly voice echoed through the walls

The summoned hands ventured a couple of fingers inside your now soaked hole. Your eyes drooped even further. A debauched expression coming through your flushed face. You licked his thumb, and engulfed it with closed eyes as the fingers slid in and out of you.

"Surrender to me"

He growled as another finger stretched your squelching and pulsating cunt. His thumb twirled against your tongue as his body took it's final shape. Broad and well sculpted torso, narrow waist with a sight that made you clench around his fingers and your mouth water. Hard and proud cocks, adorned with thick veins, a happy trail decorating the above.

The chants never stopped, but it didn't matter. You were focused on his deep and alluring voice that called you into the depths of depravity where he came from. You were a sacrifice offered for him to devour.

Pushed on your knees and crawling to him, whimpering as his fingers slid faster out of you, edging you to your first demise.

His clawed hand took gently your chin, holding it open as his other hand took one of his hefty cocks and fed you the tip, you immediately took a hold of the other one, stroking your hand on it. All inhibitions gone as your mouth worked him. He tasted rich, tangy and so addictive. He cackled at your shameless cock worship. Both mouth and hand wet and warm.

Your tongue was desperate to taste every inch of him, your eyes glowed in the same red hue. Your strokes on his second cock went faster, nearly fisting him between a tight grip. He hummed in approval

"So eager to please" He grunted and pushed deeper inside you, the stretch in your jaw was worth the pain as he slid in and out of your plump mouth. His hand bobbed your head on his length, coating him with a mix of your saliva and his pre cum.

You gagged but he pushed you as deeper as he could, holding your head still as his hips rammed on your lips, Your nose nuzzling and inhaling his musky and tantalizing scent that not only sent your senses in a stronger riot. He growled as your throat muscles clamped around him, tightly, just like your hand.

"Wonder if it's as tight between your thighs"

He rasped with a grunt and thrusted a few more times before releasing your head. A thick thread of his cum connecting your lips with his tip. You gasped, mouth gaping as the soft and wet noises kept coming from his soaked fingers. Your need to hold onto something only increased as your hips moved on their own, sinking deeper ontop of them.

"Pl... Please!" You mewled in between breathless pants. Your flesh soaked and quivered under his ministrations, imploring to be taken

"Are you begging to be destroyed, little one? Is that what you want?"

You nodded and his sharp fangs came into view as a wicked smile stretched in his meaty lips.

"So be it."

You mewled once more as he pulled his summoned fingers away from your slit, snake like tongue curling around them, taking a taste of you. He growled and pushed you to the floor.

Summoned hands immediately taking a hold of your body, spreading your legs for him to take in the sight of you. His lips were brought into sight as he approached your puffed and drenched cunt.

Slimy and amphibious like tongue slid between shivering folds, to then push in inside you. Clawed hands brought your hips against his mouth. Your hands clenched in tight fists at the pressure

His slithering and coiling tongue made you scream at the overwhelming sensation of him instigating your orgasm. His tongue was a bully, just as his hands that toyed with your clit and butthole.

Your nipples, engorged by the constant pinching and pulling. Toes curled in as you came into his mouth. As he left you, your insides felt empty, in dire need to be filled again.

One would think after such ministration the effects of the lust would tame down, but since the chant of the cloaked figures never stopped, your lust didn't subsided either. It only burned with such intensity you were growing to fear.

The handsome devil positioned himself between your legs, his sprung cocks twitched, ready to be plunged. The summoned hands folded you in half, exposing your holes to him.

The fist one rubbed in between your folds, coating it even further in your slick as the other one poked at your second tight hole.

"Oh God!" You cried as he stretched tortuously slow both of your holes at the same time, only to end up in a powerful plow as you mentioned 'god'.

He growled as his hand squeezed your neck, dangerously tight. Your arms restrained above you

"You'll see what a real god , feels like, wench"

Your spine arched as his hips began moving. To say you felt full was a measly thing compared to how your body was being used. Your lower belly bulged everytime he slid in, he pulled out only to plow deeper. Your skin shook by the rough display of power.

The hands that kept feeding your delusional debauchery, held you in place. The room was filled with your breathless and unceasing pleas and needy cries. A lot of 'Yes!' along with 'It hurts so good' and more 'use me!'

Your hips felt like breaking by the hefty weight of his own as they slapped against yours. Your senses were drowning in the sensorial overload he slowly put you through.

Skin burned, your nose kept smelling him, sweet and musky, adding to your already overwhelmed arousal, His taste reminiscing on your tongue, Your eyes locked in his cocks and how these disappeared into you, taking you to a new level of pleasure you'd never thought reaching. And hearing his growls everytime you clenched around him made you reach your second orgasm right away, despite him just starting using you.

"Pathetic" He sneered

His thrust increased in strength, making you spill out broken pleas and incoherent mumblings. The rough friction felt like nirvana itself. Overstimulation was devastatingly delicious.

Hands turned your convulsing form down. Chest flat against the floor, your arms were restrained behind your back by his demonic hand, and your plump ass, up, awaiting to be ruined.

You took a look at the hooded figures, none of them were looking, but they kept kneeling and chanting like their lives depended on it.

The new stretch on both your holes made your eyes roll back and your jaw to slack.

An array of lewd curses flew out your moaning mouth. His cocks fought for which hole came first. Your sobs choked and were replaced by mild grunts and screams as your body lurched forward at the force his god like body exerted on you.

Bot of your holes were shaped into his girths, stretching and welcoming him despite their continuous bullying.

The back of your thighs tainted red by the rough slaps and thrusts.

Another orgasm for you. Both holes clamped and creamed around him, his cue for giving you a little break that didn't last much as he laid on his back and sheathed you ontop, earning a weakened and shivering scream from you.

"I can't!" The hands held you again, helping your hips to move up and down as they spreaded yours ontop of his thighs.

A frown came into his face, with a swift movement of his hands, he made the summoned limbs to sheathe you faster and rougher. Your slick rolling down his thighs. His hand pulled your hair down as you wailed like a banshee in need.

As much as you wanted to close your legs, it was impossible. Pleasure turned borderline painful as his other hand squeezed your throat. The asphyxia only increased the brain splitting sensations.

The demon king only laughed with sultry mockery at your state. He wasn't even half satisfied, and you were already losing your mind.

What was it? Four? five? The clenching and sobbing from you just confirmed the fifth one.

"Giving up so soon?"

This time, he cradled you into his arms and summoned a throne. A throne where he'd sit down and sunk you once more ontop of him.

You shook your head vehemently, trying to get away. Your arms were numb behind your back. Both holes deliciously stretched, empty and a tired face Miguel still found amusing and endearing as to how you reacted.

He was holding back after the third orgasm. Humans felt always welcoming. But you, you felt heavenly.

So tight and delicious. A need he had to sate every year. The past tributes were outright awful. You had been entertaining him for quite a while now.

His free hand cupped your cheek before his lips crashed onto yours. He moved his hips in a slow motion, trying to give your raving a pause as he took his time in exploring your mouth with his own and his tongue.

Your moist muscle opposed little at the slithering and coiling one that had you breathless in matter of seconds. Your body glistened in sweat. Hair strands etched to your neck, super back and cheeks. Flushed flesh and a dumb gone look that made you even more worthy to look at.

He had ruined you. And it was time to reward your outlasting.

His lips let you go and his hips began moving once more. You couldn't even utter a proper word. Voice hoarse and raspy. Mouth dry.

As he kept pounding and relishing your broken body, you couldn't help but collide against his chest and arch your back, creaming at the base of his first cock as your ass squeezed his second

He took a fistful of your front strands and seized your face as pleasure flooded your senses once more.

"Eyes on me, wench"

Miguel commanded despite your obvious struggle to remain conscious. His pace increased and so did your panting.

Breast bounced mercilessly at his rutting, his lips came closer to yours, you moaned into each other's mouths, before his moved to your neck.

He whispered and groaned things in that ancient language before kissing your tender flesh and biting with his fangs. Marking you as you came with a weakened yelp.

His hand let your arms go to then secure you in a tight embrace while growling and plowing deep enough to have thick spurts of his seed painting your tight and sore walls.

You had achieved what no other lamb had. You had appeased him.

For now.

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