#the Lord's warning unheeded

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Jeremiah Taken to Egypt

When Jeremiah had finished telling all the people all the words of the LORD their God—everything that the LORD had sent him to say— Azariah son of Hoshaiah, Johanan son of Kareah, and all the arrogant men said to Jeremiah, “You are lying! The LORD our God has not sent you to say, ‘You must not go to Egypt to reside there.’ Rather, Baruch son of Neriah is inciting you against us to deliver us into the hands of the Chaldeans, so that they may put us to death or exile us to Babylon!”

So Johanan son of Kareah and all the commanders of the forces disobeyed the command of the LORD to stay in the land of Judah. Instead, Johanan son of Kareah and all the commanders of the forces took the whole remnant of Judah, those who had returned to the land of Judah from all the nations to which they had been scattered, the men, the women, the children, the king’s daughters, and everyone whom Nebuzaradan captain of the guard had allowed to remain with Gedaliah son of Ahikam, the son of Shaphan, as well as Jeremiah the prophet and Baruch son of Neriah.

So they entered the land of Egypt because they did not obey the voice of the LORD, and they went as far as Tahpanhes.

Then the word of the LORD came to Jeremiah at Tahpanhes: “In the sight of the Jews, pick up some large stones and bury them in the clay of the brick pavement at the entrance to Pharaoh’s palace at Tahpanhes.

Then tell them that this is what the LORD of Hosts, the God of Israel, says: ‘I will send for My servant Nebuchadnezzar king of Babylon, and I will set his throne over these stones that I have embedded, and he will spread his royal pavilion over them. He will come and strike down the land of Egypt, bringing death to those destined for death, captivity to those destined for captivity, and the sword to those destined for the sword.

I will kindle a fire in the temples of the gods of Egypt, and Nebuchadnezzar will burn those temples and take their gods as captives. So he will wrap himself with the land of Egypt as a shepherd wraps himself in his garment, and he will depart from there unscathed. He will demolish the sacred pillars of the temple of the sun in the land of Egypt, and he will burn down the temples of the gods of Egypt.’ ” — Jeremiah 43 | The Reader's Bible (BRB) The Reader’s Bible © 2020 by Bible Hub and Berean Bible. All rights Reserved. Cross References: Genesis 19:14; Genesis 41:45; Exodus 12:12; 2 Samuel 12:31; 2 Kings 25:26; 2 Chronicles 25:16; 2 Chronicles 36:12; Psalm 18:11; Psalm 27:5; Psalm 104:2; Isaiah 7:9; Isaiah 19:1; Isaiah 30:2; Isaiah 46:2; Jeremiah 2:16; Jeremiah 5:12; Ecclesiastes 9:1-2; Jeremiah 32:12; Jeremiah 36:4; Jeremiah 38:22; Jeremiah 40:11-12; Jeremiah 44:1; Jeremiah 44:30; Jeremiah 46:14; Revelation 13:10

[vyzz-undercover]

the voices have made this happen

[cato/f!ambassador]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

(5,900ish words) (OUUGHHHHH)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•slight dubcon

•hints of size kink [obligatory]

•vaginal fingering

•oral [f receiving]

•mild possessive behaviour

•the consequences of ignoring important medical devices

•mentions of (hypothetical) torture

•tumblrs recurringly cancerous formatting

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im back on my bullshit after having to do overnights so as payment to the dark gods of whoring and degeneracy i humbly offer this taglist of sweet darling who've indulged my insanity: @the-raven-lady, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @bispecsual, @lemon-russ, @kit-williams, @passionofthesith, @egrets-not-regrets, @moodymisty, @sinistermojo, @justeverythingnothingelse, @pluvio-tea, @thevoidscreams, @beckyninja, @yestheantichrist!!! if you wanna be tagged (or not) in the next let me know!!! also it may take me longer to do a part four to this namely because ive got more wageslaving ahead of me soon but alas i'll definitely have rowboat girlyman catch em. also maybe give cato some top. myehehehehe,,, AND THANK YOU FOR READING AS USUAL ILY ALL!!! :3

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Cato is just about leaving.

After having spent the better part of an hour discussing the predicted destruction pathway of a hive-fleet on the system's rim with his Father; it sends his balls into his throat when you nearly run into him in the chamber's huge archway.

It only takes a fraction of a second to catalogue your presence.

You're wearing the same utilitarian blue robe as you had been last week again.

Last week, when he'd been pounding you insensible on a lounge in the library—Cato promptly quashes the insidious memory, smothering down any sort of reaction. But there is a change in comparison to the dizzying reminder: there's a new addition to the reoccurring outfit.

You've brought a navy, high-collared turtleneck into the mix, layered below your lapels.

So, the efforts of his mouth hadn't gone unheeded, then.

Throne, if he's not smug, he's got no bloody clue what he is.

Cato steps aside and turns to allow you entrance first before his exit.

"Commander Sicarius," you lilt with a soft voice and a small downward tip of your chin, all while holding his gaze.

He's transfixed periodically at the honeyed sort of warmth in your eyes.

Despite himself, he lingers and greets you with a slow, "Lady Ambassador."

The left side of his mouth twitches upward in a half-aborted smirk that he quickly tries to mask as a stern, frown-nod combination.

You break the staring match and Cato's confident he's salvaged his slip-up without detection.

Or not—because oh, fuck—if he doesn't feel the burning focus of a Primarch's eyes boring a hole into the side of his head like a brand.

It only lasts an instant, but the second is an eternity to him.

Of course, you're oblivious to this subtle exchange—and promptly trot past him to his Father's vast desk.

"My Lord Primarch," you say with a curt little bow; and then Guilliman's attention is solely on you, his favourite little pet project. "I read the data-drives you instructed from the preceding article logging. I've arranged them back to the most recent mark counts."

You're looking for an empty spot to lay them on his table, but with all the meticulously arranged stacks, it's none too easy to find one.

"Perfect," the Primarch breaths, "Just on the side there is fine, don't worry."

Obligingly, you lay them atop a small mountain of paperwork.

"Do you need anything else of me, my Lord?" You chirp brightly, the tone of your voice so very painfully sweet—Cato is nearly overwhelmed fighting a pitched battle against the urge to run over, pick you up and shake you around suddenly.

Guilliman chuckles, waving one massive hand about vaguely, "You've done more than enough for me today, why don't we leave it at that for now, hm? Go on."

"Of course; thank you, and have a good evening, my Lord," You say, bow once more, and turn on your heel from the Primarch, and—and smile at Cato as you walk back towards the exit. That's—that's the first time you've smiled at him. His twin hearts lurch, slamming forward against the inside of his fused chest cavity. It's perfect abominable. You rotten temptress, he's—he's going to rectify that audacity later. Or now, if you're... possibly heading the same direction he is. Which is whatever direction you're going, purely by chance.

It's merely coincidence, he swears.

He's certainly not planning on hounding after you like a dog tailing a bitch in heat.

He's certainly not going to drag you into a side room the second he's sure no-one with a credible opinion's around.

He's certainly not going to indulge in anything heretical, like bending you bare over his knee for daring to taunt him.

Cato makes as if to fall in step behind you as you pass the threshold before him, but is quickly halted by his Father's curt, "I do not believe you have been dismissed, Cato."

He's never been subjected to such sinking dread quite so nonchalantly.

"Approach."

Cato complies stuffily, sparing a glance at your figure disappearing down the corridor before acquiescing. He's practically dragging his ceramite boots across the intricate rugs as he nears the Primarch's seated but colossal form.

Guilliman isn't looking at him, having had returned to notating a miscellaneous form.

The scritch-scratch of his gene-sire's preferred, yet archaic method of manually writing on the parchment is like someone grating a plate with a fork to his ears right now.

"You've gotten over your petty grievances regarding the Ambassador at last, I take it?" Guilliman asks, without looking up.

It is not Cato's duty to like or dislike. Nor is it to be biased without reason—his opinions are to be intellectual, not emotional. His duty is to assess, analyse and provide feedback, so that his Primarch can take it into account when making rulings and decisions.

Cato swallows around the proverbial hunk of drywall lodged in his throat and answers, "She has proven herself... useful, yes, sire."

Guilliman finally meets his eyes but says nothing for a short while. There's dark bags under his Primarch's eyes, and the deep, stern crease permanently between his dark blonde brows is a slight bit harsher, but the only thing Cato can parse out of the expression's intent is a vague sense of knowing. Because, insofar, he's thought himself quite adept at reading his Primarch; and rather well versed in deciphering the intricacies of his moods.

And right now, he feels like he's being read like an open manuscript.

The daunting prospect Cato's caught sinks it's teeth in his gullet. It's impossible, he's not left any room for suspicion, he's covered his tracks—there's no logical reason why he should be getting raked with such a look.

His gene-sire isn't a psyker nor omniscient, just impossibly intelligent—and so absurdly good at the mathematics of plotting and planning that it only appears superficially as if he is all-seeing. He can't possibly know what Cato has been doing—or rather, who he's been doing.

"It's about time," his Father hums abruptly, suddenly disinterested. "Now you're dismissed."

Cato nods, turns on his boot heel, and nigh bolts marches out the room. His proverbial tail definitely not between his legs.

The hall outside Guilliman's apartments is a central domed area that functions as a meeting area, where people go to one of six looming hallways. It's the bottom of a series of levels; and above, three echelons encircled by arcades and balustrades, framed on the exterior by engaged columns.

But the structure itself is immense and ancient, even by Imperial standards. One of the few still-original, unaltered parts of the great Gloriana-class warship's innards. It is doused in long swathes of red carpet and great standards of Magcraggian note, alongside glorious, heroic frescoes depicting Legiones Astartes in their thousands, crusading across the heavens with the Emperor their head.

Cato keeps his head down as he passes them, uneasy with guilt. Feeling as if their lenses are following him—intent on venturing into the lower layers to brood.

Several Astartes are hovering about amongst the personnel and serfs. The baselines look up at him in awe, and his Brothers nod in respect, but he pays them all no mind.

The furthest corridor beckons him, and so he goes; down the complex system of broad walks with high, barrel vault ceilings, mazing through the vessel's higher clearance reaches like arteries through a body.

Cato is seething, and self-admittedly itching to take a howler of a swing at the next thing that speaks to him.

He cuts down the southern channel and sees one of his subordinate Victrix Guard lingering in the middle of a groin vault intersection.

The younger Astartes is about to continue straight, yet he pauses.

Brother Marcellus meets Cato's eyes for a second, clearly notes his Commander's absolutely stinking mood from a hundred meters off; nods, swallows, takes a step backward—and changes direction to go left rather than pass him.

Cato's too pissed to even linger on the strangeness of the action.

Still, he doesn't rightly blame him.

Cato strides on, back straight, chin up—the red shawl pinned beneath his pauldrons swirling behind him.

His thoughts are eating at him the whole while.

He's sure his Primarch is just trying to innocently divine his sudden change of mind regarding you. There's no way his Father's aware of why. And yet, guilt is a big black wolf nipping at his ankles, making him hasten; and unease clouds about his heart. He's mortified, for lack of a better word.

The full implications of the situation are too enormous to be faced all at once; so he picks the smallest, most banal facet he can think of.

That being, you.

You, who he'll never see again if his Primarch finds out.

You, who's practically damned him without knowing it.

You, who he's now valiantly trying not to imagine in a hundred different circumstances where he gets away with it all. Each one more heretical than the last—it's like it was before he'd managed a hand on you: his body giving in to suffocating delusions, sleepless in his cot; lapping at whatever scant, lust-soaked morsels his mind offers up.

One of his favourites remains you scantily clad beneath a moonlit night sky, on the parapet of his ancestral fortress on the coastal edge of Perusia.

He likes to fantasise you like it there.

He suspects you would.

He knows just about all there is to know about you on paper, and wonders if you know much of Talassar. Or if you've read about Castra Tanagra. He assumes Guilliman would share the tale of that famed old battle with you as a part of your readings.

Each impossible reverie is a new shiny nail in his coffin, or dreadnaut—it depends where and how he dies, and if there's anything scrape up of him when he eventually goes down in a blaze of glory and duty, and honour.

If his Primarch catches him, there's going to be none of that.

He'll be struck from living record, like Titus had been. Cato would be lucky to get a little plaque in the deepest pits of the Fortress of Hera. Reduced to a whispered memory of his achievements passed solemnly between Captains, followed up with words of disappointment. Of waste. Until his memory dies with them and his deeds fade into obscurity, lost to any new brothers.

The fate that awaits you would somehow be worse. Cato was always going to die in war, as was his right—but you—you were not fashioned for such things. Yes, Guilliman enjoys you, but that fact won't save you. Just like it won't save Cato for all his usefulness. You'd be tried as a heretic, as a source of corruption upon the Legiones, and you'd be made to suffer; because torture ever comes before execution. You're so very soft weak in so very many ways. Your life lived in a gilded cage, without pain nor discomfort that extends further than grating professional grievances—he doesn't want to imagine the sound of you screaming, but he does.

He cannot stand the thought.

The sudden urge to barricade you in his chambers for permanent safe keeping is all-consuming.

It's suddenly all he can think about.

He has to find you.

The amount of serfs passing and parting to allow his passage thin out to nothing.

Even from the sterile confines of one of the many winding hallways, Cato abruptly swears he can hear the echoed rush of sandals—your sandals—reverberating off the floor.

He hadn't notice you following behind immediately because, damn it, he's spiralling thinking.

He chances a confrontation, and rounds about-face.

You stand there in the middle of the empty hallway like you've got a bolter aimed at you, frozen.

"Come here," he says, clipped.

You do not.

"Come here."

Again, no compliance.

"Do you pride yourself on being a idiot?" His voice is scathing now, taking a heavy step into your space and being met by you staying stock stiff, still. "Do you have any idea what that stunt of yours earlier might incur?"

"What?" You blink, finally animating. "I didn't do anything—"

"You know what you did," he hisses, accusatory. "You're hollow between the ears, but you're not blind."

Lips pursing tightly in mental deliberation, you make a fey noise of annoyance as a little frown graces your features, apparently not deigning to offer a comment back.

"Do you not understand that... this," he gesticulates between you both and his voice falls to a whisper. "This... is not common allowance?"

"It's not?"

Are you being intentionally dense at this point, or is it just second nature?

Cato raises a hand to knead the crease between his brows, "No."

"That explains a lot, actually," you say, seemingly without any real comprehension on the gravity of the matter. "I couldn't find any notes or references on it."

He's genuinely stunned, "Is that what you were doing when—"

"When I was rudely interrupted," you cut in, the comment is nigh a spat insult.

Cato isn't sure what to say to that sudden display of spine, and grumbles.

He surmises the optimal action is complete disregard.

Therefore, he has no problem turning on the heel of his sabatons and starting his pace on again.

"So... this isn't normal by Astartes standards?"

He's taken aback at your abrupt want for conversation after all that. Namely because it's atypical. You never attempted small talk with him. You never do anything but scurry off when he's accosted you for you flagrant overstepping—wait.

He feels as if the paradigm between you both has shifted again since the last time for some reason. More than last time, actually. More than you just simply having the audacity to backtalk him.

It's like some symptom of a deeper sickness rising to the surface.

It makes him unreasonably curious suspicious.

He wants to see just how much ground you'll give, so he plays along and answers, "Not as far as I am aware, no."

You hum, and immediately are at it again, posturing, "Surely you have heard of cases of it happening?"

"I have not," Cato says, and you hum in consideration.

You're satisfied at that information for a brief while, but then he remembers you cannot shut your mouth for more than five minutes, and purses his lips. He's already tiring of your incessant questioning.

"But you'd done it before?"

And that's just great.

You've expertly found an exposed nerve.

More kindling on the bonfire of him having an aneurysm before the cycle's end.

Cato can feel the hint of pressure behind his eyes as he begins increasing his walking speed. "I don't think that is a relevant question."

You haste to stay in step, "It definitely is."

"You ought to learn a civil fucking tongue when you're addressing me, woman," he bites out, nose crinkling into a sneer.

Unperturbed by his short-tempered comment, another thoughtful little 'hmm' slips out of you.

"So, to conclude... you where as inexperienced as I was at the start, and all those gloating insults back then were just projection?" You suddenly blurt out at rather impressive speed, like a politician possessed—before finishing with, "Sorry, 'all those gloating insults back then were just projection,' Commander Sicarius."

Cato grits his teeth and feels his eye twitch.

He stops, turns to look over his pauldron, and stares bloody murder.

He can't even imagine the idiocy in your brain that gave you the imprimatur to say that aloud.

But Throne, the sly little glint in your pretty eyes suddenly has his face thudding with heat.

Then you smile at him for the second time ever.

Cato bites back the urge to ogle you dumbly, and actually feels himself thicken in his body-glove in real time, because oh, fuck—his hind brain practically pelts him across the jaw with the mental pict of that sweet mouth lathing up the side of his cock.

Mentally unseated for a moment, his brows furrow; and he quickly turns away, applying himself entirely to the task of trudging down the stagings.

The silence is a breath of fresh air.

Even if he can still hear your laboured breathing a few steps back him from him. You're straining to keep up with his pace, and it's an excellent punishment for you. His heavy sabatons clank-clank-clank on the steel decking, and your little shoes practically pitter-patter in contrast. It's a syncopated rhythm that he's absentmindedly trying to match—and when he lingers for a step he manages to even the beat out.

He hangs a left, and scales the wide stairs to the open intersection platform above two at a time; trying not to snort amusedly at the little groan you let out as you hurry up them behind him, heaving.

Cato realises abruptly that you're actually, really, seriously following him—and pretending you're not.

He makes a right at the top and then waits for you to fall in step.

And, pointedly, he then turns and doubles back around.

You stand there stupefied for a moment, before grumbling softly and continuing down the thoroughfare without him.

If his observation skills hold any weight, he heads straight into the nearest open room and waits for you to follow.

He doesn't activate the locking mechanism on the other side on purpose when he strides in, and lets the sliding door close behind him.

This particular room is forgettable in its ubiquitousness, though unusual. He has no idea of it's actual intended purpose. It's fitted with screens and database terminals as if it's for debriefing purposes, but he has no real way of confirming. What he can catalogue is that there's wraparound surfaces littered with candles. A few strips of harsh lighting and scant furniture—a tallish counter and a few long benches. They're thankfully Astartes sized.

Which means he can sit down and pray for you to walk right into the metaphorical snare he's just laid.

Not a minute later, the door's sliding mechanism triggers and you scurry through—only to promptly go stiff.

You stare at him like a rat he's just found by lifting a crate.

The mechanism shuts automatically behind you and it apparently spooks you enough to jump a little.

"You're disgustingly predictable," he harrumphs, unimpressed.

A flush rises to your face as you scowl, "You're disgustingly predictable," you shoot back, echoing his words.

Of course, that audacity of yours leads to a short stalemate.

He huffs out a sigh as he concedes out of sheer frustration and says, "Three-seven-five-eight-eight-two-nine-one."

You blink dumbly at him, "...what?"

"It's my locking code," he growls, and Throne, you must be acting stupid just to grate him; because there's no way your brain is so smooth as to not connect the dots. "It's for the door, moron."

A soft 'ohh' leaves you as you turn and step aside to the key pad fixed into the frame.

"Three-seven-five-eight-eight-two-nine-one," he's agonisingly forced to say once again.

"Three-nine-five-eight-eight-two-seven-one..." you mumble to yourself.

Cato hears an angry beep and suddenly wants to smash his head into a wall repeatedly.

Grinding his molars, he snarls, "Three-seven-five-eight-eight-two-nine-one," and then adds, "If I have to repeat that one more time, I'm going to throw you out of the nearest airlock."

And it seems the threat of violence works wonders, because you don't bungle the input this time.

Cato sighs, exasperated, and leans back against the lip of the table behind the bench.

He ought to start carrying around a correctional stun rod. Just for whenever you annoy him. If it's good enough for a Neophyte to suffer, it's good enough for you, he supposes.

Or it'll send you into a seizing fit.

He's not to sure of the maximum voltage a baseline can take without their singular, puny little heart giving out.

One disciplinary option scratched out, then.

But he can think of many, many more to make a model Ambassador out of you. The wonders of carefully applied violence are plentiful. A little roughing up never hurts, or at least, not for long. And fuck, do you need some lessons on proper manners. He could have you smacked into shape like a show pony in no time—even if it'd be more like teaching a grox to trot lateral movements. Then again, he also believes if he stuck a frag far enough up a Carnifex's ass, he could probably get it to play Regicide.

And then pointedly, he starts thinking about your ass.

Cato is so utterly lost on the tangent of hypotheticals that he's flabbergasted when a small mouth lands on his own.

He hadn't even been paying attention.

He hadn't even noticed you'd neared.

It feels like the breath has been knocked out him at the sheer unexpectedness of it.

The kiss is hasty, your eyes scrunched shut and cheeks flushed, scowling with focus.

All the while, his mind reels because Throne, the contact of his lips to yours doesn't really feel particularly profound aside from how soft your skin is—but the intention of it is the real reward.

Cato's genuinely infuriated when you pull away.

You blink owlishly at him, giving him a cautious look like you're trying to gauge his reaction.

There are a thousand things he wants to ask, to say, but the foremost among them is but one.

"Again," he huffs, lessening the distance between you just enough to invite you back.

And he thinks that perhaps he’s abusing his station over you, but when you tentatively find a hold on his gorget to steady yourself to give him another kiss—those thoughts are all but erased from his mind. It's a curious weight off his shoulders to have you initiate and to show you want him in return, especially since it's as new to you as it is for him.

Nonetheless, he can't even imagine finding a reason to stop you, so he starts blindly mouthing; trying to coordinate around the fact he's so much larger than you.

The angle is difficult, but he's willing to follow your lead. Your body is even more fragile when he's in full armour. The risk of actually hurting you is realer than ever, but he can't help the desire to wrap an gauntlet around your waist and pull you closer to him. Thankfully, you let him when he urges you to, trembling hands flitting across his chestplate like you're unsure of what, exactly, you should be holding—and he catches the tiny line between your brows smoothing out as you risk a peek. Only for you to yelp, nervously wrenching yourself back in flustered surprise upon meeting his unwavering stare.

It's as if you expected something else.

He senses he's made a mistake of some kind.

Then he remembers from the motion-picts he's not supposed to keep glaring at you when kissing.

Regardless, he studies your face, memorising the lingering want still clearly there like his life depends on it.

He pulls you in and kisses you again, just because he can, this time brief and chaste. And then he goes for a third, fourth—fifth, each time slightly longer, until finally he rears back; and when he does you push up on your toes just a little, trying to chase him, but lose the nerve; although to Cato the reason for your faltering is, frankly, irrelevant. Because just like him, you lack the practical capacity to really know what next step you should take. Still, you look down at his armour, as if there's a latch to pull that magically undoes all his wargear.

He knows he's not going to get himself out of his armour in any reasonable way or amount of time.

There's no way he's getting the satisfaction of having you on him right now—but he still wants to keep you near.

He thinks he hears you ask for something, but he's too distracted to catch it in time.

"What?" Cato scowls, "What do you want now?"

It's clear you've been struck by your own embarrassment, strung up somewhere between shy and wanton, "I.. uh..."

"Spit it out," he rumbles.

You wince, hesitant as you mumble, "You, uh... i-in me."

Cato's brain skids to a halt. And it's the gall of that request alone that has him sweeping you up off the ground and spinning you around to sit in his lap.

It's obvious you're overwhelmed at being held to the formidably larger size of himself in full-plate. But as usual, you're yet to actively complain. Using his vambrace as a leg-bar to scoop under your thighs, he folds you in his grasp—your knees pressed to your chest as you're tucked back against his pauldron and chestplate.

The angle forces the hems of your robe aside, and he can see the underside curve of your ass; along with the plump mound of your vulva under the white of your small-clothes.

Cato's suddenly offended by their existence. You didn't wear any last time, so why now? The irritation of there being one more thing between you and him is enough justification to yank at them, tearing them loose—before throwing them aside.

You grumble sourly, which he chooses to ignore.

The palm of his gauntlet smooths across your hip, and you make a small huff as you shiver, goose-bumps suddenly covering your exposed flesh.

Cato lets the pads graze closer and closer to your sex, content to watch you impatiently glare at his armoured fingers from between the gap of your thighs.

With little preamble, he's stuffing his middle in. You're already so wet it's practically a cake-walk. Your cunt swallows down each articulating segment of his armoured finger down to the knuckle. The fact he's going to have to personally scrub your slick out from between the joints, instead of a lowly serf, is infinitely worth the shrill whine he receives as tribute.

"Would that my wargear had a zipper," he breathes, and fuck, he grins behind the obscurity of his gorget at the mournful mewl that remark earns. "I'd have you on your knees sucking for all the cunted trouble you've caused me."

You're making a warp-awful attempt at keeping yourself together, high-strung as you evidently are. Little more than a minute of him pumping his finger in and out of you has you red-faced and panting. All it takes to get those heavy breaths of yours to change into proper whines is his large thumb-pad adjusting to rest on your clit, applying pressure. You jerk, reflexively trying to buck into every motion. Fighting and failing to withhold the stuffy little moans escaping you—trying to stave off the inevitable by scrambling at the thigh plating of his power armour with one hand and tugging at his couter with the other.

Some part of Cato wants to stop solely out of spite for you being so grating earlier, or some other stupid mercurial justification of his; but instead, he simply continues, letting you squirm on his fingers.

And squirm you do.

It's clear to him the tide of it all is becoming too much for you to resist. Your sandal'd feet kick out where he's got your legs secured, joining in on the struggling as it begins anew when his thumb starts circling. It's a good sign, so he adds his pointer into you to bolster the stretch, curling in; before letting his fingers fan out inside you, stretching rather than stabbing. Your hips try to stutter forward in time with the quick thrusting of his digits, broken whimpers resonating off the room's walls. He promptly stuffs down to the knuckle and curls them again—and you all but bleat his surname as you're dragged into a fast and apparently exhausting orgasm. Just knowing he's you got you beat has his erection ache where it's trapped under the suiting and plating of his navel.

Cato can't feel you clenching through all the layers separating his skin from yours, but he knows from experience that you're seizing in fits internally—tight little cunt trying to milk a load out of an Astartes cock that should've been stuffed in you.

Just to allow himself one last bit of smugness, he scissors his fingers; giving a final swirl for good measure.

The shivered sob is worth every possible future disciplinary action he'll receive.

He pulls his gauntlet away slowly, and the wet shlick of it leaving you is almost amusingly alike pulling a blade from sinew. It's a degenerate comparison, he knows, but it's true.

Nonetheless, he splays out his hand and swallows dryly, eyeing the sticky, clear liquid webbing out and thinning between each ridge of his gauntlet'd digits.

Suddenly focused entirely on the fluid on his fingers, he pulls his vambrace barring under your knees up away. Now limp, and without the support, you slide off his lap and onto the floor in a slow slump.

"Nn-ngh," You groan weakly, face-down, legs still juddering a little.

Seeing as you're preoccupied, Cato doesn't even dignify the concept of hesitation, and promptly jams his fingers in his mouth—lathing the aftermath of your orgasm from them. And Throne, the taste of your hormones make him groan. He's absolutely stunned, unsure of how to act. He's so fucking stupid, why didn't he do this earlier? He's practically drugged by the omophagic aftereffect—getting off on your second hand bliss. Some sort of fey feedback loop in his brain catalysing his next decision solely on instinct.

He clambers to the floor and gets to his knees guards, securing a mitt on your bared thigh to roll you onto your back.

Apparently boneless with afterglow, you're easy to manhandle.

You barely have the strength to do much more than crane your head up at him and whine as he arranges your thighs apart, settling on his front between them with a warp-awful clank; before lifting your legs up to rest onto either lip of his gorget.

You try to scud back on your ass suddenly, but are quickly halted when he holds you fast by the hip.

He raises a confused brow.

"I-Isn't—" you start, still gathering the scraps of your brain together so soon post-orgasm, "Isn't y-your saliva acid?"

Cato suddenly wants to cuff you on the ear, "Who the hell told you that?"

"M-Master Calgar," you mumble.

Oh, of course, the gossiping hen.

He's going to have words with the Lord Defender of Greater Ultramar the next time they meet—words like 'for fuck sakes, stop scaring the woman he's trying to eat out with talk of Betcher's gland, Marneus,' come to mind, but then Cato realises that doesn't sound like he's not fucking you, so he quickly settles on: 'stop dignifying the Ambassador's hundred-and-one insane questions.'

"Not Ultramarines," Cato manages not to snarl, "It's a vestigial organ in most of us."

Your voice is shaky as you parrot, "Most of us?"

"Yes," He grunts, and promptly buries his face in your cunt.

The disproportion in size is painfully apparent when he realises his whole damned tongue is able to drag a stripe up the entire splay of you with minimal effort.

The pitched gasp he wins out of you is pure sin, and he's on the brink of swooning; but then you're running your trap again.

"Please, d-don't tell me you're one that can spit acid—" you manage to warble, seemingly still stuck on the topic.

Cato sighs as he's forced to pull away from your vulva, "I think you're forgetting I had my tongue on your tonsils in the library."

"Th-that's different," you stammer. "That's not as sensitive."

A long, unimpressed deadpan paints itself on his face.

"So," he starts with a bated hiss, "And let me be perfectly clear in this—you believe your vagina is more susceptible to burns than your mouth?"

Your face transforms into a strange mix of embarrassed and angry.

"I didn't say that—"

"Yes, you did," Cato grumbles.

"Did not," you huff.

"You—you just fucking did," he snaps, frustrated enough that he can feel one of the veins at his temple bulge. "The implication is obvious, you insufferable little whore."

You snort, but stay silent.

The argument appears, for all intents and purposes, to be finished.

"Did not," you say abruptly once more, pouting.

Cato's eyes roll back in his skull as he grits his teeth.

"Throne of Terra, if you don't drop the subject, acid in your cunt will be the least of your worries," he all but snarls, and that apparently quietens you enough that he can get back to lapping at you—the flat of his tongue running over your clit and earning a jolt.

He wraps his lips around the pink little nub and sucks. And that's all it apparently takes to make up for his amateur career in the practice.

You siphon down a sharp breath and let out a garbled cry, hips canting forward into his mouth—to which he obligingly stuffs his tongue into your slick entrance.

There's a satisfaction well beyond simple pleasure that swamps him at the way your thighs shake either side of his head. His own breath is hot about him, stuffy and dizzying; and the skin pressed against his cheeks is warm and smooth.

You're panting when he goes back to lapping over your clit, perching yourself up on a bent elbow and reaching out a hand.

Your fingers card through the messed brown hair atop his head. And he stiffens without realising—but he realises something: like this, the touch is ecstasy—pure, golden ecstasy. Every bit of higher thought in his head evaporates when you stroke him again.

A long, rumbling subvocal moan tears from him.

The infrasound vibration makes you buck weakly into his mouth again, teary eyed afore him as he adjusts his grip on you and crawls closer.

He's suddenly acutely aware that in this new, much more prone position, he's able to grind his body armour into his groin guard pressed on the floor. And as soon as the action bears results—namely a scorching burr of pleasure racing up his spine—he's deadset on rutting against the ground like a slavering beast.

He's frotting himself at a pace so rabid it'd be cruel to subject your cunt to. It's brutal, and the harsh scraping sound of plasteel on steel only further proves that. It's just frantic lust—he's desperate.

It's complete insanity how close to finishing he is so quickly.

Not as close as you, though.

He can feel how your legs jump with each pass of his tongue; and then you're unraveling in front of his very eyes.

"I-I can't—I can't, S-Sicarius, I-I—" You ramble, dazed, trying to get away as he works you right through it, sobbing and oversensitive while he's rutting himself closer and closer to his own end.

It all comes to a head when your fingers dig into his hair, tugging—and his brain is overrun with static. A drawn out groan scathes from his maw as any sense of rhythm scatters like light through a prism. For a fraction of a second, the pleasure is serene.

Then it's abject agony, he feels—he feels like Roboute Guilliman himself has just taken a running start and kicked him in the balls.

"F-Fuck–ing—gh—" he chokes, vision swimming, straining against the tide of the torment. His back arches up, and he curls inward on himself; white-hot pain clocking his nervous system into overdrive. Every muscle in his abdomen is doused in acid. He's tolerated being shot, stabbed, burnt without so much as blinking—but this is an entirely new and entirely different sort of wound. It's like he's pissing promethium. It's—it's the catheter, he realises. He'd forgotten about the bloody catheter jammed up his cock.

Through the searing ordeal, he manages to force his armour's facilities to finally abide his impulses and dose him with a pain dampener.

And then everything's fine.

He opens eyes he wasn't aware he'd closed and finds your face has suddenly gotten far closer to his.

"S-Sicarius?" You stammer, and there's an honest panic in your voice. "Sicarius, p-please, please—a-are you okay?"

He realises he's on his back, and you're sitting beside him, half draped on his chestplate, frantically trying to figure out what's wrong with him to no avail.

You've leaned in so close he can feel your rushed breathing.

"I'm fine," Cato groans, and you sputter out a sigh.

"I-I don't know what happened, I-I—" you're still wildly confused and raving, and he inhales deeply; only to be greeted by the sour animal stink of fear practically dripping from you.

Cato rolls his tongue around inside his mouth and cringes knowingly at the foaming side-effect of the chem he'd self-administered, the acrid taste mixed with your slick is certainly not an ideal cocktail.

The sincerity of concern behind your reaction is baffling. He's not made of glass, for fuck sakes—and he's a bit pissy about the fact you'd actually fallen victim to the idea of him suffering some grievous injury so easily. But he supposes where there's a will of baseline overreaction, there's a way.

"You're acting like a child, woman. Pull yourself together," he sighs hoarsely, hoping the comment jars you out of your hysteria—or at the very least scares you off.

It does exactly neither, and you sidle in closer and rest your cheek on his jaw.

It’s an action so overwhelmingly horribly affectionate that it would’ve been a crime to not press into it with a lean of his head. Or, at least, that's the half-assed justification he tells himself.

Because he's loving enduring your attention, not seeking it; and therefore only humouring you when he lifts a hand and settles the wide splay of it on your flank as a comfort.

He shouldn't be, but he is.

[beansidhebumbling]

Scraps from True Measure of a Name

The breaking of the Lord of Night’s heart did not start in the time of the Archerons. No as tended to be with fae, whose lives were painted with the fuzziness of the last dregs of wine, whose years extended in the echoes of symphonies in cavernous halls, stories began in centuries goneby.  

It started in the orchard which was no longer an orchard. With a fae who was now more beast than man. A love torn asunder by fights too dark for the males they were then.  

Rhysand’s heart, soft and young, pumping rapidly in his chest as he stole kisses, one, two, three along the well hewn features of Tamlin. Tamlin even in the first blush of his nineties was well built and moaned deeply as he took Rhysand’s cock, moving in clumsy, disjointed thrusts before settling into a  rhythm they found with increasing ease each time they met like this, fucked like this, loved like this, chasing a high that was found in Rhysand collapsing draped over Tamlin’s back.  In reflection, when whiskey coated his tongue and hallucinogenic powders from the Continent dusted his nose, he knew it was the closest to human he ever felt. That urgent, desperation of first love, bloomed and cultivated in the quiet orchards of spring.  

A first love that bloomed slowly and died so quickly. Razed to ashes in blood and betrayal. His mother. His sister. Frozen and unheeding to his cries. His little sister who had never given him silence before now would not, could not answer his pleas. But even still in the cold caverns of his heart he held  him. Maybe he clung to it to remind himself that he knew good things once. He was good once.  

So when Tamlin took a human over the Wall.  A small thing, angry and stubborn, he was jealous. And curious. Because this dull eared human, a pawn who moved like a knight intrigued him. No quiet moves were made. No small advances to be sacrified to a greater play, but leaps, forward and back. She captured a Suriel. Then she did it again. He hears the night whisper of her. How Tamlin may love her.  

But humans were fickle, no burning suns but shooting stars. Their beauty tied to their ephemeral nature. And when the knight jumped back over the Wall. Tamlin would not speak to him. No surprise there. He did not want to talk to him anyways. Feels the blood of his sister lace his molars when he tries. This way lies torment a voice warns.  

But brave Feyre came back. Beautiful, earnest, stupid Feyre. Fought in mud and cried in dungeons. And her foolish hope began to rub off on him.  

[targcrazies]

Misgivings (Aemond Targaryen x Handmaid)

Summary: Aemond develops a little crush on his sister's handmaid.

Part 2

warning: foul language

Aemond found himself, strangely, loitering around his sister's chamber. He hadn't been exactly cognizant why he would desire such a thing, something so trite and droll, yet he found it laborious to not wander close to where she could be.

She was one of the many handmaids of Helaena, and she was new, plucked from her father's country home where he had conveniently placed his mistress and their three children. Her father was the Lord of Driftmark, who wanted to ensure that his daughter had access to a better livelihood. She was fortunate to not look exceedingly Valyrian. However, upon mention and with proper scrutiny, her descent could be well-traced in her features. Her father presented her as a trained, courteous, and well-read maid to Helaena after the birth of her third child. He said that he found her lost upon the shores of Lys and was thoroughly impressed by her fortitude and wit. Everyone believed the lie and she was placed in a position of relative comfort.

The young Prince was not aware of all that, he only loitered because he only saw her the night before, making his sister's bed when he barged in looking for her.

"Oh, her Grace has taken the children to bid a good night to the Queen, your Grace." She had merely said, "I shall let the Princess know you requested an audience with her. How urgent is it, your Grace? For it is time for her and the children to sleep."

Aemond had little recollection of what had brought him to his sister, "Quite a little urgency," He gulped, "needn't worry." he turned around to leave. His mind was mired by numerous regrets the moment he exited the chamber, only if he had told that it was indeed urgent he'd have been escorted to meet his sister, and in extension, perhaps, her, too. He hadn't even asked her for her name, but again, it would seem odd for him to care for her name, especially given she worked only for his sister and not him. He made a detour to his brother's chamber, asking him for her name, for he knew every woman in the Keep.

"Oh, she is new. Her name is Vaella. She is good, yes, but quite plain, won't you say?" Aegon prompted.

"Plain? I found her thoroughly pleasing to the eyes." Aemond countered, taking unheeded offense.

"Oh, it is because she speaks well. If you watch her closely and focus less on her words and more on her countenance, you will find her less attractive."

Thus, there he was, waiting for her to exit the chamber after attending to the early morn needs of his sister. He wanted to verify the veracity of his brother's judgment himself. He could not jerk his eye off the ornate wooden door, his shoulders perking up as cries of a little child were sounded from the chamber.

"Your Grace, how may I be of help?"

He jumped on his feet and turned to find her standing behind him, her hands holding onto a basket of nappies for the kids. Her hair was golden brown in hue, yes, and her eyes were such a dark shade of violet that they seemed black from afar. She had a smile so pleasant, it almost reminded him of someone.

"What?" he only managed to muster as soon as he caught himself gaping at her discourteously.

"Your Grace, shall I alert Princess Helaena that you would like an audience with her soon? I shall tend to the children now, she may wish to see you as she sups."

"That-that won't be necessary." he blurted out, feeling his neck heat up in embarrassment. "What is your name?"

"Your Grace, it's Vaella." She smiled, "I shall beg your pardon, for I have to attend to the princelings and the young Princess Jaehaera. Good day to you." She curtseyed, despite the load, and scampered away to the door before quickly disappearing behind it.

He watched the door for a while, "Vaella", he thought to himself, "What a lovely name."

__________________________________________________________

"Helaena, is your new handmaid good at sewing?" Aemond asked his sister, not sparing her a glance as he faux-perused his book.

"Vaella?" your sister confirmed, "Ah yes, she is good. Why, aren't you happy with the stitchwork of your own servants?"

"Not quite, it's either dodgy, or tight, or just unpleasant. I have heard the new girl is good at her stitchwork, so I might have her do some of my stitching."

"Whoever told you that, brother?" Helaena cocked her head to the side, looking positively befuddled.

"Helaena, how daft are you?" It was one of those rare instances that Aegon was present at court and participating, soberly, in a conversation with his sister-wife and younger brother, "Aemond has taken a liking to the girl!"

"To Vaella?" Helaena looked at her husband, then at her brother, "Vaella is a pleasant girl, yes, but I cannot see why you like her so, brother, to request her accompaniment."

Aemond wanted to quip back something dismissive, however, he could not bring himself to muster any legitimate justification. It was indeed true that he had taken quite a fancy to the girl, whom everyone else deemed rather plain to look at. However, upon much observation, it was clear that she was smart and well-spoken, having a rather amusing wit and much knowledge about culture and economy. She spoke the Valyrian tongue somewhat fluently and looked excitedly at the opportunity to hone her speech in the language whenever Aemond posited. He observed her furtively listening to lessons and conversations of history, religion, and even those of stately matters. He had taken quite a fancy to her.

"You can command the girl to come to your bedchamber whenever you desire, brother, you do not have to bypass my wife," Aegon exclaimed, "She has enough support."

"Oh, but I do like her, she is fond of the children and so are they." Helaena smiled, "But, I could spare her for a bit. When shall I ask her to see you, Aemond?"

"Anytime convenient, I do not mind." Aemond quickly answered.

Aegon barked out a burst of horrid laughter, "How rare it is to see Aemond not strictly schedule a meeting. Brother needs his cock wetted."

Aemond stared at his brother with disgust, thanked his sister, and left abruptly.

Part 2

[legofanguy]

Prompts that go bump in the night day 30 an unheeded warning

A story for @thepromptfoundry event prompts that go bump in the night day 30 an unheeded warning featuring my ocs Tyler and her girlfriend April.

As Tyler and April are waiting at the lake for their friends to hang out, Tyler hear strange and beautiful singing and she walk over to the lake as April try to ask her girlfriend, "Tyler, what is wrong?" Getting more worried when Tyler didn't answer, April said to her, "Tyler, get back here!" but Tyler didn't listen and she walk to a siren, whose said with a smile, "Well, well, I got a Zodiacger in my charm. Lord Batcula will be proud of me...." before April in her Zodiacger Pink form kick the siren so hard that it send her flying and break the spell over Tyler.

[theprayerfulword]

October 20

Isaiah 26:3 Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on Thee: because he trusteth in Thee.

Proverbs 4:23 Keep your heart with all diligence, for out of it spring the issues of life

Matthew 5:16 Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.

John 3:16 For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.

Romans 8:28 And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose.

Psalm 32:5 Finally, I confessed all my sins to You and stopped trying to hide my guilt. I said to myself, “I will confess my rebellion to the Lord.” And You forgave me! All my guilt is gone.

May you not be settled into this world, but wear it loosely, not clinging to possessions, but holding them lightly, not demanding even acceptable pleasures, lest you end up pursuing harmful appetites, but walk in humility before God and live contentedly with enough, letting your joy come from your citizenship in eternity and your satisfaction from the presence of the Lord, boasting only in the faithful love, justice, and righteousness which the Lord in His mercy delights to exercise in the earth. Jeremiah 35

May you be as willing to hear and obey the word of the Lord your God as you do those in your life that you respect and who care for you, for has not the Lord Who created you provided you life and sustains you each day, and does not the Lord Who has redeemed you show His love by all He has given even before you knew Him? Jeremiah 35

May you be employed in the presentation of God's Word to those in need, sharing the promises and consequences, informing all of the truth of His love and the reality of the enemy, offering His mercy and justice and warning of what is to come, that the Lord may have a witness in the earth and the harvest, which is plentiful, may be gathered in. Jeremiah 36

May you respond in godly respect and reverential fear to the Word of the Lord, following His precepts and obeying His leading, knowing that careless disregard of His warnings and unheeding disrespect of His commands will lead to increased woes and added wrath. Jeremiah 36

Seek Me for all your needs, My child, but fail not to act on those items that are your tasks to do. In your patient endurance, you shall gain the possession of your soul. Study to show yourself approved before Me, without shame, accurately handling the Word of My Truth. Present yourself to Me as one redeemed from death to life so that every part of your body may be a useful weapon of righteousness. It is by My Spirit that you are empowered to do these things, just as it is because of My love that you desire to please Me in this fashion. But it is by My Word, revealed by My Spirit to your innermost parts and made life and strength to your soul as it is written on the tables of your heart that you are able to stand in the battles I give you to fight, and to overcome in the struggles that are yours to face. My written word must be your standard by which you measure that which you receive, but do not think that the plans are the same as the structure. All Scripture is inspired by Me for teaching, reproof, correction, conviction, and instruction in righteousness. But just as I formed Adam's body from clay, it remained dead and without life until My breath entered into it. Even as the body, without the breath, is dead, so also the written word, holy and inscribed through My inspiration, can still wound and kill if used without the Spirit guiding you in the way of love which leads to life. My creation, spoken into existence, shaped and fashioned from My heart, showing My magnificence and demonstrating My majesty, is not to be worshiped; it only points to Me, and it will pass away to be replaced by a new heaven and earth. I am the eternal Word of God. Seek Me, letting the written scriptures point to Me as you study and revere that which I have given you through the efforts and blood of many people, but do not worship the written word lest it become as the brazen serpent Moses made and distract you from who I am. As you seek Me, yielding to My Spirit in humility and joy, I will transform you into My image so that others will read My Truth writ large in your life, no longer seeing you, but having their life touched by Me as I bring them from death into the same living relationship of the Spirit that I have given you. Do your diligence, My love, and learn of Me through My Word, allowing My Spirit to open it to you, that you may breathe in the life which transforms you, that I may be seen by the world.

May you be obediently willing, in meekness before the Lord and with careful regard to your own cleanliness in the Spirit, to bring rebuke to faults among God's people, not eager to exalt yourself, but desirous to lift them up to achieve their best. I Timothy 5

May you be faithful to show God's love to the members of your own family, and ready to help meet the needs of those who have only the Lord to turn to, showing mercy when you have the means so that you may receive mercy when you have the need. 1 Timothy 5

May you give double-honor to those who labor in the Lord for you, seeking Him for direction, sharing what they receive, caring for all who listen, training you for overcoming, rejoicing with you in victory. 1 Timothy 5

May you learn to acclaim the Lord and to walk in the light of His presence, rejoicing in His name all day long and exulting in His righteousness, for He is your glory and strength, and by His favor you are victorious, therefore your loyalty and devotion belongs to the Lord, your Holy One, Who has founded His throne on righteousness and justice, and before Whom goes love and faithfulness. Psalm 89

May your strength be granted from God, your anointing come from His Spirit, His hand sustain you, His arm empower you, paying no tribute to an enemy and suffering no oppression from the wicked as He crushes your foes before you and strikes down your adversaries, and His faithful love will abide with you as you acknowledge Him to be your Father, Your God, the Rock your Savior. Psalm 89

May you know that though discipline comes when needed, the Lord will never take His love from you nor will He ever betray His faithfulness, for He will not violate His covenant of love or alter the promises His lips have uttered. Psalm 89

[pastortomsteers]

The Bible Study –

Our readings for Wednesday, Dec. 13 are Isaiah 29:15 – 30:14 & Revelation 1:1-20.

Our reading from Isaiah begins with verses I’ve often used in sermons.

The prophet’s words explain our relationship with the Almighty and the error of either considering ourselves ‘gods’ or thinking we’re in position to put the true God in the wrong:

16 You turn things upside down! Shall the potter be regarded as the clay, that the thing made should say of its maker,     “He did not make me”; or the thing formed say of him who formed it,     “He has no understanding”?

This was the spiritual error in Isaiah’s day, and the mistake of those today who believe they’re wiser than God, who put their faith in human philosophy and reason.

God, however, will rescue people who respond to His grace found only in the Second Person of the Trinity, our Lord & Saviour Jesus Christ.

The Almighty pronounces judgment on His people when they turn to a pagan nation for Israel’s protection rather than seeking refuge in the Lord.

In our spiritually rebellious world, God’s Word condemns those who turn away from Christ seeking security in secularism or pagan religions.

The Gospel offers forgiveness to repentant sinners who accept the free gift of salvation through Jesus.

Today we begin reading the final book of the Bible, Revelation.

Remember, for Christians it is a book of comfort, grace, and triumph.

Christ will return in victory.

He is the alpha and omega, the Almighty who will finally and completely defeat death and the devil, and raise believers to eternal life in Heaven.

For non-believers, those who deny Christ, Revelation is a warning, and if unheeded, a book of woe.

God’s plan of salvation is brought to completion through our Saviour.

Keep in mind the very first verse of Revelation which describes the book as: “The revelation of Jesus Christ.”

Revelation was written by the Apostle John while imprisoned on the island of Patmos during a time of increased Christian persecution.

John receives a vision from the resurrected Jesus who commands the Apostle record Christ’s message in a book. 

Revelation encourages believers to resist the demands of secular authorities who try to have Christians abandon their faith.

John reassures the Church that Jesus will win the final victory, but in the meantime satan will increase his assault on Christianity.

The devil is fierce because he knows his time is short.

Christians are to stand fast in the faith even to the point of death.

We are protected from any lasting spiritual harm by Christ, who will usher His followers into the eternal kingdom of Heaven.

Let the peace and consolation of Christ’s message comfort and strengthen you in your walk of faith and witness today.

Pastor Tom Steers

Christ the Saviour Lutheran Church, Toronto

[gatekeeperwatchman]

Daily Devotionals for January 6, 2023

Proverbs: God's Wisdom for Daily Living Devotional Scripture: Proverbs 1:10-19( KJV): 10 My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not. 11 If they say, Come with us, let us lay wait for blood, let us lurk privily for the innocent without cause: 12 Let us swallow them up alive as the grave; and whole, as those that go down into the pit: 13 We shall find all precious substance, we shall fill our houses with spoil: 14 Cast in thy lot among us; let us all have one purse: 15 My son, walk not thou in the way with them; refrain thy foot from their path: 16 For their feet run to evil and make haste to shed blood. 17 Surely in vain the net is spread in the sight of any bird. 18 And they lay wait for their blood; they lurk privily for their own lives. 19 So are the ways of everyone greedy of gain; which taketh away the life of the owners thereof.

Proverbs 1:10-19 (RSV): 10 My son, if sinners entice you, do not consent. 11 If they say, "Come with us, let us lie in wait for blood, let us wantonly ambush the innocent; 12 like Sheol let us swallow them alive and whole, like those who go down to the Pit; 13 we shall find all precious goods, we shall fill our houses with spoil; 14 throw in your lot among us, we will all have one purse" 15 my son, do not walk in the way with them, hold back your foot from their paths; 16 for their feet run to evil, and they make haste to shed blood. 17 For in vain is a net spread in the sight of any bird; 18 but these men lie in wait for their blood, they set an ambush for their own lives. 19 Such are the ways of all who get gain by violence; it takes away the life of its possessors.

  Thought for the Day

Verses 10-14 - God cares for His children. We do not need to go the way of sinners to attain our desires; for the Lord promises to grant them if we trust and obey Him (Psalm 37:1-4). Greed can lead to robbery and even murder. Gangs are rampant today because the above verses are unheeded by many people. Those of us with children are responsible to warn them of the dangers of following the wrong crowd. Birds of a feather flock together. If we do not desire to become like ungodly people, we must not be close friends with them. If we play with fire, we will be burned. Neither young nor older people should entertain the notion that we can stay close to wickedness and not eventually do as the wicked do. If we do not resist evil, it will overtake us. Smaller sins eventually lead to bigger ones.

Verses 15-19 - It is not easy to live for Christ in an ungodly society. I praise God for the young people who are doing so. Becoming friends with ungodly people, however, is an enticement that Satan uses to ensnare Christians. He whispers that by becoming their friend, we can win them to Christ, but their influence usually overcomes the well-meaning person. I am not saying we should snub them, but that we should not become close friends with them. Doing so has been the downfall of many Christians. "Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers: for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? and what communion hath light with darkness? And what concord hath Christ with Belial? or what part hath he that believeth with an infidel? And what agreement hath the temple of God with idols? for ye are the temple of the living God; as God hath said, I will dwell in them, and walk in them; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people. Wherefore come out from among them, and be ye separate, saith the Lord, and touch not the unclean thing; and I will receive you" (2 Corinthians 6:14-17).

The best way to help ungodly people is to pray for them and live righteously before them. Witness to them, be kind to them but do not yield to enticements to join their ways. Prayer Devotional for the Day Dear Father in heaven, I come to You in the name of Jesus and I pray for parents and young people today in all walks of life who are struggling with the threat of unrighteous relationships. Help them to live a life that is pleasing to You. Deliver them from the fear of men and give them the grace to cut all ties with those that would lead them into wickedness. Fill them with Your Spirit so that they will have the holy boldness to take a stand for truth and righteousness. May we all treat the wicked that we encounter with compassion and kindness, yet be able to speak the truth in love, to help them, and not join them. Give parents Your wisdom to help their teens through the temptations all around them, especially in the inner cities where crime is rampant. Bless the workers and evangelists You have sent to these cities. Provide for them and protect them as they work on the streets. Protect us all from evil and destruction. Help us to overcome evil with good, as You told us to do, and let us be that light that shines in the darkness. Amen.

From: Steven P. Miller Founder of Gatekeeper-Watchman International Groups Jacksonville, Florida., Duval County, USA. Instagram: steven_parker_miller_1956, Twitter: @GatekeeperWatchman1, @ParkermillerQ, Parker Miller Stevens (Gatekeeper1) …@StevenPMiller6 Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/gatekeeperwatchman URL: linkedin.com/in/steven-miller-b1ab21259 Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ElderStevenMiller; #GWIG, #GWIN, #GWINGO, #Ephraim1, #IAM, #Sparkermiller, #Eldermiller1981

[seshatsdomain]

Praise The Body

Pairing: Pagan Fertility God Thor x Black Fem Reader

Wordcount: 1,644

Warnings: SOFTDARK!THOR. DUBCON. Sexual Manipulation. Pagan God Thor. Mentions of Pregnancy. Mentions of Fertility and Infertility. Mentions of Marital Abuse. Smut. 18+. 

A/N: This is my first foray into writing darker themes, so be easy with me. I wrote this for @syntheticavenger’s writers camp. @syntheticavenger was incredible and helped me work out the kinks of the fic. She was also just so nice and supportive. I’m so grateful that I was able to work with her, and if you aren’t following her yet, go and give her a follow!

Banner by @maysdigitalarts

Divider by @firefly-graphics

She should have listened when the old woman told her not to marry Arne; maybe then she would have been happy. 

The stories told by the old folk — the ones with hands too gnarled to weave, who sat upon chairs and watched the world through filmy eyes — are ignored by most. Their wise warnings went unheeded. She crawled back to the old woman on her knees. She had held the woman's crooked fingers in her own callused hands and begged for advice. She hadn’t listened once, she would not make that mistake again.

 The old woman had urged her to go to the temple. To make her offerings regularly, to pray earnestly, and when the time was right to find her rest among the gods. 

 “A night spent in the presence of the divine will bless you ten times over.” 

She looked up at the elder from her place on the floor. She was grateful to have a plan, some action to take, even as outlandish as it seemed.

“How will I know when the time is right?” She questioned.

The crone cackled, the noise loud within the small house.

 “You’ll know.” The old woman patted her hand. “You’ll know.” 

*

 Her sandaled feet slipped in the mud as she ran. She landed hard on her knee, pain radiating from the spot. Her arms quivered as her hands sank into the soft earth. The wind howled as it shook the trees that towered over her. Rain drenched her face, a single drop falling from the tip of her nose as she brought her head to the sky. 

Her destination was not far. She could see the stone spires of the temple, Looming shadowy in the distance. It beckoned to her, and she knew she must answer. Her feet found purchase in the wet dirt, driving her body upright. The steps she took were wobbly — unsure— but she kept a steady pace. The trees rustled around her. She could see the temple now, the warm yellow glow of the interior candles. A lighthouse even in the cold dark of the forest.

Come. It seemed to whisper to her. Come home.

Her sandals slapped wetly on the stone stairs, She winced as pain sliced up her back. The familiar chamber of the temple eased her bruised feelings. Her cloak, heavy with rainwater, landed on the floor with a splat. Her skin prickled as the cool night air brushed her bare shoulders. She limped forward, her box of offerings clutched in her palms. The giant throne sat before her, the large statue there always lording over the room. She knelt at the feet of the altar, esoteric mumblings falling from her lips. The box was placed in between the colossal feet of the figure. 

“Accept my offering, O’ God of thunder. May my devotion honor you ‘thus.” 

She repeated her prayers twice more. It wasn’t necessary, but she continued. For she did not want to leave the temple. Leave this God’s presence. It may have been silly — the others in the village certainly thought it was — but the temple, this temple, was more of a home to her than her house with Arne had ever been. Which was yet another thing for Arne to quarrel with her about. She had always been diligent with her worship of all the Gods. She dutifully gave her offerings to each of them. But Thor? The powerful and benevolent God of Thunder held a special place in her heart. 

She paused as her eyes fell upon her strewn cloak. Her limbs were unwilling to move, her feet frozen upon the cold ground. 

Do not leave us. The temple whispered. Stay here. Stay home.

The croaking voice of the old woman came to her then. The advice that the elder had given her.

 A lightness flooded her veins as she made her decision. She fell asleep with joy singing in her heart, even as her clothes grew damp from the cloak she laid upon.

*

She dreamed of him. Stone turned into golden flesh. Blonde hair artfully tousled on his shoulders. It brushed her thigh as he moved between her spread thighs. She jumped as he lapped at her center. His deep chuckle reverberated through her flesh. She wiggled her hips towards him, wanting more, craving more. She only ever felt like this in her dreams, her mind creating the kind of pleasure her husband could only wish to give her. Maybe it was wrong to dream of a God this way, she would never speak of it to anyone. But in her dreams? She let herself go. 

“Yes! There!” 

He mouthed at her clit before sucking it between two full lips. Thick fingers prodded at her entrance; he slipped two in and thrust. She cried out as he scissored them within her, not giving her time to adjust. The feeling built in her, a tingling at her lower back that moved upwards. Just when she was on the precipice, right on the edge, his lips detached from her heated flesh with a wet smack. 

“Wake, sweet girl.” 

No. She didn’t want to wake. She wanted to reach completion, she wanted to stay here with the beautiful god between her legs. She didn’t want to wake in a broken bed with Arne-

“Wake.” 

Her eyes fluttered open, the gauzy dream fading around her. 

The early morning light streamed into the temple, bathing the room in softness. 

“There you are, sweet girl.” 

Her head snapped up. There kneeling between her spread thighs, was Thor, God of Thunder. 

She scrambled back, her elbows hitting hard stone, her back scraping against the ground.

He grabbed for her. Two huge palms locked around her thighs. The fingers of his right hand left streaks of wetness on her skin as he pulled her back toward him. 

“What’s this?”  

He moved his hand between her legs once more. Spreading her folds before gently petting her clit. 

“Come now, sweet girl, you can’t be afraid. Have you not been praying to me for months?” 

Her back arched as his gentle petting became insistent. He circled her clit, and the feeling made her breath catch. He stared at her with vibrant blue eyes that cataloged her every expression. 

“I’ve heard them. Accepted every offering you gave me. And now-“ 

Heat surged through her body as she came. Her center clenched around empty air. His eyes snapped down to observe it. 

“- Now your faithfulness shall be rewarded.” 

He sat back on his heels, spreading his legs slightly. She gasped as she caught sight of it. His cock was larger than any she’d ever seen. It jutted towards his muscled stomach, bobbing as he circled it with his hand.  The tip was red and angry, dripping with pre-cum. 

He leaned forward, notching the head just inside her entrance. She took in a sharp breath. 

Power rolled off him as he looked at her.

“Tell me you want this.” 

“I-“ the words lodged in her throat.

“Tell me that you’ll bear my seed.” 

Time seemed to suspend itself as their eyes locked. Brown meeting blue. 

“I want it.” She whispered

Then he thrust into her. He gave no time for her walls to stretch and accommodate him. He hammered into her. The sounds of their skin slapping together filled the quiet temple. 

Her legs rested on the outside of his. Thor spreads his knees, widening her legs in turn. 

His massive hands encircle her entire waist, his grip firm as he moves her into him again and again. 

Her high-pitched moans joined the chorus of their slapping skin. Her own hands reached up to play with her thick nipples. Thor groaned at the sight. 

He angled himself, and suddenly he was hitting something within her that made her see stars. 

“Thor!” She cried. “My lord, please!”

He hushed her, his tongue darting out to lick at his pink lips.

“I know, sweet girl. I know.” He thrust into her harder, and she thought she would shatter.

He placed his hand back on her clit, rubbing in small circles before he sent a zap of blue lightning into her. She jolted, her entire body tightening.

“Come for me.” 

It felt as if her soul had left her body. Like she had ascended to the heavens and would never come down. Thor was still thrusting into her, rhythmless now as he chased his own completion. The Earth shook when he came, his roar echoing off the stone walls of the temple. With his head thrown back, he shot rope after rope of his seed into her. His chest heaved as his hips began to move again. 

“No more.” She pushed lightly at his arm. Her body twitched with overstimulation.

He smiled indulgently at her even as his hips continued to move.

Thor caught her shaking legs as he finally moved away from her center. Little jolts of electricity tailed after each brush of his hands on her skin. He stroked at her legs, coaxing them closed. She flinched as his hands moved to rest her legs over his bare lap. Her body elevated, just enough to lift her hips. 

“You should know, sweet one,” his deep voice rumbled as he settled her against his side. “That it was not you. It was never you.”

“What-“ her mind was slow to work, “what’s not me?”

Thor pushed his nose into the crook of her neck. He inhaled deeply, and she could feel his cock stirring at her hip.

“You are quite fertile, I can smell it on you.”

 She gasped.

“Then, Arne-“

“Do not speak of him.” His voice went dark. Blue streaks of lightning lit the early morning sky as he tipped her face towards him.

“You shall come again tonight. Yes? We must make sure it takes.” 

Her eyes widened as his lips descended on hers.

[draconic-ichor]

Chance Encounter

Morgott/tarnished smut dabble

Warnings: strong language, sexual themes, penetrative sex, oral sex, cream pie, knotting, slight come inflation, breeding kink, dominant kink, possessive sex, use of aphrodisiac drugs

Summary: A cart spills over, containing some pretty spicy herbs. Morgott is in the wrong place at the wrong time….or maybe the right one?

Feedback appreciated, 18+

This was from that idea that I had about Morgott getting into some of the Omen fuck herbs and has the wildest sex of his life

The sound of breaking glass echoed around the halls. Morgott, curious, rounded the corner to see a group of Perfumers fretting over a spilled cart. They clearly had been transporting a large assortment of herbs, most likely to refill the royal stores. Some of the jars had shattered, glass and the dried plants spread over the marble floor.

Morgott made his way forward to investigate the commotion, mindful not to come too close and risk unease.

A strange spicy aroma caught his nose, curling through his senses and spiking into his brain. He flinched, nostrils flaring, skin suddenly feeling hot. His grip on his cane tightened, stumbling back a bit away from the strange smell. But the damage was already done, the spilled herbs igniting a feeling akin to rut in his nerves.

It’s wasn’t as strong as a true rut, but he definitely began to feel that familiar chewing hunger in his gut and a fever kindle under his skin.

Making a brisk escape, he went to the first balcony he could find. Knuckles white and he gripped the railing, Morgott gulped down fresh air in an attempt to sooth the burning in his head.

He knew not how much time passed, jolting a bit when he heard footsteps. The Lady Tarnished rushed forward, huffing out from her swift journey over.

“The handmaidens told me something happened.” She explained, “They said you looked unwell.”

He didn’t answer, confirming what she was told.

“Are you alright?” The tarnished asked worriedly, padding up to his side. She gently took his hand, fingers soft as they interlaced his own.

“I…doth not feel…entirely well.” He admitted, free hand rubbing his face.

“Come.” She urged him to follow, “Let us lay down?”

He gave a shallow nod, swallowing.

As they walked towards his bedchamber the Lady started to notice something amiss: That the Lord’s ailment was not born of any illness. His hands slowly moved from her hold, drifting along down her back. His touch was searching, unheeding of prying eyes or his usual measured concern.

She let out a little sigh as she felt him squeeze her, hands drifting even further to her sharply hips.

The door to the chamber didn’t come soon enough, the two quickly disappearing inside. Morgott sat on the edge of the bed, welcoming the tarnished into his arms. Her touch felt heavenly, skin overly sensitive. She drew him into a kiss, his body crying out in the smallest taste of relief for this sudden hunger.

Tongue slid over tongue, the taste of her making Morgott’s head swim. The tarnished caressed his chest, hands tracing downwards. He groaned into her mouth, feeling his cock slip free of his sheath; lifting her up, pinning her to the bed.

But as the act deepened, teeth bared to bit at her bottom lip, he scared himself with his recklessness. Morgott pulled back, breaking the contact.

The tarnished tilted her head, face flushed and confused.

“We must not…” he murmured, “,if I harm thee…”

“I am a god.” She reminded in a hushed whisper, “I will not break so easily.” She reached up, running her thumb softly over the grooves of his jaw and cheek.

Morgott’s muscles trembled with restraint, fur fluffed up down his spine.

“Iv taken you before.” She reminded.

“Not like this…” he squeezed his eye shut, head dipping.

The tarnished pulled him closer, pressing chaste kisses over his lips. He eased into the contact, body pressing against hers. “I trust you.” She whispered into his lips, feeling him rumble in response. He deepened the kiss, tongue flicking out in a silent ask of permission. She gave it freely, fingers knotting in his silvery curls.

The tarnished skirts were pushed up, bunching around her waist, thighs pressing around Morgott’s hips. He bucked a bit as they kissed, underside of his cock rubbing along her clit and causing sparks of pleasure running through her legs.

He pulled his mouth away, saliva connecting their lips, sucking in needed air.

“I trust you.” She repeated, core aching.

He couldn’t deny her any longer, angling his hips downwards, pointed head of his cock pressing at her dripping opening. The tarnished wiggled, enticing him on, stretching and filling her.

He hissed, the pressure of her cunt a salve to his fever, fucking into her earnestly.

Every touch felt like rapturous fire, skin molten under her delicate fingers. She turned her head, baring her throat to his teeth, Morgott not wasting a moment in covering her with dark blotches of claim.

The coil tightened in his gut. Morgott, not wanting this to end so quickly, drew out fully from her with a wet pop. The tarnished whimpered out, squeaking a bit as her lower half was lifted up. Morgott licked at her folds, devouring her like an starving animal, some stray horns pricking crimson drops from her thighs. His cock pulsed with need, pre oozing down the strained length, feeling her walls tighten around his exploring tongue. She sang with her release, crying out with ecstasy. He drank down everything she gave as she enjoyed her release, only pulling away when she began to mewl.

Not giving her a moment, Morgott’s hands were back on her, flipping the tarnished easily onto her stomach.

Raising her hips, he filled her once more. Feeling even more desperate for her now, and with all the slick from her release making his way easy, Morgott began to breed her.

“Aye…aye…” he rasped out between thrusts, hands squeezing at her sides, “My little tarnished…mine.”

His cock squelched deep in her, bottoming out with every sink of his hips, the tip kissing wetly at her cervix.

The tarnished clawed the blankets, unused to such a deliberate fucking. One of Morgott’s large hands drifted up to her head, forcing her face into the pillows, keeping a hold on her in that position. She could feel the little knobs that lined the underside of his cock slide along her walls, massaging all her sweet spots.

He was quickly loosing himself, this type of sex very new to him as well. Heavy and messy, his mind too ate up for simple worries, the usual thoughts of caution absence.

The sounds of his little wife spurred him on; the way her walls sucked him in, swallowing and squeezing him, it was bliss. She may be a god, but to him she was delicate and small, large calloused hands entrapping her waist to pull her back harder along his length.

“My little tarnished…” he chanted again. The Lady had not heard such titles from his lips, said with such conviction, since they met in battle. Unlike all the other times, however, he spoke it with a quiet reverence, a claim of what was his.

“Morgott!” She cried, velvety walls fluttering around his swollen cock.

“Aye.” He purred, “Say thy Lords name.” Hips snapping harder. The sound of slapping skin filled the room, the tarnished shaking as he fucked her into overstimulation. She cried out his name over and over, voice breathy.

Morgott forced her back, bottoming out to the hold in her. Intense pleasure rushed through him, cock pulsing and flooding her. The Lady Tarnished clawed at the blankets, hearing him release much more vocally than she was akin to.

Her stomach swelled ever so slightly with seed, kept in place by his knot; the feeling pushed her over the edge a final time, milking him to the fullest.

He curled along her back possessively, teeth scraping gold flecked skin. She mewled, a perfect little creature to breed. Morgott’s mind still clouded with want and pleasure, every small movement sending jolts through his thighs and up his spine. His tail flicked, want still heavy in his gut, running his hands along the Tarnished’s sides.

~

The morning light filtered in through the balcony doors, casting rays over the bed. Morgott blinked open his good eye, squinting at the discomfort the sun brought.

His head felt heavy, throat incredibly dry. Everything ached as he shakily stood. The first few steps felt like those of a newborn fawn as he made his way across the bed chamber.

Morgott picked up a large pitcher, the one reserved for the basin to wash one’s hands, tipping it back and drinking it in a few ravenous gulps. Setting it down with a hollow clink, he exhaled shakily.

He heard the tarnished stir. The Lady sat up, stretching her arms out. She almost glowed, smiling brightly to him, “Good morning!”

Morgott leaned forward, bracing himself on the wall for a moment as he murmured, “I am at a loss,” he swallowed, “To what came over mineself…”

“Well I enjoyed myself.” The tarnished hummed. She began to detangle knots from her hair with her fingers as Morgott came back to the bed. He sat down heavily, staring into the distance quietly in thought.

“Oh!” The tarnished got his attention, adding as she showily gestured to herself, “I’m still in one piece as well!”

He gave her a wiry look, turning away once more. He heard her move across the bed, her arms wrapping around his broad shoulders soon too follow. The tarnished nuzzled into the crook of his neck, earning a light purr.

“Perhaps it would be safe to replicate the situation in the future, hm?”

He grumbled, the tarnished peppering his jaw in little kisses. Morgott’s eye caught a glance at her throat during her antics. She was covered in dark hickeys, some bite marks sprinkled in. Shame burned his cheeks, deepened by her continued attention and the traitorous stirring in his sheath from the blatant show of claim.

She giggled at the redness of his face, enjoying every moment.

“I still am at a loss…” Morgott repeated, wracking his brain.

“Well….” The tarnished bit her lip a bit.

“What Doth thee know?” Morgott demanded, turning to eye her.

She looked down guiltily, “You know about the spilled perfumer’s cart yesterday?”

“Aye…”

“Well…one of the herbs they were transporting may of been an um,” she blushed, “,an…aphrodisiac.”

“A what?!” Morgott exclaimed, fluffing up as he flushed deeper.

“I ordered a bit of everything and wasn’t sure at the time what jars broke.” She explained but then admitted, “His Lordship’s demeanor confirmed my suspicions, however.”

“Twas drugs that made mineself experience urges akin to rut…” he huffed, before thinking.

“Omen rut?”

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Devotional Hours Within the Bible

by J.R. Miller

Captivity of the Ten Northern Tribes (2 Kings 17:6-18)

The story of the ten tribes from the beginning, was a story of mistake and disloyalty. There was a divine promise to Jeroboam that if he would be true to the Lord, that blessing would follow him. “It shall be, if you will hearken unto all that I command you, and will walk in My ways, and do that which is right in My eyes, to keep My statutes and My commandments, as David My servant did; that I will be with you, and will build you a sure house, as I built for David, and will give Israel unto you.” But Jeroboam paid no heed to the divine Word. Almost immediately after the founding of his kingdom, he set up places of worship at two points in his kingdom, with calves of gold and priests, and established a national feast, that his people might be drawn away from the worship at Jerusalem. Thus at the very beginning the new kingdom, was characterized by a departure from God.

Starting thus in an open apostasy from God, the history of the nation was from beginning to end a continuity of idolatry and all evil. There were no bright spots in it. The Southern kingdom of Judah had its wicked kings and its periods of evil but the Northern Kingdom had nothing but sin in its story! In all its career its course was downward. It had nineteen kings but not one of them was a godly man. At last the end came. The king of Assyria captured Samaria, and carried Israel away. This was the end of the Ten Tribes, which are sometimes called the “lost tribes.” Doubtless many of them lost their nationality by marriage with the heathen. Some of the better ones, no doubt, joined the Jews who returned to Jerusalem under Ezra and Nehemiah.

The ten tribes had warnings enough but they disregarded them. Opportunities for salvation came, even down to the very last but the condition always was repentance and a return to God and the people would not accept the condition. So they went on from bad to worse and at last were destroyed. They fell into the hands of their enemies, and were carried away as captives.

While this story is before us, we may think of its parallel in the history of every one who persists in unbelief and rejection of Christ. Sin puts yokes upon men’s necks, and chains upon their limbs binding them hand and foot and carrying them away into hopeless bondage. The fatal end of such sinning, is illustrated in this carrying away of Israel. “There is no danger in my case,” says one; “I mean to be a Christian by and by after I have had a good time for a while.” But meanwhile the little threads of careless habit, of sinful neglect, of pleasant wrong-doing, are weaving themselves into cords, and the cords are growing into cables !

A sailor reported to the captain during a storm, that the water was gaining upon the vessel. The captain drove him away with angry words he was too busy to give attention to the sailor’s report. Again and again the warning was given, and each time it was unheeded. At last the barge was sinking and the men were ordered to the life-boat. There was not a moment to spare. A cable bound the boat to the barge, and the captain took his knife to cut it; but as he turned to do this his face turned pale with horror the cable was an iron chain !

This is the story of thousands of lives. Men do not know until the last moment, when it is too late, that they are hopeless captives, passing to their doom in chains which they cannot break. The time to throw off such chains the only time when it is possible to do so is before they grow into strength.

The historian goes back and tells us the reason for the pitiful doom that befell these tribes. “The children of Israel did secretly things that were not right against the Lord.” Secret sins bring ruin just as surely as sins that are open! Of course, one may keep a fair reputation among men, when committing only secret sins, wearing the white garments of a fair reputation ,while his inner life is spotted. But the sins themselves which are thus kept hidden work their ruin just as completely and inevitably as if they were open, public sins!

We must mark that it was sin which brought about this doom on the ten tribes. The historian may explain in natural ways, the cause of the downfall of the kingdom. But whatever the political or other reasons may have been the real reason was sin. Sin always brings calamity! Here is a man who grew up in a gentle, beautiful home. He had brightest prospects, finest opportunities. He was well taught, nurtured in an atmosphere of holiness, of purity, of prayer. Today he is a criminal, wearing chains, sentenced to twenty years for homicide. It is not an accident, a piece of ‘bad luck,” that he is now where he is. All this penalty came for his sinning against the Lord. The homicide was not the first sin it was the end of a long series which probably began in a boy’s little disobedience to his mother one day.

A definite form is given to the charge against these tribes. “They served idols.” Not only did they turn away from their own God but they turned also after the gods of the heathen. It is always so. Idolatry is not an extinct form of evil. We may not worship idols made of stone or wood but if we leave the true God we are worshiping some idol. We cannot keep our hearts empty. If God is not in them, some other god is in His place. These people, instead of following God and His ways, followed the ways of the heathen round about them.

We need to learn well, the lesson against conforming to the world. Many Christian people seem to be on astonishingly familiar terms with this world. They are not extreme or puritanical Christians. They have been emancipated from the bondage of the old-time, strict Church life, so they boast. Yes, yes emancipation, is it? So, no doubt, the Israelites talked as they indulged their heathen liberties. They were liberal Hebrews but what came of their liberty in the end?

They were not left without warning. The narrator tells us that the Lord had testified unto them by the hand of every prophet, saying, “Turn from your evil ways!” They could not say they had not been warned of the danger toward which they were drifting. Prophet after prophet had come and with solemn words and severe threatenings, declared to them God’s will, outlining to them the outcome of their course, unless they would turn away from it. Some of the noblest and most faithful prophets who ever spoke to men for God, delivered their fearless messages to the kings and people of this nation. One of these was Elijah, who thundered his stern warnings in the days of Ahab. Another was Elisha, whose ministry was long-continued and was faithful and almost Christ like in its tenderness.

God never fails to warn them and tell them of the way of safety. But men may perish in spite of the divine faithfulness. Many have been lost in the midst of holiest privileges. There is only one way of escaping sin’s penalties the sinner must turn from his evil course and walk in the paths of God’s commandments. No mere sentimental or emotional turning to God avails.

The charge is clearly made, that the people persistently refused to obey God’s commandments. “They would not hear but hardened their necks!” That is always the story. Men are not lost, because of any lack of goodness and mercy in God Himself. People sometimes say, “God is too good to punish sinners.” Very true, in a sense. God does not desire to punish. But men persist in their sins.

We need not think of God as being angry as men are; that is, of raving in fury. Yet God is angry with sin and cannot endure it. “Therefore the Lord was very angry with Israel, and removed them out of His sight!” After all the pleadings and warnings, all that the divine love could do this was the end. The same sad story happens in many a home. Father love or mother love never can save a child from sin if the child persists in his evil way. God cannot lift an impenitent sinner into the holiness of the heavenly kingdom, unless the sinner repents.

[quichelewoof]

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗

...........Kaitlyn Elwyn...........

╚═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝

I don't need you or your army Taking control trying to save me ●◉◎◈◎◉●  independant | headstrong | elusive ●◉◎◈◎◉●  “Pain shapes a woman into a warrior.” Anon

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ─── 

⌜ • ° + ° • ⌝ .Appearance. ⌞ ° • + • ° ⌟

With a supernatural gleam and fur spilling like rustling, evergreen leaves, Kaitlyn appears with eerie green fur and flashes of hot pink. One glance is all one needs to know that they're beholding a faehound. Even without her unusual coat, peering into her eyes to see the very sky captured and mimicked by her irises is enough to give anywolf the heeby jeebies.

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

⌜ • ° + ° • ⌝ .Personality. ⌞ ° • + • ° ⌟

Long suffering under a cruel lord's thumb has made Kaitlyn a very headstrong and outspoken wolf these days.

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

⌜ • ° + ° • ⌝ ...History... ⌞ ° • + • ° ⌟

There was only one thing startling about Kaitlyn as a pup and that was her gorgeous sky struck eyes. Once just your average run of the mill, black and white pup, Kaitlyn was always told by her forebears to ‘ne’er go wander tha wode aft'r dusk.' But as with all tales and warnings, they oft go unheeded. Had it been any of her littermates, they'd have been fine to pass through the woods, unheeded by what lurks within.

Unfortunately, Kaitlyn's eyes caught the attention of the Lord of the Woods. Fond of such pretty novelties, The Lord of the Woods charmed and whispered sweet things to young Kaitlyn.  He delighted her with tales of a realm beyond the green mounds, with imagery of merry-making and frolicking forever.  “Oh, I wish I could see those beautiful places," spouted the foolish, naive wolf. And no sooner had those words left her maw, did The Lord of the Woods grin with sick glee. Around poor Kaitlyn, the wind began to pick up and transformed into a leaf she was blown into the open doors of the Fae Mounds and brought to the world she so wished to see. Returned to her wolf shape, she was surprised to see her coat had become flecked with the green of the leaf she had been. At first, she was giddy and full of cheer, playing with the fae folk and other equally brightly coloured wolves she'd never seen before. For the whole day she danced, played and sang, but she soon noticed that the sun did not set, no-one seemed to tire like her and she began to miss her family.

Unaware of her fate, she went to The Lord of the Woods and asked when she could return home. The Lord laughed, cruelly, “There is no home for you to return to, a day here are centuries in your world. Your home is ash, your family moved on after looking for you for years. Now, this place is all you have." Horrified by the revelation, she did not believe The Lord and ran through the enormous realm, more time passing by as she searched for a way out. All the while the residents of the realm became cold and disgusted by her attempts to flee paradise. Jeered, mocked and made a spectacle for The Lord of the Woods, Kaitlyn was only saved when she met her future mate, Caldwell Elwyn.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Week 1 - Unexpected

And there we have it. The end of the first week.

Please stay tuned for the next set of ficlets on Monday. We'll get to see some LOTR humans :D

Now, let's finish this with the Dork Lords :)

Prompt: Unexpected

Pairing: Mairon x Melkor

Words: 1 055

Warnings: Void, disembodiment, danger, sadness, new beginning

As soon as Manwë had stomped away like a peeved youngling, foiled in his mischief, Mairon slipped out of his hiding spot.

He was too careful to advertise his presence, but he kept a close watch on his former Master’s prison to guard and defend him in case any of his so-called peers sought to do irreparable harm to one unable to fight back.

Oh, he was convinced that—had the Valar known—they’d have been inordinately quick to accuse him of fostering dark intents on account of his loathsome allegiances.

Nothing could have been further from the truth—it was love that kept the fallen Maia bound to the endless abyss of Melkor’s absence.

The same adoration bound him to secrecy and discretion, and so he inched closer noiselessly.

The thought that even evil—and all it entailed in the befuddled, clouded minds of those self-satisfied Powers—could compare to the all-encompassing vastness of his devotion made him chuckle derisively.

He didn’t know or care how long he’d already been staring vainly at the opaque, immutable wall that separated him from his lover, for—at long last—his patience was rewarded.

From where he’d crouched, he’d been unable to discern how Manwë had achieved the impossible, but Mairon had clearly felt Melkor’s unmistakable presence.

Padding closer carefully now, he placed his outstretched hand on the impassible veil appraisingly.

It was weakening—he could sense the minute cracks, invisible even to his keen eyes, that spread ineluctably through a barrier that had hitherto been universally believed to be impregnable.

At once, he deployed all the residual might of his crippled soul, desperately digging metaphysical fingers into the crevices to widen the gaps by sheer determination and willpower alone.

No matter how unexpected this blessing had been, Mairon had not achieved the unspeakable by letting precious opportunities pass him by unheeded and unexploited.

Thus he toiled indefatigably. Overhead, gleaming balls of gold and silver wheeled across the endless canvas of the sky, but his single-minded concentration never once faltered until he’d stretched and shredded the fabric of reality enough to squeeze himself through a ragged tear of his own making.

Something brushed against him, and in that exact moment, Mairon realised that he’d ruined yet another fána as nothing corporeal or real could possibly withstand the transition into a realm of caged potentialities.

He cared very little.

“Master,” he thought, calling out to one he sensed was close by and yet unreachable.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” Melkor replied at once. He was little more than a spot of denser nothingness within an empty sea that would never know a restful shore. “You were safe—you were thriving.”

“I could never be satisfied without you.” Had it been possible, Mairon would have crossed his arms and cocked his eyebrow to underline his fond impatience. “And I get the feeling that I’m not the only one who feels this way.”

The vague shape that had once been the most glorious of the Valar drew back as if Mairon’s words had physically wounded it.

“He came here to unburden himself of his gnawing guilt.” There was disdain and endless hurt in those disembodied words, falling like hail into the bottomless abyss.

“He came here because he misses you,” Mairon contradicted stubbornly. He loathed Manwë, but he wouldn’t hesitate to use him and his power to get his lover back. “It’s not the same without you—things are…in disorder.”

Even now, having transcended the very barriers of existence, Mairon found it ironic that without Melkor—Master of Chaos—the perfect order the others had dreamed up and fought for so ruthlessly kept falling apart.

The fact that his brazen intrusion had succeeded was just another sign that this illusory ideal was undeniably crumbling around them.

“Come away with me,” he pleaded fervently. “The fabric is torn; the gate is open. Leave this Eru-forsaken place.”

Even though he refused to speak the actual words, his desire to be reunited with the one he loved and cherished above everything else was evident in the slight tremor of his gradually fading voice.

Already, the Void was tearing at him, dissolving his memories and deflecting his will.

Mairon resisted.

“I must not,” Melkor replied vaguely, sounding muffled now as if he’d wrapped the layered and yet formless nothingness around him like a shroud. “I’m condemned to stay here until—”

“Someone comes to release you? Has not your brother come hither in search of you? Am I not here even now?”

Unable to argue with that irresistible logic, Melkor let himself be drawn closer to the gaping tear in the prison wall by the intensity of Mairon’s determination.

He could feel the cool, biting air brush against his essence, and he yearned.

He’d almost forgotten about sensations and experiences in his long abiding during which memories had been but flat thoughts, devoid of emotion or texture.

Now, though, the world was full of colours and desires once more, and he surged towards liberty with that renowned and dreaded self-absorption that had led him down this doomed path in the first place.

“Yes,” Mairon hissed and flung himself—his undeniable love, his mental acuity, and his terrifying persistence—against the dark splotch, outlined against the bright day of another, forbidden world. “He’s called you—all you did was answer.”

Laughing and sobbing, they tumbled onto soft grass, rebuilding their former physical forms from the thrumming lifeforce in which they now basked shamelessly.

“Finally,” Mairon cried out as his hands slid into dark hair, and his lips slid over warm skin once more. “I’ve waited so long for this.”

Only too soon, though, they noticed the sharp, cutting wind biting into their newly made flesh and tearing at their swirling hair.

“Come,” Mairon urged. “Only you can prevent the senseless destruction the Elder King is about to unleash now!”

Melkor hesitated; he knew that Manwë hadn’t earnestly sought to free him, and he was loath to be returned to his prison so soon after having escaped its cold confines.

Mairon’s pleading eyes—burnished gold and finest crystal—ultimately swayed him.

Glorious and unapologetic in his nakedness, he strode forth resolutely to reclaim his place at his brother’s side, hoping that henceforth they would temper one another’s follies and heal each other’s hurts.

“Home,” he sighed.

@fellowshipofthefics That was Week 1 from me!

-> Masterlist

[anywherexwhen]

@fatherofthevortex continued from here

Of course, the Lord President Eternal wasn’t one to take orders from anyone. Though while those who dared try would be met by the swift hand of the Gauntlet of Rassilon, every one of their lives torn away from them without care, without the faintest shred of hesitation, the Victorious had that little bit extra cushioning behind his words, behind his actions. Not that it kept him safe. No. Anyone close to Rassilon would surely burn, if not by his own hand, then by his decisions.

“Prove. your. worth.” The man snarled, the sound scraping the back of his throat as he continued to advance on the younger Time Lord, his right hand raised, the gauntlet ready to use at a moments notice. Though wasn’t it always? Then again, it wasn’t as though he were utterly harmless without it, yet there was no one alive that knew it, the secret still held purely within his own grasp, both figuratively and literally. “Prove to me why I have spoiled your contemptible soul. Prove that your Lord President’s bountiful mercy has not gone unheeded.” Still, he closed in, one heavy and hard footed boot at a time as he neared like a predator stocking its prey. “Prove your strength, wicked child. Or perish at my hand.”

Victorious scrambled backward along the floor, desperate to put as much space between himself and the elder Timelord as physically possible. Pain lanced up his side with every frantic movement, but he could hardly feel it, could hardly think straight for the terror pulsing through his veins.

He had never seen Rassilon so angry.

The attack had been swift, and well coordinated, and if it had been anyone but The Lord President and his right hand who had been the targets, they surely would have been dead. That The Hound had been taken completely unawares by his own guard turned would be assassin was unforgivable enough. That the man had turned the poison tipped blade on its owner, and actually managed to stab him, leaving him nearly incapacitated in some dusty back alley of the Gallifreyan slums was a humiliation almost more than Victorious could bear...

But that he had taken Victorious’ blade, and tried to turn it on the Lord President...

It had taken all of his strength to force himself up to his feet to stagger his way back to the capitol. Victorious had so much feared the worst, that when he had seen the mangled corpse of the assassin lying in the wreckage of the President’s personal chambers, all he could feel was relief. And so Rassilon’s backhand had caught him completely by surprise, sending him to the floor hard, and it had taken him several dazed seconds to realize what The Lord President was accusing him of.

His guard.

His blade.

The Victorious nowhere to be found.

He could not have planned it better himself. It was so elegant. So... exactly his style. For even if the coup somehow failed, even if the assassination went awry... at least one of the two targets wound up dead. And Rassilon would be isolated even further still. Mad, yes. Dangerous, yes. But alone.

Victorious held up a shaking, blood-smeared hand. The constant swirl of golden regeneration energy that followed him like a personal storm seemed to flicker, dim. He had to hand it to his blacksmith... the weapons master knew his poisons... he could still remember the man’s warning when he’d first had the blade commissioned... ‘Don’t fall on it.’ He was certain the man would never have predicted this.

“Rassion-... My Lord, please, I assure you, this isn’t- I would never- You KNOW I would never-” Pain and panic were clouding his judgement. That he had been allowed to speak at all was nothing short of a miracle, but if he was just going to waste his time begging- And so he said the only thing he could think of that might cut through Rassilon’s fog of rage long enough to make him pause. “FOR THE LOVE OF OMEGA -- Don’t you think if I’d wanted you dead, you would be already? Can you not see this is a trap?!”

[fuchsiagrasshopper]

Contending the Flame VI

Author’s Note: Happy Holiday season everyone! Hopefully you are having a better time than I am currently with work and new lockdown restrictions where I live. I already have the next two chapters written, so I plan to upload each within a week of one another. Thanks as always for being awesome!

Vikings Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar x Reader

Word count: 2234

Warnings: Servant dynamic, language.

The coming weeks had slowed as the provisions for the Heathen army continued to dwindle. As the weather closed in around them, so too did the Saxons. Their plight to negotiate for land had gone unheeded by Ivar. Well, it was Ubbe's plan but Hvitserk had gone along with it. Lately, it seemed he was being pulled back and forth between his brothers, his only use being the mediator. He wasn't sure which brother to follow, preferring it better when they all worked in tandem. Right now it was best for him to stay out of their way. 

Ivar had returned to how he had been before, after the misfortune with Margrethe. He was terse with the thralls, and he shunned any prolonged company with women. There were moments, either when he was sitting at a table or alone in a corner, a strange look would pass over his face. Hvitserk was sure he was the only one to notice, but he didn't let on about it. 

If Ivar wondered about the nun, he never said as such, and Audhild had reported that he hadn't come around inquiring about you. On the surface, it seemed whatever had started between you was over, but Hvitserk didn't think so. You were two boats passing in the night, waiting for the other's signal.

Hvitserk had taken it upon himself to keep watch of the nun. He had told Ubbe from the start not to get involved, but now he had thrown himself in headfirst. You no longer seemed to be a danger to yourself, and Audhild had said that you thrived as a healer, though you spoke very few words. It got Hvitserk curious, and he set out to find you.

Until the battle against the Saxons would start, the healers were not so occupied. Audhild had told him where you could be found. It was a courtyard that was led in by an archway, with bushes of purple flowers. At its heart was a statue of a man who Hvitserk wondered about. Christians had these carved monuments of people everywhere. What great deeds had they accomplished that granted them the honor of being captured in stone?

He quit his thoughts as he spotted the nun hunched over by a bed of flowers. It struck him then that he didn't know your name, and the few words he picked up in English would not get him far

"Mary...erm Sister," He called, trying to recall what you had said when you were first claimed by Ivar.

You stood with abruptness from being startled, your guard up as you recognized him. Your sheared hair was now covered in a sage green scarf, twisted and wrapped not unlike the Sami people. Hvitserk could see a black and blue bruise around your left eye, about the size of a fist. "Sister Mary Catharine, and you don't have to call me that."

He was glad you had answered in his language. Though some of your pronunciation was wrong, they would get by well enough on the gist of things. "Why not?"

"I don't think I am a nun anymore, not in the eyes of God. Just Catharine will do."

As Hvitserk took a step forward, you shifted back. The mistrust hung heavy between you both, and he realized he'd have to go slow in order to gain your favor. He stood firm where he was. "What happened there?"

You gingerly touched the mark on your face he had indicated to, a sad smile forming. "I'm not the discarded whore of the crippled bastard, even if some of your men think so. When one took out his cock and tried to relieve himself on me, I fought back."

Hvitserk was disappointed to hear what had happened, though such behavior was unsurprising. His heart sunk for his brother as well. Some of the men still only thought of Ivar as the lesser son of Ragnar, even after he had proven to be a sharp mind with a fierce heart. 

"Do you know who he was?"

The nun shook her head. "No, and I have not seen him again. At least I still have the Lord's mercy."

You made a crossing gesture over your heart that Hvitserk did not understand. He spotted the cloth bandage on your wrist as well. "How's that healing?"

"It's fine," You said as you folded your arms behind your back. "Why does it matter? He didn't send you here, did he?"

The white look of terror on your face was hard to miss. You looked like a hare caught up in a trap. Hvitserk tried to think about the best way to ask his questions in order to get the answers he needed. "My little brother doesn't command me. I just wanted to know why you did it."

"I wanted to spare myself from a worse fate," You said, turning your back to him while you felt at the petals of the flowers. "I didn't want to suffer like the priest."

Hvitserk recalled what an imposing figure Ivar had cut hovering above the Christian man as he poured molten gold down his gullet. "Ivar told you about that?"

"No." You gazed over your shoulder a moment before your eyes flickered down. "I knew he had done something horrible, but it was another slave who told me. She said I should be careful, and that your brother hates all Christians."

Hvitserk took a step towards you without thinking and grabbed you by the shoulders. "What slave?"

"I don't know," You gasped while breaking out of his hold. "She came to clean the room one day. It was the first time I had spoken to anyone else besides Ivar."

"Why would she need to tend to his room when he had you?"

You frowned, seeming to forget your previous grievances for his closeness as you leaned forward. "What do you mean?"

Hvitserk knew from an early age that he was not exceptional. Ubbe is a strong swordsman and scout, Sigurd was musically inclined, and Ivar is a cunning strategist. At best he could survive raids and follow a battle plan, achievements that any of his brothers could do better. But none of them had his gut instincts, and his stomach was wrought with the feeling that a trickster had snuck their way into the camp.

"It's nothing," He said eventually, though not with enough conviction for the nun's liking.

"I don't believe you."

The earnest look on your face would have annoyed him more if not for how undisguised your naivete was. Maybe that was what drew Ivar in.

Hvitserk prepared to say more but was interrupted by a voice calling over his shoulder.

"Brother," Ivar called, followed by the indistinguishable sound of metal steps plodding the ground.

Hvitserk turned, bracing for whatever force Ivar would throw at him. If he was surprised to see the nun, he didn't let on, instead, his face sat stoically as he maneuvered forward with assurance. He was too young to look so miserable. 

Ubbe was with him, peering at the girl who had taken refuge from prying eyes behind Hvitserk's back. His was a face easier to read, both tense and curious at the discovery. Hvitserk knew he would be answering questions later.

"She won't sleep with you brother," Ivar inserted with a cold chuckle. "She's chaste."

Hvitserk scowled at Ivar's attempt to maim with petty insults. "That's not what this is. Audhild sent Catherine to tend to an old injury I sustained from my raid with Bjorn," He lied.

"Catherine," Ubbe said. "Is that her name?"

"No, her name is Ólaug," Ivar interrupted before Hvitserk could speak. "Isn't it, Bride of Christ?"

You refused to rise to his idle taunts. You were as still as the Saxon statue, and your eyes never left Hvitserk's back. 

"I don't know if it's really her name, but it's as she told me. Now what do you want, Ivar?"

"We are leading this army together, yes?" Though it didn't sound as if he meant that. "The Saxons prepare to attack at dawn, and we need you before going over our plan of countermeasures."

"Right," Hvitserk mumbled, turning back to the nun while nearly knocking you back because of how close you stood beside him. "Audhild will be expecting your return. You should go."

Your eyes grew wide with gratitude and you gave a curt nod. You made certain to keep an arm's breadth away from Ivar as you passed, taking the route around Ubbe instead. Ivar watched you leave over his shoulder, his face filling with scorn as his attention snapped back to Hvitserk. 

"What happened to her face?"

"She's a thrall, Ivar. When they disobey, they are punished." His blunt remark had the desired response, as he noticed Ivar's jaw stiffen and grind back and forth. "Forget that for a moment, I think we have a worse problem. There's a spy in our camp working against you little brother."

"What are you talking about?" Ivar sneered, adjusting his stance as his crutch struck the ground.

"I know why she tried to end her life. Another slave told her about what you did to that priest. She didn't let on about it, but I think it was implied to her that she would suffer the same fate, or worse by your hand."

"But I would not have done anything to her," Ivar tried to defend, his face falling into guilt.

"It's not like she would know that, though," said Ubbe. "She's a nun, and sees us as little more than rapists and murderers."

"I was kind to her," Ivar huffed, struggling away from them towards the same flower bush the nun had been eyeing. He pulled on a branch, bringing the blooms close enough to smell.

Hvitserk shared a discreet look with Ubbe, communicating the shared thought of Ivar's favor for his former thrall. "Whoever spoke to her probably knew that, and was trying to get her away from you."

"They probably wanted to catch you alone," Ubbe added. "Your life could be in danger."

Ivar scoffed, releasing the branch back with a snap. He pivoted towards them, his movements were aggressive. "I don't have time to worry about one spy. The Gods would never let me die without honor, alone and asleep without renown. Tomorrow we fight the Saxons, and face victory."

Turning back towards the archway of the garden, he began down the same path the nun had departed prior. His stance was rigid, and his grip tight on the crutches. Hvitserk still held his breath on habit, afraid to watch Ivar stumble knowing that he couldn't offer to help him back up.

"Where are you going, Ivar?" Ubbe called.

"To address the army, and I expect you both to join me," He said, never stopping on his way out to even look at them.

When they were alone, Hvitserk could feel Ubbe eyeing him before even turning his way. "What?"

Ubbe chuckled, "You told me not to get involved, yet here you are jumping in headfirst."

"I'm worried. Ivar has been distracted since giving her away to Audhild, and we need him thinking straight if we're going to beat the Saxons together."

"We should have known Ivar would fall in love with the first woman to show him kindness," said Ubbe, looking pensive at the statue that had transfixed Hvitserk earlier.

"You think he loves her?" Hvitserk exclaimed in surprise.

"Well, he's at least fond of her, but with Ivar, it's difficult to tell." Ubbe ran a hand over his face as if to wipe away the stress he was feeling. “What really happened to her face?”

“One of our men was not kind to her. Ivar still does not hold the favor of every warrior in the army, and she is at risk as a result of that. I’ll tell Audhild to keep a closer eye from here on out.”

Ubbe nodded in agreement. “We’ll continue to try when we can as well, but I don’t know what will happen once we finish here. I don’t think Ivar has plans on remaining in York much longer.”

“I know,” Hvitserk said, feeling resentment towards Ivar for all of the misery he was constantly dragging them into. Even if they were to return to Kattegat next, Hvitserk knew it would be to war with Lagertha and Bjorn. He loved Ivar and would follow him to the four corners of the world, but not at the cost of their family and their father’s legacy.

It felt like they were using you as a buffer for their little brother’s madness, but in the days that Ivar had kept you, he had been more agreeable and even happy. Hvitserk held respect for you even if he hated your Christian God, but if it was your freedom measured against the success of their army, then he would have no trouble giving you back to Ivar in chains. Peace in the time of the sons of Ragnar was more important than one nun. 

"I hope you know what you're doing, getting involved, brother," said Ubbe, disrupting his train of thought.

Hvitserk approached his older brother and gave him a clap on the shoulder. "Of course I don't, that's why I have you. Now come, let's go speak to our army before Ivar gets any more ideas about leading without us."

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[ask-impure-vessel]

I don't know if this will reach you at the right moment in time Vessel but, peace friend, The Wyrm has already shown he cares for you greatly and you have done him no disservice or wrong. This may simply a matter too important to discuss elsewhere and His Majesty may be too caught up in his own troubles to understand the affect he has on you.

[Note: Frank discussion of anatomy, anxiety/panic attacks, unreality, post-traumatic stress, past abuse, suicide, disordered eating, self-harm, stuff about the Abyss with all that entails and other such unpleasantries. Strap in, folks!]

The vessel felt like their body was somewhere a few steps to the right and back of them. Their father said nothing as he led them down to the workshop.

You don’t understand. You don’t-

There’s a distant panic in Vessel’s voice. They still keep walking, they must. The order was given. Despite what happened in the Abyss, control still belongs to the Pale King.

It was as if nothing had changed at all.

For the first time, they begin to resent that. The workshop is the last place they want to be, for multiple reasons besides the temple that was to become their agonizing grave. This is not a place that holds any good memories for them, not a single one. 

They arrive in that darkened place, the birthplace of moulds, all thousand of them-700 kingsmoulds, 300 wingsmoulds-where Wyrm's research led to the vessels that rested in the infirmary and that walked into the room. The king shrugged off his silken robe, leaving on a shirt that still covered what was considered a decent amount in Hallownest, showing off the truth of his form; it had been a while and Vessel Hallow was shocked by the changes to his father's form.

He was a being of pure white carapace, plates with softer flesh between, especially around the joints; his skin was sunken, his belly not just thin but almost concave instead of convex. He looked a bit muscular, but mostly because he appeared to be starving. He was dull in color, the white often not as bright as it could be, looking almost dirty with a lack of nutrients to look glossy and nice. 

Wyrm could subsist on soul like a vessel, but that didn't mean it was pleasant for him to do so. He was much like other bugs in physicality, fueled by food, water and having to use the toilet to flush out what his body didn't use of those things. His genitals were internal, just like any bug, his shirt covered where that was hidden. 

His secondary set of arms were more visible now, as was the lower half he usually ambled upon: multiple legs and a long tail that terminated in a pointed end. His tail was thin, almost collapsed with the lack of care.

What was more alarming were the splotches of black. His hands were absolutely covered in it, just beyond the wrists but the lines that raced upwards were far more concerning. Void taint was a part of Hallow's body but for a pale being, such a sight promised long, lingering agony. The absolute rigid calm their father practiced suddenly became a lot more impressive.

It left Hallow in minor shock.

Father, are you dying? Have you already assured your death? Was it on purpose that you inflicted starvation and void poisoning upon yourself? I can think of few less painful, lingering deaths.

"Come. Please kneel so that I can more easily examine you and the changes to you." He activated the door seals and waited in a clear space.

<Father, I-> The vessel walked and knelt, words cutting off with anxiety.

Wyrm activated and checked on the seal on Hallow's mask. "Interesting, joining with the Lord of Shades didn't disengage this? I hadn't expected that. It must have been greatly weakened over the course of my rule and being forgotten. I had thought them already dead." He muttered and began to ghost fingers over the notches Hallow had. "Where did the Kingsoul go?"

That had been a question Hallow had been dreading.

A hand touched upon Hallow's chest. "There it is, if changed greatly at your breast. It became your core? Brace."

It was more warning than Hallow usually got; sharp pain radiated through their being, as something touched their heart.

<Father, it. It hurts.> The vessel gasped out. They were not words sufficient, but they were descriptive enough for their use.

"Please bear it a little longer. This is a very beautiful charm that has become your heart even if it is taboo to my being." 

The pain grew to shocking agony, then to a fading sensation, Hallow felt like their body was a distant, cut off thing.

<Father, please. Stop!> The vessel spoke in growing horror, fear and concern.

The Pale King was faced with a decision then-and let go of the charm. Sensation slowly returned and the vessel gasped on the floor, curling in on themself on the floor as mind and body reconnected. It was painful as the disruption the Pale King had inflicted and the vessel would have gagged if they could on the feelings of revulsion they now felt.

They instead wept on the floor, black tears falling onto the ground as they shivered and their mind turned to things they did there, the pale Wyrm unheeding to a child's pain in the terrible silence; the screams that echoed only through the void, the vessel capable only of displaying stiff trembling to their master. 

They recall the efforts to ensure they could learn magic. The painful process of 'installation' over being taught the theory that took place here. The studies that involved dying here and their shade. When the various seals were made on their shell and mask, the burning magic that had kept burning on their mask for days from them. They had done nothing but suffer in this room and this day had proven no different.

"Vessel, I. I'm sorry, that went too far." The king stroked their mask, making a soothing sound, a purr that Hallow hadn't heard before.

Hallow felt the dam burst and sat as they cried, for all the things they'd wanted and had never had. That Wyrm was holding them now, comforting them now, touching with loving intention rather than with cold intent of science or with violence. The feelings were somewhat positive, but many were bitter, some even bordered on hate and disgust that they didn't know what to do with. They had so many things to say, for themself, for the things that had been done to them and the things they'd missed out on. For the way their father had run away the moment their emotions had become known like a damnable coward. That had been a choice Hallow had been denied, they couldn't say no-yet this day, for the first time, they had asked for their father to stop.

And he had listened.

The Pale King let Hallow get out everything they'd needed to, to calm down and recover from… whatever it was that he'd been doing to them. <This one doesn't want to be experimented on again, or studied. This place, it brings back bad memories for it.> Hallow spoke, in a shaking mental voice. <It is painful for this vessel to be here.>

"Oh, Vessel. I had no idea it was that upsetting. Let's go to my study, then so you don't have to be here. You never have to come in here again." The King promised and led the shaking knight from that terrible place.

They settled down in a chair this time, the king likewise going seated. "I will apologize. That was too far, I needed to explain what I was doing and why-to ask for your permission. It's not easy to break old habits. I noticed you dropped first-person pronouns in your stress." He spoke frankly with sadness.

<This one supposes not. It felt like it was… dying.> Hallow shuddered. <Did you pull this vessel away to speak, or was it to satisfy that curiosity?> They asked tiredly.

"A bit of both, admittedly. To ask you how you're feeling, but that's… obvious, right now and is very much my doing." He sighed and leaned forward. "I'll have to be invasive one more time, I'm afraid but perhaps not this day, to let you recover. I need to set you free and I intend to."

<You'll… free this one from its bondage?> Hallow rephrased in mild disbelief. 

"Yes. As my final order in that bondage, for the rest of your life should something happen and I am unable to undo that binding-I order you to act of your own free will and feelings, as you see fit and judge is right. I relinquish control over your will and mind. There will need to be magic done to completely remove the binding, but it will no longer function."

<It will thank you, father once this one is wholly free.> Hallow spoke diplomatically. They couldn't exactly forgive him entirely yet if the harm was still there.

"I understand. You are a higher being now, truly. While you could read the language of the gods and make things function that are for gods, you didn't have a few aspects that would elevate you from a child of higher beings to purely one yourself. However, you do not have worshippers and as much distaste as I have for the god that was, that will need to change for your own health."

<That must be why the Lord of Shades said they were very, very starved. Speaking of, father. Why are you starved?> The vessel spoke pointedly. <This one believes they can ask some pointed questions and get answers in return. You owe it at least that much.>

"I. Eating is a currently disgusting endeavor to me. Certainly, I did like it once and ate but. Since the vessel project started, my. My enjoyment became nil." He replied honestly. "My shame steals the joy out of anything I do."

<You regret the choices you made?> 

"I do not regret having you for a child. I regret that I killed so many and the crimes committed against the siblings who didn't make it. I regret how I've treated you. I don't know if I could make it up to the survivors but I will at the least try for the time I have and make sure your siblings do not go through the struggles you did." The king chose his words carefully. "I believed I had no other recourse. No other choice that wouldn't see my people dead or entirely enslaved to the Old Light-but I do not think I deserve forgiveness for being a kinslayer, for my mistreatment of you. I have been something to you for sixteen years. Would have been that for two years more, so you could have your final moulting and complete your training. I would have nailed that armor to your carapace and left you to her tender mercies. In that, I was wrong. I intended to kill myself once I was sure my people were safe and could carry on in my absence."

<It knows. It realized that when it went down into the Abyss before becoming the Shade Lord.> The vessel spoke, voice thick with pain. <You're dying, aren't you father. That's why you don't mind sacrificing yourself to the Grimm Troupe either. You are dying and you want to die.>

"I've done too much to live or to allow myself the pleasures in living. The situation in Hallownest is my fault. Your pain is my fault. The many, many broken masks in the Abyss are my fault. I am a kinslayer, who committed infanticide of his own children. Even a god doesn't get forgiveness for those kinds of horrible actions. I deserve the suffering you children experienced. I deserve the deaths I visited upon the children I deemed not good enough. Yes. I am suffering void poisoning, it is an agony I bear constantly. My light holds it at bay enough that I can live five more years without drastic actions." He spoke bluntly.

<Did you poison yourself deliberately?>

"Exposure to void with proper protections isn't deadly. A bug can be scarred by void without dying, in fact the exposure can have beneficial effects such as on the ageless mask maker. Void poisoning in mild cases caught early enough is treatable. So I suppose yes. I did that to myself deliberately." He spoke numbly. "It's… actually a relief to admit that. I wasn't expecting that."

<It's not treatable now. You're dying. How long do you have left?> Hallow felt like the ground was opening beneath their feet.

"No, even I will succumb to a case this severe having gone on this long. Five to seven years, depending." Wyrm spoke clinically. "Your mother doesn't know, but she's not very curious and finds my company odious these days. I don't want her to know."

<You aren't the only one. Would you die as a member of the Grimm Troupe?> Hallow pondered.

"No, time is frozen in a sense for a member of the Troupe. As a sacrifice, my original body would likely be immolated, the presence of void cast out as anathema to it as well. It's not got a will of its own so expelling it for the Nightmare Heart would be doable. It's just not for me between having a corpus much closer to mortal form and my diminishment as a god." 

Hallow rubbed a hand over their chest. <Father, please free this vessel today. Now.> It was firm. <This vessel just wants to love you as themself. Not as your property, as your child. Whatever you have done, it does not know if it can forgive, but love. Love is something this vessel has always been able to give.>

The first time Hallow had ever demanded anything for themself and only themself.

Tears came from the king's eyes. "As you wish, Lord of Shades my child."

The bindings lit up as the king touched, claws digging into the mask with a strange sensation that felt like it should hurt but didn't. The light burned, the mark burned. But the claws were quick, chanting even and fast. Soul pooled around the king's hands. 

The chains broke and Hallow felt a weight come off, something they hadn't realized had been there for a very long time. The remnants would be there, like an invisible scar until they moulted, but then-then it would be gone.

It would take time for them to understand what they'd gained and lost at once. <Today I learned that this one's father is not brave. Please. Please live. Even if your crimes are too much for your heart to bear. Stop running away. Please. Face what you have done, face us who you have wronged. It's not too late.>

 "...I can try. I love you, my child." He touched foreheads with Hallow, a familial kiss. "For all you vessels, I will try. I don't know how anymore, but I can still learn."

Hallow is not an adult. They are, however, now free of their father's chains.