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#this was before I was born but the priest was the one who cleaned him out and it’s one of the hardest games he ever played
valeskafics · 7 months
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"A Friend In Need" - Modern!Osferth x Reader x Modern!Sihtric Kjartansson
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Summary: When your best friends Osferth and Sihtric learn that your ex never made you come, they decide that it's time to give their friend a helping hand.
Word Count: 2,250
Rating: 18+, Minors DNI
TW: she/her pronouns, afab reader, profanity, innuendo, overstim, oral f receiving, p in v sex, ass eating, fingering, anal fingering, anal sex, double penetration my beloved
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the The Last Kingdom characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.
Comments, likes, and reblogs are never required but are immensely appreciated ❤️
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When you tell your best friends, Osferth and Sihtric, about your recent breakup with your boyfriend, Æthelwold, the two of them are, in a word, ecstatic.
“Oh, thank you, Jesus,” Osferth says, making a sign of the cross while Sihtric bursts into laughter, “I always believed in you, Lord, but now this is proof!”
You give him an annoyed glare, elbowing him in the gut, “How about some fuckin’ sympathy, huh?”
“Why would we sympathize? This is the best thing that could’ve happened to you,” Sihtric retorts, “I mean, you are a stone cold ten and he was a, what, a three?”
“If that,” Osferth scoffs, “Ugly little guy.”
“He’s your cousin, that’s not nice,” you protest half-heartedly as you walk into their tattoo parlor, “You share your genes with him, you know.”
“And yet I manage to not look like an ugly turd,” Osferth says, poking your side, earning a yelp, “Fancy that.”
“Okay, fine, whatever, I’m gonna go home and listen to Adele and wallow in self pity, drowning myself in a tub of Haagen Dazs,” you grumble, getting ready to head back to the apartment the three of you share, “One of you needs to take care of dinner. I’m distraught.”
“Aw, she’s distraught her ugly boyfriend dumped her,” Sihtric coos, poking your cheek, “She’s distraught that little piece of weasel shit isn’t in her life anymore.”
You try to keep a straight face but begin laughing at Sihtric’s words, “Fine, okay, I’m not sad about it, but you guys still need to take care of dinner! I’m serious!”
“I will cook you the best dinner you’ve had in your entire life,” Osferth declares.
You turn to Sihtric immediately, “I am begging you not to let him anywhere near a stove.”
Osferth’s jaw drops and he turns to Skade, who’s just come back from tattooing a client, “Skade! Is my cooking that bad?”
She stares at him and replies in a monotone voice, “Osferth, I would rather go to church and give some cunt priest my confession than eat anything you make ever again.”
You feel some sympathy at the wounded puppy dog look Osferth has on his face and walk up to him, gently taking his hand and squeezing it, “Hey, you always find the best restaurants and you’re the one who keeps the apartment looking clean. You don’t need to be perfect at everything, you know. Anyway,” you turn back to Sihtric, “Are you still doing my belly button piercing tomorrow?”
“Why don’t you want me to do it?” Osferth whines.
“Because you did her last tat! It’s my turn,” Sihtric snarks before turning back to you, “Yeah, we’ve got you on the books, babe. Now, go on back to the apartment, we’ll pick up some take away from that one Thai place down the street and have a movie night. Your choice.”
“Okay, perfect,” you give him a quick kiss on the cheek goodbye, then one to Osferth, bounding out the door with a spring in your step, saying goodbye to Finan and Uhtred, who appear to be entering just as you leave.
“What’s got her in such a peppy mood?” Uhtred asks, amused.
“Thai food, horror movies, and newfound singledom,” Sihtric replies, ringing up the client Skade just tattooed.
“Oh,” Finan smirks, “So which of you is going to finally make a move then?”
“What?” Osferth shakes his head vehemently, “Oh, no, it’s not like that!”
“We’re friends,” Sihtric agrees, “It’s completely platonic.”
Uhtred scoffs, “Yeah, sure, alright. You know, I may have been born at night, but I wasn’t born last night.”
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The three of you sit on your second (or more likely third) hand couch, boxes of pad thai, fried rice, egg rolls, and red curry spread out in front of you, Jennifer’s Body playing on your tv. You watch as Needy and her boyfriend have sex for the first time and bark out a laugh as she lets out a moan, tossing an empty box at the television.
“Ha! Liar! She’s faking! He’s a useless little man, Needy! You can do better!”
Sihtric gives you an incredulous look, “What are you going on about now?”
“She’s not faking,” Osferth adds.
“I know all about faking,” you continue, taking another bite of your noodles, “All about it! You know your fuckhead cousin never made me come? Not once in this fucking two year long relationship. Not a single orgasm that wasn’t at my own hands.”
Sihtric chokes on the soda he’s drinking while Osferth’s face turns a bright shade of pink, the former responding, “You can’t be serious.”
“I am so fucking serious,” you grumble, “And you know what? Thyra, Skade, all the girls said get rid of him! He’s not worth it! And his ass never went down on me once-”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Osferth holds up a hand, “You mean… He never,” he whispers the next words as though the three of you are gossiping in the back of one of the lecture halls, “He never ate you out?”
“No, Osferth, he most certainly did not!” you snap, “I have been a victim of subpar missionary sex with a man who has a micropenis cocklet for the last two years-”
“What’s a cocklet?” Sihtric cuts you off, looking at you entirely confused.
“It’s like a cock, but little. Like a chode.”
Osferth chokes on his drink now, looking at you with wide eyes, “Æthelwold has a micropenis?”
“Uh huh.”
“I still can’t get over the fact that he never made you finish,” Osferth mutters after a minute, “I mean, if I was your boyfriend, I’d be obsessed with making you feel good. I’d eat you out for hours.”
You swallow thickly, somewhat ashamed of the way his words go straight to your core, crossing your legs in the hope of getting some friction, “Ha ha, Osferth, you’re funny.”
“No, he’s right,” Sihtric murmurs, leaning in to whisper in your ear, “If I was your boyfriend, I’d eat that pretty little pussy until you were crying, begging me to stop, and then I’d give you my dick instead.”
Osferth, emboldened by the little whimper you let out at Sihtric’s words, leans in on your other side, his hand moving to rest on your thigh, “I’d make you come undone on my tongue over and over. Suck on those tits after. Fuck you until you can’t walk straight.”
“Hell, we could both do it,” Sihtric smirks, “Osferth in your pussy, me in your ass. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, baby?”
“I,” you stutter, “Guys?”
“You have to know we’ve both wanted you forever,” Osferth says, his hand moving to tease you over your leggings, smirking at the shiver you let out, “Since high school, in fact. So mean of you not to ever give us a chance, princess.”
“Really mean,” Sihtric agrees, the two of them sharing a wicked little grin, “I think we should get to punish you now.”
You yelp as Osferth stands up and tosses you over his shoulder, “Osferth, what the-” you’re cut off with a firm slap to your ass, “Hey!”
Sihtric follows the two of you to Osferth’s bedroom, where the blond lays you down on his bed, moving to one of your sides while Sihtric goes to the other.
Osferth moves to toy with the waistband of your leggings before sliding his hand in, fingers stroking languidly at your pussy, never pushing inside, just teasing you. Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt as you try to grind against his hand, earning a quiet chuckle from him. Sihtric pushes the fabric of your tank top up, revealing your tits to him, taking one in his mouth, the metal of his tongue piercing moving across your nipple, those different colored eyes fixed on yours. You whimper as he begins suckling at one of your breasts, the warmth from his mouth and the cool metal of the ring being an intoxicating contrast. Meanwhile, Osferth begins pumping two of his fingers in and out of you, slowly at first, but then faster and faster, his lips moving to capture yours in a searing kiss, swallowing every little moan and whimper you let out. You feel his thumb circling your clit, one hand moving to run through Sihtric’s hair and the other clinging to Osferth’s shirt. You feel the pressure building up inside of you, slowly but surely, getting closer and closer to the edge, until Osferth gives your pussy a light slap and the levy breaks.
“Oh my God,” you cry out as you reach your peak against his fingers, “Fuck fuck fuck-”
Hardly allowing you any time for reprieve, Sihtric rids you of your shirt and leggings entirely, leaving you bare in front of them. He moves away from you to strip down himself, as does Osferth, revealing their lithe, muscular bodies to you, decorated in tattoos and piercings, almost like they’re works of art unto themselves. Sihtric positions himself between your legs while Osferth begins mouthing at your breast that Sihtric neglected. You let out a moan as you feel Sihtric’s breath against your cunt, and then, you feel his tongue licking a stripe along your folds before delving inside of you, lapping at you like a man starved. You nearly scream his name when moves to roll his tongue against your clit, dragging his piercing over it, the sensation being almost too much to bear, while Osferth continues mouthing at your tits, those pretty lips of his curved so perfectly around them.
Sihtric brings you over the edge with a cry of his name, your second climax hitting you harder than your first. You lay there, dazed, as he and Osferth switch positions again, and Osferth’s lips immediately find your clit, focusing on it, suckling at it as he lets out lewd moans, the vibration of which intensifies everything for you. He moves his fingers in and out of you again, three this time, filling you up so perfectly that you can hardly bear it. Sihtric kisses you lazily, and you taste the evidence of your arousal on his tongue, tangy yet sweet and not at all unpleasant. Osferth continues, his blue eyes locked on yours as he gazes up at you, rolling your sensitive bud between his lips, his fingers curving in a come hither motion, brushing against your sweet spot over and over until you have your most intense orgasm yet. For a moment, you think you’ve passed out, but Osferth’s quick nip to your thigh brings you back to earth.
Sihtric moves to the foot of the bed, flipping you onto your stomach, then pulling you close to him by the hips, while Osferth moves in front of you. You gaze up at him and take his cock into your mouth, gasping as you feel Sihtric’s tongue moving along the rim of your puckered hole. You let out a gasp as his tongue pushes past the ring of muscles, bobbing your head up and down on Osferth’s cock, massaging his balls as you do, loving how they feel in your hand. Sihtric continues moving his tongue, hands gripping your thighs, but Osferth stops you after a moment, leaning down to whisper in your ear that the only place he wants to finish is inside of you.
He moves his fingers to just below your navel, tracing your skin, before teasing your clit, his fingers and Sihtric’s tongue bringing you to your peak yet again.
You look between the two of them and immediately you know what’s next. Sihtric grabs a bottle of lube from the side table drawer, applying a generous amount to his cock, then, taking his finger to massage some against you, the sensation of his fingers being a tease of what’s to come. Osferth pulls you to lay down on top of him while Sihtric presses himself up against your back, his hands cupping your breasts as he eases his cock into you, inch by inch. You let out a moan of his name, your head falling back against him before you sink down onto Osferth’s cock, feeling him stretch you out so perfectly that you think this must be what heaven feels like. Osferth begins bucking his hips up against you, in tandem with Sihtric’s slow thrusts, and sits up to kiss you. You feel the metal of Sihtric’s piercing that you’ve heard about but not seen or felt till now, driving you absolutely insane, while Osferth kisses you, loving the way you cling to him.
“I’m close,” you whimper, “Fuck, it’s too much, feels so good…”
“Come for us, baby,” Osferth whispers against your lips, gazing into your eyes.
“Come for us,” Sihtric echos, pressing his lips to your neck.
And you do, having your most intense orgasm yet, swearing that you black out for a moment or two, Sihtric and Osferth’s own ends following soon after yours. They admire how you look, laying their all fucked out, their cum leaking out of you, before they set about taking care of you, the sight of which makes you smile. Osferth wipes you off with a towel, handing you a water bottle, while Sihtric runs a bath.
“What does this make us?” you ask after a moment.
“Best friends who are in love?” Sihtric suggests.
“That sounds like a pretty solid explanation,” Osferth agrees, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.
“Yeah,” you smile at both of them, “Best friends who are in love sounds perfect.”
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seiya-starsniper · 2 months
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Another Corintheus prompt for you! Enjoy <3
A is tied to an altar as a sacrifice to demon!B. More than taking their life, B is interested in taking their body.
Okay so, I had a goal in mind to keep all my birthday celebration prompt fills around 1.2k words and then....and then. This one happened 🤣🤣🤣
I'm such a sucker for human sacrifice AUs though, really I shouldn't be surprised this got to 3.1k words!
Anyways, hope you enjoy friend, thanks for the prompt! 💖
[AO3 Link Here]
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Dream had always known that his life was not his own. He was born solely to die, to be sacrificed, so that the rest of his village may live.
He’s not bitter about it — not entirely. It meant that he could do as he pleased, that he had no responsibilities other than to keep his purity intact. Instead of toiling on the fields or being forced to learn a trade, he could simply shut himself inside and read to his heart’s content. It was lonely sometimes, having nothing but books and the occasional visit from his siblings for company. But anything was better than having to face the pitying looks of the other villagers whenever he took a rare walk into town. 
On the day he’s set to be sacrificed, Dream goes easily, dressed in white, his long black hair held back in an elegant braid. Dream had not been allowed to cut it his entire life — another thing the villagers insisted he needed to keep pure for the demon to work their magic. Dream is not entirely sure he believes that his hair has anything to do with protection magic, but he’d followed directions anyway. It was one less thing to worry about in the grand scheme of things. 
His mother cries, of course, but his father does not. He merely reminds him of his duty, and claps him on the shoulder. His siblings were not allowed to be at the summoning ceremony, so they had all given him their goodbyes the night before.
The priests sit him at the center of the oblong marble altar, and because Dream is so pliant they do not bind him to it. The altar is cool beneath his thighs as Dream sits upon it, his legs just dangling over the edge. The sacrificial robe is wound tight around him, but it is so thin Dream still shivers in the cold temperature of the sacrificial room. He wishes they had dressed him in warmer garments. What a silly thing to be concerned about in his last moments of life. 
When they are satisfied with his placement, the priests perform the summoning ceremony, then leave as soon as the energy in the air begins to change. Dream debates whether he wants to close his eyes or face the horror of his death head on. He ultimately decides to face his fate with eyes wide open. It isn’t long before the smell of brimstone and fire fills his nostrils and soon the candles flicker rapidly as blackened smoke begins to fill the room. 
When Dream comes face to face with the monster that means to kill him, he’s struck by how beautiful the creature is. The demon wears the skin of a man, and a well dressed one at that. He’s tall and clean shaven, with straw-blond hair that is cropped in a modern manner that Dream has only seen on visitors who’d passed through his village on their way to the city. The suit he wears is modern too, white and sleek and well-fitting. Atop his face sits a pair of glasses, with lenses so dark they obscure his eyes entirely. 
When his gaze lands on Dream, his lips pull back into a menacing, almost feral looking smile. Dream feels very much like the sacrifice he is at this moment, a helpless lamb laid out to be feasted upon by a hungry lion — a lion who is very much stalking towards his trapped prey. He seems to cross the room in just a few wide strides, and then he is face to face with Dream. 
“Well, well, well,” the demon says, raking his gaze down Dream's flimsily covered body. “Aren’t you just the prettiest sacrifice I’ve seen in the last century.”
Dream cannot help but stare himself. The demon is even more beautiful up close, and still manages to stand a head taller than him, even with Dream propped on the table. He leans down after a moment, as if to whisper a secret into Dream's ear. 
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” the demon purrs. Dream shudders as the demon’s tongue flicks out to lick at the shell of his ear. He remembers how his mother had told him that demons were lustful creatures, that they were known to ravish their victims while they killed them, some even going so far as to desecrate the corpses. She had never mentioned that the demons themselves would inspire lust in a human though. But perhaps this situation was just unique to Dream. 
“I am Dream,” Dream answers, trying and failing to keep his voice steady. The demon's mouth is still close to his ear, so Dream clearly hears the sharp intake of breath, followed shortly by a chuckle full of warm breath that causes Dream’s entire body to jolt. It's cold in the summoning room, but this demon is warm, and Dream is struck by a sudden desire to touch, to test and see for himself just how hot this creature’s temperature runs. 
“Yes, you are a dream indeed,” the demon tells him, pressing one final kiss to Dream's ear before he steps back to take in the look of Dream once more. Even though Dream cannot see his eyes, the rest of the demon’s expression is clear. He's leering and Dream cannot help but feel self conscious as the demon's gaze sweeps hungrily all over his body. Dream’s robe is thin and short, barely long enough to cover the tops of his knees. He feels as though he may as well be naked already. 
“Oh we're going to have so much fun, little Dream,” the demon says with a grin, before he takes a dagger with a long, straight blade out from within his suit jacket. It gleans in the lowlight of the candle and Dream shudders when he sees it. He knows the next part of the ritual well. The protection ritual for the village requires demon magic and human blood. Dream had been chosen because he’d been born on the night of a lunar eclipse. He doesn’t think it necessarily makes his blood any more magical, but the village had always sent sacrifices born on the eclipse, and the protection had always held, so here he was. 
As the demon approaches him, Dream’s breath hitches in both anticipation and dread. He decides to bare his throat to the demon, giving him easy access to the vein he’d heard produces the most blood. He’d read too that a cut to the throat was the quickest way to death. Perhaps if he makes it easy for the demon, his death will be quick and mostly painless. 
He tries not to think of what the demon will do with his body once Dream is long gone. 
“I am ready,” Dream declares, hoping he doesn’t look too frightened. “Take all the blood you need from me for the ritual.”
“Oh aren’t you lovely,” the demon replies, running the flat of the blade along Dream’s neck. Dream stills his breathing entirely, afraid to move. Then, suddenly the blade is gone.
“But I don’t need blood from here,” the demon says, grabbing Dream by the wrist. “This will do just fine,” he adds, right before he cuts a straight line across Dream’s palm.
Dream inhales sharply and tries to jerk his arm back as the pain of the cut hits him, but the demon is stronger than him, and so his arm remains immobile. Blood flows freely down his hand and onto the altar, and then suddenly there is a bowl beneath his wrist, gathering the liquid. When it is filled to the brim, the demon begins to chant in a language that Dream does not know. He finally releases Dream’s wrist, and Dream presses the sleeve of the robe to his still injured hand, not knowing why he’s even trying to stop the bleeding. 
All at once the room is shrouded in a bright light, and then the chanting from the demon stops when it disappears. Dream looks around and sees that the summoning room is now bathed in a scarlet glow, a light he is intimately familiar with. It is the magic of the barrier that sits over his village, and Dream knows right away that the ritual has been successful.
“That’s it?” Dream asks, incredulous. All that magic for so little blood? There is still more seeping into the sleeve of his robe. 
“That’s it,” the demon replies with a sly grin, then adds, “I never needed a whole human body to perform the protection ritual, just a little bit of blood. Not my fault your people misunderstood my instructions.”  
“Then where have the other sacrifices gone?” Dream asks. Could he still walk out of this alive? Start over, go home, could he still—?
“Oh I still killed them,” the demon laughs as he wipes his blade down with a cloth before putting it back in his jacket. “But that was mostly for fun.”
“You,” Dream gasps, and for the first that is truly afraid. “Is that what you plan to do to me?” If it was, why pretend to let Dream live at all? Were his mother’s stories true then? Was the demon going to merely play with him and then kill him? Did his sacrifice mean nothing at all?
“Well, that depends,” the demon says, shocking Dream out of his terrifying thoughts. 
“On what?” Dream all but demands. 
“On whether you’d prefer to die, or ride my cock,” the demon tells him bluntly, the leer now returning to his face. “And if you’re especially good at it, I could make you immortal too. Would you like that sweetheart?” he asks, leaning in close and licking his lips, once again reminding Dream of a predator. “How would you like to be a demon’s cock warmer until the end of time?”
“I—” Dream swallows as a litany of filthy images rush through his mind. He'd been ordered to keep his body pure his entire life for the purposes of the ritual, but his mind was an entirely different story. He'd consumed plenty of erotic literature, mainly snuck in to him by his sibling Desire, and so he wasn’t naive to what the demon was offering him. But everything he’d read had been about pleasure between humans. Would it be different between a human and a demon? What if the demon didn’t even have the same anatomy as a human’s? Would it hurt more than—
“Chop chop, honey,” the demon says, snapping his fingers in Dream’s face, breaking the man out of his reverie. “Fuck or die, what’s it going to be?”
Dream swallows hard, then makes his decision. He wants to live, he realizes. Desperately so. He hasn't lived for himself his entire life and he — he wants to decide something for himself, for once. He drops his sacrificial robe, lets the cloth fall just past his shoulders, exposing his neck and chest to the cold air. The demon’s tongue darts out to swipe at his top lip once more, and he looks even hungrier now. 
“Take it all off,” the demon commands. Dream does, tossing the bloodied robe to the floor. Before he can look up at the demon once more, he finds himself suddenly pushed onto his back on the cold marble, the demon's entire body now pressing down on top of him. He claims Dream’s mouth in a hungry kiss, and Dream moans at just how warm the creature feels on top of him. 
“You can call me Corinthian,” the demon tells him right before he bites down on Dream’s collarbone. “I’d be very pleased to hear you to scream it as many times as you like while I’m fucking you.”
Before Dream can reply, the demon brings his injured palm to his lips, licking at the open wound. Dream gasps as his blood smears across the Corinthian’s face, making him look even more like a wild beast. Dream belatedly realizes the action has stopped the pain in his hand, and when the blond drops it, Dream realizes the wound has closed.
“How—” Dream starts to ask, but his lips are claimed once more by the demon’s mouth. Dream thinks there must be something wrong with him to find it so arousing that he’s kissing a creature whose mouth is filled with his own blood. When the Corinthian’s tongue pushes for entry, Dream’s lips part easily, and the taste of his own blood mixed with the demon’s saliva makes him dizzy. 
Dream writhes eagerly beneath the Corinthian body, the roughness of the man’s clothing an exquisite friction against his naked skin. Then suddenly, the clothing seems to melt off all at once from the demon’s body, leaving him bare. Dream gasps as he feels the demon’s cock, his very human shaped cock, press eagerly into his thigh.
“Clever trick, right?” the Corinthian chuckles into his mouth. “Next time, I’ll let you pull them off me yourself.” 
“You—ah,ah,” Dream moans as the Corinthian wraps a hand around his cock. “You seem to be a creature of many talents,” he finishes, panting as the demon strokes and teases him. 
“If you were impressed by that,” the blond grins, “then you’ll really like this.” The Corinthian mutters something under his breath, and suddenly the hand around Dream’s cock is wet. Dream curses.
“Like that, sweetheart?” the Corinthian croons, knowing full well what the answer will be. 
“Yes,” Dream moans, arching his back and thrusting his hips eagerly into the demon’s hand. “Please—gods—I—”
“Yeah?” the Corinthian replies, his smirk wicked as his hand stops moving, right before it leaves Dream’s cock completely. Dream whines and thrusts his hips upwards, trying and failing to regain that delicious friction.
“Why—” he starts but then the Corinthian shushes him with a finger on his lips.
“We’re just getting started, little Dream,” is all the warning Dream gets from the demon before he feels a finger press insistently at his entrance. 
Dream tries to wriggle himself away from the foreign sensation, but the Corinthian uses his free arm to pin his hips down.
“Ah, ah,” the Corinthian chides him gently. “There’s nowhere for you to go darling.”
“It feels weird,” Dream grumbles.
“It won’t for long,” the Corinthian promises.
He’s right. The Corinthian eventually gets one finger inside him, and it doesn’t take him long to find the bundle of nerves Dream had only previously read about in stories. The pleasure that washes over him is indescribable. Dream now knows why so many have chased the pleasures of sex at great personal cost; anything that felt this good could easily become an addiction. 
The Corinthian teases Dream’s hole the same way that he did his cock, bringing him right to the precipice of pleasure and stopping just short of Dream’s release. He does it again with a second finger, and by the third finger, Dream thinks the demon means to torture him forever like this, witholding Dream’s pleasure just out reach until the end of time. The Corinthian’s fingers suddenly withdraw all at once from inside him, and then the demon is nudging Dream up into a sitting position. It’s at that moment that Dream remembers the Corinthian had wanted him to perform a certain task. 
“Up you go, sweetheart,” the Corinthian says, moving to lie down on the same spot where Dream had previously been. Dream climbs into the demon’s lap and positions himself right at the tip, breathing slowly and deeply, before he starts to nudge the Corinthian’s cock inside him. 
The stretch burns, and Dream feels tears prickle at the corner of his eyes as his body struggles to adjust to something larger than three fingers inside of him. Every inch that breaches inside him makes Dream feel as though all the air has left his body. He feels so full, so hot, so overwhelmed, that he doesn’t know what to do, other than push through the discomfort. He’d made his choice at the beginning of this. He’d read in his books that this was supposed to hurt at first. He can do this. He will do this. 
After what feels like an eternity, Dream’s hips finally go flush against the Corinthian’s, and he exhales sharply as he tries to adjust himself. The Corinthian barely gives him a moment to breathe, before he thrusts up without warning into Dream. 
Dream screams and sees stars flash behind his eyes. The Corinthian sets a brutal rhythm beneath him, and Dream cannot do much at first besides take it and brace himself on the demon’s chest. The discomfort soon gives way to pleasure, and it isn’t long before Dream finds himself moving in time with the Corinthian thrusts, seeking his own pleasure on the demon’s cock. 
“Fuck you’re so tight, little Dream,” the Corinthian pants as he speeds up his pace beneath him. “Oh, yes, I’m absolutely keeping you.”
Dream yelps as the demon hits that bundle of nerves inside him. He's here again, at the precipice of pleasure, he can feel it. Dream lifts his hips up slightly higher than before and then slams them down forcefully, drawing a guttural moan from the creature beneath him.
“Corinthian,” Dream moans as the demon's cock hits that sensitive spot again. He moves his hips faster, desperately trying to hit that spot as many times as he can manage. “Corinthian!"
“Touch yourself,” the Corinthian commands, sounding just as out of breath as Dream feels, “and tell me again who you belong to.”
“You!” Dream cries, placing a hand on his cock and stroking himself desperately. “Corinthian, I am yours I'm—!” 
Dream screams as his orgasm rips through him, his cock spilling between their bodies. The Corinthian growls and then Dream is suddenly on his back once more, the marble no longer cool but hot against his back as the demon thrusts greedily inside him. Dream cannot do anything but helplessly whine and clutch at the Corinthian’s shoulders, the pleasure soon giving way to an overstimulated pain. 
The Corinthian roars as he comes inside Dream, his come wet and hot as it fills his insides. Between one blink and the next, Dream is no longer in the summoning room, but in a dimly lit bedroom, his back now pressed against silk soft sheets and pillows.
The Corinthian's cock is still inside him. And still hard.
“Welcome home, little Dream,” the demon croons into his neck. “Hope you're ready for round two.”
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aro-laurance-zvahl · 1 year
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I am SO happy about Zane’s win in the @falseprophetpoll tonight. I genuinely thought it was the end for him, I thought Volo was the end for him, but it wasn’t. He made it through based on the MCD fandom’s sheer determination and wonderful propaganda. He’s going to the finals! This is some insane underdog story.
I wanted to throw together a little something to celebrate this unbelievable win. So have a few hundred words of Belos falling victim to Zane.
TW for things you would expect during a fight to the death. Like light gore and. Death. But it’s minor death because it has no bearing on their actual reality
“I’ll admit, I’m impressed. I frankly didn’t think I would have a hard time against anyone here,” Zane pulled off the mask that had been soaked through with his blood, cornering the quivering pile of slime and bone, “Like that one boy, Volo. He barely ever lifted a finger in his world, hoping a child would just do the work for him, not even forcing them. Pathetic, but you? Well you and me aren’t that different,”
Belos’ dripping face still managed to form itself into some sort of sneer, empty sockets lit with blue glaring into the high priest that stood in front of him, “I am nothing like you! You witch!”
“I am not a witch, all my magic and gifts are from a god! Just like yours,” Zane’s voice straddled the line between friendly and mocking, although the circumstances made it clear which it was, “See? So much in common. From our thirst for power, being masters of manipulation and betrayal, and oh our brothers even share horrible taste in women! It will be the death of mine’s as well. If all that makes me a witch well...what does that make you, Emperor?”
Belos snarled, attempted to spring himself against Zane to try and gain some semblance of control over the situation again. This move however was not new at this point in the battle, Zane easily being able to side step as Belos instead smeared himself across the floor. Zane couldn’t help but think he was just a worse version of a shadow knight, an immortal born from a betrayal but he just kept rotting instead of becoming better.
“I have the support! I am known! You are a rotted insignificant speck compared to me!” Green goop flew off Belos’ misaligned jaw as he tried to claw apart Zane’s confidence after the failed attack, but he seemed more bothered by another stain added to his attire.
“And you think everyone that came before you were not known? You think no one cheered for Volo? Think no one sent Wizzy gifts to try and help slay me?” Zane laughed as he took slow steps towards the beast, taking care to step on one of the protruding bones as he towered above the once massive creature, “Overconfidence in those who support us is such an easy way to fall my Emperor. It doomed my brother, it doomed your brother, it will doom the gods of my world, it will doom my father, but tonight? Tonight it doomed you.”
Zane stood at the center of Belos’ and then lifted his boot, and slammed it through his skull. The old brittle bones cracked and crumbled easily from the pressure, the rest of the bones falling into the now deaminated pile of sludge. Zane knew his death wouldn’t be so simple in Belos’ home realm, the magic boiling through him was too powerful for that despite how messy it was, but in this realm of white rooms where cheers and gifts mattered despite no clear source, it was enough.
He turned towards the sound of a small familiar whoosh, the appearance of an open door signaling his victory. He wouldn’t admit it, but this was his hardest battle yet. Perhaps it was because of his opponent’s size, or his access to some kind of magic, or even because of the not quite clear similarities between them.
Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. The cheers for him were louder, his gifts more plentiful, and his own maniacal power was strong as it surged through him. All that was left for tonight was to clean his opponent off his skin and don a fresh high priest’s uniform before meeting his next, his final, opponent.
May Irene be with him.
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raincoffeeandfandoms · 5 months
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Mr. Coldwell
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Summary: That could be a day like any other in the year 1912, if it wasn't because Rose's father decided to appear that morning in her office. After 13 years since the last time she saw him when she was still a little girl.
Warnings: Negligence. Mentions of abandonment and abuse.|| This man was born at the same time as Rose (like the rest of the Coldwells) but only here, I gave him a face. Let me introduce you to Mr. Samuel Coldwell sr. Father of Rose, Samuel jr and Louis. A shitty man, despite of his face.
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It was past noon when she was typing on her typewriter. She was writing the files of the last women who had come to ask for her help when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a figure standing in the doorway. She didn't bother to look up.
1912
That morning when Rose said goodbye to Alfie before everyone went to work, she never imagined that this day would not be like any other day for her. Because never in her life would she have imagined what was about to happen.
"Men are not allowed here, sir. Unless they are priests or doctors. And I haven't called any at the moment."
"No, I've come in search of my daughter."
Rose finally watched to whoever was standing there. It was a man in his mid-40s, good-looking and smartly dressed. But she didn't recognise him. Even whey his eyes lit up at the sight of her, her expression didn't change.
"Appointments are arranged with a date and time. If you want to see your daughter, she'll ask and then we'll contact you. But I have no record of anyone requesting that. So once again, I will repeat that the presence of men here is forbidden, no exceptions."
"I'm looking for you, Rose."
Had she had a mirror nearby, she would have seen her own puzzled expression. The hand still on the typewriter began to tremble and she could feel a lump forming in her throat.
"You're already a woman, sweetheart," Samuel Coldwell sr. finally said, smiling.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" The face that had once denoted surprise had now changed to pure hatred. Hatred that she had only once felt for the Evert clan.
"Can I sit down?"
"No, you can not."
Mr. Coldwell nodded, lowering his head. "I came to talk."
She snorted. "Talk? Really? About what? How you abandoned your family? How you left the woman you married alone? You piece of shit. You ruined everyone's life. I thought you were dead, unfortunately I was wrong."
"It was a difficult time in my life... Rose don't you know what..."
"I don't know what? What are you going to tell me? You come here to give me pity? You don't know shit. Where were you when I had to drop out of school to help mum? I was 14 years old! Mum was working, but she was taking care of Lou, she couldn't leave the baby alone for long. Sam was a 9 year old boy! He also helped out by delivering newspapers on weekends to earn a few pennies. Where were you when Lou was crying from hunger? WHERE!"
"Drunk...stoned. I don't know, I don't remember. But I'm clean now. Two years now, I changed I'm another man. A better one. Yesterday I saw your name in the paper while reading about the protests. You were among the women arrested for defacing a Tory's house a week ago. It made me smile, I thought we could get back on our relationship. So I looked up and asked where you worked and got here."
"A bit late, don't you think? I didn't even recognise you, you shouldn't have come. What relationship are you talking about? What relationship are you thinking about?"
"Father and daughter."
"Father and daughter?! Is this a joke? You're not a father, you're just the one who planted the seed to generate three people who suffered their entire childhood. And you have the nerve to call yourself a father? Louis doesn't even know you and he's 13, good luck trying to 'create a relationship' with a teenager. And Samuel hates you as much as I do. Well you know what, fuck you, dad."
"Rose..." Mr. Coldwell put a hand on his daughter's shoulder, but she roughly pushed him away. The tears she had been trying to control began to run down her cheeks unbidden.
"Where were you when I had to forcibly marry a rich man I didn't love just so Lou would stop crying from hunger? Where were you when that son of a bitch was raping me? WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU! I WAS ABUSED FOR FOUR YEARS, WHERE WERE YOU? WHERE WERE YOU?"
Mr Coldwell froze. That was not what he had expected to hear. His daughter was looking at him with utter hate, which he knew he deserved, but which he had not imagined would be so. Because Mr. Coldwell did not know the pain he had caused. He had not thought it would be so much. He had been selfish, he had preferred his freedom to taking care of a family he had never asked for.
He had been young when he was forced to marry Mary because she had become pregnant with the girl now standing before him. He had loved the child when she was born. She had inherited his eyes and it was hard not to be fond of her... but his vices were stronger. During Rose's early childhood, he came and went. When Mary became pregnant years later for the second time, he couldn't take it and left for several years. Until he saw Mary again.
He told her he had changed and she believed him. By this time Rose was 12 years old and Samuel was 7. Mary became pregnant for the last time and for a few months, Mr. Coldwell tried to be a good husband but could not. Before Louis was born, he was gone again, this time for good. And he had not heard from them again until that day. He didn't even know that his youngest son's name was Louis. And that statement from his daughter, it had been something he would never have expected or wanted to hear.
"Rose... God. I didn't know, I don't..."
"You don't... Yes, exactly, you 'don't ' very well. All your fucking life you 'don't'" She had stopped crying but her eyes were still red and her cheeks were still wet. Her gaze had turned colder.
"That bastard... where is he?"
"Dead. Buried under six feet of earth in a grave that no one visits anymore. Like it's going to happen to you sooner or later."
"Rose, I'm so sorry. If I'd only fucking known... You deserved a good man..."
"I have a good man now. The one I loved all my life: Alfie."
"Alfie? Alfie Solomons? The son of the Russian woman that lived next door? You married him?" Mr. Coldwell had an immediate memory of seeing his daughter, still a toddler, sitting on the floor playing with that child.
"Yes. And it's not the Russian woman, her name was Svetlana," Rose affirmed.
"Was? She died?"
"A few months ago."
"I'm sorry."
"No, you're not." Rose sighed, "Go away. If you want to talk to Samuel I can talk to him and ask him if he wants to see you, but I doubt it, but Sam is an adult and can decide for himself. What I won't allow is for you to go anywhere near Mum and Louis. Don't tell me that you have the right, because you lost your right to be a father 13 years ago. And I don't give a shit about the laws."
"You're a Coldwell, huh?" his father mentioned before walking out the door again.
"No. I'm a Solomons."
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This is What the Lord Says…
1 Thus saith the Lord, The heaven is my throne, and the earth is my footstool: where is the house that ye build unto me? and where is the place of my rest?
2 For all those things hath mine hand made, and all those things have been, saith the Lord: but to this man will I look, even to him that is poor and of a contrite spirit, and trembleth at my word.
3 He that killeth an ox is as if he slew a man; he that sacrificeth a lamb, as if he cut off a dog's neck; he that offereth an oblation, as if he offered swine's blood; he that burneth incense, as if he blessed an idol. Yea, they have chosen their own ways, and their soul delighteth in their abominations.
4 I also will choose their delusions, and will bring their fears upon them; because when I called, none did answer; when I spake, they did not hear: but they did evil before mine eyes, and chose that in which I delighted not.
5 Hear the word of the Lord, ye that tremble at his word; Your brethren that hated you, that cast you out for my name's sake, said, Let the Lord be glorified: but he shall appear to your joy, and they shall be ashamed.
6 A voice of noise from the city, a voice from the temple, a voice of the Lord that rendereth recompence to his enemies.
7 Before she travailed, she brought forth; before her pain came, she was delivered of a man child.
8 Who hath heard such a thing? who hath seen such things? Shall the earth be made to bring forth in one day? or shall a nation be born at once? for as soon as Zion travailed, she brought forth her children.
9 Shall I bring to the birth, and not cause to bring forth? saith the Lord: shall I cause to bring forth, and shut the womb? saith thy God.
10 Rejoice ye with Jerusalem, and be glad with her, all ye that love her: rejoice for joy with her, all ye that mourn for her:
11 That ye may suck, and be satisfied with the breasts of her consolations; that ye may milk out, and be delighted with the abundance of her glory.
12 For thus saith the Lord, Behold, I will extend peace to her like a river, and the glory of the Gentiles like a flowing stream: then shall ye suck, ye shall be borne upon her sides, and be dandled upon her knees.
13 As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you; and ye shall be comforted in Jerusalem.
14 And when ye see this, your heart shall rejoice, and your bones shall flourish like an herb: and the hand of the Lord shall be known toward his servants, and his indignation toward his enemies.
15 For, behold, the Lord will come with fire, and with his chariots like a whirlwind, to render his anger with fury, and his rebuke with flames of fire.
16 For by fire and by his sword will the Lord plead with all flesh: and the slain of the Lord shall be many.
17 They that sanctify themselves, and purify themselves in the gardens behind one tree in the midst, eating swine's flesh, and the abomination, and the mouse, shall be consumed together, saith the Lord.
18 For I know their works and their thoughts: it shall come, that I will gather all nations and tongues; and they shall come, and see my glory.
19 And I will set a sign among them, and I will send those that escape of them unto the nations, to Tarshish, Pul, and Lud, that draw the bow, to Tubal, and Javan, to the isles afar off, that have not heard my fame, neither have seen my glory; and they shall declare my glory among the Gentiles.
20 And they shall bring all your brethren for an offering unto the Lord out of all nations upon horses, and in chariots, and in litters, and upon mules, and upon swift beasts, to my holy mountain Jerusalem, saith the Lord, as the children of Israel bring an offering in a clean vessel into the house of the Lord.
21 And I will also take of them for priests and for Levites, saith the Lord.
22 For as the new heavens and the new earth, which I will make, shall remain before me, saith the Lord, so shall your seed and your name remain.
23 And it shall come to pass, that from one new moon to another, and from one sabbath to another, shall all flesh come to worship before me, saith the Lord.
24 And they shall go forth, and look upon the carcases of the men that have transgressed against me: for their worm shall not die, neither shall their fire be quenched; and they shall be an abhorring unto all flesh. — Isaiah 66 | King James Version (KJV) The King James Version Bible is in the public domain. Cross References: Genesis 9:27; Leviticus 2:2; Leviticus 11:7; Numbers 7:3; 1 Samuel 8:19; Ezra 7:9; Psalm 72:3; Psalm 97:6; Isaiah 3:13; Isaiah 37:3; Isaiah 49:23; Isaiah 64:4; Matthew 3:12; Matthew 5:3; Matthew 5:10; Matthew 5:34-35; John 10:27; John 16:21; Romans 15:10; 2 Corinthians 1:3-4; 2 Thessalonians 1:7; 1 Peter 2:5; Revelation 12:2; Revelation 15:4
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aberrantundead · 3 months
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Pinterest | Playlist | Artwork
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Connor is an Undying Warlock with a neutral good alignment. Connor’s pronouns are he/they. They are classified as undead, aberration, and humanoid. They are 470 years old. He stands at 7 feet tall, or 2.13 meters. His weight is around 80-110 lbs (this includes the tentacles). Connor is intersex, non-binary, and pansexual with demiromantic tendencies. They are polyamorous and love being loved and loving others.
Connor as a character is unorthodox to the fullest extent, as they are largely homebrew. He is in a level 1-20 campaign ran by @skeletone that has been ongoing since 2019, and is expected to be ongoing for years to come. This character for me has been an ultimate expression as a coping mechanism for my relationship with death, fear of outer space (with Connor practically being an alien), and an expression of queerness that I, as a queer person, enjoy exploring. In a way, this character is a self portrait of major parts of myself.
Connor’s personality snapshot: expressive, open, self revealing, loves/hates large parties, loud, social, outgoing, does not like social isolation, assertive, positive, always busy, likes to fit in but also likes to stand out, enjoys leadership, brutally honest, trusting, optimistic, desires attention, dominant, aggressive, attachment prone, wants to be understood, lonely, melancholic, self loathing
Currently, Connor and their friends have saved the city of Waterdeep. They have struck alliances with many individuals such as Renaer Neverember, Volothamp Geddarm, Jarlaxle Baenre and Laerel Silverhand, while dealing with The Xanathar, mindflayers, devils, the Cassalanters, and Manshoon. Recently, they have ventured out to the North to successfully kill Auril who relentlessly was wailing on parts of Toril with her unforgiving winter weather. Auril’s demise was accomplished with help of another god’s Chosen, who took Auril’s divine spark and corrupted it with their own god’s essence. With Auril’s inflicted weather now removed, Connor and their friends can travel the oceans she froze to get to a forge that belongs to a golden dragon underneath Waterdeep. The group promised the golden dragon they would help reclaim it from another dragon who overtook it.
Connor’s in-depth information is below, and while I wish I could divulge all of Connor’s secrets, some of my teammates are on this site and are mutuals and in general are aware of the existence of this space, so I can only unveil right now what’s been given in game.
Current revealed facts about Connor in Legends of the Five:
• Connor once lived life as a human before. He was born as a human. Lived and loved as one. Connor’s previous name in life before taking up the name Connor was Alistair Reiter.
• Alistair Reiter had a wife, a child, and ran a church dedicated to Lathander. He was a priest.
• Present day Connor has a phobia of horses. This pertains to the fact that Alistair’s/Connor’s daughter in life was trampled to death by a horse.
• In hopes of trying to resurrect his dead daughter, Alistair dabbled into unknown forces of necromancy and made a pact with a mysterious entity in order to channel said necromancy.
• Learning this necromancy allowed him to attach another pair of limbs to himself amid his experimentation.
• Alistair’s hubris is what led to his death and downfall. Such is what happens when you play with forces of life and death and try to play God.
• For some years after his death and his body long since decayed, Alistair’s dead body was animated by a mysterious force and was sent on a killing spree against any wandering adventurers before the Spellplague deactivated him. His body was then put in a crypt, and wrapped in golden chains.
• Alistair was resurrected by a necromancer who found him in the crypts years later. Alistair then takes the name Connor out of a desire to not affiliate with his wretched past. Symbolism of a clean slate and starting over. The necromancer that resurrected him ended up being a short lived lover and partner until they both split amid an argument. Only recently has Connor been able to get over their ex.
• Connor finds out that he cannot die, and any time he is destroyed, he often reforms hours later. Whatever force keeps him animated, is clearly by a higher power—likely his warlock patron. Using dispel magic on him also temporarily deactivates him.
• Connor is part of a hivemind that has origins from the Far Realm.
• Connor has a sibling (or technically another him, if they’re a hivemind) named Exodus, who breached the material plane during a summoning ritual for a Far Realm entity named Auc’thil’une—with Exodus as the representative of Auc’thil’une. He changed from an incomprehensible entity into a human with tentacles in his eye sockets that he hides behind shades.
• Similarly, Connor is actually the mass of tentacles inside of the skeleton that was once his when he had flesh.
•Connor was born in the body of a human and lived as one—Exodus did not. Exodus finds himself disgruntled and disgusted at Connor’s empathy and love for this world, and at Connor’s developed humanity. Connor is an anomaly among aberrations for this reason. In no way should an aberration have humanity. • Connor’s golden chains apparently keep him sentient, and when they are removed, Connor loses all sense of self and begins to indiscriminately attack anything living, plagued by a feeling of hunger. These chains seem to belong a small organization of necromancers called The Order of the Golden Chain. They were often used by necromancers on their undead. Connor is considered a rogue undead with no master/necromancer controlling him. • Connor finds out that they have a suppressed appetite—and it’s a desire for living flesh. Dead flesh does not satisfy whatever dark primal hunger sits inside Connor. This rightfully horrifies Connor.
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zoharsdream · 10 months
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@edensrose @daisiesandshakes @rurifangirl
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tw for: death of a parent; non graphic description of: a burning body/a pyre, early symptoms of hypothermia.
big thanks to ruru for living through my early drafts, and his and @eden-dum 's colorful commentary🧚‍♀️
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A distraught Prince and a sly Shadow
Sobering hours of the night have befallen Zohar, the king of the eventide shining upon those misfortunate enough to be stranded in his child’s domain. Hot embers flicked across the dark sky, like fallen stars, as the once dutiful queen was laid to rest in a pyre.
The witch’s flames started their dance as her hunt began, engulfing Sigrid’s restful body further. The warm fire did nothing to comfort the prince, tears swelling in his eyes as he gazed upon the corpse. That was the fate they’d all meet, being kissed by the sun for the last time before meeting the moon and his first born. Even so, it wasn’t easy to accept. It never is. The stench of the burnt flesh now overwhelming, the melting rings sizzling on the stone, - it was now clear, Sigrid won’t wake up, not now, not ever. Thinking back, perhaps it was a foolish hope of his, his mother waking up that is, embracing him, comforting him as she once did when he was but a babe.
Elaine’s soft sobs brought him back from his mind. Standing near Xavier, under his cloak, as though it’d shield her from the cool night. Xavier embracing Elaine’s figure, caressing and calming her, whispering things the fire’s roars kept from Vale. Perhaps for the better. The prince closed his eyes and took a breath in, turning back, standing tall, a lone figure of a boy barely 19, now watching as the sun’s embrace took his mother away, mere months after his father. He could hear Aušrinė speak in his mind, calming him, coaching him through, yet its efforts were all for naught. Vale choked back a sob, blinking away his tears that blurred his vision.
The fire subdued. Elaine’s cries stopped, Xavier still rocking her slightly. It hadn't snowed tonight, unlike when the castle set ablaze, but the cold was bitter, getting under his skin, digging its nails deep into Vale's flesh, slowly turning his lips a violet hue.
People had scattered by now, only the witch's priests stayed, even Elaine turned in for the night. They were cleaning the ashes, putting them in a bottle, one which'll be thrown out in Jamungardyras's sea. Vale doubt's she'd like her ashes left in Zohar anyways, not after the life she had here.
He turns on his heel, facing away from the cooling rocks and ashes, slowly walking into the woods. Perhaps to clear his mind, perhaps to calm himself, maybe search for what to do. Only now did he notice Aušrinė’s agonizing silence, yet despite it, the gem on his chest felt unbearably warm, almost like it's digging its way into Vale’s bones, melting and reshaping them to its liking, boiling his blood. His collar felt too tight, gloves too close to his skin, the fur on his coat too heavy. It was all too much.
And so he walked. A long while he walked, till tears started prickling his eyes just to keep them warm, frost biting at his cheeks, Aušlavis’s servants starting their cries and sobs across the forest. He walked and thought and walked some more, till he reached a lake. A small lake, surrounded by trees, the waxing crescent illuminating the cracked ice, too thin to walk across, cold water seeping through the cracks.
Just as tears started spilling over his pale cheeks, he felt a presence. In the trees, on the path, in the lake. A shadow creeping and stalking the prince for who knows how long, perhaps one who even Aušrinė didn’t notice.
“I must commend you, it was a lovely ceremony.” A shadow spoke from the lake, hiding away from the moonlight, voice raspy and soft. Aušlavis’s servant? It cannot be, his wolves would’ve ravaged Vale long before breaking their silence. Verpėja’s then? “Although I cannot say your majesty looked too enthralled to be there.”
Vale’s heart was thumping against his chest, any louder and shadow could’ve heard it. He took a breath, voice shaking slightly from the cold. “And who might you be? You know enough of me to jest of my mother’s passing, though I can’t say the same for you.” The shadow quieted for a minute, two, before speaking, now from the branches. “...Gwydion. Gwydion Corbin.”
The stranger stepped from the tree’s shadow, a charming smile on his otherwise masked face, his whole body covered, dark locks peaking through his hood. He inched closer to Vale, outstretching a gloved hand, almost like an invitation. Even with a dull moon, the runes on his gloves were obvious. “A Contractor?” Gwydion’s smile faded slightly. “I prefer a well read man, but yes. I suppose so.”
After a moment, Vale's gloved hand grasped Gwydion's. The chilled air warmed, the prince furrowed his eyebrows. “And why are you here? I wouldn’t paint you as someone enjoying solitude.” “Quite observant, aren’t you, prince?” The stranger chuckled lightly. “Although not wrong, I’m not here for a frozen lake or a dead queen.” A silence fell between them, Vale’s icy eyes were met with a golden gaze peeking from behind the pale mask, eyes alike the stars embroidered into the sky. For hours you could search for meaning in them, yet you’d find nothing but mystery.
He continued. “Make a deal with me, dear prince.” Confusion flashed across Vale’s face. “I ask for naught, only to stay under the Snow Palace's protection.” Gwydion’s voice was soft despite the cold. “Take me in, and in return, I’ll lay the world onto your palm.” Wind picked up, Vale’s ashen strands tickling his cheek, clouds covering the moon and the frozen lake. He thought for a moment, eyes trailing away from the masked figure in front of him. A stranger appears hours after your mothers passing, following you to a lake, and lastly asks for protection. Says Aušrinė, breaking its silence lastly. Do you not find it strange, child? Perhaps. But curiosity never was kind to the cat.
Gwydion’s question still lingered in Vale’s mind, the moon’s gaze peeking through the clouds every now and then, the masked man’s eyes stayed on Vale’s face, as though trying to read him. “I lack a shadow.” Gwydion’s eyes widened. “My father had Junda, - she left. My grandmother had Ctirad, - he’s dead.” The prince turned back to the masked man, almost ripping an answer from Gwydion just with his eyes, pale and hypnotic. Gwydion silenced, standing still for a minute, weighing his options. The wind picked up, and small snowflakes started to form, tickling exposed skin and melting right after. Just as Vale was to speak again, Gwydion slowly knelt on the cold winter ground, taking Vale’s hand lightly, his dark lashes fluttering shut as he brought it to his lips. 
“Your wish is my command, Vale.”
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writ-in-violant · 6 months
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Blake Kearney
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Names/Title: Blake Kearney, Chen Xiuying, and many others; the Acrimonious Agent
Pronouns: He/They
Referred to as: Detective, Sir
Profession: Detective & Watcher (Aiming for Midnighter)
Ambition: Nemesis (ongoing)
Closest to: The Great Game
Associated Stats: Watchful, Dangerous, A Player of Chess
Associated Quirks: Ruthless, Steadfast, Subtle
Destiny: Gleam
Background
Blake is uncertain about many of the specifics of his birth. He was born as Chen Xiuying in Shanghai's International Settlement sometime around 1868, and while he knows his mother was Chinese he doesn't know his father's origins. He spent most of his young childhood in the International Settlement; he faintly recalls there being some reason he left his mother's house young, but while he has conjecture he has no solid memory of why he ran away. While living on the street, his talent for languages and the fact that he was easily overlooked caught the eye of a British spy who was stationed there; the man, who went by Reynard Martin, took the young Xiuying (his name, at the time) in and taught them the basics of spycraft, which Xiuying took to like a fish to water.
Martin was something in between a teacher, a handler, and a father to Xiuying. He was accepting of their fondness for wearing male guises and quickly took to introducing the young man as such, and while initially he used Xiuying to gather information and rumor, Blake at least suspects that the other man genuinely cared for them; certainly when Martin was re-assigned away from Shanghai, he gave Xiuying the option to come with him and continue their education, and Xiuying agreed.
Over the next few decades, Blake used many names and played many roles as a member of Britain's spy networks throughout Europe. He was a tool of the government more than he was a person, but he was good at it, and had been inducted so young that he didn't really have moral qualms about what he was doing.
And then, when he was around 23 years old, he was on an assignment in Ireland (I like to think it was figuring out how likely Ireland was to split off from Great Britain. Answer: very) and ended up extremely injured. He was in a small town and a clearly foreign stranger, and most of the town was very wary about helping him, but the assistant to the local doctor stepped in anyway and saved Blake's life, even putting him up in his own rooms while he healed from a seriously broken leg and an abdomen wound.
That doctor's assistant, Blake learned upon regaining consciousness, was named Liam O'Connell, and when he asked Blake's name in return Blake scrambled for a name, ended up with "Blake Kearney," and hasn't stopped using it since. Over the month and a bit it took for Liam to become thoroughly convinced Blake was in fact healed, the two men grew closer, in the end having what both desperately tried to pretend was a one-time fling right before Blake left.
...but neither of them could forget about the other, and the next time Blake had a break from his work, he actually took it and went to visit Liam. The two developed a romance over the next five years, and in the process Blake learned something of how to be a person rather than just a tool -- to the point he realized he'd be happier staying with Liam than he would as a spy. He planned to quit, to go clean, to stay with Liam, to find a dress that still fit and trick some priest into marrying them, just so they both knew they'd promised themselves to each other.
And then, on his last mission, he came back to Liam's funeral in 1896. It took Blake a few months to track down the mysterious name and rose petals, but he descended to the Neath in early 1897.
In the Neath
Much like Vivian, while Blake's ambition is technically ongoing, in-universe he did finish it before 1899(2). Unlike me, he is actually living down there on the day to day and has the death of a loved one driving him. I think he concluded his ambition around late 1989/early 1899(1).
Blake took to the search for the truth behind Liam's death with singleminded dedication, but as with all things in the Neath, he ended up needing connections and assistance to achieve this. One of the first friends he made was the Honey-Addled Detective, who put Blake in touch with many of the resources a sharp-minded young investigator would need in the Neath; Blake remains a friend of the man and they can often be found discussing cases together, as despite his other occupations Blake still does work as a detective, particularly aiding with finding missing people.
During the Horticulture Show, Blake captained the ship The Green Knight and, in the process of attacking the Roof, lost an eye. He replaced with with a Fourth-City eyeball, giving him his distinctive odd-eyed look; it aids his perception considerably. He tries to avoid unnecessary connections, but balances getting along with the Duchess and the Widow -- the latter, through aiding in her business and offering sound advice, and the former, through canny decisions and a mutual love of cats. Blake has several cats of his own; Waterlily, his Lamp-Cat, is most frequently seen with him, but he also has a kitten he affectionately calls Trouble and has been rumored to be seen with a midnight matriarch once in the retinue of the Duchess.
Still, most would characterize Blake as a forbidden, dour man worthy of his title as the acrimonious agent. He is a ruthless man if crossed and capable of great cruelty to achieve his goals -- after all, his gateway to ever being a normal man, and not a tool, is now forever closed in his mind. And a tool doesn't have moral qualms about what it does to achieve its wielder's aims. Unexpectedly for him, he's taken on a ward of his own; Sarantani, (or Sara,) a half-Khaganian pirate's daughter working as a Costermonger at the Docks, proved to be insightful enough to figure out he was a spy and curious enough to follow him, and now he tries to teach her the tools of the trade while sparing her the same level of depersonalization he ended up with. She calls him her dad, but not to his face; he'd be extremely flustered if he ever heard it himself.
As of right now no Exceptional Stories are canon for Blake but I'll probably grab some of the cat ones at some point.
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sparklecryptid · 1 year
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The Luche Lazarus as the (former) WoL from FFXIV fic no one wanted but here’s a snippet that will need to be cleaned up
Luche does not talk about before. He does not speak of who he was before he was born into this world screaming and with a name that feels foreign to him. The lichtenberg scar that races up from his ankle to his knee on his right leg is the subject of rumours long before Luche can walk.
Twice-born. Lightblessed. They call Luche many things and his mother stares at them blankly as she cradles her child against her chest.
He’s three months old, Tita wants to tell them, He’s not anything yet. Her words fail her and she remains silent as priests and the Assembly debate what to do with Luche. It has been ages since someone returned from the dead to wander the Isles and both the temple and the Assembly of Clans have a vested interest in Luche.
Tita doesn’t like it, but she can’t stop them if they want to watch her son. Her son is not just her son, he belongs to the whole of Galahd. Whatever knowledge and wisdom he has gained from his previous life will benefit the Isles as a whole. Tita cannot afford to be selfish.
She wants to be.
_
Luche grows up with rumours. With memories of a life that is both his and is not his. He remembers walking streets with buildings that reached for the sky and he remembers being fractured, shattered, torn to pieces only to have a few shards of what he once was forced together with clumsy hands.
Azem and his sundered shards. Luche remembers each life as if it were his own. He remembers Ardbert laughing with his friends and he remembers Lails fighting for this world and each shard of it and dying far from the forest and further from his home. Lails life was the last he had lived, the memories of being the Warrior of Light stuck in his chest like a curse.
Luche wishes he didn’t remember. He wishes he could have forgotten how Lails lived but he didn’t. He can’t forget being Lails. Lails is part of him.
Bunny ears and all.
So Luche puts up with the visits to the Temple. He puts up with being asked prodding questions about Galahd’s past. Luche smiles, barely hiding his disdain when he’s asked if he remembers anything.
What I remember, he wants to say, would drive you mad.
He doesn’t say that, he doesn’t know how to tell them that the world they live in is built on the ruins of others. Luche doesn’t know how the Starscourge started, he doesn’t know how there is no trace of any other of the races of Eorzea but he knows that in form the people of this world are closer to the Ancients than any other.
Luche can feel the magic running close to the surface, just under the skin, of everyone he meets.
It doesn’t make sense that they haven’t mastered it yet. It makes no sense that they don’t use it at all. Aether - magic - is still easy enough for Luche to use. He can still heal and breathe fire. It is easy enough to use aether to mitigate his fall damage so why doesn’t anyone else use it?
Unless they can’t. Unless something is stopping them from using it. It’s a question for those more invested in this life than he is. Luche sees no reason to try and get to the bottom of this.
Until he does.
(Galahd falls easy, they are a people who do not delight in warfare. They have no standing army and Lucis has long refused to maintain more than one base on the Isles for the sake of appearances.
The token resistance is crushed and suddenly Luche has a lot more problems than annoying priests.)
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kriwix · 8 months
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My second fan theory about TribeTwelve.
[Everything written below is my personal subjective opinion. If you see actual errors, then let me know.]
[I use a translator so I apologize for any mistakes]
I recommend reading my other about TribeTwelve to get the gist of what's going on.
Let's start with the video "DEATHTRAPEXODUS", in the description you can find a set of letters, numbers and symbols: Tk9XDQpETw0KVohBVA0KWU9VDQpLTk9XDQpZT1UNCk5FRUQNCIRPDQpETw0KTk9BSA==
Of course, if you just enter this into the Internet search box, you will not find anything. But it is possible to decipher. If we reflect this in the text we get:
"Now Do What You Know You Need To Do Noah"
So my theory today is biblical motives (again). This transcribed phrase reminded me of Jesus words to Judas in the Gospel of John: "What you are about to do, do quickly." Jesus obviously knows about the imminent betrayal of Judas, he directly tells the apostles that "not all of them are pure" (orig. "For he knew who was going to betray him, and that was why he said not every one was clean".)
Now Do What You Know You Need To Do Noah.
It looks like a phrase before an imminent betrayal. Later, after the words of Jesus, Judas betrays him for 30 pieces of Silver, betraying Jesus to the high priests. Jesus knows what Judas will do, but what about Noah?
I've theorized in the past that Noah joins the collective and doesn't actually exit the maze, and I'm sticking with that theory here. When Judas betrays Jesus, he chooses the side of Satan, which is similar to the Collective for Noah.
Here you can recall the post of Noah on Twitter with the words "-and one day I will become Satan":
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"10 damn years. I used to think posting this video ruined my life. Now I know better I've always been damned, born in hell. I lived by the book of Job, I fell from heaven, and one day I will become Satan."
One day I will become Satan = I will side with Satan = I will betray
NOW DO WHAT YOU KNOW YOU NEED TO DO NOAH.
What should Noah do? Betray Jesus (life of Noah according to the principle of the book of Job), become Satan (join the collective).
Why does the phrase "Now Do What You Know You Need To Do Noah" remind me of Jesus' phrase for Judas? Because it was inevitable that betrayal would happen, Jesus knew it. The phrase is formed in such a way that we guess that Noah knows what he needs to do, just like Judas, he guessed that he would betray.
Betrayal = joining the collective. Noah chose the side of Satan.
In the next episode, Noah crawls under the table, going through the "tunnel" and ending up on the other side. I think that this is his choice, his transition to the side of Satan.
Noah's actions are inevitable, as is Judas' betrayal. It is known immediately, long before the present time of history.
NOWDOWHATYOUKNOWYOUNEEDTODOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOYOUUUUUUUUUUUV0UgTkVFRCBZT1U=
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jcdas-a · 8 months
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hamish linklater. cis man. he/him. ⸻ i saw JUDAH PREAKER around THE FOREST, you know? the FORTY-FIVE year old that was driving from HARLAN, KENTUCKY when they saw the tree on the road. JUDE has been here for FIFTEEN YEARS and i think they were A GRIFTER before they got stuck in the town. with the way things are now, they are struggling to maintain a sense of normalcy and seek a way out without losing themselves or dying. lets hope you at least survive the night on their own.
 DO NOT PRAY ANYMORE; THE SKY IS DEAF.
full name    judah caelan preaker nickname(s)    jude, judd, father ( per his priesthood ) age   forty-five gender identity    cis man orientation    repressed bisexual place of birth    harlan, kentucky date of birth   september 14 faceclaim    hamish linklater
former occupation career grifter positive traits   benevolent, cogent, steadfast negative traits   pious, headstrong, misguided moral alignment  chaotic neutral parallels preston teagardin (the devil all the time), the priest (fleabag), john pruitt (midnight mass), sam foster (stay) current residency    the town current occupation priest ( some meld between catholic with evangelical christian tendencies )
BIOGRAPHY tw for the following content: religious trauma, forced drowning, child abuse/abandonment, mentions of alcohol & mental illness.
you were an odd child, born to a peculiar family that lived in a little yellow house on the edge of a bluebonnet field. for years, these hues of pallid yellow and lavender paint your life━though they only paled as the years marched onward. your hometown is one that’s never felt quite new, rather, there’s always been a tinge of the past. like that old mining town, you were run down sooner than you knew.
the sacred walls of your little yellow house are where you’d tell your first lies. crosses nailed in each room, wallpaper cracking with temperature and peeling away at the edges. you spent your childhood wondering if it was always like this. soil-covered hands pressed together, you would pray for the unfortunate children down the road who’d just lost their gran. god, you would say, but you knew you were speaking to your father. the shadow in the door frame that stood in that small creak of light, a lean figure stretches out as if you did not see him there. oh, please bring them good graces in this time. let you take the pain from their shoulders. learning to be a ghost in your own home.
taught to behave like a young man ought to, taught to take the deer by the antlers but not to look it in the eyes. you knew only to pray for others, only to care for the world around you, rather than the bruises on your back, or the grazes on your knees━or you mother who left when you were too young to know. the woman who since lived with her new husband, and kids━leaving you and your siblings with him.
you're just a child that first time pa takes you and you watched him wash the sinners clean. you watched them cry out hallelujah and praise jesus, praise your pa. it was your pa’s hands on them, not god’s. pa tells you that god is in you too, and this will be the first and last time a reflection you recognize ripples across the water. 
god is in you, boy. so you let your father take you to the water’s edge again once you were a bit older. you can still hear the hum of the hymnals even now. do you hear the word of god? have you believed another gospel? pa plunged you, washes you of the sins not committed at your hand, but rather, those of your mother. because if she could not be there, you would take her place. shoved beneath the frigid surface by the hands of your pa, under the guise that god made him do it, sending his own son thrashing like some wild thing your pa once claimed he could tame.
your father considers it only a miracle of god that you hadn’t drowned that day. you returned to your siblings, sopping wet on the porch of the little yellow house with the peeling wallpaper. you begin to pick at it when no one was looking, chipping away the watery gray floral print to unveil the wood paneling beneath it. life is stripped of its color but at least you're not alone in this suffering. not that it makes it any better that your siblings are subject to your father’s delusions. it stays like this for a long while. seeing your little sister off to the schoolhouse each morning, and making a point of not eyeing the brown and green glass bottles that she would string up on the tree in the front yard like liquor store wind chimes.
now ... your father wasn’t the man you thought him to be. when you're alone you consider that maybe he was always like this and that you were the last to realize, the last one to find complacency in your disillusionment. and while you very well make it out of harlan alive, you only last a short while before you find yourself betwixt in what you've only known to refer to as purgatory. you look a whole lot like pa these days, wearing black & looking like death incarnate, yet you’ve always got a hymnal tucked into the side of your cheek.  through all the wretchedness,  you are still holy;  from where you’re standing at least.  after all no monster would ever deem itself as such,  this town has turned you inside out,  sure,  but it has also granted you something your life before couldn't: freedom. 
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pathofemblems · 1 year
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✶ · ⊰ pandreo || verses : three houses ⊱ · ✶ ⤷ contains : basics, history, misc. notes, phases, solo endings, & supports (continued under the read-more) . I. BASICS .
Age : 15 - 16 (Academy Phase); 21 (War Phase) Birth date : 6th of the Guardian Moon (January 6th) Birth place : Viscounty of Nilsson, Leicester Alliance Affiliation : Church of Seiros Default route : Silver Snow Recruitable routes : All Class progression : Commoner → Monk → Priest → Bishop
II. HISTORY .
· Pandreo was born to clergy members of the Eastern church and was raised alongside other members children and the orphans the church would take in. Around two years later, Panette was born. · When Panette was six, she ran away. In the year that followed, their parents searched for her, though it was mostly a ruse to show they cared about their children when they didn't. Eventually, they stopped searching and abandoned Pandreo and the church shortly after. Many years later, it was found out that Panette had been taken in by a minor noble, yet no one knew what happened to their parents. Some people think they disappeared to another country and changed their names. · Even though it was suspected before the birth of their children, it didn't become blatantly apparent that Pandreo's parents were corrupt until roughly a year after his sister was born. They often used their position within the church to swindle people out of their money with promises of making their lives better, as well as trying to send orphaned children to minor nobles or even to Almyra for a price. There dad was also a well-known drunk and gambling man. · Pandreo was taken in by another clergyman of the church, informally adopted. From there, he was taught to read and write, primarily scripture. Aside from the man who raised him, he was inspired to keep going after hearing heroic tales of the goddess and the saints. · Even though the Leicester Alliance isn't the most traditional, including the Eastern church, Pandreo was still judged for trying to make service fun for everyone. He was often called disrespectful by his peers, especially when he picked up the habit of howling. Often, the elder members of the church would skip out on his dinners and potlucks, but the younger ones always attended. Despite the judgment, the small get-togethers he put together always brought in new members and a fair bit of coin. · Years later, at age fifteen, Pandreo was sent to Garreg Mach with the hopes he could become a member of the Central church in order to garner favor for the Leicester Alliance, whether that be through becoming a knight or continuing his clergy work. Instead of attending the Officer's Academy like most would, however, he became a member of the staff, often relegated to cleaning and scribework to slowly work his way up the ranks.
III. MISC. NOTES .
Strengths : Faith, Reason Weaknesses : Axe, Flying, Heavy Armor Hidden talents : Lance, Riding Favorite tea : Almond blend, honeyed-fruit blend, four-spice blend Notable hangout spots : Cathedral, dining hall, fishing pond, greenhouse—may be found elsewhere, but most often in these areas Lost items : Annotated book of scripture, ceremonial beaded necklace, list of party supplies Favorite gifts : Board game, goddess statuette, owl feather, tasty baked treat Least favorite gifts : Hunting dagger, training weight, whetstone Favorite dishes : Cheesy verona stew, Daphnel stew, Derdriu-style fried pheasant, fish and bean soup, fish sandwich, fruit and herring tart, Gautier cheese gratin, peach sorbet, onion gratin soup, saghert and cream, sautéed pheasant and eggs, sweet and salty whitefish sauté, super-spicy fish dango, sweet bun trio Least favorite dishes : Country-style red turnip plate, fried crayfish, pickled rabbit skewers, pickled seafood and vegetables, spicy fish and turnip stew Other : · Like Rhajat in Fates, who knew she'd be reborn as Tharja in another universe, Pandreo's aware that he'll be reborn in Elyos. Even if there's no proper in-game way for this to happen, his level of awareness is route-dependant. In Silver Snow, it's eerily accurate, with remembering names and events, as well as who he'll see there someday. In Crimson Flower and Verdant Wind, things are blurry and much more dream-like. The only person he can recall with certainty is Byleth. In Azure Moon, however, he has absolutely zero awareness of his reincarnation. · Despite being a staff member, his age makes it easy for him to become friends with the students. His party-going ways are definitely amplified away from the Eastern church, which can get him into a fair bit of trouble with some of the other staff. His parties are typically held in the nearby forest as bonfire events, but they can sometimes take place in the dorms. · If Byleth decides to teach the Golden Deer, then Pandreo is immediately recruitable. For the other two houses, Byleth needs at least a C in either Faith or Reason and decent stats in Magic.
IV. PHASES .
White Clouds : Like Cyril, he can be seen working around the monastery. Even if he's recruited into a house, he still works on top of his classes. Being a student gives him some extra credit with the likes of Seteth and some of the higher ranking clergy, at least. Silver Snow (default) : Since he's a staff member, he's instantly recruited once the War Phase starts. During Byleth's five years of absence, Pandreo provided aid in the search for Rhea and kept vigilant watch over the decaying monastery. His personality doesn't change much, even if he expresses regrets on fighting against former students, especially the Black Eagles. He may make comments in secret about how he wonders if Edelgard was doing the right thing if he had been a part of the Black Eagles house before the war. Azure Moon : Despite the friends he made while being recruited into the Blue Lions, he admits he's not well-versed in the ways of Faerghus. He's not there out of any loyalty to Dimitri or the Kingdom, but instead due to his confidence in Byleth's abilities and because of the church's connect to Faerghus. While he does show concern for Dimitri, Pandreo often bites his tongue when it comes to everyone's dedication to getting him on the throne in such a poor state. His personality may seem a little more withdrawn in this route. Crimson Flower : His confidence in Byleth far outweighed his devotion to the church, with the help of Rhea's desire for violence. Even though he doesn't necessarily regret siding with Edelgard, like several other recruitable students (like Hapi, for example), Pandreo will express that he's not entirely onboard with the way Edelgard is handling things and that he's really only there for Byleth. His penitence for having to kill others is more apparent in this path, yet at the same time, he's more ruthless in battle. Verdant Wind : Since the Leicester Alliance is where he was born, he has no issues siding with Claude, especially since the church is still in play anyway. Claude is seemingly the only ruler he has no issue with, as a lot of their ideals and ways of handling them align. He seems just a little more carefree down this route, even for his usual self.
V. SOLO ENDINGS .
Crimson Flower : After the war, Pandreo's views changed, leaving him questioning his faith and wondering about the likes of others. After he helped defeat those who slither in the dark, he left Fódlan to travel the world. He spent his time learning of the various cultures and religions that were previously closed off from Fódlan, and when he returned, he devoted himself to creating a church that was open to all belief systems and became a well-respected scholar of theology. Other routes : Despite initial backlash, Pandreo was able to inject some of his fun-loving ways into the church. This push eventually led to the Church of Seiros developing a less strict, more welcoming aura, and they garnered many new followers over the years. Some history books state that churchgoers wanted Pandreo to become a canonized saint, but that never happened... Except for in the east. (The only difference between routes is that Pandreo focuses on the Central church in AM and SS, while heading back to the Eastern church in VW after several years.)
VI. SUPPORTS . ⤷ For funsies. This isn't a ship bias list or a wishlist, it's simply who I think he'd speak with if he was a playable character in 3H. I thought of putting my ideas for support chains, but that would've made the post longer than it needed to be.
Church of Seiros : Alois, Flayn, Manuela, Seteth Black Eagles : Bernadetta, Dorothea Blue Lions : Mercedes, Sylvain Golden Deer : Claude, Ignatz, Lorenz, Lysithea, Marianne Ashen Wolves : Balthus + Byleth * romantic-only pairings : 0 * platonic-only pairings : 5 * can be taken either way : 4 · Can only reach B support with Manuela, Seteth, Bernadetta, Sylvain, Lorenz, and Lysithea.
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charkyzombicorn · 10 months
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For your god au
The war lords as gods
Moria - shadows
Crocodile - Sand and desserts
Doflamingo - spiders
Teach - void
Buggy - Decent, clowns 
I dot. Know what they should be gods of
Law
Weevil
Mihawk
Kuma
I agree but Buggy is in fact just a priest-figure that was in the right place at the right time. He's the first mortal to make Luffy stop smiling and live, and he used to pretend to be Usopp before he could convince them he was a god himself.
Law is a demigod who everyone thinks is the god of death, but he was born a mortal and was given powers over space and time by Brook who pitied him for losing everything. At one point he thought he should kill Luffy to get rid of Doffy
Doffy is another demigod, though it's a secret very few know. He was a weaver that tricked Luffy into giving him power over space and light refraction in exchange for a very nice blanket. His strings are invisible and can fly how he wills. Luffy couldn't take this back unless Doffy was dead, but he didn't kill him because Torao wanted to do that
Mihawk was the first mortal to defeat Zoro in a swordfight, and humbled the god significantly. Zoro became more quiet and reserved, his attitude changing from 'slay anyone in your way' to 'fight for what you believe in'. This helped the humans
Weevil was a violent man previously blessed by Zoro, but got abandoned when Mihawk smacked some sense into Zoro, and now he's trying to kill Zoro. Not successfully yet, but he's trying.
Kuma was a doctor that hunted down Chopper to ask for his knowledge. Chopper told him some of his secrets, and gave Kuma a few animal traits to keep him attentive. Kuma kept healing the injured and the sick and stuck his nose where it didn't belong, and dissapeared
Teach is a god none of the other gods know about yet, he was there before Brook but Brook never found him. He hated rocks in his perfectly clean void, but he could stand them. He started plotting how to wipe the universe again from the second Luffy started lighting up the space
Crocodile tried tricking Luffy to give him his power, but he found Brook instead. Brook gave him power over sand and only sand, and Crocodile tried to fight Luffy only for Luffy to say he was very interesting and adopt him as a follower. Crocodile was not expecting this, but he's not mad abt it
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babyslia · 8 months
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rot and zoeys upbringing (violence, sexism, hanging, tragic shit, not everything zoey did but w/e)
rot and zoey have always loved, cared for and protected one another, ever since birth. they were identical twins. rot, the god, at an early age of his stolen vessel (zoeys brother) revealed what he was; a god, a god of rot, decay, disease.
zoey, a little girl at the time, also alienated from her parents and.. off, in general, accepted rot with enthusiasm and open arms, much to rots surprise, and even hugged him close. rot immediately held her close emotionally, doing small.. acts as a god, that kept her alive and healthy.
he observed her slightly sick behavior, killing small animals… leading up to human villagers, and rewarded her for doing so.
the town was sick with mad, extremely violent and hateful morals, and rot had no issue watching his sister take lives.
the day of her execution, he did watch. the village priest, their father, asked zoey if she had anything to say. zoey spat on him and grinned, ramming her knee into the face of the executioner so violently, that said executioner died on the spot, then and there. she was hanged by the panicked and disgusted priest.
rot could not actively come to her aid lest he be found out as a malevolent god and not a human, and it did hurt him. he was furious. and he brought her back. initially she panicked but upon seeing her brother, she calmed down.
He told her what happened. he told her what he was. he was shocked a bit when her reaction was that of hateful, violent retaliation, but only against their father.
Not that she had no reason to hate their father. he was a sexist, violent and horrid man who punished zoey for being female. rot was also born female, but early on in lie, he confessed to feeling like a boy, not a girl. this led to their father scrabbling for a son in any way, and zoey being mistreated for being a girl. rot was named joseph, after the father, when he came out as a male. rot (he already had his name, as a god, duh) was disgusted by the bigotry.
rot already HATED is "father" for tons of reasons; abusing his sister, being sexist, forcing his "wife" to give birth, forcing zoey to be.. basically a slave.
So the day on zoeys hanging, he attended. he stood staring forward. every other villager attempted to get his attention and he ignored, or shouted at them.
"Get the Hell away from me, you FILTH," was all he spat at the people that came to him, as tears flooded his eyes, staring at his sisters body. Rot was full of rage. he possessed a fetus to be born, sure. he was born alongside zoey. and day one, he LOVED his sister. even as a god, he loved his sister, and he'd do anything for her that he possibly could.
-fast forward into the day after zoey's execution-
the priest kneeled at he altar, cleaning something up, and he looked up. there was a humanoid shadow cast across him.
"The church is closed," he stated, going to stand. the shadow didn't move.
footsteps.
"I said, the church..is.." was all he got out before the figure in the door charged him, slamming him to he floor.
"Y-YOU-" was the last gasp he managed. his daughter... the one who was executed, grasped his throat and grinned.
"You." Rot began and walked over to Zoey and their father. Rot sneered down in disgust.
"SON- Son- s-son, he-he-h-help," the priest choked.
rot scoffed.
"I am not your son. I am a GOD. I took the body of your unborn and made it mine."
"Th..there is only ONE G-Go-"
rot kneeled and gripped the priests chin.
"WRONG. and I am the God of sickness, of illness, disease, plague."
the priest coughed up blood, zoey's nails dug so far into his neck, they pierced his neck. rot laughed.
"i am your God now, you false prophet. i know what you've done." rot stood up and looked to his sister. the pupils of the priest widened, and is face became horrified in recognition and rot laughed, cruelly.
there was rage in rot's eyes.
"so. Who do you think brought. her. back." he spat into his "Fathers" eyes", and pointed to zoey before standing up and walking of, leaving him and zoey together. rot looked at his hands. He did.. Love their mother (even though rot was an implanted god). zoey did too. her passing... infuriated rot. his eyes pricked with tears and his throat closed up, but he choked out,
"zoey...sister...make him SUFFER, as much as you can." with a small "please" whispered at the end.
zoey did not need a second before she ripped the priest apart..in ways.. but collected his clothes and put them on after. She was dressed in rags, after all.
-
a few hours in, a scream rang from the church. the villagers ran to see what was going on.. to be met by the disemboweled, strung up parts of their priest. To their horror.. he was still alive. he looked up, with a mouthful of blood,
"She..she's...back... run,"
they turned to see a grinning shadow (zoey) toss a torch onto oil that the church had been doused in, and slam the doors closed with an iron bar between the handles as the flames enveloped the entire building.
rot stared and motioned for zoey to embrace him, and she sighed, running into him. Rot made a face at the burning people at their feet in disgust, and let out a breath as well, leaning down to kiss the top of her head.
"...No one is going to hurt you again. I'll make sure of it." he said, kissing the top of her head.
“I will destroy anyone who tries to.”
zoey went to his side again. she knew he meant it. her smile wavered as he clung her tighter.
he murmured a declaration of love against the top of his sisters head as his eyes glowed in the darkness to every other body the life just drained out of. he sneered to himself again as he watched the last parts of life escape the villagers that reached for them before collapsing. he scoffed again at their efforts.
“..i’m proud of you, zoey.”
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natromanxoff · 2 years
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The Sun - November 28, 1991
Credits to Louise Belle and Queencuttings.com
ELTON’S SAD FAREWELL
ELTON’S SAD FAREWELL
[Photo caption: Tears… grief-stricken Elton is consoled by Queen’s guitarist Brian May / Picture: ARTHUR EDWARDS]
Thanks for being my friend.
I will love you always
ELTON JOHN said farewell to Freddie Mercury yesterday with 100 pink roses bearing the message: "Thanks for being my friend, I will love you always."
The tribute came as rock's most outrageous performer was cremated at a service for just 35 close friends and family.
Elton was first to leave West London funeral, tears streaming down his face. Asked if he would say anything he bit his lip and said softly: “No, I’m sorry.”
Other mourners included Freddie’s long-time love Mary Austin and his mother Jer father Bomi and sister Kashmira.
[Photo caption: Loved… Freddie]
I can’t tell my Ricky his uncle Freddie is dead
Singer doted on Mary’s little lad
By DAN COLLINS
[Photo caption: Farewell… from Mary and Dave]
FREDDIE Mercury’s heartbroken ex-lover Mary Austin cannot bring herself to tell her young son Ricky the star he idolised is dead.
Toddler Ricky loved to visit “Uncle Freddie” and would run from room to room of the Queen singer’s mansion to find him.
Mary, 38, who is expecting another baby, said: “He doesn’t know what has happened. I haven’t broken the news because he’s only 20 months old.
“But I’m sure the next time Ricky goes to the house he will be looking for him, and that is going to be a very hard thing.”
Freddie — who became Ricky’s godfather when he was born in 1989 — doted on the youngster and often played with him at his £4million home in Kensington, West London.
Mary went on: “They always got on very well together. But I realise that my next port of call will be to introduce Ricky to an empty house.
“I don’t know when that will be. It will be whenever the moment feels right.
“I worry about the effect Freddie’s death will have on Ricky, but I’d like for him to look back on this with a smile and not with sadness.”
Mary had a seven year live-in relationship with Freddie before they broke up in 1980.
Lovely
She remained the only woman he ever loved and was at Freddie’s bedside until 10 minutes before he died from AIDS on Sunday.
Yesterday she spent an hour in the empty house and left in tears after reliving her memories.
She went there with Sixties star Dave Clark after attending Freddie’s cremation service.
Dave said: “It was a very lovely service and a very emotional one. I think Freddie would have appreciated it.”
In contrast to the flamboyance which was Freddie’s stage trademark, his farewell was a low-key affair.
Only his family and close friends attended. 
The 20-minute funeral was conducted by two Indian Parsee priests in the Zoroastrian faith of the star’s parents Bomi and Jer Bulsara.
It was performed in the ancient tongue of Avasta which dates back to 1,500 years before Christ.
Traditionally dead Parsees are left to be picked clean by vultures, but in Britain they are buried or cremated.
Way-out
The 14 family members gathered earlier at a chapel of rest in Kensington for a 60-minute service of their own.
His illness and death united them in grief — following reports that his parents disapproved of his way-out life style.
Freddie’s last journey was by gleaming black Rolls-Royce.
Five more hearses followed — each packed with bouquets of flowers from friends and fans.
A fleet of seven Mercedes limousines carrying mourners swooped in minutes later — a line broken only by Elton John’s green H-reg Bentley.
Four pallbearers gently carried Freddie inside the chapel watched by his grief-stricken parents.
Mourners wept as the chapel echoed to the music of soul singer Aretha Franklin and opera star Montserrat Caballe, with whom Freddie recorded the hit single Barcelona.
As the stars stood with their heads bowed, the family approached the casket to pay their last respects.
Most poignant of all the tributes and messages was a wreath of yellow roses from Mary with a declaration which said: “For my dearest with my deepest love. Your old faithful.”
Peace
She brought another for her son saying: “To Uncle Freddie with love from your Ricky.”
One of the most touching, from Queen drummer Roger Taylor, said simply: “Goodbye old friend, peace at last.”
Boy George’s tribute said: “Dear Freddie, I love you.”
Ex-Beatle Ringo Starr and his wife Barbara sent a message which read: “To Freddie with love.”
And veteran rocker Gary Glitter said: “Sadly missed, never forgotten.”
Only two fans found out where the service was and travelled from Leeds to pay their respects.
Jan Hall and Liz Carter, both in their thirties, sobbed uncontrollably as they said: “He was Freddie — and there is only one Freddie.
“He can never be replaced. We never met him but his music brought us so much happiness for so many years.”
[Photo caption: Carpet of flowers… bouquets pile up for Freddie from grieving fans]
[Photo caption: So sad… Brian and Anita looking pale and drawn]
[Photo caption: Tribute… messages from his star pals]
[Photo caption: Miss you, son… mum and day say goodbye]
NO CHAMPERS, JUST A SIMPLE GOODBYE
By PIERS MORGAN
IT was Freddie Mercury’s long-time minder who summed it up best.
Burly Jim Callaghan stood quietly by the chapel door and told me: “Freddie would have said ‘sod it — grab a glass of champagne and let’s have a party.”
But there was no champagne. For a man who sang to millions and threw parties for thousands during a wonderfully over-the-top life, it was a quiet farewell.
Less than a dozen curious passersby stood by the crematorium entrance as the vintage black Rolls carrying Freddie’s coffin drove in.
Private
The small, select band of mourners filed quietly into the chapel.
Jim Callaghan, who had been on the door at Freddie’s most lavish parties, gently led the star’s parents inside.
Last to go in, as he would have liked, was Freddie.
His painfully thin body, ravaged by AIDS, was carried by four bearers inside a simple light tan coffin. A single red rose rested on top.
The contrast with his flamboyant stage appearances could not have been greater — but that how he wanted it.
It was Freddie Mercury the pop superstar who stole the show at Live Aid in front of one billion TV viewers worldwide.
It was Frederick Bulsara the intensely private man who was laid to rest yesterday.
MAKE FREDDIE NO 1
Stars want Queen’s Bohemian classic in top spot for Xmas
THE pop world last night joined my campaign to make Bohemian Rhapsody the Christmas No 1 as a tribute to Freddie Mercury.
Stars including Bono, Rick Parfitt and Jonathan Ross promised to buy the eight-minute rock classic after Queen said they will re-release it on December 9.
On the B-side will be Freddie's nostalgic These Are The Days Of Our Lives, the song featured on Queen's final video. Profits from sales will go to AIDS charity the Terence Higgins Trust.
Bookies slashed the odds on the 1975 record making the top slot to 7-1 on as bets poured in. DJ Simon Bates said: "I'll play it until it gets to the top."
His Radio 1 pal Mark Goodier added: "I hope the re-release will help people understand how serious AIDS is."
Steve Wright said: “I hope it gets to No 1 and raises loads of cash."
Status Quo's Rick Parfitt admitted he wept when he saw the video for These Are The Days.
He said: "Making sure the record is No 1 is the best way we can pay tribute to Freddie."
Smash
Chat show host Jonathan Ross said: "I bought it first time round and I'll buy it again."
Pledging support, U2's Bono said: "Freddie was fearless and over the top. I loved that about him."
Today I'm printing the lyrics of Bohemian Rhapsody — and you can hear Freddie singing it on our special phone line. Just dial 0898 334 149.
Calls cost 36p a minute cheap rate or 48p other times. Every penny of The Sun's and Queen's proceeds from your calls will go to AIDS charities — as Freddie would have wanted.
George Michael and Elton John's Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me — which will also raise cash for AIDS — slipped to second place in the Christmas No1 betting at 5-1 against.
{Bohemian Rhapsody lyrics}
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lalamoon · 1 year
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𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭’𝐝 & 𝐜𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝒉 𝒆 𝒓 𝒆
@thesilverandjetsystem
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“It’s not about me. God, I don’t want it to be about me!” Whining, pathetic, selfish, hands tightening into his white t-shirt where the Phoenix had slashed with white orange claws, searing scars across his abdomen. “That’s the last thing I want. I…I’m not a hero. You all don’t owe me a thing.” In the White Hot Room, he had considered genocide, torching the Earth, to starve the Consumer of Worlds. He was suited for the streets, pulling people back from despair, from skinheads on roaring motorcycles, high on their so-called superiority. “You and Steven and Jake are doing a bang-up job. I was there for her first word. It was ‘Moon.’” His voice cracked, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “I was so happy, I thought I could…That I….” Does Beam still have that clean baby smell? What are her favorite foods? She’s so small. “You got-” he points at the ceiling, hand shaking (when did his hands shake?) “Him up there. All he needs is the body and my skills?”
Simple march of progress. Better body armor, better eyes and ears, and fists. A better father, husband, and priest. Marc was an obsolete part, better to be given to boots to stab at bags with than sent out to shoot brown men, women, and children with in deserts and jungles for dollars and shekels and yen and pesos.
She throws the bottle and for a moment, it’s not empty, he can smell one part laundry detergent, two parts gas. “Fuck!” He rolls it away from the window, the Garden, his wife into the shadows of the Mission where it could drop it in a safe room, let it burn out. Starve it of oxygen. The shrapnel scars on the back of his legs burn. A little bit of Fallujah, doorknocking him.
Can he play it off? Like he didn’t overreact to a lazy toss, the cool empty glass in his hand.
“I didn’t ask you to kill him, though all of your lives are better that you did.” Mean. Angry. Like he hadn’t been furious and estranged from the living god before Khonshu’s death. Only love called worship gone sour could twist such a reaction. Like he hadn’t screamed and wept and thanked Layla over and over once his scorched mind knitted itself together enough. He had been in and out of delirious fever dreams, mask half on his face, vestments soaked with sweat. Shivering, yearning for dark and quiet under a full moon. “No. Xavier doesn’t touch my mind. He,” again his eyes roll towards the ceiling, “Needs that. Millennia of nights and tales.” None of this was fair. Not himself, not Layla. He would never expect her to wait for him forever. Underneath the black moods was a temper. As a youth, the only way to get it out was violence, and war was how he lived for years. Anger like this was born from shame. The desire to be a better man, to be someone who could treat his family (were they still his family?) well. Animals backed into corners, even dead ones like himself, will still bite.
“What do I do better than the rest of them, Layla?”
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𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐀 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐏𝐎𝐎𝐑 𝐉𝐎𝐁 in illustrating just how intricately and largely Layla loved Marc. She always had. Marc was always who she chose, in every situation, and so having to stand here on the edges of things that look like ultimatums or choices that have hard, sharp edges that she can't back away from was something made her heart sink, and the feeling mirrored down in the pit of her stomach. The uphill and constant fight proving to Marc that he is worthy of being loved, that he's worthy of their love was draining at the best of times. There was a line Layla had to draw at some point where she wouldn't spend her hours convincing Marc of the love his own wife and child held for him, that at some point he would need to understand the heartache that exists on the other side of the coin, that very specific pain that exists in loving someone so completely, but to have the opposing party deny that love's existence at every turn, buried under the weight of self loathing.
Layla knew, when she whispered the question to her heart in the quietest hours of the night, that Marc loved his daughter. That he loved them. But sometimes all the good intentions that come from love and a well meaning heart aren’t enough, and sometimes those very same good intentions are what begets the damage someone was trying to avoid at the start.
Marc was so present for the worst parts of that whole year. An unnatural pregnancy, from an unnatural conception, that came to be from the very cruel and unnatural way Khonshu robbed her of any hope to have children of her own, another claw driven into Marc while trying to find another divide to drive between herself and Marc.
Watching Alma streak through the twinkling blanket of her beloved moonflies, made something triumphant soar in Layla’s chest.
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She hadn’t meant to trigger him the way the bottle toss had, and even all these years together there were still missteps. Not even things that necessarily needed to be learned, just moments where she wasn’t the best version of herself. Perhaps neither of them really were, but it didn’t mean she didn’t break in her rigidity of principles to whisper a very earnest ‘Sorry,’ to her husband. Looking back down into the gardens, she let Marc go on, and she understood the points he was making, even if she stalwartly didn’t agree with them, but this was still a rhetoric that wasn’t born in the best interest of their child, but from the skewed place where Marc saw himself in relation to the people who loved and relied on him most in the world. Unable to see his value as they saw it.
Closing the distance between them, Layla swept down onto her knees in front of the threadbare chair Marc was occupying, she firmly forced his eyes to burn back against hers, the tips of her fingers twining into his hair, “Marc, you have to stop. You have to stop this carousel of comparison you do of yourself against Steven, Jake, against…” and even Layla didn’t actually speak his name or moniker, and instead cast her eyes upward to the Mission’s rooftop “...Marc Spector isn’t Jake Lockley or Steven Grant, Marc Spector is Marc Spector, that’s what you do better than the rest of them Marc, you’re uniquely and intrinsically you. No one else can be that for her or for me.”
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