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deanbrainrotwritings · 2 months

Text

— DEMONOLOGY AND HEARTACHE

SUMMARY : dean is a devout catholic and has never known a life outside the church, all his resolve is broken by the temptation of a hellish seductress

PAIRING : priest!dean winchester x demon!reader (f.)

CHARACTERS : none

WARNINGS : explicit(18+), smut, p in v, oral (m. receiving), corruption kink, praise kink, priest au, priest kink, sub/dom dynamics, sub!dean, defiling holy stuff

WORD COUNT : 4.9k

A/N : title from an atreyu song. dean’s not undercover, just pure corruption. I’m going to hell. my sister said his seed is holy, lmaoo. this one fills my “Go to hell!”/“Where do you think I came from?” square for my @jacklesversebingo card. enjoy Dean’s holy seed (and I’m sorry if y’all are religious, I used to be religious, too, to make it worse) XX

Green eyes illuminated by moonlight. They flit across the dark and empty space of the nave casually. There’s a draught that makes him shudder, but he remains unphased. He makes sure the lights are off, double checks that the doors and windows are closed, and continues onward to his room to rest for the night.

He’s still in his vestments, blending in with the darkness. He only becomes darker in the shadows of the hallways, making his way to the staircase leading to his room. The wooden stairs creak beneath his formal shoes, olden oak that’s more silent in the day thunders in the silent dark.

A crucifix greets him when he’s at the top of the staircase and making the sign of the cross automatically, but slowly, with reverence. Moonlight kisses his delicate features; green eyes twinkle like a billion stars, gold lashes like the lustre of the sun’s reflection on the moon’s surface, freckles show clearly now beneath the exposing light.

His splendour is unmatched even inside the grand cathedral.

He makes his way blindly to his bedroom and wipes a hand over his stubble, scratching lightly at his jaw, thoughtfully planning out his next day. He gets to his room and begins to toe off his shoes as he pushes the door open all the way.

He expects moonlight to strike his face, but it’s quiet and dark. He can smell firewood and something foul, unfamiliar. He thinks nothing of it, he can feel the breeze pushing between his curtains, and assumes it’s something outside. He turns around to shut the door and holds the wall for balance as he pulls his shoes off all the way.

“Father,” he hears a soft voice, unknown to him. He turns quickly, half-scared, half-confused: how did someone get up here and why is there a woman in my room? were the first questions asked in his mind. The dim light on his bedside table lights up his room and reveals a nun in her nightgown sitting on his bed.

He recognises her now and relaxed, only slightly. She’s new and arrived two weeks ago. Sister… something or another; it’s been a busy couple of weeks.

She watches him curiously, her brows furrow and her eyes mysterious. She leans back casually on her arms, too relaxed for his comfort. The top of her nightgown undone, two strings hang loosely over her breasts. A chill teases his spine and rides up to the top of his head, prickling the freckled skin of his body. He doesn’t move.

“What are you doing here?” He asks quietly, offering his hand to her to get her to stand from his bed. She stares at it indifferently. “You should be in your quarters,” he adds, reaching out for her arm instead.

“I’ve been thinking about what I confessed to you yesterday, Father,” she murmurs, shaking her arm out of his hand. He sighs tiredly, but smiles kindly at her anyway. He can’t remember her confession, everyone confesses multiple times about multiple things, and goes to him—searching for repentance.

“You’re forgiven, you need to move forward,” he reassures her.

“I don’t think I can,” she replies almost instantly. He raises a brow, but lets her continue. “Does that… make me a bad person?” She asks, concern and guilt laces her voice.

“No, it makes you human.” He purses his lips and takes her soft hand in his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “You should sleep, we can talk tomorrow,” he tries again, loosening his grip on her cool hand, but she keeps holding onto it.

He narrows his eyes, his jaw clenches when she lifts her cotton gown. He raises a brow when she’s standing up on her knees, and a crease forms between his eyebrows. Her other hand curls around the back of his neck and he opens his mouth to question her, moving back slightly. Instead, her grip becomes firm and her warm lips press against his lips and he stiffens, confused.

He can feel her hand around his wrist moving and her gown ruffles. He feels her warmth beneath his fingers, wetness against his fingertips, that makes him gasp and pull away. He snatches his hand away from between her legs and sees that she’s smiling knowingly.

“What are you doing?” He asks in disbelief, but his heart is pounding, sending blood to his cock. “You need to leave,” he clears his throat. Heat, like hellfire, washes over his body, and turns away to hide himself when his face flushes and his cock twitches.

“Come on, Father,” she murmurs provocatively. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply before turning to face her with a glare. “I know what you’ve been dreaming of,” she laughs mischievously, sitting back on her legs. She pulls down the top of her nightgown, freeing her breast to play with her nipple. Her other hand moves down between her legs, she opens herself by parting her legs, and starts to tease her wet slit while he watches.

“Go to hell!” He shouts at her, looking away and trying to get out of his room. He reaches the doorknob and gets the door open only for it to slam shut.

“Where do you think I came from?” She asks darkly, and his stomach sinks. He shakes the doorknob wildly and pulls as hard as he can, but it doesn’t budge. He feels her hand grab the back of his shirt and she flings him across the room so he lands on the bed. He scrambles up on it and tries to get away when her eyes flash completely black. “You’re getting rusty, Dean, ignoring all those omens,” she shakes her head and tsks, climbing up on the bed with him.

He thinks about what she says, he never thought much about the mutilations because of the wolves that roam freely, or the electrical storms because of the cold and the usage of heaters, or the crop failures due to the weather. He shouldn’t have brushed it off, but he hadn’t encountered demonic activity in years. This whole time, it was circling him and he didn’t even notice.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,” he starts to whisper, grabbing the rosary from around his neck. “Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incur-” She grabbed the rosary from him roughly, quieting the exorcism from continuing, and stared at it with a wicked smile before pulling it harshly.

“That won’t work on me, baby.” The beads fell over his body when the rosary snapped. Wooden beads and black beads bounce on his bed, then scatter loudly onto the floor, rolling and sliding across wood until they stop on their own or hit a wall.

“You… you were making me dream all those things,” he accuses breathlessly. She nods wordlessly, stepping in between his parted legs with her hands on his bent knees. She bites her lip, stares lustfully at the black attire he wears. A holy man.

“I know… you liked it,” she whispers, causing him to swallow nervously. “I watched you pleasure yourself every time you woke up,” she admits shamelessly, fingers meeting his belt to get it off. He squirmed and grabbed her hand to stop her, but his cock was hard just remembering his hedonistic actions and the lewd dreams that haunted him every night for weeks. “What was it like dreaming of how soft I feel? Do you think your hand feels as good as I do inside? Do you want my mouth like you loved using it in your dreams?” She continues to tease, leaning over him, hands sliding up the front of his body.

He was warm and taut beneath her hands. His body hums with pleasure, he aches to touch her despite knowing it was wrong. He craves to feel her body beneath his own, wrapped around him so tightly. He hates himself for it, but it’s all his mind could think of, especially when he could feel her warm breath over his tingly lips.

“What do you want from me?” He asks quietly, staring deeply into her black eyes. She blinks and they return to normal eyes again, a sweet smile growing on her face. It could’ve fooled him, that warmth that sparkled inside—it must actually be hellfire.

“I want you to beg me to fuck you, I want you to need it really bad,” she whispered hotly, tracing the buttons on his shirt. He swallowed anxiously, but he couldn’t resist the temptation of her pink lips and soft skin, supple breasts in plain sight, smooth thighs pressed against his. His whole body longed for the feel of her lips, her hands, for everything of hers to be on him.

“I… I can’t do that,” he choked out. He grabs her hands and moves them away from his body then scoots up on his bed to put some distance between them.

“You can,” she encourages him with a wicked smile, crawling up to him. “You will,” she promises, reaching between his legs for his belt.

He squirms, weakly attempting to push her away because that’s what his instincts told him to do. She’s a demon, he’s a priest. She is unholy and he’s supposed to be an intermediary for God, Jesus, the angels, the Holy Spirit, and everything else that’s good. He can’t just lay with a woman, especially when she comes directly from hell.

She didn’t make a single move. She just waited for him and her hair fell prettily over her shoulder when she tilted her head at him expectantly. Her skin looked smooth and her lips were pink and they looked soft. He could easily remember what they looked like around his cock in his dreams. He didn’t want to give in to her, he spent years in the church, he has every scripture memorised, and he’s helped hundreds of people without expecting so much as a thanks.

But he wanted to really feel what he’d felt in his dreams for two weeks. He craved it like he’d never craved sex before—or anything else for that matter. Here, in a holy place was a very sexy woman in his bed, a woman who crawled her way out of hell and became fixated on him. For weeks, she tormented him, planted herself in his dreams and gave him glimpses of her in real life as a nun covered from head to toe.

Now, she sat between his legs, with nothing underneath her sleeping gown. The pure white dress hid the true darkness of her soul. He rubbed his fingers together, though they were dry, his slacks tightened just remembering the feel of her wet folds against his fingertips. He’d never been this hard and desperate before, it usually went away quickly when the guilt of his libidinous thoughts consumed him.

He’d never done anything bad before, never strayed from his teachings or from the rules. Here she was, tempting him to take a bite of her, tempting him to give himself to her for her pleasure, for his pleasure. Demon or not, no one’s ever gone out of their way to get to him, that was a messed up thought, but it turned him on.

“Please,” he chokes out. It shocked him. He stared at her in surprise, but she just looked back at him arrogantly. Slowly, as if waiting for his protest, she tugged his belt and got the leather out of the buckle. He started to breathe heavily, aroused by her gaze and thought of being defiled.

She starts to pull the belt from the loops of his slacks and he willingly lifts his hips when it catches beneath him. He gives in easily when she pops the button out of the slit. He even lets his head fall back into the pillow and rolls his hips upwards when she slowly pulls the zipper down.

She starts to pull his pants down, he can feel the rough scrap of his boxers against his skin when she tries to do it all at once. He doesn’t care anymore, with his thumbs hooked at the sides, he pulls them down with her help. He can feel the cool air kiss his cock, slowly as she exposes him. He moans softly when he’s fully free, he knows there’s precum leaking at the slit, it feels colder.

He feels like a wanton whore and he’s barely made a sound. He can hear the delicate fabric of his clothes hit the floor, it makes him feel more excited.

“Wow, you really are blessed,” she murmurs, her warm breath blowing over his cock. He fists the sheets, feels it twitch instantly, and opens his eyes to stare at her. “It’s just as pretty as the rest of you,” she praises, keeping eye contact with him. He bites his lip and he’s about to respond with a ‘shut up’ when she lets a string of her saliva drip onto his tip.

The words catch in his throat. She leans forward, her soft hair falls over her face, and her tongue makes contact with the warm head of his cock. He doesn’t know what to do with himself when she hums at the taste of him. His body stiffens and it feels even better than he dreamed. When he lets his head fall back into the pillow, he catches a glimpse of the crucifix over his bed. She turned it upside down.

“Father,” she whispers, “don’t look away from me.” He looks back at her, her soft hands manoeuvre his body so he has his knees bent upwards again. He feels exposed, vulnerable, sinful, and dirty.

“Don’t call me that,” he requests softly. He reaches for her jaw to guide her back down onto him. That excites her, he can see her eyes livening. His stomach flutters.

“Dean,” she sneers when she wraps her hand around the base of his cock and starts to twist her hand upwards. He growls lowly, shyly lifts his arm, and puts it over his eyes. “I prefer calling you Father. It makes this way hotter. Don’t you think?” She asks teasingly and then laughs.

“No….” He trailed off, spreading his legs a little wider when she leaned forward to kiss his stomach.

“Call me whatever you want, Father,” she whispers against his skin, trailing her lips downwards as she jerks him off. “Whore, demon, hellspawn… Sister,” she smirks when he whines, then sucks on his hip bone. A red mark blossoms on his skin. “I’m so wet,” she tells him, teasingly flattering her palm over the tip of his dick, “this is the most fun I’ve had in ages.” He watches the little smirk on her face and while he’s curious about what she does in hell, he can feel his impending release.

“Please,” he begs quietly. It makes her stop instead. She puts one hand on the inside of his thigh and spreads him open the way a man would do to a woman and she stares down at him curiously. He wiggles to close his legs but she’s stronger than he is, and keeps him as she has him. She pulls gently at his balls, then pushes, and eventually finds a pace where it starts to feel more intense.

“Jesus Christ,” she murmurs with a chuckle, “you’re so fucking sexy.” He flushes at her words and watches her lean down to suck on his balls. He moans loudly and tangles his hand in her hair, then tugs so she moves upwards. “You’re built like a god, any man would be jealous,” she teases, letting him guide her.

“Do what you did in my dreams,” he suggests, then slid his hand down her shoulder and inside the top of her nightgown. He fondled her breasts and innocently held eye contact with her.

“What did I do?” She asks playfully, placing one small kiss on his leaking cock. He glares at her, but she shrugs like she has no idea what he’s talking about. She continues to tease him instead, bites down on his thigh and sucks until he’s whining.

“Please, suck it,” he begs bashfully, pulling his hand out of the gown. She moves up his body, he’s sure it’s to embarrass him when she stares down at him.

“Suck what?” He groans at her question, lifts both hands to tug frustratedly at his hair. She moves away nonchalantly, slowly begins to lift the white gown upwards, revealing inch by glorious inch of her perfect body. He watches her touch herself with his mouth parted in astonishment, her hands play with her breasts and she teases herself between her legs.

“Suck my cock, please, I want to feel your mouth,” he rushes out quickly. He sits up and takes her waist, dragging her forward until he has his warm mouth on her nipple.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good, Dean,” she promises, playing with his hair. She rubs her thighs together and lets him switch from one nipple to the other. He stares up at her the whole time, his eyes shimmering with lust. “I hope this haunts you forever,” she sneers. Giving his hair a sharp tug to move him away forcefully and go down on him. He grunts softly and wraps his hand around his cock, slowly sliding a dry hand up and down.

“That’s my job,” she scolds, slapping his hand away. She settles between his legs, and without warning, she wraps her lips around the tip, sending a sharp electric feeling running up his spine. It’s unbelievable how wet she feels around him, how warm her mouth feels engulfing him inch by inch. His stomach becomes taut with the way she runs her tongue along the bottom vein, sucking when she lifts up slightly, then does it over and over.

Her slowness drives him crazy. She was merciless in his dreams, passionate and focused on making him reach the ultimate pleasure, but now, she’s just torturing him. One of her hands follows her mouth and the other slides up his chest beneath the buttoned black shirt. Her nails scrape his chest gently but her fingers brush teasingly against his nipple. He arches his back and moans loudly, he doesn’t care that the night amplifies his voice and carries his pretty noises quickly down the halls of the holy church.

She slides her hand away from his chest and blindly finds his wrist. He grips the sheets tightly, moaning and groaning. The sounds he made travelled to her clit, it pulsed, her walls clenched around nothing, and she dripped between her legs with a flood of warm heat. He let her place his hand on her head, his fingers tangled in her hair. She’s not going to give him what he wants, she wants him to take what he wants. It’s the ultimate goal for her, to make him loosen up and fuck her mouth.

“Please, I want…” he trails off, both his hands now resting on her head. She drools around his cock and hums when he pushes her down farther. She wants to shove him deeper into her, to take him fast and hard, but it turns her on more to make him needy and desperate. To make him be the one that uses her demonic mouth and hellish body for his pleasure.

She holds onto the back of his thighs and pushes them so they’re almost at his chest. When her nose is pressed against his pelvis and she swallows around him, he holds her there.

“Oh, Jesus,” he moans, his balls draw inwards and his stomach coils. She moans softly and starts to pull off him, only to start sucking and bobbing her head up and down just as he wanted her to. He gets louder somehow and rougher, his grip on her hair is almost painful. The sounds of her throat getting fucked makes him shudder and squirm. He needs to cum so bad. “Yes, don’t stop…” he breathes out.

She hums again, he thought it was a promise that she wouldn’t stop, but when he makes that specific grunt he tends to make when he’s about to cum and when he stiffens and gasps, the warmth of her wet mouth is replaced by the drag of cool air from the room.

He whines and his eyes fly open. He watches her smirk and wipe her mouth with the back of her hand. She still has one hand on his thigh, bending him and keeping him open. He gets shy again, but she doesn’t let him keep his dignity. She gets closer to him and she leans over him to whisper, “you taste so good, Father, I’d imagine it’s all the holy fuckery you consume and spew to others…”

“It turns me on. You make me so wet and needy. Your mouth is mine.” She kisses him softly, even though her words offend him. He glares at her for her blasphemy, but his eyes close when her soft, sweet lips make contact with his. The tenderness of her kiss fools him, takes his mind off her offensive expressions, and keeps him complacent.

Her tongue prods at his lips. Her lewdness makes him eager, she’s thorough, licking across his lips slowly. When he opens his mouth to her, her kiss is hungry. She traces the inside of his mouth with her tongue, like a cartographer, she’s precise and she makes him breathless. She barely pulls away, allowing him to catch his breath temporarily before resuming.

She’s warm when her tongue brushes against his, velvety and sweet. She tastes like wine and fruit, bitter and sweet. The taste of her is divine, opposing her unholy nature and the filthy words she uses to worship him. She pulls away again and straddles his hips. He barely recovers from her kiss when he feels her rub herself over his cock.

He feels his stomach do flips like a dog excited to show his master tricks for a treat. She moans softly and continues rolling her hips. He bends his knees and grasps her thighs painfully, watches between their bodies how she slides her wetness up and down his cock. She begins to unbutton his shirt and carelessly throw the clerical collar behind her when she fully gets the shirt open.

“Wait,” he stops her breathlessly, “is this your body?”

She raises a brow and looks down at herself with a nod. “Had to dig it out of a hole in the forest. I was a witch, a badass one. Those stupid hunters,” she grumbles the last bit under her breath, lifts herself up and positions his tip at her entrance. He raises a brow, too, a smile of amusement grew on his lips as he bit down on it. “Why? Do you like it?” She smirks, but his response is cut off by a moan when she lowers herself on his cock.

She feels even better than he dreamed. He huffs out a breath, he feels sweatier with the shirt and the suit jacket he still wears, but if she doesn’t feel like letting him take it off, he doesn’t mind. She grinds down on him and finds his hands to place one on her breasts and the other between her legs.

“You feel fucking amazing inside me, Dean,” she praises. His stomach lurches, the use of his name turns him on more, and he bucks his hips up. With a little moan she starts to lift herself up, he can feel every inch of her against his cock, the wetness, the warmth. He doesn’t think he’ll last as long as he did in his dreams. He carefully thumbs between her folds and feels for her clit. Her gasp guides him and he gently flicks it until she’s riding him faster. She leans back against his bent legs, arches her back, and he squeezes her breast roughly. “That’s right, you’re doing so good,” she says softly, spreading her legs to open herself more to his adept fingers.

Her words spur him on, the bedsprings start to squeak, the headboard starts to hit the wall, the upside down crucifix rattles on the wall. His senses are high. She feels amazing wrapped around his cock, her breathy moans fuel the fire of his orgasm. She tightens and squeezes around him, walls clamping down and keeping him inside her. He starts to get louder, too, he can’t help it. Groans slip from his lips and he whimpers occasionally, he can feel her react each time, and he doesn’t plan on shutting up.

“You’re so good, so goddamned perfect,” she cries softly, it’s the hottest thing he’s heard or seen. She gets sloppy and desperate, staring down at him covetously. He stares back, even if he wants to shut his eyes and hide away from her gaze. He rubs around her clit faster and watches her fall apart, little by little.

She sounds, looks, and feels even hotter. In his dreams, he understood her intentions and how hot it would be if they had sex, but the reality of it is far more intense and intimate compared to any of his dreams. She filled his mind with fantasies he’d never had before. Having sex in the confessional, on the altar, in the Bishop’s office, and countless locations that were far too holy—in his opinion—being defiled by both of them. He pinches her nipple roughly, she moans and tightens around him. Then, he flicks her clit faster, watches her seize while whining his name.

“Be a good boy and cum for me, Dean. Want you to fill me up,” she says breathlessly. He throbs inside of her and whimpers involuntarily, feeling himself spill inside her as if his body worked according to her commands.

“God,” he moans, bucking his hips upwards. He abandons her clit and her breast, and bruisingly digs his fingers into her thighs. He moans softly, letting the orgasm take over his body and mind. He pulls her down with both hands on her hips and keeps her on his cock shortly, her walls flutter and she inhales sharply. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his eyes half-open.

“Holy fuck,” she gasps, toes curling as she falls apart at the sensation of his cum warming her up. She slowly moves up and down, letting him feel every inch of her pulsing walls along his throbbing cock. Her fingers find her clit to intensify and lengthen her orgasm, finishing what he’d begun. She doesn’t expect his tenderness, but he sits up and tangles his hand into her hair and kisses her deeply.

He mimics how she’d kissed him earlier. His inexperienced tongue traces the roof of her mouth and he brushes his tongue timidly against hers. She deepens the kiss, encourages him to keep doing what he wants to do and tugs his hair. His quiet moans make her horny again and he pulls away. Now that she’s abandoned her clit, she shoves his clothes off his shoulders.

She kisses his neck and his chest. His mind starts to drift now that he’s basking in the afterglow, her lips ghost downward and she lightly touches his nipple with the tip of her tongue. He stiffens and focuses on her again. She moves off his softened cock which is coated in a mixture of their release. She chuckles and then beholds him in his entirety.

He glows and he’s flushed, pink and shiny with sweat. His cock rests on his thighs and he has a mark on his hip from her lips. His lips are swollen, almost red from biting them, coated in saliva—hers and his. His hair is a mess, sexy and soft. He looks guilty now, but she moves forward and looks him in the eyes when she licks the cum off his sensitive cock.

“Don’t worry, Father,” she murmurs before sucking gently on the tip. He gasps and clutches her hair, pulling her off him forcibly. “Even for this… they’ll forgive you, Dean,” she whispers darkly. She gets off the bed and he watches her walk to the small altar he has. She steals a white cloth then walks around his room curiously. She stops in front of a photograph of Jesus and she opens her legs to clean herself.

His eyes widen as he watches her, “hey, come here.” He takes her attention away successfully and watches her drop her leg to walk towards him. “Why are you interested in me?” Is the first question that comes to mind as he panics. “Will you… be less interested in me if I sin more, like we did tonight?” He has the feeling part of her interest in him is simply the fact that he is the weakest, the most susceptible to sin, lust, and making mistakes.

“No… because you’re not going to stray from your beliefs,” she reassures him. “You actually believe, because of your father. Stay the way you are, Dean. You’re going to repent and you’ll mean it, but when you’re with me… you’ll sin again and I’ll defile you, over and over,” she smiles down at him and then climbs onto his bed again, she settles behind him, leaning against the headboard and the wall.

“Until when?” He asks, turning around to look at her.

“I don’t know,” she shrugs, then her eyes flicker down to her body. She parts her folds with two fingers. “Taste me,” she tells him. He tears his eyes from her face to look between her legs. His mouth waters and he slowly gets down into his stomach and stares back up at her. He gently prods her clit with his tongue, her other hand moves into his hair while his tongue slides between her two fingers. “Don’t you worry about the when right now… you and I will have our fun.”

➥ god, if you are above

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profound-mystery · 2 months

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Somewhat Shakespearian version of the Leitner rant

I was bored, I was studying Macbeth, have at it.

Jurgen Leitner?

Knotty pated fool, hellish dog Jurgen Leitner, Damned fool, foul keeper of pages that dost grow grey and dark with collecting dust, the books though slower than he, aged rodent made of fruit unfathered, vassal wretch. Lascivious slave, twas said before: “the harder knife ill used doth lose his edge.” A motley dost thou makest of thyself, driven with humourless pity, foul thief Jurgen Leitner.

Shame not my flame when I do speak of Jurgen Leitner, to him, I have but disdain. What purpose does he serve to eagerly misuse cursed scrolls, would he have but meddled less in affairs which to him ought to be hidden, yet with his newfound vulgar scandal he but sets them free into the world! Is he standing still past his own death-knell? Hath he been unfathered? The man's bastard shame doth vex me, and shame, to which mine eyes have out of their spheres been fitted to which anger defines him to me. Never have I had the misfortune to upon his face set my eyes, and yet not are mine ears with his tongue’s tune delighted.

Were I to ascend past my knell, and see heaven's eyes in mine own with knowledge of his presence bestowed, I would, while God was smiling in my face, defile him at the door for the sole purpose of removing myself when heaven now ranks of worse essays.

Must I be exposed to the passion of his scanted knowledge, I shall have no choice but to spite the memory of him, and start anew, purely to run past when his name is mentioned to me.

I know not why, by him, my hairs doth unfix themselves, and stand ready at the thought. He merely keeps scrolls, I am raged with the trespass of his presence!

His errors, one on another's neck, must be explained, perhaps by the ghost of the past, for if he is without reason for his sins then I shall be enraged.

His errors must be born of pages, driven to blaspheme for if not his work then I.

paypal.com/JurgenLeitnerIbeshrew

Not even the focus is he, merely alluded to scrolls in his keeping and I was driven with madness.

He escapes me now, and if his corpse is not yet buried, I shall pray for his demise.

Crusty batch of nature…

I should merely blow air in his direction, and his frail body would implode at the very strength, and he would disintegrate before me to ashes until nothing beside remains save for a single scroll he kept on his person for dire emergencies, titled simply “Now, thou hast made a mistake” in ancient yiddish.

How now, I barely breathe through my wrath.

I hope on his deathbed I am privy to the time, so I shall be able to set upon my calendar a reminder.

Through every winter, I shall be granted a day to rejoice and contemplate respect for all but the man who kept such cursed scrolls.

#the magnus archives #jurgen leitner #jurgen leitner rant #tma

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a018233 · 13 days

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can yu do Stalker! Joseph who takes photos of you as you sleep, and then takes them for “personal use” nutting to photos of you

—୨୧ Stalker Joseph headcannons .

cw: Yandere content, NSFW centered, stalking, Joseph is nasty, edging , GN reader.

A/N: yk what I'm thinking anon?.. that.. your a smart guy.. big brain.

• Joseph is enamored by you, he's already so obsessed with you that it makes his cold hunter heart plapitate uncontrollably at the thought of you!!

• He thought that he'd be content with stalking and admiring you from afar, but eventually that's not enough anymore.

• He wants-- needs more. More of you!!

• He thinks of you all the time, and when he isn't, he's developing photographs he took of you.

• So it's not that surprising when his thoughts take a not so innocent turn.

• Once these thoughts of him defilling your cute self, he can't stop him. He only gets more infatuated with you!!

• With how adorable you look, you're practically begging him ravage you. Right?

• Your like a pretty little doll ready to be tied up and posed in front of his camera, that's what your waiting for. Is it not?

• Taking photos from afar isn't enough. It doesn't satisfy him anymore.

• Eventually, Joseph finds himself in your room, camera in hand.

• This photographer wants to sink in between your legs so terribly so. He has to hold himself back from wanting to tear the covers off you.

• But you're lucky he's a gentleman and wishes to court you. He's willing to wait and play the long game.

• Till then, he'll settle for taking photos of you sleeping. Those photos of you doing mundane things don't do it for him anymore.

• Besides, being here. In your room, where he shouldn't be. Feels exhilarating.

• He'll take a few photos, run his hands from your waist, down to your thighs. Giving you a couple of cheek and jawline kisses before he bids you adieu.

• Joseph likes the look of you. He can't tell if it's the way you carry yourself or the fact you're a survivor. But something about you is so naive, innocent.

• An innocence he both wants to protect and corrupt.

• You're pure as a fresh snow, untouched. He cannot wait for the day he can call you his, and his alone.

Joseph wasn't one to touch himself like this. It's so unsavory, adulterated, and foul. But he can't stop the moans that slip from his mouth. This isn't his fault. It's yours. Your the one who looks so irresistible in these photos. He groans and whines, before stopping before he could climax. He can't cum, not when he has so much to think about.

Joseph takes his hand off his cock, his other hand carrying the photo he took of you tonight. Tonight was a treat. You must've had a rough match today, you didn't even bother to change into your sleepwear. You just settled for kicking off your clothes and hopping into bed. So cute. Joseph then changes his position, placing the photos flat onto bedding, adjusting himself so his dripping tip is leaking onto the softness of the bedding. He places his hand onto his dick, wishing it was you instead. His labored breaths fills the room as he pumps himself faster besides the usual pace he goes with. He pumps himself faster and faster until he cums. Cumming all over your photos and his bed, breathing heavily afterwards. He sighs before wiping his hands clean with his hankchief, shaking his head.

Oh, if only he could cum on your pretty face instead. Maybe inside your mouth instead, would you be a sweetheart and swallow? Or would you not be able to take it and spit it out? Oh well, he'll find out soon enough, and he'll be sure to immortalize those moments with his camera.

#yandere idv #idv x reader #yandere photographer #yandere identity v #yandere joseph desaulniers #joseph desaulniers x reader #idv smut #౨ৎ. photographer

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monstercampus · 9 months

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thinking about vampire roomie peeking into the little innocent human’s head expecting sweet & romantic thoughts, only to see that his human roommate is the most pervy degenerate person out there

HEH!!!!

(cws: gn!pronouns, dirty thoughts, wet dreams, telepathic voyeurism)

Antón can't take it. You're too....much.

It isn't fair that such a pretty person has such a foul mind--that someone so beautiful also conjures up some of the most vivid sexual exploits that he's ever seen in someone's thoughts. The first time he tried it, just for a peek, Antón felt his world stop turning as he watched you flip through your notes on the couch while fantasizing about being fingered on it. By him. Granted he doesn't have much of a presence at the best of times, but he was only standing in the kitchen making tea, less than five feet away. And you were thinking about him dropping his spoon and stirring you up knuckle-deep just cause he felt like it.

Would you let him? That's a slippery slope and a way of thinking he doesn't often allow himself to entertain--what goes on in people's heads isn't necessarily who they are or what they want. But you have those thoughts a lot, and not just about himself. Priam isn't safe either. Your mind is riddled with fantasies about him whenever he so much as touches you; his hugs turning into mating presses in your head in seconds, and the smell of his hair linering as you envision tangling your fingers into it. He doesn't really need porn at this rate, in fact your head is better than porn--in your thoughts, he can actually watch himself in the action instead of just imagining it, and you have quite the creative juices flowing in that pretty, pretty brain.

Your dreams are even better, he couldn't be more grateful to be a monster that doesn't need to sleep. Because as shameful as it is, he's spending more and more of his nights with his hand shoved in his pants and his vermillion eyes locked on your sleeping body, enjoying every show that passes through your mind as wet dreams overwhelm you each and every night. Sometimes, if he's feeling exceptionally brave, he'll gingerly lift the covers off you to catch a glimpse of the soaked mess you've made in your pajamas and leaked all over your bedspread--are you an angel for real? Because you definitely could be, especially with that innocent face masking a dirty, sex-crazed persona on the inside.....gods know all the ways you might defile the booth if you ever got invited to confession. You'd be a menace, and it would be glorious.

Maybe that's what he needs to do to break this one-sided tension between you two. Swallow his pride and take you into the chapel under the guise of helping you study--and there, where your inhibitions grow looser and Antón shows you that even the purest people have filthy sides to them, you'll quit dreaming and make your desires known so he can do everything in his power to fulfill them.

#vampire roommate #vampire roommate x reader #anton poenari #anton x reader #vampire #vampire x reader #neutral pronouns #monsterfucking #monster campus #monster boyfriend #ellie writes #anons

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michaeldrawrrett · 3 months

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GOBLIN WEEK CANNOT BE STOPPED: A Goblin Demon Hand Collector shows off their foul-smelling hoard of INFERNAL MITTS, hacked off resplendant Devil Lords in hardscrabble battle in the bowels of the earth - Feat. The hand of 'Jeraxim The Defiler', the hand of 'P'Arkuul The Eater of Light', and the hand of 'Vvørmbrane The Deeply Unpleasant'

#goblin week #goblin week 2024 #goblins #pen drawings #digital colour #character design #hands #demons #Look at all my many fine.......HANTS

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posletsvet · 8 months

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A Somewhat Messy Exploration of the Concepts of Purity and Impurity in Satosugu, and perhaps some more

The yin and yang symbolism in Satosugu (here I'm using 'Satosugu' as a short way to refer to the relationship between these characters, not necessarily a ship dynamic) has been brought up and discussed a lot in fan analyses lately, and by those who have mental capacity to express it far better than I ever could. However, there is one more thing I would like to talk about in relation to Suguru Geto and Satoru Gojo's dichotomy, and perhaps some more.

As much influence as Chinese philosophical concepts (such as already mentioned yin-yang) have on Japanese cosmology, religious views of the people of Japan are actually an intricate and complex amalgamation of various teachings and beliefs, with Shinto being numerically the most prominent faith of the country. I was curious as to how the ideas found in Shinto could be applied to Gojo and Geto's relationship, and I guess I've stumbled upon some inkling of a thought in this regard -- so please bear with me while I rant.

Before this gets too long, I'm putting my rambling below the cut.

To begin with and give a little bit of context, the core teaching of Shinto is to have profound respect and reverence for nature. As a polytheistic and animistic religion, Shinto is defined by its belief in the kami, who are stated to inhabit all things, including objects of the surrounding landscape and various natural forces. Due to such elemental qualities of the faith, purification takes place as one of its central aspects and a widely followed practice, as well. There is a great emphasis laid on spiritual and physical purity and cleanliness. That being so, the moral categories of good and evil (or virtue and sin), so important in the western worldview, give way to a different outlook on things: the world is perceived in terms of 'clean' and 'dirty' rather than 'good' and 'bad'.

This concept finds a reflection in Gege's writing primarily through Tsumiki as someone who's essentially an embodiment of the virtue of being innocent and pure at heart. When she's brought up in the narrative, the image is frequently accompanied by flowers -- and more often than not, especially when it comes to Megumi's perspective, those flowers are white lilies. And those are one of the most common and prominent symbols of purity. When Tsumiki's innocence is symbolically destroyed with Yorozu taking over her body, white blossoms are depicted as thrashed and stained in the background. Her purity is further defiled by her death as everything related to death and decay is considered foul as it desecrates the world's natural state of cleanliness, fertility and life.

I'm only bringing this up to show how Gege incorporates this religious framework into the body of symbolism in his story. And the further you search with these concepts in mind, the more you are able to uncover.

Satoru Gojo as purity and perfection

Satoru Gojo is a character whom you can't help but read as a perfection within the context of the world he exists in. He's the absolute strongest, wielding the power to bring all the knowledge of the universe and the forces which shape it under his control, he's repeatedly elevated by the narrative as someone unreachable and untouchable whereas nothing seems to be beyond his reach. He also has an extraordinary appearance, matching vibrant aquamarine eyes with fair hair, so rarely found among full-blooded Japanese people. He embodies an ideal for his society.

Satoru is associated with white and sky blue -- the colours most widely believed to represent purity, innocence, perfection, serenity and safety. Those are lofty, noble, airy and spacious hues which also bring in mind vast open spaces and immeasurable and unreachable heights and depths, symbolizing Gojo's detachment from the mundane world where corruption and putrefaction take deep root. Not to mention Satoru's noble background as an heir of one of the Big Three Sorcerer Families.

Actually no, forget this, I do want to mention it and expand a little on my thoughts regarding Satoru's family and upbringing. It's highly likely he was overprotected and sheltered as a child, and along with a teenage-years rebellion on his part which such a childhhod brought about, it also thwarted his ability to make connections with people around him as he basically lacks common experiences and/or interests with them. He's somewhat sterile when it comes to displaying empathy and emotional intelligence, which results in a peculiar sense of innocence about him. For the lack of any better way to articulate this idea, I'd say he's pure in this regard: clean and untouchable and spotless, devoid of nearly everything that comprises a regular person's experience.

This shows even in the way Gojo chooses to cope with his trauma in the aftermath of the Star Plasma Vessel Incident. That traumatic experience seemingly barely leaves a mark on him because he opts for pushing it aside and moving forward, while going out of his way to make sure there's a safe distance between him and the source of his vulnerability by improving his technique. He fixates on bringing his Infinity technique to perfection, and as a result it leaves no opportunity for anything to touch him if he himself does not want it to. Yet again, it leaves him stainless.

Not only that: he becomes emotionally detached from the cruelty and filth of the jujutsu world, becomes numb to it, with little to no emotion ever reaching his core to shake it. He's neither angry nor vengeful on Amanai's behalf after her death. He does not allow for hatred and spite to poison his mind, neither does he feel any doubt. He stays clean from all the negativity at the cost of coming off as cynical and unsympathetic.

He masks this by putting up a front of an emotionally immature individual with childlike mannerisms and an attitude resembling that of a teenager rather than a fully grown man. He also nurtures a somewhat naive belief that Suguru still can be trusted, that there's some hope for him turning away from the path he's chosen. In this regard, he still bears the innocence of a child.

Last but not least, shedding away the more humanly parts of himself, Gojo instead becomes more attuned to the natural world through his ascension -- the main source of purity, as Shinto has it. Moreover, he basically rejects death by coming back from the dead after finally grasping how Reversed Cursed Energy works. And I've already explained the importance of something like this when talking about Tsumiki's passing.

Gojo Satoru's mind is free from resentment and hate, his body unstained by death. He's a character who represents complete spiritual and physical purity.

Suguru Geto as impurity and corruption

Where Gojo's character exhibits perfection, Geto shows abruptly stunted growth and degradation gnawing away at him bit by bit; where Gojo stands to symbolize cleanliness and purity, Geto presents desolation and decay and that filth which is left in their wake. Geto is a character whom the narrative treats as a symbolic foil to Gojo, starting from him being expelled from Jujutsu High and ending with his death being described in the light novel as a curse purged from existence. If Gojo serves as an example of a perfectly fit cog in jujutsu society and sets up a desirable ideal, Geto, named the worst of all known curse users, represents everything that the very same society fears and despises.

Starting with colour symbolism again, such colours as black, dark brown, warm beige and mustard yellow are the most common colours to be associated with dirt and a filthy, dingy appearance. And while I'm not saying Suguru himself has such an appearance (although he does forsake taking care of himself at some point), those all are the colours found in his palette. Black is also considered to be the hardest colour to keep clean, even more so than white, as it shows all the stains and grime so well. Which is quite interesting if you consider that Suguru's downfall and defection ultimately bring out, both to the audience and to Satoru, everything not only malfunctioning, but straightforward cruel, vile and despicable in the existing system.

Geto's deeply empathetic personality is the basis for his own corruption, his inability to set boundaries between his own emotions and the suffering of others leaves him extremely vulnerable in a society which actively punishes people for being unable to extract emotion from their duty and caring too much. The thing is, Suguru is elbow-deep in emotion. For instance, if Satoru managed to shove his feelings aside in order to put together a plan of action when Kuroi got abducted, Suguru immeadiately plunged into self-blame. His own empathy is what's clouding his vision, his feelings pile up within him without any healthy outlet until they start rotting him from the inside.

Geto lets the rot in by caring too deeply, vile emotions that he feels on behalf of others festering in his mind. He can't stand the sight of atrocities commited by Jujutsu society and finds them nauseating, while the rest of the world he exists in treats those abominations as a norm. And even so, he dives deeper into all this by trying to make a difference and save ordinary people.

This is symbolically represented by Geto's Curse Manipulation, with him consuming curses which are basically a corporeal manifestation of all the negative emotions people vent into the world in their daily lives. The more curses he absorbs, the more doubt and resentment he lets inside and the more they consequently stain his once pure ideals and aspirations with bile building up inside of him. His very sense of self is twisted by the weight of the unsightly hideous reality, and while he stays true to his strict set of ideals he is forced to adapt by the trauma of his experience as a sorcerer and the 'realisation' which it brings. Because if one endures such severely traumatic events, one must sooner or later come to the conclusion that there's something inherently wrong and malfunctioning -- either with you or the world you live in. Geto chooses to stay true to himself by assuming it's the latter, and this choice results in his corruption in the eyes of those who run that very world.

There's also something to be said about the intimacy of the act of consumpton: you let the thing you consume nurture you and become a part of you. Cursed spirits taste absolutely foul, and what that means to put this despicable thing in your mouth and swallow it is unimaginable. Geto's absorbtion of curses is supposed to represent how he basically desacrates himself by letting himself experience everything at such a deep emotional level, inevitably tying himself to putrefaction of the world.

And of course, the last thing that plays its role in the defilement of Geto's character is his death.

Brief wrap-up thoughts

I could honestly ramble on and on about this for ages, but I guess it all just boils down to my admiration for Gege's ability to break the mold with his writing. He takes a trait which is largely associated with protagonists of their stories and shapes his villain's whole personality around it -- and vice versa, with Gojo and his seemingly egotistic tendencies.

Once again, Japanese religious beliefs organically encompass so many elements originating from so many cultures with no coherent systematization existing up untill late 19th centuary, and I find it absolutely fascinating how Gege's story reflects that. It leaves us with such an interesting controversy of an emotionally detached hero dwelling in a morally grey area alongside with a deeply empathetic antagonist whom both other characters and the audience find deserving of sympathy and pity.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk analysis #geto suguru #gojo satoru #satosugu #tsumiki fushiguro #she gets mentioned as well #and i still do not know how to tag properly #jjk meta #for some reason it took me so so long to finish this #are words exhausting sometimes #it seems the more i think the more scatterbrained I get #i am once again telling you #i'm sorry for how messy it is #and also #welcome to a new episode of how i'm so not normal about the religious symbolism in fiction

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blue-rose-soul · 2 months

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Kid Alastor loathes it when people who know him treat him like a typical child. At the same time, he is absolutely willing to use his appearance to his advantage. Sometimes that means getting one over on an enemy and taking advantage of their underestimating him. Other times, this just means fucking with people.

Angel Dust: Aw, for fuck's sake-

Alastor: Gasp! I can't believe you, Angel, defiling my poor, innocent ears with your foul language-

Husk, from the next room: INNOCENT MY ASS!

#random thoughts #headcanon #Hazbin Hotel #Kid Alastor AU #Angel Dust #Husk (Hazbin Hotel)#Alastor #unexpected bonus: Angel actually tones down the sex talk around Alastor despite knowing how old he really is

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kunikuma · 9 months

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home

character | kabukimono -> kunikuzushi

synopsis | his home house was burnt to ashes. time to find a new one. content | angst cw | well... it's kabukimono in that burning house so... sxicidxl thoughts, incomplete attempt, nothing very detailed. consider this like my written take on that one cinematic. mentions of burns and frostbite. a/n | wanted something sad. goes against my usual recipe...planning to follow this up with a true reader insert to have a happy ending where you help him find a home. consider this a prequel to his healing.

part 1 // part 2 (TBD) // masterlist

“I want to go home, I want to go home, but what I mean, what I'm grasping for, is not a place, it's a feeling.” // julie buntin, marlena

the cold snow burned and nipped at his bare feet and the heat of the flames froze and numbed the puppet’s hunched back as he sprinted across the dark—

oh.

perhaps he got those two mixed up.

the snow… is cold. the fire was hot.

right.

the clothes on his back were charred. bloodied at some spots from the areas he clutched with his raw hands. the once beautiful and pristine lavender silks were soiled with blood, soot, and the muck from the earth below. the tips of his hair at the nape of his neck were singed and smelled foul. his sandals must have slipped from him during the ensuing chaos.

he tumbled into the snow, howling as the powdered ice seeped through his robes and mocked him for his misfortune. the glacial temperatures chilled his bones as he hobbled and picked himself up to limp forward; he refused to swipe the snow off of his form. it would melt anyway. while the cold hurt some places of his body, it soothed others.

he moved.

moved.

moved on… to where?

the puppet took a deep breath, feeling the sharp sting of the frigid air. he wailed into the howling night air as he stumbled through the darkness, his tears nearly freezing against his lifeless skin.

was it skin?

he was a puppet.

this wasn’t skin.

he wasn’t human, after all.

the fire behind him is long gone, only small licks of warmth in the distance as he fled his heartbreak.

how could a being without a heart feel such pain in his chest? he was not gifted the means to mourn. there should be nothing he could use to feel this ache. there was nothing there he could grieve with.

that’s what he chanted over and over as he frantically analyzed his crimson palms and numbing feet.

the same palms that once used to clumsily burp young, swaddled babes ached from the splinters digging into his palms as he shoved wooden beams off his body when the house collapsed.

the same feet that propelled his body to dance on the warm sands now begged him to stop, to rest and find that warmth. they screamed at him to please just stop. please stop.

the same back that once carried him tall was struck by one of the beams plummeting down, cracking, and falling onto his small body.

battered and bruised, the puppet noted every single twinge and throb of pain on his body, but nothing compared to the agony panging within his chest.

oh, the puppet wanted to run. to flee. the puppet wanted to tear open his chest to prove to himself nothing. was. there.

so why, why, why, why did it feel like something was?

the puppet was horribly alone. alone on a cold winter night. behind him, the small fading embers of a house, maybe of a home. behind him was certainly his past. ahead of him, he was greeted with the cold. the darkness. his future.

he lifted his head slightly and stumbled forward.

the puppet’s wounded wails simmered down to mere sniffles. the crunching of the virgin snow under his feet was deafening.

‘i want to go home.’

he dragged the back of his hand over his cheeks to rid himself of the wetness on his skin. he hiccups and coughs, pulling his defiled garb closer to his body.

‘i want a home.’

but “home” didn’t exist for this puppet anymore.

after all, he was just taken in like one of the stray mutts on the street. a house is just a building. a home was somewhere where he felt…

accepted.

loved.

taken care of.

a place where he took care of others.

home is where love grows… home is where you are treated like family, like one of someone’s own. home is where he is treated like he was “just like the others”. niwa would remind him of this when the young puppet found himself mulling over his human appearance yet inhumane everything else.

but niwa is gone; fled like the coward that he is. his honeyed words and a concept of home meant nothing to the puppet now.

he was never truly treated like one of the others.

when his back was turned, he was treated like an other.

yes. home never really existed for this puppet.

now, the puppet would sooner laugh in your face and tell you the warmth of the flames surrounding him in a burning, crumbling building felt more comforting than the falsity of a home the people of tatarasuna graciously provided. if he was as naive as he was yesterday, he would insist he would just walk and find the home he was hoping to have. but today is not yesterday.

he wanted to burn with that home. to become one with the earth, to cease the pain he felt in his bones.

so why did he startle when the first beam fell near his feet?

why did his legs spring his body forward?

why did his arms and hands aid in crawling out of the rubble?

why was he scared when his chest stung from the ashes filling his body?

his mind begged his body to stop moving and just accept it, but his body did not obey its master.

as the wind nipped at his skin and ashes crowned his locks, the puppet decided kabukimono died this night in that home.

the one who fought to escape that house was kunikuzushi.

kunikuzushi smeared the soot and tears on his cheeks once more and steeled himself against the night’s breath and continued to walk into the darkness.

the small, distant embers of the house behind him had lost their glow and cindered into the dark.

three is such a painful number.

#scaramouche #kunikuzushi #kabukimono #wanderer #wanderer x reader #scaramouche x reader #kunikuzushi x reader #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #kunikuma’s fics

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gailyinthedark · 5 months

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The word "defiled" being used specifically to describe knights trampled under the feet of horses in battle sent me down an etymological rabbithole. Apparently it comes from Medieval Latin fullare (to full), which stems in turn from fullo, an occupational word meaning "one who fulls".

Fulling is something I've experimented with quite a bit. It's the process of agitating wetted fabric, usually wool, in order to bind the fibres closer together, partially felting them and making the fabric heavier and thicker once it's dried. Scottish tartan material is fulled, and Vikings also fulled their outerwear to make it weather-repellent. When I was trying to recreate historical diapering methods with my daughter earlier this year, I made several fulled wool pilchers to help prevent leaks, which worked well.

Fullare seems to refer specifically to fulling fabric by stomping on it, a common method in ages past which draws quite an image for the poor fallen knights. Nowadays we tend to think of defiling as soiling or dirtying something rather than stomping on it; this is partly thanks to the influence of a similar-sounding Old English word, fulen ("to rot"), the ancestor of today's "foul".

I have to get my surgical staples out later today, which isn't fun, so I'm glad I've got some lovely new etymology to distract me.

#arthuriana #medieval literature #thomas malory #middle english #old english #latin #etymology #language #history #textile arts #when obsessions collide

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vigilskeep · 4 months

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what IS the rationale for defiling the ashes btw? aside from lyrium ghost hot (you're right)

to defeat the blight, what sacrifice isn’t worth it? so many chances to take those shortcuts have been put in front of sulahni, and she’s rejected them all. she’s wasted time and energy questing to help the people of ferelden, she’s bowed to their foolish whims, she’s helped her friends, she’s refused branka and her golems. but she’s only one warrior with such a small band behind her. can she really save ferelden without a little help? she’s watched morrigan take up blood magic in combat; she let jowan do his ritual; she drank darkspawn blood herself. she won’t destroy lives or cause needless harm, but isn’t any price less than that worth it? isn’t it necessary for lahni to take on whatever she can? she’s known since she was little that without magic she’s never been enough. doesn’t it matter far more how power is used than where it comes from? it was childish fancies once, but when the keeper wasn’t listening, she and merrill used to whisper such things.

for the power of the dragon’s blood that made these ordinary men so fierce in their defence of the temple, destroying one dead woman’s ashes—ashes that these andrastians had lived without just fine for centuries, and found surrounded by a hive of foul old magic underground not unlike the one she lost tamlen to, a place that put her losses on display and forced her to humiliate herself to prove her “faith”—seemed so little a thing

#sulahni mahariel

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adeptus-nonsense · 4 months

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Year 4560. Contact war.

current year 4578. Interview of klokian heavy mechanized frontline support unit 681th divison.

specie: kloakian. Name: Rak’zaer crasl.

I remember the first war we had with the humans clear as day. I think the whole galaxy does. While war isn’t something new to us since the galactic council are well, what they say peace keepers but they work more to keep the status quo between all the species which is a constant struggle of making sure the more malevolant empires dont do anything rash. It’s a constant struggle between border frictions, rebellions and sometimes civil war. safe to say galactic scale politics are a complete mess and sometimes well…let’s just say things can get disturbing.

the first contact war is a great example and one we all learnt from dearly. When the graktukian empire discovered that one of their holy worlds as they call it had been colonized they were not happy at all. Standard procedure would be to contact this new specie and inform them that they had to leave the planet. What we were not aware off was that the empire had taken matter into their own hands and eradicated the settlement using a specialised deconstruction lance, breaking the humans and their buildings down into their molecular structure.

We later heard that they had captured some what they call heretics and after vigorious interrogation they found out that they were a specie called ”homo sapien” or ”human”. With the Grantukian empire being very influential both politically and militairily they somehow managed to get the council to overlook this breach of galactic law due to the humans ”defiling their holy world”. Still think it’s valorkian Dungbeetle behavior.

Especially when they decided to declare a fullblown war with the new ’human’ specie. A war that cost them a bit over sixty planets before a truce were declared. The humans only lost ten, six of which were captured planets they took from the Graktuka.

I was on about three planets the humans invaded, but the planets they were defending? There’s a reason why i have prosthetic leg arm, and three prosthetic organs.

Human space technology is rather primitive by our standards, they’re slow dont have shields and instead rely on thick hull instead off energy based kinetic impact shields. So how did they defeat Top of the line Graktukian destroyer fleets? You see Graktukian ships are not in anyway weak. But most of the ships fleets they they have are categorized as a striker fleet, fast manouverable, small and very dangerous if they got up close because they would drop EMP class K bombs. Their tactic was to get up close shields up and get into middle of the fleet, drop the bombs and move away to get into position to fire their lance weaponry from afar.

what they didn’t expect were that a human railguns completely ignored shields. While their hull wasn’t thin it did not hold up when what was essentially a volley of needle shaped projectiles going close to light speed pierced their hull nearly cutting their ships in half.

I’ve read their reports of that first engagement and the amount of energy generated by the human ships were that of a red giant sun. How they managed to get the literal power of the sun into their primitive ships without causing a black hole is still baffling to me. Their space technology is rather primitive but their energy generation is on a whole other level compared to ours. We guess that those ships have to be simple so that the Miniature star they have onboard dont implode on itself due to overuse. Given their reputation i would assume they learnt that the hard way. And the radiation their miniature star generators acted as a natural form of isolation for energy meaning they were EMP immune unless you managed to get directly in said ship.

When we found out that they essentially destroyed an entire Graktukian striker fleet, the Graktukian high nobolity realized that they needed help. I know there was some very foul play involved to get the council onboard with this but noone has any evidence. Mostly because they were declared heretics and died under a number of incidents. This went on and on. with some big victories for us destroying their main dreadnought fleets utilizing classified weapons managed to siege high value planets.

At this point we were not aware that humans were a predator specie, when we made it onto the planet via translocation beacons because planetfall by conventional means were deemed impossible due to the quite honestly unhealthy amount of surface to air weaponry, which put most fortress worlds seem like a agricultural world.

Even via translocation the initial forces were ambushed and only by sheer coincidence did they manage to set up a very rudimentary ground only when the kinetic shield generators were set up. Even then we lost over 20 000 militairy personell in just 3 weeks. We managed to overwhelm their defences by saturated orbital bombardment. Even then, they managed to ambush and raid numerous of our operation bases.

I deployed on the 4th week on the planet. In all my cycles of service i have never witnessed such chaos, supply lines cut off, ammunitions sabotagued. Once the shield generator broke down and the Shield gen mechanic tried to fix it but we had to request another one because the damn thing was sabotaged, never seen a mechanic that angry and baffled before.

about 8 years of us going back and forwards between occupying system and taking it back both sides were exhausted from war, in total about 300 billion casulties were documented.

It was a bloody war, and i am glad we managed to negotiate a cease fire. fragile as it was. I dont know how i feel about fighting for what effectively was a mistake that the humans had no way of knowing of. I’m just saying alot of things were off about that war and i’m not sure if we were on the rightside in that war. Maybe i’m just growing to be more critical of it all.

interview concluded

#humans are space orcs #long reads #this is a sequal to my humans are poets as well as warmonger post #hope you enjoy(ed) reading this :)

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tamariasykes-art · 4 months

Note

Could I please ask you for a thingy about Morgott discovering that the Dung Eater is on the loose and plans to subject the Veiled King's lover to the (fatal and implied to be torturous) seedbed curse?

The first sign is a defiled corpse that appears in the streets of Leyndell. Due to the grotesque nature of the murder and the weird growth on the body, the matter makes its way from the guards to Margit and in turn to the Veiled King himself. From the first glance, Morgott quickly knows that what has befallen the victim is a Seedbed Curse and he knows that there is only one person capable of inflicting such a diseases.

He sends his spectral form down into the Subterranean Shunning-Grounds to confirm for himself that the Dung Eater as truly escaped his prison. Once his suspicious are confirmed, he will order the soldiers in Leyndell to be on high alert and report any strange happenings to him immediately. He sends more of his scouts out to spread in an around the capital, to act as his eyes and ears and monitor anyone who enter and leaves the city.

When the second defiled body appears, this time attached with a very direct threat towards his partner, Morgott is at first fuming. He withdraws to his chamber for the rest of the day to calm down, but his thoughts are running wild as he paces up and down his office. He is angry that the Dung Eater has managed to escape his prison, that someone so foul has been woken by grace yet again while the victims of his curse are never allowed the chance to return to the Erdtree.

The Erdtree. Whenever Morgott finds himself in doubt or otherwise uncertain of what to do, he finds solace in the presence of the Tree. He goes outside for a breath of fresh air and to pray. He feels calm afterwards.

That same evening, once his partner has settled down for the night he sits down to study some older scriptures detailing the Dung Eaters crimes and familiarizes himself with his enemy. He has heard about the atrocities the Dung Eater commit before he was imprisoned and later trialed. But he wants to refresh his memory on the matter to better plan ahead.

As he delves deeper into the scrolls, he reaches confirmation that for the Seedbed Curse to be planted, the victim usually has to perish beforehand and once the curse is inflicted, there is no way to cure it. With this in mind and no knew information from the guards he retires for the night.

The next morning he sits down to discuss the matter with his lover. It's a difficult conversation for him, mostly because he feels partly at fault for what has transpired but also because he would prefer to quickly handle this threat on his own and not bother his partner.

But he also knows that they have a right to know of anything that might threaten their life and that they have asked him to be more forthcoming and open when something burdens him. Morgott will share what he has acquired so far and depending on what kind of person his lover may be, they will act together accordingly.

Path 1:

If his partner is not a fighter or a confrontational person, Morgott will take on the task of ridding Leyndell of the Dung Eater on his own. With his knights watching every corner of the capital, he begins to devise a strategy to lure the Dung Eater out of his hiding.

He makes sure his partner stays inside for the next couple of days, in the safety of their shared quarters while he summons an illusion in their likeness that takes their place for the times when their partner is out in public.

Morgott makes sure to spend more time with his lover as he waits for the metaphorical fish to take the bait. He can't help but fuss over them, even if he knows the are well cared for. That they might be more worried about their safety than his own is something he fails to notice completely.

The next few days pass with only a few incidents, attempted attack at Leyndells knights with the attackers vanishing before they could be captured. Morgott knows that the Dung Eater is growing impatient, so he adjust his plans accordingly. The illusion of his partner ventures outside their quarters for longer, he adjust the patrol of the knights to leave small holes in their schedules.

Once the Dung Eater will take the bait, Margit will be there to put a swift end to his plans. He doesn't linger or hesitate when he delivers the final blow, instead he is just glad to have ridden the world from this vile person.

Path 2:

If his lover is a warrior and wishes to eliminate the Dung Eater themselves, Morgott would feel another new set of anxieties on top of his already existing ones. Among the many fears he has, seeing any harm or even death come near his lover is probably the biggest.

When his lover first breaches the topic, Morgott will probably shut them down. Even when he is well aware that he can't tell them what to do, a tiny part of him hopes that he could persuade them to take a different approach.

With a lot of gentle reasoning, they can finally manage to persuade him to let them handle the matter. This won't stop Morgott from fussing over them for the next days however as they prepare for the upcoming battle.

Before his lover heads out to search for the Dung Eater, Morgott will halt them, with a tense expression and explain that he has something to give to them, before they head out. He isn't particular gifted with Erdtree Incantations beyond the summoning of illusions like Margit or his weapons, but to support his lover he spent a lot of time and effort to master a specific incantation.

He conjures a blessing for them, that will shield them from harm should they find themselves injured and give them the strength to carry on, should they need it. If Morgott doesn't accompany them when they go out to slay the Dung Eater, he will stay behind and wait anxiously for their return. His duties for that day will remain undone as he all to consumed be restlessness wanders up and down their shared quarters.

When word finally arrives that the Dung Eater has been defeated and his lover his well, he feels relieved and hurries of to tend to them, should they need anything.

#ask #answered #my post #my headcanons #elden ring #morgott x reader #morgott the omen king #dung eater #hope you dont mind that i wrote headcanons instead of a full text

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paragonrobits · 1 year

Conversation

Old World of Darkness Hunter: Ok, i have to ask, because this has been bugging me for a while.

Hunter: Why DO werewolves and vampires hate each other?

Vampire: Well, apart from the fact that most vampires inevitably become extremely evil from a basic consequence of dehumanizing others to cope with their lives and therefore tend to be arrogant pricks

Vampire: Werewolves attack us a lot, we have no idea why, and we take offense to the attacking

Werewolf: well WE attack you all the time because you fucking reek of spiritual defilement

Vampire: What?

Werewolf: We can detect the influence of the abstract concept of defilement, corruption and the most foul things in the world. Honestly humans have a REAL problem with it in general and you generally reek of the Eater-of-Souls to SOME degree-

Hunter: On the one hand, I'm offended. On the other, that's fair

Werewolf: But vampires in particular absolutely reek of it. Usually gets worse the more morally compromised they get. Debate is ongoing on whether its a natural part of the vampire condition, or the natural consequence of humans getting worse and indulging in the worst parts of themselves until you look exactly like a spirit of all that is bad in the world to us.

Vampire: So, what, the real Beast was just humanity at its worst, given power and freedom to consume us?

Werewolf: I'm pretty sure that the Beast is a real thing but, yeah. We attack you because you guys make our Bad Thing alarms go haywire

#world of darkness #OWOD #werewolf the apocalypse #vampire the masquerade #on the one hand speaking frankly about secrets like this is hugely wrong from a lore standpoint #but on the other hand its funny #queued #werewolves

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throughtrialbyfire · 2 months

Text

WIP Whenevers-day!

welcome to a very very late wip wednesday! thank you to the lovely @viss-and-pinegar @wispstalk @totally-not-deacon @skyrim-forever and @thequeenofthewinter for tagging me! i'm tagging @mareenavee @kookaburra1701 @dirty-bosmer and @gilgamish !! feel free to join in if you arent tagged and want to! i'm bringing an excerpt of chapter 27 from "Cycle of the Serpent" today, where athenath encounters daedric prince meridia <3

The Vigilants reeled back, the Dunmer's spell rising to her hand, shrieking light in her palm as she attempted to shoot the beacon down. Her spell only gashed the air with electricity, the beacon unmoved, the statue unmarked. Athenath stepped back, the world spinning beneath his feet as they grabbed their own blade. Stones turned to mud, the skies fractaled into fuzzy shapes of sunlight. Senses dulled, Athenath swam for consciousness, groping at the air for something to hold onto and finding nothing but the ground that turned to distant, dull sensations. Blinking hard, their stomach threatened to spill out. The words of the Vigilants reverberated in their head, the warning he'd just ignored and Mara damn them, the warnings of years and years before, the stories of the Mythic Dawn cult and the rumors of Daedra worshippers and the hells that it brought- When Athenath blinked away the blurring edges of his vision, he looked up. No longer pressing palms into the ground, he stood, watching as what could have been a tiny sun twisted in angles before them. Every edge circled in rainbow refractions, crystalline and gleaming, every center brighter than Magnus' own hole in the heavens which he fled through. The light before him spoke, bitterness treading every word carelessly. "It is time for my splendor to return to Skyrim," her voice broke through the ringing in Athenath's ears. The world had gone eerily silent, and more, he couldn't feel anything around him as the voice spoke again, "but the token of my truth lies buried in the ruins of my once great temple, now tainted by a profane darkness skittering within. The Necromancer Malkoran defiles my shrine with vile corruptions, trapping lost souls left in the wake of this war to do his bidding. Worse still, he uses the power stored within my own token to fuel his foul deeds."

Athenath looked around, weightless in the heavens that swamped his form, nothing below and nothing above. The mountains, distant and faint, twitched in their vision. They swallowed harshly and tried to stifle the shaking in their voice as he said, "I'm- um- where-" As though not hearing him, she continued, "worse still, he uses the power stored within my own token to fuel his foul deeds. I have brought you and your companions here, mortal, to be my champion. You will enter my temple, retrieve my artifact, and destroy the defiler. Guide my light through the temple to open the inner sanctum and destroy the defiler." "That's a lot more than what I signed up for." The words fell out of his lips before he could stop them. Unfazed, Meridia gave a low exhale, as though holding back a much more exhausted sigh. "A single candle can banish the darkness of the entire Void. If not you, then someone else. My beacon is sure to attract a worthy soul. But if you are wise, you will heed my bidding." "But what do I even-" "You have your instructions, mortal."

Athenath paused, the deafening quiet filling their senses with nausea. He looked around, but all they saw for miles were the tops of trees, the sea, the sky, not a sign of their friends nor the Vigilants, just the swamping of their vision with a world that grew more and more alien the more time they spent here, wherever here was. "What's this-" they swallowed dryly, "what artifact?" "Mortals call it Dawnbreaker, for it was forged in a holy light that breaks upon my foes, burning away corruption and false life. You will enter my shrine, destroy Malkoran, and retrieve this mighty blade." The gleaming, twisting fractals of light entranced him, the warmth spilling over their form, whatever form they took up here. He didn't even check to see if he was himself, deciding against looking down. They inhaled, filling their lungs with the crisp air, smelling nothing, feeling nothing. "Okay." A satisfied hum left Meridia's voice. "Malkoran has forced the doors shut. But this is my temple, and it responds to my decree. I will send down a ray of light. Guide this light through my temple and its doors will open." Athenath stumbled. The world fell away and reformed under them, a new world, the same one, what did it matter? It swayed under his feet, the skies congealed, sticky and melting, the clouds brandished heavy lights into their weary eyes, the ground still swung as though he were a fish caught in a net and being tossed aboard a ship.

As Nirn came back to him one piece at a time, he blinked hard against the pounding in their head. A faint, high humming thrilled the air, nerves spiking the hair on the back of their necks. Athenath looked up from where they'd bent over on the ground, knees aching from the stone beneath him. Wyndrelis stood mere inches from him, Restoration magic readied with one hand, Destruction with the other. "Are you alright?" Emeros called out, catching their attention. Athenath snapped his bleary gaze to him, the pounding in their head subsiding. "Yeah, I'm good," they managed out through dry swallowings of air, attempting to steady themself back to the world around him. Stumbling to his feet, Athenath ignored the ranting of one of the Vigilants, eyes finding the statue, the stairs down the mountain, head full of the words Meridia spoke to him. Emeros sent a cautious look their way, expression calming as he shot a glance where Athenath had been looking, then back to the Altmer.

#skyrim fic #tesblr #tes v #skyrim fanfiction #tes fic #bishop.txt #oc ; athenath #cycle of the serpent #my writing #oc ; emeros #oc ; wyndrelis #wip wednesday #daedric prince meridia #meridia #tes meridia #skyrim #tes v skyrim

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