#conduits of His blessings

[dwuerch-blog]

Just a Little Bit -- Goes a Long Way

Ever found yourself looking for love, compassion, or even just a smidge of encouragement in all the wrong places? Like expecting a plant to grow in a desert without a drop of water? We’ve all been there, haven’t we? But here’s the thing – God didn’t just start it all; He started it all with the sole purpose of blessing us so that we would pass it on. Talk about a divine game of pay-it-forward!…

[ozzgin]

Have you ever wanted to date your very own Dostoyevsky-inspired protagonist? content: gender neutral reader, obsessive and violent behavior, utterly miserable yandere

Yandere!Soldier never wanted to join the military, you see. He's an intellectual, a philosopher whose cards were dealt by a cruel hand. He had no choice but to find something to do, a guaranteed ticket out of poverty. His family came from a crumbling village, another source of great frustration; ragged imbeciles with no dreams or ambitions. They lived to survive, nothing more, nothing less. He was the outsider.

Yandere!Soldier hated every minute of his training. Oh, the misery of having to share a room with violent brutes. They didn't care to discuss Julien Sorel's struggles within the French aristocracy in Stendhal's The Red and the Black. How could they understand? If only they had a glimpse into the harsh truth of life, they wouldn't display such moronic smiles on their faces.

Yandere!Soldier was an inveterate nihilist. That, of course, until he met you. Perhaps life wasn't so pointless, after all. It was a mere coincidence, an accidental encounter. His fatalism had eaten him from inside out, and he was looking for an excuse to end it all. If you rejected his approach, he would've found the nearest bridge. That was his plan. Except, well, you went along with it. God, and what bright eyes you had, looking up at him without any hint of disgust. He could see his own sunken face in their reflection.

Yandere!Soldier frequently smells of alcohol. The strong, handmade kind that he keeps stashed in large water jugs. You've been offered a glass once, but it turned your stomach upside down and burned your throat. Moreover, he's a heavy smoker, especially if you're not there to keep him company. You always marvel at the abrupt difference in conduit, his deep frown turning into a genuine smile whenever you're nearby.

Yandere!Soldier has many bouts of utter despair and crippling jealousy. What are you doing with a plebeian like him? Condemned to follow the orders of highly ranked pigs, drowning in debt, and without anything to offer. He's a pathetic, pitiful miser. Surely that grin of yours is a nothing but a mockery, a bone thrown to a tramp. His grip around your throat tightens. "My bad," he croaks, "I must've...I wasn't paying attention. Forgive me."

Yandere!Soldier is determined to conquer the world. He'll crawl his way up on all fours if he has to. His newfound willpower is all thanks to you, and only you. You've now become a vital part of his existence, the mechanism that keeps his gears spinning properly. He could never let you go. He'll prove to you just how worthy he is of your blessing, of your warmth, of your innocence.

Yandere!Soldier is in a particularly good mood. He lifts you up and spins you around, overwhelmed by rapture. He's going to make it. He just knows it, deep in his heart, that he's not like everyone else. Indeed, me may very well be a Napoleon of his times, forced to do with scraps. No matter: if he wasn't given the fortune, he'll snatch it with his own claws. And you - you better be at his side once all of this ends, and he's mauled his way to the top. A great man needs a great partner, and for him, there's no one else but you.

"Let me be clear, this is just a placeholder," he says, sliding the ring further down your finger. "It's rather cheap, and not too stylish, but it will do for now. It's a symbol, you see, a mere reminder that you're mine. Don't ever remove it."

[All Yandere Stories]

[gay-dorito-dust]

Love I think geta embodies:

Selfish love- loving Geta meant giving your all to him. He belonged to Rome, to the throne, which meant you didn’t have much of his heart to yourself but all Geta wanted was your love for his own. That was all he asked, he wasn’t the sharing type, and thus didn’t like the idea of you freely giving your attention to someone else who wasn’t him. He liked having your eyes on him because at least he’ll find a pair of eyes amidst the crowd that looked back at him with affection and love.

Possessive love- Geta is a possessive and powerful man. His words are law, his words are what were commanded to the masses from the gods above, testing humanity to challenge their will. So the moment he declared that you were his there was finality to his words and he expected people to know that. Geta would go all out and make sure that if people were going to ignore his words, then he’ll drape you in the richest of clothes and the finest of jewellery that he could find to make sure the message got across without a hitch.

Yet it still wasn’t enough to satisfy his innermost thoughts that it wasn’t enough, nothing was ever enough to calm the feeling that there will always be someone who’ll have wandering eyes for you. You were his and his alone and Geta didn’t take too kindly to others, especially not those who thought they’d get away with looking at you the same way he did. He wanted to consume you whole but knew he couldn’t, so he tried his hardest to make it well enough an example to those with wandering eyes will be dealt with brutally and in the most inhumane way possible.

A love that can only exist behind closed doors- geta isn’t known as a gentle man -not even close- but he did try for you as you two would rest in your shared chambers with you running your fingers through his hair, nails scraping his scalp as he sunk into your embrace. The weight of the golden laurels that graced his head weighed heavy, but with you Geta found himself a lot lighter when you were nearby, a soothing balm to his soul and someone the god bless him to be the peace he so craved.

Geta was use to feeling the pressure of the throne on his shoulders, but the way that you’d trace shapes into his back seemed to magically make the ache disappear as though magic flowed through your fingertips. He’d confide in you more than he’s ever confided in anyone else about his brother, about his ambitions, his worries and upsets that he’d fear would make him look weak; just for you to console him and give him better counsel then the senate ever had in his entire reign.

‘You’re emperor, conduit of the gods, but you’re also the human known as Geta.’ You tell him softly as the night befell on you both quickly. ‘A human is allowed to make mistakes but an emperor is not, for an emperor to show flaws is to show the flaws of the gods themselves,’ you then kissed his head as your fingers trailed his neck, ‘but I want my Geta to be as human as he can be just for me if that’s not too much to ask for.’

‘Whatever my beloved wishes of me shall be granted.’ He replies, equally as soft as his thumb caresses your forearm before planting several kisses there. ‘Your love makes me strong, uplifts me and I pray to the gods that I do the same for you, or at least try to.’ You cut him off by kissing his forehead. ‘And your best is all I ask Geta, it’s all I ask of you for too much is already asked of you already.’ You then continued to cuddle him close in hopes of giving him your love in another way, to make sure that he knew that he was loved should words one day fail you.

It was moments like theses where Geta was able to be human that was a rarity for all of Rome expect you, you got to see the man beneath the emperor, you got to see your Geta with the tired eyes and heavy shoulders and hands that held you with the tightness of an iron clamp. Your Geta never was soft in public but when you were alone together he was a soul in desperate need of love, of devotion and a softness that he could cal his own; and he did in the form of you.

His god given solace, his safe haven and his gift from the gods. He was yours just as much as you were his to have and hold every night.

Love I think Caracalla embodies:

Chaotic love - to have the off chance to experience a love like Caracalla’s is akin to a battlefield, one where uncertainty, death, blood and dismemberment were more common then him cradling your face with blood smeared hands as he roughly caresses your face and stares at you with wild eyes.

He’d kill those whose hands and eyes wander equally too much for what he deemed appropriate before kissing you with the blood of those very same people coating his lips. He was chaos that took human form, threatening to consume everything within his vicinity, even yourself with how close you were to him. Yet there is a weird feeling that comes with that chaos that lures you into a false sense of security with all the lavish perks that often blinded you to the reality of position that you find yourself in.

Bloody/dark love - there’s a lot of blood staining Caracalla’s hands. How you handle with other information, whether you despised the destruction that was inflicted by this man, or thrived off of the idea of being romantically involved with a man of such dangerous capabilities is completely up to you. Yet one thing remained the same and that was the fact that you’ll have to get use to his needed for bloodshed, for violence, for anything that involved people getting hurt.

It was his fix of sorts and sooner or later you’ll grow a strong enough stomach to withstand the scent of blood that will permitted your life with the emperor. There’s jealously, there’s inferiority and there’s so much more within the so called love that many would view as harsh or even cursed at times, people pitied you but wouldn’t dare step in the way of an emperor who could make their lives infinitely worse without hesitation.

Doomed love - your love with Caracalla is doomed from the start. It’s not pretty and it’s bound to break your heart one way or another. His illness was bound to take him away from you, terribly and completely to the point where he’d often have moments where he’d look at you like a stranger within your own chambers. It worsens everyday and all you could was to hold him against your chest, keeping his hand away from reaching the knife behind you as you beg him to remember you, remember your voice, anything as tears streamed down your face.

This love you had would eat you alive if you didn’t end up dead first, whether it be by Caracalla’s or someone else’s doing entirely. He’d cling onto you obsessively, tears in his own eyes as he asks you whether your favoured him or the random servant who’s blood still was fresh upon the floor, soaking both of your feet in a thick maroon colour. Your love with Caracalla was doomed to tears you both from skin and bone or submerge you within his madness and chaos

The love I think Marcus embodies;

Protective love - he fights with honour and your honour is one that he’ll defend until the day he dies. Marcus wouldn’t have you walk the streets of Rome unsafe as he was always by your side, keeping you close against him as he observes the people that brush past, with the intent of making sure no unsavoury characters will make you uncomfortable.

Marcus was more than willing to step in front of you, put his whole body on the line should he have to in order to ensure your safety from a maniac with a knife. Pushing you softly behind him as he stood before you like a brick wall, ready to defend and kill for you should he be forced to do such a thing, for there was not a bigger regret he would have within his heart then let you get hurt under his protection.

It would be a wound he would carry for the rest of his life should you ever get hurt, a physical as well as emotional wound that Marcus will use as motivation to do better by you, for if an scratch was found upon your skin he would surely feel as though he had failed as your lover and protector. He didn’t care what caused the harm, it was the fact that you had gotten hurt in the process that bothered the general more than anything else. Even if you did get hurt, he’d kiss the scar to show that it was just as deserving of love and care as the rest of you were; you were still the beloved person he had married.

Soft/tender love - the man had many callouses on his hands from all the fights he’s won and conquered with effortless eases but he had always held your face with the tenderness that you were most familiar with the night he returns.

‘My love.’ He often calls you with a voice that spoke of longing, of yearning and his eyes didn’t hide their softness from you either, instead his eyes looked at you as though you were everything he could have imagined in his lifetime. He would also think how he was truly blessed by the gods to have been granted you in his life as he brought your hands up to his face, where he kissed each and every knuckle all the while maintaining eye contact, it was enough to make one flustered that was for certain as your stomach erupted with butterflies from his affection.

It wasn’t hard to fall in love with a honourable man like Marcus, you had trouble finding something not to love about a man who’d kiss your shoulders and back of your neck until you awake in the morning, just to see his beautiful face smiling down at you in adoration and abundance of love that were as deep as the deepest well.

[slutforalastor]

Confessional

Human Priest Alastor has a particularly committed parishioner with an unholy request. NOT APPROPRIATE FOR THOSE UNDER THE AGE OF 18. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

Tags: SO MANY CHURCH REFERENCES, light voyeurism, temptation, bloodletting, church AU I guess if you wanna get technical, way too many big words for plotless smut

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

You kneel before a shadow, crossing yourself. You know the shadow's face, having spent countless Sundays smiling from your lips and weeping from between your legs during his service. You know that he can see you, perhaps even recognizes you. You're aware of the purpose of confessional, the supposed tenants guiding the practice, but you are not here to absolve yourself. You seek indulgence, not purification.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been eleven months since my last confession. These are my sins. I harbor impure thoughts, thoughts that I know have been given to me by the Lord. He is guiding us towards a union, perhaps to conceive, but for some holy purpose, regardless. There can be no other reason why you'd occupy my every waking thought, why my maiden's bed feels so cold and empty, as though incomplete without your body next to mine. Each and every night, I sin in that bed, allowing my own hand to guide me to an incomplete release. It never gives me any feeling of blessing, only of deeper desire to blaspheme. My soul is forever lost without your faithful shepherding, Father."

The shadow moves, clears its throat, no trace of emotion to be gleaned from his intonation.

"My dear child, you seem lost, confused. As a man I am flattered, perhaps even humbled, by this confession. But you must hold steady against these impure delusions, for God has placed me on a different path."

His rebuke only serves to hasten your desire. You feel yourself laden with honeyed need, leaking against the inside of your thighs through your underwear. You know he can see you kneeling, prostrating yourself before the judgment of your holy superior. Still on your knees, you lean back, hiking up the fabric of your skirt, pushing your hips up to present your ruined panties. "Holy Father, you are a servant of the Lord, are you not? Would you deny that one of your flock is in need? Would you leave them to temptation in solitude, with only their hands, the devil's playthings, for companionship?"

His voice betrays the first sign of will being tested. "This could just as easily be a test, a bit of trickery from the Devil himself."

"Who better to rid me of devilish desire than one who speaks on God's behalf? Who baptizes the young, unifies lovers, grants last rites to the condemned? Serve your Lord and banish this Devil from my loins, if you be pious, if you be merciful."

His voice is trembling now, thick with an intent you had hoped to provoke. You are intriguing him, winning him over. Summoning your courage, you draw your underwear down to your ankles, clumsily preening your sex the same way you have been whenever the heat between your legs burns like Hellfire. "See for yourself how the Lord makes me a conduit. Would you call this the will of the Devil? The need of a woman for a man?"

"I have taken an oath..." he stutters, choking on his own words.

"An oath to serve your parishioners... Would you bear witness to sin, knowing you can make it holy?" you bleat, the lamb on the altar, bound by ropes fastened to your soul. The Priest stands, and you can see his shadow making the mark of the cross, muttering a prayer to himself. Your self-defilement doesn't even slow, the low, wet sounds of hungry flesh accepting your phallic substitute the only sound in the confessional. In another moment, you hear the door opening, and your savior stands framed in the light of the jamb.

"Bless you, Father," you moan. He shuts the door, and in the dimness, you capture the full depth of his radiance. His brown hair drapes in front of his eyes, standing as a buffer between those nearly-black irises and the small circular frames that grace the bridge of his nose. A nervous sweat shimmers on his dark skin. His cassock is disheveled, his silver cross hung up on one of the higher buttons, collar greyed at the edges from sweat.

"We must make haste to rid you of this curse," he breathes, tugging at his collar. Thinking on its symbolism, he detaches it entirely, leaving it hanging on the doorknob. With rough strength, he brings you to the chair one could use to confess face-to-face, bringing your arousal level with him when he drops to his knees. He inhales, something within that bouquet seeming to pique his interest. "You reek of unholy desire."

"It has tormented me, Father."

"I can see now what you mean. It would be irresponsible to leave you in such a state. I shall grant you this mercy, my child. God will heal you through me."

With a slight tilt of his head, he partakes in your communion, his lips brushing over the outermost of your folds, murmuring a prayer against the electrified nerves. You can feel every syllable evoked against your body, sending ripples of heaven cascading through your system. You are certain that God's holy presence is being imparted from the teasing edges of his lips into your body. His tongue parts from between his pursed, muttering lips, lapping at the inside of your sex, searching for something buried deeper still. Your hands dare to caress his head, guiding him towards the spot he seeks. Charting into fresh territory, he stakes claim to it, his eager tongue seeking out places you've yet to even map yourself. Each press of it is a blessing, the burning ache in your flesh the doubtless throes of a demon being flayed from your soul.

"My dear, I'm beginning to wonder if I misjudged. Your taste is divine."

Your fingers dig into his thick locks, pressing him to persist even further, to reach past the purgatory of your desire. You feel his nose grinding against your most sensitive spot, something you have never had a name for, feeling every time he inhales and exhales, his mouth far too preoccupied with more concerning matters. You are fighting to keep your carnal affectations from becoming any louder than a whining wail you smother in the small of your throat, lest it be loosed completely unrestrained.

"You're doing well to keep your voice lowered," he praises you. "You are a true servant of your Lord."

"I-I am in his service," you affirm, your words snaring every time his tongue darts against your walls.

"Your dedication deserves to be rewarded," and he pushes himself as far as the limitations of flesh permit, lodging his lapping extremity so firmly within that you startle nearly upright, sharp nails that bite against the fabric of your clothes urging you back down. "He says 'be still and know that I am God.'"

You groan against the scripture being branded on your innards, a new sensation creeping across the tensed muscles of your legs. With a muffled moan, he is baptized in your release, and he offers a satisfied sound of approval. Your legs quake against the ceaseless undulating of his attentions, finally extricating himself when he's had his fill of you. He runs the long, thin thing that just concluded making a mess of your insides over his glistening grin, still slick from your consecration. Your focus drifts downward, to the crook that will shepherd you to salvation tenting the fabric of his soutane.

"Traces of habitation still remain, my child. We must take measures to save your spirit." He undoes the lower buttons of his robe, exposing himself to you, as he would have been in Eden. You can feel it against you, afire with purifying heat, sliding against your sopping entrance with anticipation. "Accept these rites."

"Bless me, Father," you whine, grinding yourself against him.

"Please, dear, call me Alastor." It's not permission; it's a demand. He waits, poised against you.

"Please give me your blessing, Alastor."

His lips curl into a grin, his canines so jagged and long that they're the first teeth you see. "God answers all prayers in good time." With a shove, he enters you, your teeth clenching, your breath shorting at the feeling of this union. He can't help but let a pleasured grunt leave his lips, and he catches your eyes as the last inch of him slips inside, brushing an errant strand of hair from your eyes. You feel cold, flushed at the overwhelming relief of finally being face-to-face with what you'd thought could only be in a fantasy. He gives a thrust, testing the waters, shaking your faith. You whimper against the force of it, still growing accustomed to the sensation of being taken. "Do you feel the sin drying up? The demonic need being purged?" Alastor wonders, driving himself into you with ever-increasing force, his restraint abandoned. "In its place will be holy admiration, a want to submit, as all of God's good creatures must possess."

"I will be a good creature," you promise.

"The best their ever was," Alastor croons, his jagged incisors hunting for the soft of your neck, carving runes against the submissive skin, seas of red pooling in the canyons. "Will your blood run black, as a demon's, or red, like the dust of the Earth? You have the allure of a succubus, but the taste of a virgin." His nails ribbon your collarbone, leaving oozing trails like spilled wine. He partakes of this communion with the same vigor as before, drinking it like an elixir. Your nervous hands grasp against his back, enfeebled fingers digging into the fabric of his clothing. Through all of this, his rutting has never slowed, increasing in desperation when he samples your blood. When he pulls away, you can see it trickling against his teeth, his tongue dragging over the surface to crudely clean them.

"I have dreamed of this, Alastor."

"Our lord works in mysterious ways," he assures you, clawed fingers still tracing thin rivulets across your skin. "I am nearly at my limit," he pants, burying himself against you. His thrusts finally slow, each push against you deliberate, purposeful. With his body laid against yours, his mouth is laid by your ear, and you can hear every facet of his breathing, every pant, moan, and inhale he makes broadcasting into your brain, the only sound you can hear. You are as close as he is, and you wrap yourself around him as he pumps into you one final time, his holy fire coating your insides, his assured breaths becoming high-pitched whines as he spasms against you, driving you to your own climax. It is nothing like what you've made yourself feel; it sends shockwaves through the taut fibers of your lower half, makes you cry out in uncontrollable lust, leaving your limbs clenched around Alastor as the last of his climax is left spilt within. You feel his chest heave with a deeply drawn breath, his sigh in your ear scattering chills across you. "Do you feel purified, dear?"

"I worry that I will have further need of your services, Alastor."

He pulls away from you, his smile sadistic yet sincere. "The clergy lives to serve, after all."

[comicsohwhyohwhy]

Arcane theory - Viktor's utopia and the eldritch horror

Sooooo been thinking. Clearly Viktor's 'healing' isn't actually healing, it's turning people into husks and vessels for some sort of arcane horror. Look at what Jayce sees when he walks through the camp and looks at the 'people', those images being overlaid really fast onto the supposedly serene faces (and also think about Salo not breathing and the like, and this sort of husk-face also appearing from Jayce's pov when he looks at him):

I fully believe Jayce sees the 'truth' here, and that's why he has to kill Viktor. As Viktor said in season one - 'Jayce, you have to destroy it. You have to. Promise me'. As he said beginning season two: 'I should have died. What am I? The hexcore killed Sky, Jayce.' This force is evil, and I'll come to what exactly it does and what it means for Viktor's arc in a moment.

And as I've said before, not only does Jayce kill Viktor with Viktor's blessing - the entity within Jayce, the 'second will' that herald Viktor feels - that's Viktor himself, the part of Viktor unsoiled by the corruption by the hexcore. We see this because the Jayce coming back after months within the hexcore carries traits of Viktor, he has the leg brace, the shoulder brace, he's Jayce, but he carries Viktor's 'essence'. It's Viktor's choice that this version of him causing so much evil in the world has to die. It's Viktor taking back the autonomy over himself that Jayce took from him when he changed him with the hexcore against his will.

This sort of split, two wills being at work, is imo exactly what's happening with the eldritch horror hexcore force in Viktor's body and mind too. I thiiiiink that Viktor's still fully in there, only totally under the thrall of that force and deceived by it into believing he's really healing people, and we see glimpses of him - e.g. when he refuses to use Vander for his own purposes. I think what's still purely Viktor is the Viktor we see on the astral plane, the one with the amber eyes that we know so well, the one who shows emotions and has facial expressions that we recognise.

This is the Viktor that ultimately allows Jayce to kill him - because that's what happens, the boy/husk leading Jayce to Viktor is under his control, after all, and Viktor, with all his amazing powers, doesn't even lift a finger to try and prevent Jayce from killing him. Maybe this Viktor has started to realise that he's being tricked and used, that he's bringing evil into the world.

So probably that's the Viktor (or a version of that) that lives within Jayce now too. And Sky, the supposedly benign 'guide', his inspiration - that's the hexcore, it's the form the eldritch horror takes to influence Viktor, to bend him to its will, to make him think he's healing when he's in fact killing and making a conduit for evil in this world. The hexcore knows that Viktor's feelings of remorse towards Sky make her the perfect form for toying with Viktor, for deceiving him.

Now, this is suuuch a mean arc I'll have to say. Viktor, who's always wanted to help people, whose main clash with Jayce was over the urgency of that need vs. Jayce's other ambitions, like being well respected within Piltover, ends up killing so many, doing so much harm, while thinking that he's doing good and healing people. I really hope that this won't just be it - Jayce managing to kill Viktor, the Viktor-essence within Jayce evaporating. I do hope that this character does get another chance to actually do good, a less hopeless ending. But it's Arcane, it can be VERY MEAN AND TRAGIC, so we'll seeeeeee what they do with my fave tragic twink...

[librivore42]

A beast in the belly

@garnetdawn's illustration of Gale sent me into an angsty brain spin so you all get to suffer with me. Wheee.

Word Count: 703

Warnings: Some violent intrusive thoughts

Arcane hunger is so aptly named, if he does say so himself. A little arrogant to say, perhaps, since he was the one who named it. But one must find pleasure in the little things, even if that means feeling clever about naming the very ill that will eventually take his life.

The very ill he earned for himself by feeling far too clever. There’s an irony in that which he’d rather not examine, even as it stood there in the shadowed corner of his tower. In the long year alone, he avoided its gaze.

It isn’t until now that he realises just how easy Tara and the tower had made things, lonely as it was.

Tav’s wary assistance has done him some good, of course. But it’s been quite some time since they’ve gotten their hands on another magical artefact, and he can feel it starting to claw at him, shredding his resolve.

He’s told the others that the urge is like a forest fire, or a war. Something to keep at bay certainly, but manifesting as a distant, looming danger that he was simply a passive conduit for. It’s felt different, lately. More active. More searching. More savage.

It grows in ways more bestial than he’s ever been used to. It has teeth and claws and the frightening willingness to use both. It is no longer a burning, a frantic urge to be quelled. As he had so aptly, accidentally named it, it comes as a hunger, a starvation that fuels a primal instinct to be fed, to survive.

He refuses to confront the question of how far he would go to sate it. With whom would he bargain, to what degree would he take if it was not freely given? He clutches at the burning in his chest, staring at the wall of his tent, and avoids the question’s eyes as it lurks in the dark.

Alone, wracked with the strange starvation and the certainty that by noon tomorrow he must either absorb something or disappear before he kills everyone around him.

To die alone.

For all his fine statements that he would teleport himself somewhere he would do no harm, he finds the plan falling apart the closer he comes to it.

He doesn’t want to die.

A frightening thought flickers at the back of his mind. Tav. The vivid, violent image of sinking teeth into the sorcerer's skin to inhale the magic in their body. A fragile mortal shell full of potential power, waiting to be cracked.

The thought makes the breath catch on the existing pain in his chest as he struggles to pretend he never thought it at all. It was someone else, something else, not him. He is not violent. He’s not cruel or wicked, he’s just starving. And alone. Afraid. A wounded animal.

No, to call it an animal is inaccurate. It implies that if he gave in to the urge it would be a loss of control, a wildness for which he is not truly responsible. A separation for which he should suffer no consequence. But he knows better. It does not rip the power from his hands and pull him helplessly forward. It simply lurks, whispering darkness that is horribly, terribly pragmatic. Waiting for him to see the sense of it and act.

It’s only to survive.

It’s for the good of everyone.

He takes a deep breath, trying to focus on the faint silhouette of Karlach through the tent fabric as she moves around on the night watch. Some of them have been worried about him, rightly so, for he’s kept them at arm’s length all day, uncharacteristically silent. But Karlach still pauses outside his tent as she passes. It’s a good thing to focus on. Because if he sleeps, he’s afraid of what visions might bubble up from the darkest corners of his mind, thrown up by the dying throes of that wounded animal.

First light takes years to arrive. Lae’zel’s voice is a blessed harshness as it cuts through the dawn air, thrusting an amulet into his tent and stalking off with a click of her teeth and without a backwards glance. He nearly sobs with relief as he grabs at it clumsily, presses the cool metal against the burning and breathes freely for the first time in so many days.

Time. He has time again.

[enviedear]

Not sure if Im doing this ask game correctly but theres an idea I want to explore with you. What if Jason is able to see undead/ghosts and such, considering he is technically not alive but not dead either, hanging somewhere inbetween. This makes him prefect spectral conduit. He spends a lot of time in company of this sweet beautiful soul...you.

this is very edgar allen poe i love it! i think he'd, at first, be kind of freaked out by it. maybe even relate it to a curse—a reminder of his time spent six feet under. but then, he'd talked to you and he felt blessed. divine to be in your presence.

tbh i may write a little blurb about it if you want!

[dragonshoard]

My head is STUCK on blue bird!Jinx AU with the new season coming out (if anyone remembers from WAY WAY back).

Summary for people who have no idea what tf I'm talking about: Basically, Powder dies via Silco the night Vander "dies". She's revived by Janna (wind spirit god who is a guardian deity of Zaun) and proceeds to spend x years getting up to international hijinks while playing politics. Powder/Jinx (she goes by both) remembers nothing of her past and is spirit blessed with the ability to turn into various forms of birds among other talents.

I had a picture of her a while back but I'm probably going to be changing her outfit and hair. I'm not fond of the top I gave her anymore. Also, she has so many tattoos. So many.

I've added to the AU since I last spoke about it:

Jinx is a magical conduit - not quite a mage, or a witch, but someone who is capable of using magic without generating it herself. She gets power from the Spirit Gods and Runeterra. It is also what is keeping her alive so if she's ever drained she will die :D

Her abilities/magic is very similar to Janna's in that, naturally, she has healing, shielding, and some control of wind. To do anything else the magic would have to go through specific runes, though it costs significantly more to do so (draining her faster). Her only other natural ability is her transformation, though certain transformations drain her more (big bird, for example)

Otherwise, she still loves her pistol and ALSO has a fondness for knives and never has less than ten on her person.

Jinx has a few titles, but her main one is "Storm Priestess". She is quite literally a religious leader and is treated as such. There are rules she has to follow, and if Janna tells her to jump - she will LEAP

Her hair is much more elaborate in this AU as it's used to enhance and add to the array of runes tattooed onto her skin. It's still in two braids (typically - specific circumstances may have her wearing more), though with threads of brightly colored yarns and engraved silver/copper/iron metal running through it. I'm going to playing around with the following concepts (don't look too deeply at the colors, just the patterns/styles/accessories):

Zaun and Piltover are bordered by Noxus and Shurima, so I'm going to go ahead and assume Piltover and Zaun's first generations were largely immigrants from Noxus and Shurima (and possibly Demacia). I'm assuming Shurima had the largest population as Zaun was once part of the Shuriman empire. However, as a note, Zaun and Piltover are largely mixing pot nations due to the nature of them being port cities with vast trade systems.

In this AU, Jinx and Vi's facial features are very region typical for specific parts of Shurima. Great-grandparents were immigrants to Zaun.

Jinx has political ties to three (I'm including the Undercity here) nations: Shurima, Zaun, and Piltover. Her religious leader position grants her relatively high status/respect and a voice in all three nations; however, her connections with Silco in Zaun and Caitlyn in Piltover also give her some additional legitimacy.

Shurima is currently heavily divided and largely in ruins. However, with the rise of Azir the empire is slowly rebuilding. They were once a very prosperous and rich culture, so its implied that there will be a resurgence of that golden era. Her involvement in a certain conflict will grant her status with the empire where most followers of spirit-gods wouldn't have. There will be conflict there, but as I understand it Azir is largely seen as a benevolent dictator. I'm not 100% sure what his perspective is on spirit-gods, but I'm going to assume he isn't the ungrateful sort.

In terms of relationships...

Jinx has a very close relationship with Caitlyn. They've known each other since Jinx was about 13 and have been friends since. Caitlyn has considered adding Jinx to the family registry for both political and personal reasons. Caitlyn is a bit more familiar with Zaun in this one, as she's spent a number of years exploring Zaun pre-independence and learning the culture. Also has more political savy.

Vi is in Stillwater for at least 2 more years than in canon.

As mentioned before Viktor and her are good friends in this one but she's gonna get nervous when he starts poking at the arcane in a very unsanctioned way (and I mean her as a person, not her as a priestess - the spirit gods and spirits are quiet about his actions for now).

I'm thinking about how to integrate parts of season 2 into this AU. There will be a period of time in which Jinx will be unable to return to Zaun due to conflict in parts of Shurima, so I'm thinking that this is when the conflict between Zaun and Piltover starts to boil over. I'm thinking a situation in which Piltover and Zaun sign a formal declaration of independence but problems begin to boil over due to foreign and domestic issues. Not 100% on whether or not Caitlyn's mom dies in this one, but there is a chance of it.

I'm also not sure how much I'm going to keep to the "magic leads to destruction" angle the show is starting to go towards. Pending! Right now Jinx is very pleased with the progress of hextech and chemtech so far in the shows. Some things are subject to change as Arcane season 2 progresses :D

[nostalgiabug]

Billy Batson/Cap. M headcanons AKA something you didn't ask for but we are doing

Flossing Marvel jumpscare!

Billy is homeless by choice. Mostly due to being almost constantly adopted into bad families (boy just has the worst luck). Billy prefers to remain homeless out of the fear that at some point he won't be able to get away from an abusive family. And is absolutely terrified of cops because they tend to take one look at him and toss him in the system or call him a lost cause and try to send him to juvie. Billy does work for Wiz Radio mostly as a result of magical shenanigans i.e Wiz is run by the magical community of Fawcett City. Oh, Billy isn't a big fan of being Cap, I don't know how else to describe it as other than Uncanny Valley for the kid and the fear that he'll end up like Black Adam.

He and Freddy aren't even remotely related familially! Freddy is just some random kid his age that he became close friends with due to mutual loneliness and love of causing problems. Freddy's disability was a result of parental abuse were one of them broke his leg and it was just never properly handled so it just didn't set right. A teacher noticed this and had him placed into her protective custody until his parent was arrested and he had to be placed in foster care due to her inability to meet his needs. He currently lives with Victor and Rosa's family. The other family's backstory remains mostly the same.

Tawky Tawny is a fae trickster two pulled a prank on the wrong person (Titania) and as a result was cursed into the form of a stuffed tiger keychain. Currently he's Billy's familiar as a sort of parole/attempt to prove he's learned his lesson. He was a close friend of The Wizard for a few centuries and is teaching Billy the ins and outs of his inherited role as the Champion of Magic.

Magic lore

The Shazam acronym is as follows:

Sovereignty of Hera

Guidance of Hecate

Council of Athena

Power of Zeus

Fury of Ares

Momentum of Hermes

I always thought it was weird that Capt. Marvel got his power from multiple theological origins unlike Black Adam who was exclusively Egyptian. It was also weird that The Champion of Magic didn't have Hecate as one of his patrons, given her authority as the goddess of magic. I also like the idea the that Billy is beloved by the gods and has multiple blessings outside of the Champion. Like Artemis gave him an understanding of wild creatures and Dionysus making his mind harder to read. Billy is essentially a cryptid due to this, but with magic and a desire to start shit for the hell of it. I have this idea that each member of The Council of Wizards had their own champion and pantheon to draw from. Shazam obviously has the Greek pantheon, but the others had the Norse, Egyptian, Shinto, ect.

Capt. Marvel's duty is less about fighting bad guys and more along the lines of diplomacy, fixing what Black Adam caused. Helping magical communities to coexist and preventing magical threats that could potentially harm both the normal and mystic communities. Also the whole custodian of the Rock of Eternity thing. The Rock itself being a multiversal conduit for all magic does possess a limited form of sentience and will send members of the Shazamily to different realities for various reasons. The Rock tends to send them to those that aren't magically inclined often so a problem gets solved before they are able to return. It's next to impossible to open gates to The Rock in a reality that isn't magically inclined it becomes more difficult at best to return. The same it true for attempting to enter any other dimension i.e The Fae Wilds. I've always enjoyed the nuance of 'my job isn't to punch people, it's to help them.'

The Council of Wizards imposed rules on the Rock's interference;

1)The Rock is forbidden to speak.

2)The Rock is forbidden from taking physical form.

3)The Rock is forbidden to reveal any knowledge unknown to The Champion in any form.

4)The Rock is forbidden from most forms of physical interference (No moving doors)

This can only be rectified if the Council no longer holds control over the rock. Disbandment, forcible removal, or death without an heir.

Physical appearance HC

Billy has lichtenberg figure scars that are weirdly localized, the entire Shazamily does, Billy just has the most. The largest one is on his back starting from the nape of his neck and spreading out at his shoulder blades, he shares this scar with Mary. Freddy and Billy share a scar on Freddy's bum leg, this one going up from the foot to the knee. Darla's scar is on his right hand rising from the palm to the elbow. Pedro's is the left, it starts at the shoulder and ends midway to the hand. Eugene's is on the right leg starting at the mid thigh and ending at the achilles heel. The first scar Billy got is a circle around his heart that spreads across his chest like tree roots, it has no match.

The Champions all share variants of the same costume design (with one exception). Togas with pants, golden braces and boots. They still have the capes (I like those) and the togas match the color scheme with some extra personalization (sans Billy). Mary has the favor of Athena so her's is more armored than normal (and white). Freddy has Hermes so he has sandals instead of boots and his cape is smaller. Eugene is in full on spartan battle armor (Oops all Ares). Darla has a tiara and a longer skirt section. Pedro has the favor of Zeus so his outfit has streaks of charring similar to lightning. They all still have the thunder bolt thing in their chests it's just more obvious that it's a physical part of them.

Now on to my personal fav. Billy is transmasc. I don't know why but I like it. Additionally, Billy is pansexual and has had a lot of boyfriends and girlfriends none of them ended up being what he wanted, leading to a feeling of something being wrong with him. Freddy is gay but thought he was straight for the longest time. I'm just gonna preface this by saying Billy and Freddy being foster siblings is new and they used to just be friends and that is more interesting to me than just siblings. I don't have any strong feelings about the ship, it's fine, I think the potential of a close friendship developing into a close romantic relationship is much more interesting than enemies to lovers. So that's my standing.

Mary is lesbian, she just has the vibes. Darla is to baby to care. Pedro is a bi king. Eugene is the ace icon.

[hezzabeth]

The trumpets were old plastic souvenirs painted gold, so the off-key wailing was hardly surprising. A band of disheveled people marched onto the stage, still blowing on the plastic trumpets. Surprisingly, Isabeau was among them, her face displaying a bored, blank expression. They abruptly stopped once they reached the center of the scaffold, the wood creaking under their feet.

A man wearing green tights and a shirt reading "Medieval Christmas market 3345" on it walked onto the stage. His hair had been cut into a peculiar bowl shape with a blunt fringe, and someone had painted red circles on his cheeks.

"All hail Sister Morganna! Conduit of the one true god," the man bellowed in a surprisingly high-pitched voice.

“Did you bring your solar flare gun?” Dityaa asked.

“Of course I did! I never go anywhere without it,” Revati snapped back.

Revati had never seen Sister Morganna up close. During her childhood visits, Sister Morganna was a distant figure. Glimpses of her gloved hands could be seen waving from the castle windows. Every summer solstice, she would lead a parade across the park, carried by men in a gold and white carriage. Through the mesh curtain windows, her shadowy figure could be seen shifting about. Now, Sister Morganna was walking across the scaffold boldly and freely.

She was dressed in a sky-blue and emerald dress, with a thick red and golden scarf covering her scalp, the ends trailing down her shoulders. Slowly, she turned toward the waiting audience, and Revati gasped. Sister Morganna's skin was the same color as fresh lavender. A single round, circular eye glanced about—an eye that could see and understand everything, even things that had yet to be—an eye that could glance into the very nature of people.

“She’s an alien!” whispered Dityaa.

It was an eye that could read minds; no wonder she had successfully started a cult.

“Technically, she’s a human from a faraway planet,” Revati hissed back.

The "faraway planet" was the closest the solar system got to actual aliens. Over a thousand years ago, a group of scientists set off to colonize Pluto. Obviously, they vanished, the ship sinking into the darkness of space. Three hundred years ago, their descendants returned. They were, of course, different.

Sister Morganna calmly walked across the stage and raised her hand.

“Praise be to Marduk, son of the sun, radiant is he,” Sister Morganna said.

“Radiant is he,” the crowd echoed, their expressions blank.

“Who’s Marduk?” Hissed Dityaa.

Revati merely shrugged, completely confused.

“Today we bring forward two heretics, those who smother the great transition,” Sister Morganna said, gesturing towards Bridgadeiro and Aurora.

“Heretic? I don’t even understand what I did! All I said was 'Bless Goup' when my new friend sneezed,” Bridgadeiro argued, nodding at Aurora.

“And I didn’t do anything! I swear,” Aurora cried.

“Goup is a lie! A false prophet created by an ancient snake oil seller,” Sister Morganna said with a small, tight smile.

“False prophet? The rainbow mat of crystal light has been proven to work! It balances your mind, body, and spirit,” Bridgadeiro smiled, and Sister Morganna turned to him, her one eye slowly blinking.

“I can see you standing on that mat, praying to the dark,” she whispered. “Your brother, he drowned, didn’t he? On that hot summer night? You cried and prayed! You think it was her that brought him back,” she added, and the smile dropped from Bridgadeiro’s face.

“She did save him! Goup saved him,” Bridgadeiro said, and Sister Morganna shook her head.

“Oh, you’re a true believer... you poor little boy,” she sighed. “Some gods are lies, but Marduk is true and ancient. My people have lived on his surface! We have been blessed with his gifts! Praise Marduk,” Sister Morganna said.

“Praise Marduk,” the entire crowd screamed, including Revati, who found herself clapping her hand over her mouth. Sister Marduk had hijacked her vocal cords.

“Now repent and embrace Marduk or sacrifice your light to his glory,” Sister Marduk cried.

“I repent! All hail Marduk!” Aurora cried, bursting into tears.

“Well, I’m not repenting. Marduk is just another name for your home planet that blew up centuries ago,” Bridgadeiro said with a small shrug.

“Very well,” Sister Morganna said. Revati sighed, pulling out her solar gun and setting the final charge to maximum.

“Oh, you’re not going to…” whispered Dityaa, and Revati nodded, pulling the trigger.

The solar flare hit the stage in a blinding loop of ultraviolet light. Sister Morganna screamed, flying upwards and landing face-first in the crowd, her body twitching.

“Praise Marduk! This must be an omen!” Aurora smartly yelled from the stage.

The crowd, no longer under Sister Morganna’s control, began to scatter in all directions. Some stumbled towards the fallen leader, striking her with whatever they could find. Others pushed and shoved each other, stumbling over cobblestones.

Through it all, Bridgadeiro stood, completely confused, his hands still tied behind his back. People pushed and shoved, stumbling over each other and tripping on the slick cobblestones. Revati fought through the tidal wave of chaos until she reached the scaffold again. Bridgadeiro was staring down at her, completely transfixed.

“Did you just save my life again?” He asked.

“Yes!” Revati replied, climbing up to the scaffold.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen! He said it so quickly,” Aurora said as Revati began to undo her bound hands.

“It was pure instinct!” protested Bridgadeiro.

The crowd was starting to swarm towards the stage like ants around a sugar cube. From above, Revati could see the smoking, twitching form of Sister Morganna.

“What are they doing?” Bridgadeiro asked, and there was a faint creaking sound as Isabeau joined Revati.

“They’re probably going to kill her; none of them wanted to worship an ancient Babylonian god!” Isabeau said and then she smiled. An actual smile. “I can talk normally again! She’s really gone!” Isabeau cried with delight as Aurora pulled her hands free.

“She’s gone!” Aurora echoed, grabbing Isabeau. Revati watched them kiss for a fraction of a second before politely turning her head.

“Did she really control all these people with her mind? Why would she do that?” Bridgadeiro asked as Revati began to undo his constraints.

“The tornado and the second invasion messed a lot of people up,” Revati merely replied.

“You seem fine,” Bridgadeiro replied, and Revati chuckled.

“Trust me, I’m not fine,” Revati said firmly. Life on Baker Street before the tornado had been hard. But there had been drawing lessons with her father. There had been fairytales with her mother. There had been tea parties with Dityaa. Dityaa.

“Where’s Dityaa?” Revati said as Bridgadeiro tugged his hands free. There was no telltale flash of Snow White silk in the crowd. Everyone was dressed in shades of green and mud brown.

“She was out there before,” Bridgadeiro said, gesturing to the bottom left corner of the courtyard. Revati jumped swiftly off the scaffold, ignoring the pain searing up her ankles. People were pressing in from all sides, shrieking, laughing, and, in some cases, singing. A blur of purple skin and red fabric passed her head on outstretched hands.

“Did you see a girl in a white dress?” Revati screamed in general; no one answered, and the crowd pushed her forward. People were spilling out of the courtyard into the laneways. Someone had decided to start looting the shops. Revati felt herself thrown against a wall, crushed face-first into the bricks. A hand grabbed hers, calloused, well-worn fingers gripping her wrist.

“I saw her at the end of the crowd! This way!” Bridgadeiro ordered her.

“You’re helping,” Revati gasped; something hot and red was trickling down her cheek. Revati was bleeding.

“Let the crowd push you forward; don’t fight it and try not to stumble,” Bridgadeiro said firmly, still holding her hand. The crowd surged and pressed in. Revati could see nothing but gleeful faces, smell nothing but hot, foul sweat.

Then suddenly, the crowd began to break into pieces, trickling away like water. They had reached the back wall of Medieval Faire. There was a hole in the wall. A massive hole. Beyond the hole lay the freezing wilderness of Mars. People were climbing out of the hole, running into the cube-shaped snow. One of them was Dityaa, spinning around and dancing with the Duke of Io. Dityaa spotted them and waved happily.

“They’re all going to freeze to death,” Revati realized, marching to the hole.

“It looks like some of them had enough to steal jackets,” Bridgadeiro added. Revati and Dityaa rarely left the park. When they did, Amma always made them wear her old protective gear. Dityaa seemed oblivious to the cold. It was almost as if the Duke's love was covering her in a warm, sacred light.

The escaping people were beginning to join in with their dancing.

“Look! He was waiting for me outside the wall,” Dityaa yelled, resting her head on his shoulder. Revati stepped closer to the wall. Revati let go of Bridgadeiro’s hand and carefully climbed through the hole. The freezing winter of Mars blew around her, fighting against the park's atmospheric heating system. Snow began to blow around her chest, and Revati felt flushed and dizzy.

The Duke was dressed in the same outfit from the night before. The same thin jacket and trousers. Up close, his blue hair was a little too shiny. Up close, Revati could actually feel heat wafting off his body.

“The Duke was waiting for you… outside in that outfit?” Revati asked suspiciously. Dityaa’s expression froze for a moment as if considering this.

“Sissy’s right! Let’s get out of the cold, darling; I have so much to tell you,” smiled Dityaa. The Duke held up a hand. The tip of his finger turned blue.

“Ah, the sister,” he remarked, reaching towards Revati. His eyes glowed with the brilliance of true Ai, and darkness prevailed.

Here's the revised text with corrected spelling and grammar:

True, jet-black, soothing darkness.

For Revati, who spent most of her nights lost in nightmares, it was actually comforting.

In fact, Revati felt herself sink into it.

The darkness was as soft as the mattress she once slept on.

“Oh, don’t sink into it, Dimpy. It’s not time for that,” her father’s voice whispered in her ear.

Dimpy.

Revati was Dimpy, Dityaa was Rinky.

Jay would draw pictures of them flying across the stars with wings.

Dimpy and Rinky; the sisters were so close they could be twins.

“You’re not real. You died, and your consciousness is in a plastic box,” Revati muttered.

The darkness was warm and sleepy, lulling Revati into nothing at all.

“Some of me is in that box, but scientists don’t know everything. Some of me is also in you, in your sister, and in your mother,” her father’s voice said.

“And I’m guessing I’m dead?” Revati whispered.

“No, you’re just recovering from a traumatic brain injury. Someone has placed a standard issue healing pad on your forehead,” Jay’s voice replied soothingly.

“And how do you know that?” Revati groaned doubtfully.

A distant, tiny light had appeared in the dark.

A pinprick that seemed to strip away things.

“Dimpy, you know I was a nurse! Relax, your glia cells are busy repairing themselves. Look, they move like fireflies,” her father said.

He was right; more dots of light had appeared.

They buzzed around gently.

For a moment, one of them flashed, lighting up everything.

Revati, in that second, saw a much younger Dityaa handing her a doll.

“I remember that doll. I bought it the day Dityaa was born,” her father said.

“Dityaa tried to give it to me after we buried you. I told her I’d take the book of fairy tales instead,” Revati remembered.

“Once upon a time, in the ancient kingdom of Mithila, the earth yielded a miraculous gift. A baby girl was born. She was discovered in a furrow by King Janaka and named Sita. As she grew, her grace and beauty were matched only by her wisdom and strength of character.

One day, Rama, a prince known for his valor and virtue, won her hand in marriage by stringing the mighty bow of Lord Shiva.

Soon after the wedding, Rama and his best friend were exiled to the forest. Sita, full of devotion, followed.

The forest was dark and full of dangers.

The most dangerous being was the demon king Ravana,” a woman’s voice, the voice of the maternity droid, whispered.

The lights were growing stronger, and Revati remembered something.

“Dityaa’s in trouble,” Revati realized.

“Yes, she is,” her father replied.

Revati’s mind was so bright she could see her father.

He looked younger than what she remembered.

He was dressed in the blue protective outfit Amma kept packed away.

Standing next to him was a woman.

A familiar woman cloaked in a fuchsia and green saree.

“You’re the lost princess,” Revati realized, and the Princess nodded.

“Wake me up, wake me up, and I will find my daughter,” the Lost Princess insisted.

[casteliacityramen]

Let's play 20 19 questions!

Wow! That's a lot! Lots of good questions! You've gotten a good taste of the truth. If you want a recap, feel free to hit the "keep reading" link below!

Information the two of them share:

They have lived for almost two thousand years, both actively contributing to the foundations of the royal kingdoms that founded the country of Unova.

Ray was "released" five years ago while Rio was "released" six months ago. The reason is unknown to both of them. The details surrounding the "release" and the confinements was not revealed (nobody asked).

Both Ray and Rio are high ranking Oathkeepers of the Order of Arceus, but they have since been banned from their duties for the moment.

They used to be a thing. It's complicated.

Ray Specific Information

Jack and Ayumi, the Matsumoto family, resemble Ray's best friend and confidant during his time as a mortal. It's pure coincidence they showed up at the stand and he finds it hard not to see his best friend in them.

Ray was involved in the war between Johto and Kanto where he sabotaged the war effort behind the scenes. Ray still has nightmares about his final act where he managed to spark a coup d'é·tat which got various non-soldiers killed.

Ray was presented as a gift to the King of Truth and Reshiram. Disgusted by the gesture, the King and Reshiram treated him well, eventually guiding him into the position of the King's advisor, and later, war regent.

Ray used to be way more cold than he is now. He used to chastise Rio for getting too chummy with the mortals, but now, it's a "complete flip".

Ray has a special ability called "Tactical Clairvoyance," giving him the uncanny ability of knowing an enemy's weakest points.

Ray truly believes that what he's doing at the ramen stand is right. He feels closer to the people of Unova more than he has before, and he doesn't plan on stopping his role as a Ramen Shop owner any time soon.

Rio specific information

Rio has a special ability called "Advanced Training," giving her the ability to take a group of people and have them learn at three times the level that they would otherwise.

The Hero King of Ideals went to Twist Mountain to fight Rio, who held dominion over Twist Mountain at the time. He wrestled Rio into submission, adding her to his ranks after winning a bet with her. Depending on who you ask, her rule over Twist Mountain was either benevolent or tyrannical.

Rio still believes that Ray uses his blessing to chop ingredients in a precise manner. She's absolutely right.

Rio is still confused about Ray and what happened to him after his release. However, it's clear she feels bad about how she made him cry and she wants to talk it out.

Historical Information Revealed:

In the span of Ray and Rio's life, Unova went through two civil wars.

The first war was waged by the Hero King of Truth and the Hero King of Ideals in a disagreement over how to unite the entire continent together. Ray and Rio served on their respective sides of the conflict as king's advisors and generals.

The second war was waged by the grandsons of the Hero Kings, bitter at the stalemate at the end of the first war. Concerned for the well-being of their kingdoms, Ray and Rio sought out Victini's help. She turned them into faux-members of the Order of Arceus.

Ray's act of defection was killing King Truth's grandson while Rio's act of defection was killing Zekrom. Once they turned on their countries, they formed an insurgency to fight and defeat both kingdoms at once.

The war between Kanto and Johto, held thirty years ago, is typically shortened to the Continental War.

Information about the Order of Arceus:

Two superweapons exist within Unova's borders, unbeknownst to anyone outside the order. The first, Lyonesse, is located at the Abyssal Ruins. The second, Camelot, is located at Relic Castle. Both will lay dormant unless activated by "conduits," which are in the shape of relic statues.

The Order consists of a large group of Latios and Latias from different lands and cultures, different time periods, and sometimes, different original species.

The Order increases their ranks via recruitment or by birth between two Oathkeepers.

High ranking Oathkeepers, also known as Shepherds, are sometimes given "blessings" by their respective regions' deities.

Shepherd Ira reigns over the Sinnoh region in conjunction with her son, Steward Kon.

Information about Tai, the previous shop owner:

Tai never knew who Ray truly was.

His son, Shin Ishikawa, is the reason Tai started the ramen shop.

Shin's favorite food was ramen, and the shop seems to exist in his honor.

Ray heavily blames himself for Shin's death.

Side note, I have no idea if I'll celebrate this. I usually don't celebrate follower milestones! Hope you've enjoyed your time so far! I look forward to more!

[lady-lemonycakes]

HOUSE OF MEMORIES

the days of aegon's conquest

Prologue Dragonstone, 3 BC

Restless.

That is the only word Daenaera Targaryen could use to describe her state these past few days. Ever since her most recent dream, she had felt haunted. A sensation she had not experienced since her last major dream that she imparted on her father shortly before his passing only several moons ago. In such states of unease, Daenaera had taken to sitting on the ledge of the windswept battlements of Dragonstone.

This is where she sits at present, her now chin-length hair blowing softly against her nape, the color reminiscent of molten moonlight. Sitting on the edge, nothing but the wind below her dangling feet, Daenaera felt a semblance of tranquility. Something she only achieves from here, when she looks below her to the waves crashing against the blackened rocks along the shore of their island, sending spray into the air. As she gazed off, vaguely in the direction of Essos as the sun rose. It's light casting in a manner that leaves the narrow sea in hues of fire and blood.

The castle is slowly coming to life, servants and squires soon to be wandering the halls, the lord and his ladies shall be waking not long after if they have not already gotten a start to their day. If Daenaera knew anything about Visenya, it is that she rose with the sun to get the most out of each day. The discipline it required, Daenaera could only dream of one day having herself. But not today. Not yet. For the youngest Targaryen had been sitting on the battlements for hours now. Sleep had not found her as of late. Not since her dream of ice.

Daenaera had always dreamed. Her father Aerion would proudly proclaim them as dragon dreams, a well sought after trait from the days of the Old Valyria that had saved House Targaryen from the Doom. Her father said these dreams were a blessing. That he is blessed to have fathered two children who inherited the gift for the first time since before the Century of Blood. Aegon, he was like their father, seeing their dreams as something to be proud of, a duty he earnestly accepts. But Daenaera had never been like the calm, unshakeable Aegon. She saw her dreams as more unsettling, if anything.

Since she was but a child, flashes of fire and flight, of shadow and steel, plagued her mind. They went between being no more than fragments, fleeting visions that left her confused and breathless, or sharper, more vivid dreams that would keep her up in the coming days.

But there was something so unsettling to her about this one. It was brief, yet still managed to be oh so impactful on her. And she doesn't even have her father to confide in anymore.

In the dream, she stood in a vast frozen wasteland, the air biting and cold. In only her nightgown, she shivered her way through the snow, feeling the ice below her feet burn her skin worse than any fire ever could. Daenaera walked and walked, hoping to come across a settlement to be her saving grace, but all she saw was a great weirwood coming more into view. She had never been so relieved to see a plant in her life, it was the one sign of life she'd seen in this snow. With its pale bark like bone, its red leaves hanging over like dripping blood, Daenaera finally had a conduit. When she was underneath the tree, she could truly see it. She took notice of the face carved into its great trunk, a thing of sorrow and menace, its empty eyes staring into her soul.

And then there was the man.

He was dark of hair and clad in heavy furs, his back turned to her as he sat on one of the roots of the tree. There was something hauntingly familiar about him, though she could not place why. Even without seeing his face, she felt an immediate sense of calm with his energy. The strong feeling she felt in the pit of her stomach when she peered at him was enough for her to forget the biting cold around her. It unwittingly gives her the strength to approach him. At the same time, he turned, and for the briefest moment, their eyes met. She was sure of it, yet his face is blurred in her mind when she tries to recall it. Almost as if obscured by frost, but she remembers the feel of his gaze, clear and piercing. He saw her.

And he knew she saw him.

This was what frightened her most. In all her past dreams, she had been an unseen observer. But this man—whoever he was—had looked at her as if she was as real to him as he was to her.

He appeared confused at her being there, she was likely a sight for sore eyes with her hair the color of the snow beneath their feet in her pink nightgown. Seeing—no, more like feeling—his confusion, Daenaera tried to speak, but it was at that moment the dream unraveled, leaving her gasping in the darkness of her chamber.

And now, it is all that lingers on her mind. She had dreamed of fire and blood before—visions of towering flames devouring cities, dragons wheeling in the skies above endless fields of battle. Those were dreams she could understand, dreams that aligned with what Aegon had shared with her in their rare, careful conversations. But this... this dream of snow, of cold so biting it seemed to seep into her very bones, of a young man cloaked in shadow who saw her... this was different. And could prove troublesome should it advance.

As Daenaera made her way from the battlements to make her descent down the spiraling stairs into the apartments in the castle before anyone could find her out of bed, she tightened her fingers around the folds of her cloak. The echoes of her footsteps were swallowed by the oppressive quiet of Dragonstone, broken only by the faint rumble of waves far below. She focused on keeping her face serene, as her mother had taught her, despite her racing mind, so as not to appear suspicious in the event she is caught before making it to her bedchamber.

It was bad enough that her mother and her sister Rhaenys had taken notice of her acting out of the ordinary the first day after the dream had happened. Having such attention from both women was tiresome to the mostly solitary Targaryen. The only respite Daenaera had was that Visenya had been out at the time—she and Aegon had just returned from business they needed to attend to with some one of the Westerosi lords or kings two days ago—for her eldest sister's sharp gaze had a way of cutting through any mask she wore. But it was Aegon who Daenaera was looking forward to seeing the least this morning. When his violet gaze fell on her, she felt the same scrutinization that Visenya all but perfected. Only that he did not speak, his eyes alone lingered on her for a moment too long in assessment before he would cross the room to try and get her to talk. He always knew when her troubles were tied to her dreams, perhaps because it was the only time he truly paid her any mind since their father's passing.

'Nevermind all of them, though', Daenaera thought.

She has become rather skilled at the art of sneaking to and fro her room in the middle of the night. Her mother's handmaiden Leana would not come to dress her until an hour before the food was prepared for the family to break their fast. A wave of relief washes over her when she finally reaches the door to her chambers, undetected. She lets out a sigh as she kicks off her slippers upon entering the room and unclips the cloak she tosses atop of the open door of her wardrobe. With nothing left to do, Daenaera hops into her bed to prepare herself to wear the facade of being well-rested once more, so she might hide the effect her dream had on her just a little longer before she'd inevitably reveal it all to Aegon. The Lord of Dragonstone did always have a way of getting such things out of the youngest Targaryen, after all.

[word count: 1403]

[ask-the-critters-survival-au]

Static dances out of the monitor, somber and slow... To all who are bound to this connection

"Hmm... I... forget... or rather hoped that you didn't indulge in slaughter... of that sacrifice that bore no fruit... Father Long Legs... in the end I admire him, for sticking to his morals. It hurts to see them abused for choosing the right thing in the end... I have to ask however... and a question you ought to ask yourself as well Children... Did he attempt to save the young ones... the captives of Playcare?"

"If they had... that no matter what- I cannot permit agony to be done upon them. Before a choice is made to you Bobby... ask this of them, I beg you."

Static churns and shifts, attention brought from one group to another, even if the desire to broadcast to all is still upon this being's mind.

"Apology must be made to you Hoppy... even if the extent that Kickin is willing to debase himself proves much about how toxic his love for you is was unexpected... that we failed to protect you."

"But... do know this Hoppy, remember the weapon that I and my kin are. As long as your willing to give something up you can never get back... we are more than capable of killing what stands in your way... after all you have 8 fingers, each of those could be enough for a bullet... and an Arm could no doubt be enough fuel to even maim the Prototype should you wish it."

"You will no die here child. Not with us- so long as you breathe, your very blood is a weapon- a tool to crave a path forward. Remember our rules- for a blessing, their must be a sacrifice of a curse.

"I know you will use us wisely."

The Static singing out of the monitor grows ever more loudly, buzzing and sparks can be heard from it's speakers.

"And speaking of a deal... Crafty, are you ready? Kickin, are you prepared? A deal is set and the rules have been made."

"̴̝̕B̷̬́u̴̦͗̈́t̵̳͈͗ ̶̯̊ǫ̵̊͋ͅn̸̳͊l̷͎͗ỳ̶̼̥̕ ̶͓͠͠ơ̵̹ǹ̴͎̈́ͅe̸̖̪͂͗ ̷͎͓̄̈́l̴̫̃̈́͜â̷̯s̶͎̋́t̸͙͗ ̷͈͐ẗ̶͙͜ḫ̷̗̈î̵̯͓̈ṇ̵̏͒g̷̱̐͋ ̵͍̖̐̌t̸͓͓́o̷͇̞͑̓ ̵̬̾͗s̸̻̩͐e̷̝͊t̶̨̞̏ ̵̺͖̎b̷̟̘̂̾e̵̪̬̊f̶̠̪͑o̶̲̐ř̷͠ͅe̶̺̋̚ ̷̞̩̕w̷̱͗e̵͔͒͘ ̷̨̈́c̴̼̐a̷̪͉̍̚n̵͚̿ ̷̤̽b̶̠̻̂͠ẽ̷̪ģ̵̯̌ĩ̸̲̿n̵̬̣̑.̷̫̀͝"̷͙͆͘

The rumbling of the monitors speakers reaches a crescendo and magic swells and sings. A preparation is made- the conduit selected.

A grey and grim dark flame began to light upon Bobby's hands- the flames burning none of her fur or flesh, the heat bearable and kind to the child... but to others, that flame shall be that which consumes all.

"Without the monitor there, to perform this magic we must need a medium to touch the needed sacrifice to return what was lost... and with Crafty as she is, the only person who can perform such an act is you, Bobby."

"I grieve and worry for putting this sin upon you, yet for the sake of you children... and to force you to face your true morals... this sin must be enacted by your hands."

"What will you choose darling, choose for your kin. Mother Long Legs is destined to die, that I am certain of... but Father Long Legs and their forced upon child is unknown to me. This act may be that which seals their fate, for better or for worse."

"You must simply lay your hands upon the victim, be it Mother Father or Child, and the magic shall steal their arms... and an Eye. That eye... I assume you know who it is for."

"The Father who did not wish to harm the innocent along with the guilty and lays near death, the Mother who joined in slaughter yet sits here, body perfect... for the Child, forced to play pretend with this artificial family, who sides with the one he now calls Father."

"Three choices, three paths, three fates in your hands now child... I only ask you choose that which shall not bring you grief in the days to come... yet I think that will be the one you choose in the end, oh red furred child."

The song of static dims, but is not gone... it merely waits for this choice to be made.

Thank you. I-I mean it. Today’s been a lot. I’m tired.

W-what? No-I don’t want… I don’t want to hurt anybody!

But Bobby, you said you would help me.

I-I…I don’t know if this is something I can do.

But you promised me!

I-

YOU PROMISED! YOU LIAR!

I-I’m sorry.

[kit-williams]

Plague Soup for the Soul

Plague Witch!Rader x Typhus the traveler, Herald of Nurgle

Tag list: @bispecsual @egrets-not-regrets @moodymisty @bleedingichorhearts @liar-anubiass-blog

@thevoidscreams @barn-anon @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @squishyowl @ms--lobotomy

@plegg

Song on repeat: Hold, Release; Rakshasa & Carcasses

Word Count: 3242 3602 words too many

tw: Casual body horror? Gonna be real people idk how to tag this. Lots of insect stuff, update: SMUT

Food was important for Nurglites. It was embedded deep into their worship, their mythos, always a key part in their legends, and of course highly important to Grandfather Nurgle. For Plague Witches they acted as conduits for two important aspects of their god... as their bubbling cauldrons contained eternal soups and through these soups is how they would preform their magic & spread the love of Grandfather. They say the most skilled Plague Witch would even get a drop of the eternal brew into their cauldron if their soup and their skills of incorporating plagues into the broth was as skilled as how Grandfather did. A good base was the key like with any good soup! Just as much as Love, good ingredients & along with their own ways of enchanting their soups kept them going century after century. But, to get them that far wasn't easy as some would too quick to ravage the body fizzling out rapidly after infecting many... and others would get cold before the potency was there.

Typhus was the Herald of Nurgle... so deeply tied to his god... so he could tell that something had agitated the Lord of Plagues as the Nurglings were not giggling they were frustrated and impatient... no mischievous glint in their eyes, "Dearest little ones," He spoke to the hoard of Nurglings that kept him company the closest one looked up at Typhus with a dopey grin, "What displeases Grandfather? Have I not done enough to sway the Great Game in his favor? Have I not brought his love to enough planets recently?"

Grandpa is pleased with you!" One shouted over the rest before the hoard babbled out, "However, there is a plague witch in your fleet with the most delicious soup! But! They offer such a meager portion that it has taken Grandpa this long to figure out where they are." They babbled excitedly.

Typhus drummed his fingers against his stomach... it couldn't be any of the Plague Witches in his direct service as they all had large bubbling cauldrons and he knew for a fact they gave him & Grandfather their portions; even if it was a new brew they were trying. It had to be a fledgling... a newly blossomed witch with a starter base... Typhus drummed his chin humming. Such a potent base for a young soup... would mean they would be a powerful witch long term and if Typhus mentored him or her... "What is the soup like?"

"OH!" One shrieked as his hoard of nurglings had heard Nurgle praise the concoction, "Grandda says it hits right in the soul! Truly made with love! A perfect base that will lovingly cradle any plague! Grandda must find this witch! They hide from his blessings! I wonder if they are shy?" They all talked over each other leaving Typhus to wonder how to lure the witch out...

The wizened crone rubbed her chin as she was far more pus and pestilence than human at this point as she spat to the side onto a nurgling, "It has to be a fledgling doing this my lord... only one like that would offer so little, not out of being selfish but simply because of how little they have. Cauldrons like these take up so much room." Behind her was her brood of nurglings giggling & babbling as they worked around her cauldron for her as she talked to Typhus. Mortal helpers got ingredients ready passing them off to the bloated demons who giggled as they tossed them into the pot, "There are a couple of fledglings on this ship that I could think might be the ones you're after but their soups aren't even twenty years old... but if it is a fledgling they'll be feeding the masses and perfecting their craft. Though... I question if they are even trying." The crone says dismissively as a nurgling brings a ladle over for her to try and she sips her soup.

"What makes you say that?" Typhus inquires as he is not a Plague Witch and does not peer into the coven politics as why would he they simply have to make sure they give him their best.

"This mythical soup grandfather is looking for doesn't sound like it has any plagues in it. No one on your ship would dare try to make a soup like this without plagues. They might be simply dabbling in the techniques which has made something that infects the soul, a grand base if it exists, which would be wonderful for converting others to the cause. But, there are a few upstarts on other ships in the fleet... that I've heard grumbles and groans from of such young things competing with others whose cauldrons have been bubbling for centuries and millennia. But this is all I can theorize to help my lord." In the list that she gives to Typhus... your name is amongst them.

Your bells jingled as you carried your tiny portable cauldron now full of donated ingredients, used bones, scraps of meat, a few fungi, and other scavenged or bought items. Three tails behind you with bells tied to them via ribbons jangled behind you as you moved through the packed halls. You were excited as you got a small bit of pork as you had arrived when it had been freshly butchered. A small amount for you and the rest for your soup! So then everyone who ate what you cooked would be able to share even if they weren't as lucky as you.

You were almost home and you could maybe take a small nap before- you stop as you look down at the small hoard of nurglings just waiting in a pile outside of your door. You looked up at the many mouthed cultist with them giving you a haphazard grin at you, "I'm sorry miss they had heard about your soup..." You watch as one of them starts to lick your door, "They've been patiently waiting."

"I... I've got enough for them to share a bowl." You sigh softly but you can't help but smile at their antics... you suppose you didn't mind a late dinner. As you unlocked the door they were wonderfully well behaved as none of them rushed inside when you opened it and walked in just letting them watch you. Your own "cauldron" full of soup wasn't much larger than the portable one in your hands as you place it on your small counter. You pulled out your nicer wide rimmed bowl as it was for nurglings... "How paitently did you say they were waiting?" You ask as you grab your ladle.

"Very." The man said with a charming smile as your three tails whiped about behind you causing the bells on them to jingle as you walked over to the pot and gave them a large serving.

"Well I hope you all enjoy." You say putting the bowl down and then handed him a small cup full.

"Oh! Thank you." He says as you walk back into the room just barely hearing his mutter, "Divine Excrement... that's fucking amazing."

Moments like this you lived for... the way others eyes would light up as they would enjoy your cooking. It was always hard to refuse their request for seconds... just as you stood there as they all looked up at you holding the bowl politely asking for another bowl... "Ah ah ah fellas remember what she said. She could only spare us this amount and I'm certain she'll have more tomorrow?" He looked over at you and you nodded.

"Tomorrow I'll have a full cauldron and if you come early enough you can ask for seconds." That got the happy little creatures to cheer as you waved them off as you closed your door.

The cultist looked down at the nurgling with a large eye on its stomach as its iris was beloved grandfather's symbol... it was excited, bouncing all around as it was certain that this was it! The cultist pulled out a small device and radioed his lord, "Lord Typhus we found the witch."

You were tired as all you had left to do was enchant the soup and then you could finally enjoy your dinner. You rubbed your eye with the palm of your hand as the bells on your clothes and tails felt so heavy by this point but just a little bit longer. You thought to how you were close enough to be able to afford a proper cauldron and then you wouldn't have to limit yourself too much on how many people you could feed. Sure it would take up more of your already limited space but you knew it would be worth it! You were getting ready to enchant when you heard the door unlock... you looked worried as no one should be able to unlock your door even if they had good intentions. Your hand grabs the wood of the cleaver handle as not much of a fighter but you were going to try... why was there suddenly a buzzing noise and why was it so loud? The door opens and it gets even louder as you back yourself up into a corner as a Space Marine wedges themself into your door... and not just any Space Marine but the Herald of Nurgle himself... Typhus the Traveler... when his yellow eye lenses look right at you, you drop the clever out of fear and press against the wall.

He chuckle softly, "Well the blossoming Plague Witch that has been eluding Grandfather..." He looks around the room and right at your cauldron, "I can see why your offerings have been meager. Let me have a taste."

You swallow the lump of dread in your throat as you dare speak up, "It's not done yet.. my lord." You quickly tack on.

"Oh?" He said as he regarded you like a scared cat as you were pressed against the far wall, eyes wide with fear not daring to leave the threat in your sight, "When will it be?"

You swallow again, "Four minutes... I have to enchant it first." You hoped he would leave.

But you were not that lucky as he gestured to the cauldron, "Well do not let me keep you little witch. I might be patient but I do not possess Grandfather's long patience."

You inhale as you have to be a brave girl. You peel yourself away from the wall and stand in front of your bubbling cauldron, your back to Typhus. Your mind began to play its song as your head bobbed before your body started to sway as your bells began to jingle. The mouth on your lower back opened up as you sang with two mouths. Your movements were bouncy and at time violent as you focused on the words leaving your mouth and the way the bells rang with such pleasing chimes. You had forgotten Typhus was there watching you. You made your bounding way around your cauldron singing loudly as you were having fun, like you always did, putting your hands together as you crouched before jumping back up with a grin on your face.

Typhus watched as your hair bounced free from its ribbon holding it back. Your eyes glowing a bright green as you were lost in the ritual process as small jars of spices, herbs, and powders floated their way over to you. You took handfuls, pinches, and scoops as you added them in time with parts of the ritual where you weren't singing. The smile on your face wide as you sang louder and louder in a language unfamiliar to Typhus but that hardly mattered. Witches all had their own ways of enchanting and if a nonsense song was your way... he wouldn't question it.

You stop for a moment before violently spinning in place, your bells clamoring, as you sang in a high pitched voice... and Typhus could hear something respond in a voice that wasn't your own. You did this call and response three times. The climax of your enchantment approaches and you sing so loudly before your mouths howl in an otherworldly way. Your cauldron bubbling violently as you grab a handful of a spice blend from a pouch as you pause and chant out the last words before throwing it in. A cloud appears as it bubbles violently changing color from a dark brown to a yellow.

You deflate as you finish dancing. It was always so physically demanding to enchant your soup but it was worth it done this way... to see the happy faces of those eating your food! You turn around and yelp as you see Typhus in your doorway as you remember he was there watching you the whole time. You quickly grab your small portable cauldron and fill it, trying your best to not let any spill as you offer it to the Herald. He takes it and opens up the mouth plate and you avert your gaze as for Typhus he finally gets to taste this soup that Grandfather Nurgle has been pining after.

Typhus takes large gulps from the tiny thing you handed him... Oh! He can feel it worm its way right to his soul like some burrowing parasite! Yet it was like getting a warm embrace from a parent... or even a lover... that filled his limbs with a tingling warming happiness. Yet he could feel it also be akin to a gentle kiss from death... the sweetness of the lips leaving a mark on the skin and yet death fails to collect. He could feel his powers swell... his connection to Nurgle strengthen even! It washed over his SOUL and it was absolutely INVIGORATING and perhaps even a little ADDICTING like getting praise from Grandfather Nurgle.

"Fill it again." Typhus demands of you and of course you obey.

"Someone tend to her cauldron." You hear him bellow out as he pulls himself free of your door and you look confused. As another woman walks in and starts to tend to your soup. You put a lid on your small portable cauldron.

"Wait... what is going on." You say as you are led outside and other cultists lead you after the Herald of Nurgle. "Where am I being taken too." You ask fearfully.

Typhus decides to answer you, "To the Plague Cathedral upon the flagship, my ship. Grandfather demands a serving. And what better place to offer it to him."

You swallow as you follow him as those around you make sure you will be taken to the Cathedral.

You had only been here once before as the Cathedral on the flagship was more like a massive hive as unlike the giant fungi that grew around the church you went to... this was massive with so many insects around. You were led closer to the large ornate altar as it oozed honey as you could feel your shoes stick to the floor as well it went from floor to comb. Large insects of Nurgle skitter on the walls and ceiling as they watched and buzzed the closer you got.

"Come now little blossom." Typhus coos as you notice that the cultists with you stop at the last row of pews closest to the altar and yet Typhus gestures you to follow. The lump in your throat grows heavy as you say close to the herald as your new companions are a hoard of nurglings and the swarms that enter and leave from the large structures on his back.

"Open it up and leave it on the altar then come back right here." Typhus orders and you obey, putting it on the altar before you take the lid off and rush back to Typhus' side. You jump as the braziers suddenly blaze to life with sickly green flames.

You might not have been as connected to the warp as Typhus was but he could see a visage of his deity looking down, it was still a small offering but... it didn't matter as Nurgle finally had a taste of this soup that was eluding him just like the plague that made Ku'gath.

"Typhus! Have you tried this?" The voice said to him as you just flinched not understanding the loud voice filling the air around the alter and you wanted to hide behind the marine but you stayed.

"I have." He replies just looking up at the loud buzzing swarm that seems to gather. You try your best to not cower.

"Blessings! Blessings! How old is this soup?" The Grandfather inquired.

Typhus turned to you, "How long have you been tending to this?"

"Five years my lord."

"All of this in such a short amount of time! Blessings Typhus! Blessings! The garden will surely flourish with her delicious food!"

"Of Course Grandfather." He slammed his scythe into the comb keeping it standing as the destroyer hive buzzed loudly and you flinched.

"Blessings upon thee child! For the Grandfather has told me to bless thee! I come from the garden of plenty overflowing with milk and honey." He says just as if a sermon was being held. "And just as you will be embraced by the garden you two shall be a fountain of plenty... rejoice young witch!" The buzzing got louder and louder as the destroyer bugs all swarmed inside of him. The hand suddenly on your throat has you kicking your feet as they leave the ground as you are place on the altar and he once more removes his mouthplate. "Open up." His thumb rests on your chin and you obey... afraid of what will happen if you don't but equally scared of what will happen if you do.

As you open your mouth he opens his as you watch several destroyer bugs crawl out from his mouth as you can hear the faint noises from him as he... starts to regurgitate something. His shoulders move as his throat bobs and you are left helpless as to what is about to be placed into your mouth. You feel destroyer bugs landing on your face and on your body... antennae drumming against your skin. His mouth pushes to yours as something slowly crawls into your mouth... it's honey.

Your eyes open wide as destroyer hive honey was something that only champions of the Grandfather could have... but only in small amounts as too much would leave one into a mindless warp spawn. You eat the sweet sticky liquid as it just keeps oozing and oozing into your mouth before you... you start to convulse as Typhus pulls away running his tongue around your mouth just licking up the excess and wiping what oozed out onto his chin. Typhus enjoys the sickly sweet smell that permeates from you... or perhaps that is more of the hive's enjoyment as the smell he likes comes from between your legs but he could indulge in that later.

The sickening crack echoes as the side of your skull breaks apart as your hair solidifies into petals and a large, yet lightweight, flower has bloomed. A gift directly from the garden... Typhus lets his hands wander over your form letting his fingers press hard against your breasts and between your legs as you whimper feeling dazed and confused. Typhus decided that later was now as he bit the rough material between your legs and ground his teeth as it was shredded.

His tongue swipes up against your bared cunt as you whimper still confused as to what was going on... why your head was pounding... why there was so much buzzing in your ears... you're cunt quivers as you don't realize how the insects crawl over transformed flesh and lap up your nectar and brush against your pollen. Typhus in the meantime buzzes loudly himself as your honey is far more like nectar as well. His tongue pushing in hard and deep deep into your stigma like an insect pushing their labium deep down the style. His tongue pushed hard against the clitoris trying to get you to orgasm again... give him more nectar... Little Blossom give him more nectar!

You whine out as your nectar is swallowed up by Typhus for his hive to use... and he's not going to leave your flower wanting. He places his codpiece on the altar as Typhus grunts softly pushing the far too large cock inside of you. Your body relents as he buzzes out in enjoyment as he starts to cross pollinate you. Though if he were to go off of his allusion of earlier... this was the milk he had alluded to earlier. But his eyes were focused on the lovely flower on the side of your head... blood pooling in one of the combs on the altar as the pink petals had swirls of your hair in them... the rest was brain matter colored... bones... muscles... a beautiful human flower.

You look up at him still so very dazed but whimpering underneath the space marine as you wonder where you are... not realizing you're being fucked on the altar within the grand Cathedral. "Such a pretty little Blossom." Typhus grunts as he stills and rushes himself to completion as he will have more time to savor you later.

Typhus looks at you as he puts his codpiece on as cum oozes out of you as your flower is slowly closing up as you seem to be passing out. He picks you up and freed his scythe as it was now time to let you rest... for there was much for you to learn.

[marvelshifter111]

Could you make a Powers (second sphere) and Seraphim (first sphere) abilities? Angelology is one of my favorite things to learn about.

thank you for requesting! sorry it took me so long

Powers and Seraphim abilities

Second sphere: Powers

Role: Guardians of the cosmos, maintaining order and protecting the world from demonic forces. They are considered warriors of God who ensure divine justice.

Abilities of Powers:

Cosmic guardianship - Powers are responsible for maintaining the balance of the universe, ensuring stars and celestial bodies remain in their divine order.

Protection against evil - They are tasked with defending humanity and the world from the influence of dark forces, including demons and malevolent spirits.

Judgment and justice - They carry out God’s justice by punishing evil spirits and enforcing divine law.

Inspiration of strength and courage - Powers can instill divine strength and courage in mortals, particularly in times of spiritual or physical conflict.

Weaving spiritual energies - They manage the flow of spiritual energies, ensuring that divine blessings are channeled to where they are most needed.

Guidance of leaders and warriors - Powers often guide rulers, warriors, and those in positions of authority to act righteously.

Dispelling chaos - Powers have the unique ability to restore order in chaotic situations, whether in the natural world or the spiritual realm. They can calm storms, end conflicts, and bring stability where there is discord.

Sealing boundaries - Powers can create or reinforce spiritual barriers to prevent the intrusion of malevolent forces into sacred spaces, people, or objects. They are the architects of divine wards and protective seals.

First sphere: Seraphim

Role: The closest beings to God, existing in perpetual worship and adoration of the Divine. They embody pure love and illuminate the heavenly hierarchy.

Abilities of Seraphim:

Perpetual worship and praise - Their primary purpose is to sing praises to God, endlessly proclaiming His holiness. ("Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts.")

Bearer of divine love - Seraphim are embodiments of divine love, radiating pure and perfect love throughout creation.

Illumination and Enlightenment - They illuminate the minds of lower angels and humans, helping them understand God’s will and nature.

Purification by fire - Seraphim wield the holy fire of God, capable of purifying souls and removing sin. Their name literally means "burning ones."

Eternal radiance - They shine with an intense, unearthly light, reflecting the glory of God. This radiance can inspire awe or purify those in their presence.

Channeling divine will - As the closest beings to God, Seraphim serve as conduits of His will, passing divine knowledge and commands to the lower spheres.

Guardians of divine secrets - They protect and maintain the sacred mysteries of heaven, ensuring that only those deemed worthy can access them.

Transformation through love - The Seraphim's love has the power to spiritually transform those they touch, bringing them closer to God’s divine essence.

Key contrast between powers and seraphim:

Powers focus on protecting and enforcing divine order within creation, often acting as warriors and guardians.

Seraphim are devoted entirely to God’s presence, serving as beacons of divine love and enlightenment. They interact less with the material world and more with the celestial hierarchy.

[lennjamin-o7]

To Be Truly Free

Chapter 22

The Sleeping Empire had held all the power for centuries. What else did you expect when the Emperor was an undying Vampire? King Philza and his sons, Prince Wilbur and Prince Theseus, have never faced a real threat to their power. Twenty years ago, the Blood God spoke through his Holy Conduit, the King of Scywar. A prophecy that one child born in the month of the Summer Solstice had the potential to crush the hearts of the Vampiric Lords once and for all. As such, a decree that every child born in June must serve the Blood God's church. Technoblade thinks this whole thing is dumb, but no one really cares what he thinks. As one of the children born in June, known as the Blessed Ones, Technoblade dreams of a different life. One not enslaved to The Church. He dreams to know what it means to be truly free. Or- Another Dark SBI Vampire AU. This time, Technoblade is the Human.