#Abyssic Black Cult

[triste-guillotine]

ROTTING CHRIST “Triarchy of the lost lovers” CD 1996 (’Among deep green hills, Two eyes get lost in forests. Crystal flower images slip, Among the trunks of the trees. Visions appear from the ground, Shades without roots but still exist, Strange animals. An eternal vital chain, Monstrous pre-historic. A level of unearthly power, But still... Everything flows...’)

1. King of a Stellar War 2. A Dynasty from the Ice 3. Archon 4. Snowing Still 5. Shadows Follow 6. One with the Forest 7. Diastric Alchemy 8. The Opposite Bank 9. The First Field of the Battle 10. Tormentor  (Kreator cover) 11. Flag of Hate / Pleasure to Kill  (Kreator covers)

[templeofthev01d]

©️ ᐯ丨丂丨ㄥㄩ乂 - 2024

[lovebvni]

“You can be anyone you want to be You can be free, you can be free You can live happily, just turn the key We can be free, just come with me”

— Fill the Crown by Poppy

[chococolte]

☼ — pietas maris

♱ : my take on sagau childe

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

word count. 5.6k

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

The abyss is cold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You left him.

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

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

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

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

"I'm here," he whispers.

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

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

Only this time, he's met with silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He never does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was he just a test for you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You. 

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

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

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

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

It hurts.

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

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

Maybe he meant something, after all.

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

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

You're home, you whisper. 

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

Childe breaks. 

SANGUINE NATUS ; first meeting/as a worshiper

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

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

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

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

It's all too much to bear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AMANS IN SPINIS IACET ; as your lover

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[bamsara]

Why would you delete the baby D':

My sims 4 household was struggling with bills, Leshy getting laid off from his job, Lamb failing at becoming a cult leader celebrity influencer, Shamura kept getting naked and 'forgetting' commands thanks to their traits, Kallamar kept committing medical malpractice at his doctor job and getting the scared moodlet, Narinder was Constantly Angry because he has the 'high maintenance' trait to the point where he died over it and came back and continues to knock over trash cans

Heket was the ONLY one really doing good moodwise and succeeding at her culinary career and bringing in money for a while but she is also constantly not obeying commands either

We had Little Money and Little Time there was no way we are keeping that alien spawn. I sent it to the abyss

We did adopt a black pet mini-sheep though and name it 'The Red Crown'. It's easy to take care of and prances around the house and gives us wool

[arminsumi]

slow down, i'm not going anywhere

g. satoru + fem reader

note : i cooked up something for my man. my yummy lovely bb boy 🥰 just had brainrot for car sex with him. if u want more car sex w gojo then here's this post i made a while back !! anyways i am working on a cult leader suguru fic and it's proving so difficult to write i almost wanna trash it lol✌️

summary — some yummy car sex ft. your overstimmed bf and his pretty muscles

warnings — 🔞 minors don't read/interact, smut / 18+ content, not proofread, car sex, pwp, overstim., nicknames (kitten, baby, slut), creampie + unprotected sex + c*m/creampie visuals, kinda sub gojo but also dom??, delicious dirty talk 🙏

🍒 — J ⋅ reblogs and comments help a lot ! enjoy reading :)

... just thinking about gojo's muscles flexing and twitching when he's overstimmed.

his hair is ruffled at the back as it presses into the headrest. the car light would illuminate his features better if it weren't for the steamy haze of sex in the air.

you've got a good view of those tensing abs since his shirt is sloppily split open to reveal them to you. the base of his shirt is getting soaked in your juices. and his breathing is ragged as you ride out another orgasm on his lap. your hand rests on his abdomen, fingers feeling the dips of his muscles as they tense up while. he can feel his thighs shudder under you, dick numb with pleasure to the point where he can't focus on anything else but that feeling you're giving him.

gojo loves it when you admire his body, it makes him feel loved. makes him feel special. fuels his ego till it pops but he's too blissed out and overstimmed to be cocky now.

your eyes and hands roam his pecks. his abs. the contours of his body. the dips n curves. you feel his muscular thighs supporting your heavy bounces.

his physique looks so pretty when it's tensing up, and his face is even prettier — his forehead is beading with sweat, his eyes are lidded so much that you're sure he can't see through them right now, his cheeks are damp and his lips are puffy and red from the erotic, hyper make out session that preceded this even more erotic, hyper lap riding session.

"you always make such a mess of me, baby..." he says in a low, strained voice.

you can hear the effect of so many orgasms in his words, he sounds like he's just exhausted himself at the gym.

"c-can't think straight with those hips on top of mine, haha." he tries to laugh, then hisses when you bounce too fast up and down. he grabs for your curves, moaning, restraining your movements with that exciting strength.

"ahhhh tha-that feels too good, kitten, slow down a bit." he begs lightly.

his cock is so sensitive, and you've got it tightly wrapped up in your gummy walls; he can feel you pulse through every orgasm. feel you shudder each time his cock beats into a sweet spot. it drives him nuts, that milking sensation of your contracting walls, it feels like you're pulling on his soul.

when you whimper weakly against his sweaty forehead, mouth pressing to his skin, "but it feels good..." and roll your hips at a faster pace contrary to his needs, he lets out the most erotic, high-pitched noise you've ever heard a man make.

"sh—iiiit baby! hah... hah... slow down, i'm not going anywhere. w-we've got time, don't needa rush. 'promise i'm not goin' anywhere, not when your pussy feels this good." he struggles to look at you through his lidded eyes. his lashes look so pretty up close, especially in this dim light; there's nothing but abyssal black night outside the car. the radio is turned down low, the squelching sex sounds easily drown out any noise coming through the speakers.

your boyfriend looks so exhausted from cumming inside you three times by now. so you give into his wishes, though it felt good to have his cock beating that deep sweet spot inside of you. slow, swirling rolls of your hips, grinding grinding grinding until he groans and tilts his head off to the side in pure pleasure. the two of you relish that sloppy sound of frothed up cum. it cakes at his base. it feels so delicious that he wishes he could pull his phone out to snap a pic to save into his private little folder titled my baby's designer pussy :)💗

"oh my god... that's it... fuck, feel me there? yeah? feel all that cum, too baby? so fucking nasty... " he groans.

and he moans dramatically. because gojo is such a performer; a real dramatic sex star.

after those hard hits and enduring his sensitivity, slow sensual strokes are just what he needs to tip over. his cock feels raw, pure pleasure pulsing through it like electricity. and you feel raw, too. it almost hurts to squeeze your gummy walls around him. he always stretches you so good, regardless of how tight you are on that day.

"baby... cum with me." he commands, a glimpse of dominance showing in his demeanor after he was acting so docile for so long under your hips.

and getting filled by gojo? it's more delicious than anything.

thick, creamy. his cum smells pungent, it squirts out into your pussy and just spills right out because he fucked your hole too loose, and runs down his cock right along that thumping vein. a sweet fresh load adding to the rest of those nasty, gooey white releases.

he chuckles after cumming, and pants and heaves right against your ear. your bodies are just melted together, sticky and sweaty. he likes feeling as if he's glued to your body.

he notices you digging your nails into his biceps for stability, feeling a rush at the sensation. "y-you're so pretty when you cum and shake for me..." he murmurs against your cheek, nose grazing your skin. he means that. you really are so pretty. and not like the textbook definition; but like an otherworldly goddess.

and you act as kind as one, treating him not as if he's a god but like he's just your precious baby boy. he loves that. he needs it. that comforting voice calms him down after cumming so hard in your pussy, and that soothing hand on his cheek gives him shivers of happiness.

"fuck... 'needa... pull it out... hnnn..." it's always funny when he pulls out with a — pop — and you see him wince at the slight overstim. his cockhead always gets a fright when squeezing out of that tight entrance.

"how the hell am i gonna drive home with all this cum over my pants haha... you made a fucking mess on my dick, baby. look at all that cream..." he laughs, looking down between the two of you. both of your clothes are soaked right through. the windows are steamed up.

"sorry..." you mumble with a small smile, feeling a bit drunk off the pleasure that the two of you shared these past two hours in his car.

your eyes glaze over his chest; it's pretty when it's heaving heavy like that. with sweat running down the middle dip of his abs. and the sheen of your juice smeared on his v-line. snowy white pubes creeping up cutely to make a happy trail.

"you're so pretty, satoru." you murmur admiringly, voice shaky after such a long session in his car.

his heart flutters. but his response is cheeky, masking how shy he truly felt at such a tender compliment. "oh yeah? 'well if you think i'm pretty you should see my girlfriend. she's hot as hell."

you roll your eyes and get off his lap. he frowns then laughs, "aw no, i thought you were gonna straddle me while i drive home..." and he'd started the engine, you felt the rumble in your thighs. it's funny, a hunk of muscle like him sitting in a muscle car.

"i'm pretty sure that's a safety hazard..." you chuckle lowly.

he rolls his eyes and nods. "yeah yeah. mmm baby wait. come here, let me kiss you — thanks for riding me so good. you fuck me up like no one else, you know. 'n in my car too... heh... scandalous lil' slut."

he pecks your lips, the savory taste and lip-locking sound pleases his senses.

and the poor man. he has to drive home with cum-soaked pants. but it's worth it. the next time he sits in his car to go somewhere, he smiles when he finds your lacy panties still tangled around the gear shift. seeing them makes his mind race with the memory of this night and how hard you rolled those hips against him. it gets him bricked up, yes, and he maybe has to jerk himself off in his car before actually driving otherwise he'll be heading down the highway with a boner sticking up in his face.

© arminsumi

Do not plagiarize / repost / translate / copy layouts / etc.

Do not steal what I've worked hard to create.

[cookierunauprompts]

AU Prompts #12 - ✦💓

<Reader is fem here btw>

CONTENT WARNING : There is a cult, human sacrifices, a bit of drowning and depictions of multiple eyes.

.

Admittedly, staying in a cult probably wasn't your best idea after finding out that you were living in a cult for most of your life. But alas, you were stupid. Upon the day of your village's Eclipse Festival, you were called into the Mayor's office. You'd only gone because you didn't really want them to catch onto the fact that you knew about the cult... Unfortunately it turns out that the Mayor called you in because they wanted you as sacrifice... Yippee. So, here you are in your fancy multiple layer dress of thin fabrics(or well, pastry if you wanna get into cookie terms), your body feels numb as you stand off the edge of the cliff at the rushing seas that had turned pitch black. Your mind feels less numb than your body, yet you can barely tell what's going on. You're pretty sure that the Mayor hypnotized you as well. The Beast of the Shadows... You're pretty sure that that's the thing they worship. You can only hope that it doesn't exist, and that you'd die a hopefully peaceful death of drowning. Or maybe a quick one of getting impaled on one of the rocks below. You don't know. And then, you're falling through the air. It feels for a moment like your sailing through space, you couldn't really tell up from down despite knowing what each were earlier. You felt a bit strange from your sudden spinning worldview. Time slowed as you began to think, everything you loved, dreamed, feared, and everything else that seemed so terrifying... You were leaving it behind right now. You hit the water with a loud splash, leaving a trail of bubbles in your wake as your slowly sunk down into the shadows of the sea. Well, at least you didn't get impaled on any of the rocks. In fact, all you could see around you was darkness. Darkness... darkness... Damn, that's a lot of darkness. Oh, there's something new.... Eyes? There's lots of them, big ones as well. Each one bares its gaze into your soul as you sink deeper and deeper. The first coherent though you have? ' Fuck, the beast might be real then.' You feel your back land upon something large, all the while a particularly bright pair of eyes stare at you. And then, there was just darkness.

----

You didn't expect to wake up, mind now unblurred as you can properly think again. First things first, where the hell are you? Looking around... It seemed to be some kind of palace? Everything was decorated in almost gloomy hues of blue and black, reminding you of the abyss you saw before you passed out. " Where... am I?" You mumble out, not expecting any response to come. " This is the Palace of Shadows." A voice begins, startling you as you let a shriek slip out of your mouth. You turn to see another cookie but... it looks like there's something fundamentally wrong with them. Almost like they'd been hollowed out. " The domain of the Beast of Shadows, or as he is known by here, Shadow Milk Cookie." " Okaaayyyy...." You said in confusion. " And who are you?" The cookie before you giggles, " Me? I have many different names and faces." They say almost gleefully. " But I am just an actor in Shadow Milk's plays, I have no real name or identity." Ah, that... probably explains the hollow feeling you get from them. " But you have a very very special role to play! One that will likely never change!" The cookie said enthusiastically, taking your hands and pulling you up off of the floor. " Yes, a very important role to play indeed!" You stared at them, cracking up a confused eyebrow. " Do I have to play sacrifice again? Because I'm not keen on doing that." You partially joke, and it seems like it was funny enough to send the cookie into a fit of laughter. " No, silly! You get to play the role of our Grand Director's Bride!" ... " what."

[reallyhatethiswebsite]

realised i never posted this here lol, my contribution to the "tav sneaks into house of hope and gets caught" trope

AO3

contains voyeurism, haarlep (lol), minor sexual degradation, a very special cum shot 😉 and other filth i probably forgot

-

This incubus was more deadly than any Absolute, any mad tadpole cult or god of death or unhinged murderous doppelganger. His hands on her were Hades and Valhalla entwined, tweaking and plucking nerves she didn’t know she had with the skill and passion of a musician dedicated to his craft. He’d let her touch him first, satiating her curiosity with amusement as she, fascinated, felt every ridge and divot, every swollen vein and bulging muscle of his – no, Raphael’s infernal body. But he was not Raphael. He wasn’t even a devil. He was a demon, a creature of the abyss birthed from chaos, sin, and sex, and he controlled her far better than Raphael and his contracts could ever dream.

“Haarlep,” she wept; he kissed her tears, licked them from her cheeks while he held her thighs aloft and slid his molten hot cock in and out of her slowly, languid, unhurried and uncaring about the climax she’d been teetering on the edge of for what felt like forever. She was so wet there was no resistance, their coupling noisy and obscene and so messy. Her throat shredded raw from her moans and screams. She clawed desperately at his broad, muscled back, dragged her calloused fingers over bumps and strange cartilage of devil anatomy, pawed at the joints where his wings began. All he did was purr, laugh, suckle a mark into her neck.

“Yes, pet,” he cooed, gold eyes glinting with delight, “that’s my name. It does sound so very alluring from your pretty lips…”

He let one hand trail up her belly and sternum, resting it in the sweat-slicked valley between her breasts. Feeling for the thunder of her heartbeat. All at once and yet as though she’d felt that way forever, Tav was overcome with the sensation of pure, true love – and this was where an incubus was at his most dangerous. Emotion, compulsion; here he could ask her to do anything, surrender her life and let him pry her ribcage open to feast on her heart and lungs while they were still at work, and she would gleefully help him carve her flesh to get it out of the way.

“Haarlep, please…”

“Say you’re mine,” he growled, the sharp points of his claws suddenly digging into the skin above her heart but not breaking it – not yet. His inky black pupils consumed his irises until they were naught but skinny rings of fire. He hiked up her legs, her knees at her shoulders, forcing her damp thighs further apart before he viciously sheathed his cock to the hilt, its blunt head nudging the spot inside her that turned her legs to jelly as he bent her forward. He was so deep inside her his cock was kissing the opening of her cervix. She should have been in agony. Instead: ecstasy. His full weight pushed her into the soft mattress. The places where their bodies joined burned like the sting of water running just a bit too hot. Haarlep oozed demonic hunger, wings spread wide, tail curling like a serpent waiting to strike. “Say it, little thief. Scream it. You’re mine.”

“I…I’m…” Tav gasped, squealed, when he pinched her nipple – punishment, perhaps, for her hesitation. Above her head, above the grinning gold devil face nailed to the headboard, loomed a massive portrait of Raphael, one of many in his House of Hope. The painting glared down at her, as if challenging her conviction, and Haarlep’s iron grip on her desire wavered. Sensing it, he followed her gaze, humming low in his throat with fake disappointment but very real cruelty. They both knew the only reason Tav got on her back and spread her legs in the first place was because of the form he wore.

“Poor thing, lusting after a devil. And what a devil you chose indeed!” He cupped a hand around her throat. He didn’t squeeze, but the threat – the promise – lingered, smoke after the flames. Otherwise he remained still, his weight making it difficult for Tav to writhe and use his cock the way she wanted. He shushed her gently when she whined, though she was far from comforted. “You deserve much better than a brat like Raphael as your Master, sweet mouse. If you stayed with me…if you were mine…we could be entwined in ecstasy like this forever.”

Haarlep dragged the pad of one sticky thumb across her kiss-bitten lips, sighing when she took it into her mouth and suckled. He tasted like her own sweat, the slick of her cunt, and something she instinctively knew as dark magic. She was wrecked, a mess; in comparison, Haarlep seemed completely unaffected despite the lurid, ravenous expression on his face. Barely a stray hair out of place between his magnificent horns. His breathing measured and even. It shouldn’t have been so arousing for Tav – that when she stepped into this boudoir, this secret little pocket of overwhelming sin, she’d strayed so far out of her depth there was no glimpse of land in sight – but she was doomed the moment she saw Not-Raphael lounging near-naked on his huge bed, leering at her like he starved and she was a three course meal. He was the Siren luring her into the depths. She was drowning in red velvet sheets, and the rest of Faerun would burn to ashes in the aftermath. Tav couldn’t quite drum up enough willpower to care.

Right before she gave herself away, her fate narrowed to a breath of whisper on her tongue, Haarlep tilted his head back, pointed ears listening intently. Tense silence hung between them. Tav didn’t know what he heard, couldn’t hear much beyond the roar of blood and her own shallow breathing. A truly malicious smile spread across the incubus’ borrowed features. Tav shuddered, aware that something was about to happen without truly understanding why. Haarlep freed his thumb from her mouth, scraping its claw along her tongue hard enough to hurt and smearing drool on her chin; then, to her dismay, he freed his cock, too. She cried out, the snag of its soft barbs and ridges teasing pleasure from her cunt even as she mourned the loss. Felt empty and alone without it.

“Hush,” he murmured. “Up, now. On your hands and knees for me.”

He laughed at how she scrambled to obey. Her legs were weak, of little use. Her arms shook beneath the task of holding her weight. Still, Tav presented herself to him, this time facing the boudoir’s entrance. Haarlep pressed behind her, a looming spectre of succulent suffering. He snatched her hip with one hand, wedged his large thigh between hers to push them further apart, and rubbed the fat head of his shaft up and down through her slippery hot folds. She groaned every time he bumped her swollen clit. He seemed content to drag and tease no matter how she urged him to fuck her. She had no authority here. All she could do was whine and beg.

“Poor little thief,” he crooned. His chest, his own pebbled nipples, brushed against her back. He let go of her hip to instead knead and squeeze her breasts. He was so much bigger than her in every way. She felt utterly consumed by him. “Don’t worry. You’ll get what you want very soon, I promise.” Tav gasped, her arms collapsing as Haarlep thrust his cock into her without warning. Face down, fingers clenched in the sheets, she arched her back, shameless in her chase for pleasure. Release.

Haarlep grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back up. “Ah, ah,” he tutted, “I want him to see your face when he walks through that door.”

Tav didn’t get the chance to ask who. Her question was already answered. The air grew thick, electric. The souls of the damned forever trapped in those halls quivered and wailed with fear and exaltation. The Master of the House had come home. Raphael was a sight when he stormed into the boudoir; still in his human guise, but with none of its usual composure. Eyes wild, face twisted into a frightening snarl. He’d unbuttoned his fancy coat, loosened his frilly collar. A lock of his soft brown hair strayed out of place, stuck to his forehead damp with sweat. His cheeks were flushed. He was gorgeous, and terrifying.

“Haarlep!” He roared.

Fear skittered like insects on Tav’s skin. She’d never been afraid of Raphael before. Foolish, perhaps, but he hadn’t given her much reason – and yet a devil was still a devil, no matter how charming or attractive they were. Haarlep didn’t seem to share the same sentiment.

“Welcome home,” he hummed seductively, “how was your day?”

Raphael wasn’t listening. He stared at them, at Tav, his face slackening with shock. The expression was alien on him. It made him look younger. Almost boyish. It didn’t last. His thin lips pulled into a sneer and he regarded her with utter contempt.

“Well, well,” he drawled, “who should I find breaking into my house and indulging in my pet without permission…why, none other than the little mouse, of course. She’s ever so good at scurrying into places where she does not belong. How dare you.”

“Raphael…I…” If she could have spoken, Tav didn’t know what she would’ve said. She had no defence, not really; no reason seemed good enough for such a prideful devil not to tear the skin from her bones and the soul from her bloodied husk in retaliation. She couldn’t try to escape, caught so tightly in Haarlep’s vice. She couldn’t even act contrite, because Haarlep languidly rolled his hips and tore a sinful gasp from her throat with his torturous stimulation. Raphael’s fury had not dampened Tav’s arousal any.

“I assume you wanted the hammer,” Raphael continued snidely, “but being the dogged creature that you are, you thought you would sniff around and see what else you could steal from me, didn’t you? And look at you now. Caught in a trap because you couldn’t keep your legs closed. Pitiful.”

“Don’t be too harsh,” Haarlep purred, all dark delight and careless mischief, “I offered her other forms, but she only wanted yours.”

“Is that so…” Though he tried for indifference, despite the way he looked at her like she was less than dirt on the sole of his boot, Raphael’s body gave him away. An obvious bulge between his legs tented his trousers, and his pupils were completely blown. He was still angry, but that little piece of information had intrigued him, stroked his ego like phantom fingers on his cock, mollified him enough to reconsider skinning her on the spot.

“Don’t let him fool you, Mousie,” Haarlep stage-whispered into Tav’s ear, continuing to make things worse and loving it, “he can feel everything I’m doing to you, every squeeze of your tight wet cunt, every kiss from your naughty mouth…he’s just as desperate as you are.”

“Enough, Haarlep,” Raphael barked. The incubus ignored it. He dragged his tongue along the shell of Tav’s ear, blowing hot breath into it. Her entire being shook, skin erupting in goosebumps. Haarlep’s chuckle was so deep, so dark, it was almost a growl.

“You would do anything for me right now, wouldn’t you? Sweet little mouse. Obedient little mouse. More’s the pity that Raphael didn’t try to win your allegiance this way, hm? He would have had much more success…”

“Haarlep.” Magic crackled through the air like summer lightning, ozone. A warning; Raphael’s simmering temper would not be tested any further. With a put-upon sigh, Haarlep finally released Tav’s hair. She yelped as she fell forward, catching herself before she face-planted, yelp dissolving into a groan as she got some friction on the cock firmly inside her. Her breasts bounced and swayed, something Raphael’s clever eyes feasted on. She was the thing, the pretty little mortal, these two monsters were snarling at each other over, like dogs fighting for a scrap of juicy meat. She felt debased, humiliated, and thrilled in a primal way.

“Well then, Master,” Haarlep drew the word out with biting sarcasm, resting his hands on Tav’s hips, “what are you going to do now?”

Raphael didn’t answer with words. He clicked his fingers and a plush chair appeared. In silence he unbuttoned the rest of his coat and tossed it aside. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, exposing the tawny skin of his forearms lightly dusted with dark hair. His loose collar opened enough to glimpse broad pecs and the column of his neck. Tav’s heart leapt into her throat. Raphael positioned the chair at the foot of the bed, almost close enough to touch, and sat down. He maintained direct eye contact, infernos raging in his black hole pupils – she couldn’t look away – and spread his legs. Tav sucked in a sharp breath. Deliberately slow, Raphael unbuckled his belt with long, deft fingers, and Tav watched in breathless anticipation as he loosened his trousers enough to free his cock and balls. He sighed as he did so. A pearlescent glob of precum was already dribbling out between his glans. In his human suit, Raphael’s cock was a little larger than average, flushed dark pink and stiff with blood, a thick vein running along its length, crowned by a neat thatch of pubic hair. His balls beneath it were smooth and fat. A handsome and well-crafted package. He preened under Tav’s ogling. She knew intimately what his cambion form offered, and so he had decided to let her see this, too.

“As you were,” he ordered his incubus, voice rough, but he didn’t take his eyes off Tav. “Since you’ve caused me such inconvenience, it’s only fair you give me a show.”

“How fun,” Haarlep hummed, the mercurial beast. He stroked the tip of a claw down Tav’s spine, pinching her ass cheek when he reached it. “You see, pet? I told you you’d get what you want.”

The rhythm he started then was brutal. Had Tav mewling, fisting the sheets again, groaning every time the demon’s hips touched her backside. His own balls smacked against her thighs, hot and heavy with infernal seed she hoped he was more than prepared to stuff her with. Overwhelmed, overstimulated, she buried her face in the bed to muffle her sobbing squeals.

“Oh no, little mouse,” Raphael growled. With one hand he reached out and pulled her hair, hard, making her look at him. Both of them seemed to like doing that. “You do not get to hide. Not from me. You are in my house, and I see everything here. Keep your lovely eyes firmly on me, lest I find myself tempted to pluck them out and make jewellery with them.”

Tav obeyed. In consequence, she was witness to Raphael unravelling to the sight of her being savagely mated by his lookalike. Satisfied by her obedience, Raphael settled back into his chair, got comfortable, and tugged on his cock. Lazy at first; slow, firm squeezes from root to tip, enough to push his foreskin up over his weeping glans and back down again. His groan was decadent, rich like wine and melted chocolate, the sternness of his expression dissolving into burgeoning rapture. He was stunning. An erotic vision splashed onto the canvas of life – and he fucking knew it. Smirked at her as she stared, open-mouthed, panting like a bitch in heat. Somehow, Haarlep’s thick cock inside her wasn’t enough. She needed the one Raphael was rubbing, too. Needed it in her mouth, her ass, anywhere. She knew he wouldn’t give it to her, because she didn’t deserve it.

Haarlep leaned down, moulded himself to her, back-to-front. Curled his hands over her fists where they were clenched, white-knuckled. His blood-red skin was sweltering. The room reeked of sex, fire, and cherries. “Beautiful, isn’t he?” The demon husked. At last, his sexual stoicism was cracking. The tinge of affection in his voice couldn’t be ignored. “My little princeling.”

“Yes,” Tav slurred, barely able to speak. This new angle was making black spots pulse softly in the corners of her eyes. Her orgasm was approaching, tired of being teased away; it was a violent thing squirming in her womb, desperate to unfurl. She didn’t know if she would survive its impact. “Nngh… G-Gods… please …”

“There are no Gods in Hell, my mouse. Flesh and fire are our Nirvana. La petite mort.” Raphael murmured raspily, drinking in her delicious despair as he thumbed his cock head, smearing his precum about. His free hand clenched and unclenched the arm of his chair before he shifted to stroke his balls. “And who do you sing to? Who would answer your prayer and free you from a depravity of your own making? No Divinity is truly so magnanimous, I assure you.”

His breathing had quickened. Fast, greedy inhales and exhales. His head lolled back. His eyes glazed like warm honey by lust, desire. He licked his lips once, twice. He rubbed his cock furiously now, fondled his balls, rocked his hips in time with Haarlep’s. His noble features twisted beautifully with his feral pursuit of pleasure. While she was ruined, he was elegantly debauched. Completely in his element. He wore his passion well. It suited him. Like everything else. What a terrible creature he was.

Haarlep, without warning or fanfare, slid his fingers through the soaked curls of her pubes to rub her swollen clit, and Tav’s orgasm hit her like an avalanche. She screamed when she came, unprepared and out of her mind, her body convulsing uncontrollably. Haarlep groaned as she gushed around his cock, the fluttering walls of her cunt milking it over and over, trying to pull him deeper. His hips stuttered, flush with her backside. His claws dug into her pliant skin. His teeth bared. Raphael watched all of this, seared it into his memory.

Tav was near-boneless in the wake of a climax like that, limbs wracked with tremors, chest heaving. Tingles spread from the tips of her toes to her crown. Haarlep held her up. Her head fell against his chest, his demonic heart pounding. She could do nothing at all when Raphael stood, aiming his ruddy cock at her face. She had disrespected him by encroaching on his privacy; now he would return the favour. She watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, his mouth pulling into a handsome snarl. He grunted when he finished, spurts of hot cum splattering across her chin, cheeks, and nose. Every splash of his Hellish seed on her skin painted his ownership, his brand. He purred when he was done, an apex predator satiated. Then he simply stood there for a moment and basked, relaxed, wringing the last drops of spend from his prick as it began to soften, before he admired his work.

“That’s a good look for you, little mouse,” he said softly, not a shred of gentleness in his tone. “I almost want to keep you this way. You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you? Displayed in here like a sloppy whore for me to finish on whenever I desired.”

“The best little whore,” Haarlep breathed in agreement. The lurch in Tav’s belly would have bothered her, if she had the energy.

“Unfortunately for you, I’m not in the business of rewarding trespassers.” Raphael tucked his cock away but left his belt undone. He smoothed his hair back, then reached forward with two fingers to swipe a drop of his cum from her chin before it dripped down onto her chest. He put those fingers in his mouth and sucked them clean, grinning nastily at her when she moaned. “No, I have very different plans for you.”

“Depraved, naughty mouse,” cooed Haarlep, reigniting his rhythm again, to her dismay. The demon who had started it all wouldn't be denied his own end. “I told you so.”

[thecreaturecodex]

Demon Lord, Orcus

Image © TSR Inc, by Todd Lockwood.

[Sponsored by @tar-baphon. Orcus is one of the iconic D&D villains, and through the SRD and plausible deniability (he's a Roman god!), he's in Pathfinder as well. In Pathfinder, he is deliberately not a power player, and my flavor text takes that already metatextual decision and runs hog wild with it.

A note on the art: I feel like Orcus is emblematic of when D&D was seen as dangerous, and this piece absolutely feels like it should be the cover of a Black Sabbath album. It's no surprise that I was fascinated with the anti-D&D strain of the Satanic Panic when I was a kid. Also, although there has been some course correction in the 5e era, there's a trend with Orcus in a lot of art, including his official Pathfinder depiction, of making Orcus buff. Let Orcus be fat!]

Demon Lord, Orcus CR 28 CE Outsider (extraplanar) This humanoid is a corpulent giant with skin mottled like a decaying corpse. He has great black bat-wings growing from his shoulders, hooves for feet, and the head of a goat. He clutches a short staff, tipped with an oversized human skull.

Orcus, Prince of Undeath CE male demon lord of death, necromancy and wrath Domains  Chaos, Death, Evil, Magic Subdomains Demon, Divine, Murder, Undead Favored Weapon heavy mace Unholy Symbol a goat’s head with curving horns Worshipers liches, necromancers, sapient undead Minions boneclaws, deathdrinkers, demons, other undead For information on his Obedience and boons for his worshipers, see Book of the Damned

Orcus is one of the most powerful demon lords in the Universe. But not on Golarion. On that world, his is one of a number of undead cults, and not nearly the most popular. Orcus has a clear hierarchy to what undead he considers truly worthy, with those created from contagion seen as inferior to accident, and those inferior to those who intentionally seek out undeath. His most dedicated worshippers on Golarion are liches, some of whom have learned the secret of crafting a phylactery by teasing apart the Prince of Undeath’s wisdom from his threats. The followers of many other undead-focused religions, particularly vampires and ghouls, see Orcus as pretentious and unworthy of dedication, although few are foolish enough to directly oppose him.

Orcus himself knows that his star has fallen. In his extensive research into planar lore, Orcus has learned that he was once the most feared being in another universe, who went on a killing spree that left several gods dead and an entire race of lawful outsiders duped into being his pawns. That Orcus cannot accomplish this level of power in this version of reality vexes and frustrates him, and he takes his rage out on his minions as much as he does his foes.

Orcus is a genius tactician, although his temper sometimes gets the better of him. He enjoys combat as a distraction from his cosmic-level sulk, and as a way of expressing his power over others. He typically opens combat with a time stop to summon allies and cast defensive spells on himself, and then unleashes a potent death effect as soon as the duration expires. Against creatures that can resist his negative energy and poison, he uses dispelling magic. On more than one occasion, Orcus has beaten a cocky archmage to a pulp by centering an antimagic field on himself and wading into combat.

Orcus in the Great Game Orcus’ response to the brewing theomachy between Mormo and Lamashtu is cautious optimism. He desires more power in the Abyss, and Lamashtu could open the door for him to seize it. Kabriri and Zura are at the top of Orcus’ hit list, but views a direct assault on them as currently too risky to be worth the effort. If one of them were to make a move against Lamashtu and be punished for it, or if they were struck down in the scramble for power following Lamashtu’s (theoretical) demotion or demise, Orcus would happily swoop in to finish them off.  And if Mormo is capable of legitimately slaying a god, Orcus will be very keen to study her techniques.

Wand of Orcus (major artifact) The Wand of Orcus is the Prince of Undeath’s scepter of office, and it never leaves his side. Lesser versions have appeared in the Material Plane, often created by Orcus or one of his high-level clerics. The real Wand of Orcus is a Huge +5 anarchic, unholy heavy mace. In the hands of a demon, it grants a +4 profane bonus to Armor Class. The first time the Wand of Orcus strikes a living creature in a round, that creature is subject to a slay living spell (DC 30). Weight 24 lbs.; CL 25th

Demon Lord, Orcus        CR 28 XP 4,915,200 CE Huge outsider (chaos, demon, evil, extraplanar) Init +11; Senses arcane sight, darkvision 120 ft., detect good, detect law, Perception +48, true seeing Aura frightful presence (120 ft., DC 36), undead obedience (120 ft., Will DC 36), unholy (DC 28)

Defense AC 47, touch 23, flat-footed 40(-2 size, +7 Dex, +4 deflection, +4 profane, +24 natural) hp 709(33d10+528); regeneration 30 (deific or mythic) Fort +31, Ref +29, Will +34 DR 20/cold iron, epic and good; Immune ability damage, ability drain, charm, compulsion, death effects, electricity, energy drain, petrification and poison; Resist acid 30, cold 30, fire 30; SR 39 Defensive Abilities Abyssal resurrection, freedom of movement, negative energy affinity

Offense Speed 40 ft., fly 60 ft. (average) Melee Wand of Orcus +51/+46/+41/+36 (3d6+20 plus 2d6 chaos and 2d6 evil/19-20), claw +44 (1d8+7), sting (2d4+7 plus poison), gore (2d6+7) or 2 claws +46 (1d8+15), sting +46 (2d4+15 plus poison), gore +46 (2d6+15) Space 15 ft.; Reach 15 ft. Special Attacks epic spellcasting, powerful charge (gore, 4d6+22) Spell-like Abilities CL 28th, concentration +38 (+42 casting defensively) Constant—arcane sight, detect good, detect law, freedom of movement, true seeing, unholy aura (DC 28, self only) At will—animate dead*, astral projection, blasphemy* (DC 27), circle of death* (DC 28), create undead, enervation*, greater dispel magic, greater teleport, plane shift* (DC 25), telekinesis* (DC 25), unholy blight* (DC 24) 3/day—control undead (DC 29), create greater undead, energy drain (DC 31), finger of death* (DC 29), quickened greater dispel magic, quickened harm*, summon demons or undead, symbol of death (DC 30) 1/day—power word kill*, time stop*, true resurrection, wail of the banshee (DC 31) * Orcus can use the mythic version of this spell-like ability in his domain Spells Prepared CL 20th, concentration +32 (+36 casting defensively) 9th—energy drain (DC 33), etherealness, mage’s disjunction* (D, DC 31), overwhelming presence (DC 31), soul bind (DC 33), wail of the banshee (DC 33) 8th —cloak of chaos (DC 30), fire storm* (DC 30), greater spell immunity, horrid wilting (DC 32), orb of the void* (DC 32), protection from spells (D), unholy aura (DC 30) 7th —control weather, destruction (DC 31), greater scrying (DC 29, x2), repulsion, spell turning (D), waves of exhaustion 6th —antilife shell, antimagic field (D), banshee blast (DC 30), blade barrier* (DC 28), geas/quest, harm* (DC 30), mass bull’s strength 5th —dispel good (DC 27), flame strike (DC 27), greater command (DC 27), mass ghostbane dirge (DC 27), righteous might, suffocation (D, DC 29), vampiric shadow shield 4th —contagion (DC 28), death ward (D), divine power (x2), rest eternal, sending (x2)*, tongues 3rd —bestow curse (x2, DC 27), prayer*, protection from energy, rage (D, DC 25), ray of exhaustion, vampiric touch*, water breathing 2nd —bear’s endurance (x2), death knell (D, DC 26), desecrate, owl’s wisdom (x2), resist energy, spiritual weapon* 1st —bane (DC 25), divine favor (x2), entropic shield, identify (D), ray of enfeeblement* (DC 25), sanctuary (DC 23), shield of faith* 0th—bleed (DC 24), detect magic, light, read magic *—Orcus may use the mythic version of this spell in his Abyssal domain

Statistics Str 40, Dex 25, Con 42, Int 30, Wis 35, Cha 31 Base Atk +33; CMB +50; CMD 71 Feats Combat Casting, Combat Reflexes, Craft Magic Arms and Armor, Craft Rod, Craft Wondrous Item, Flyby Attack, Greater Spell Focus (necromancy), Greater Spell Penetration, Improved Critical (heavy mace), Improved Initiative, Hover, Multiattack, Mythic Spell Lore (B), Power Attack, Quicken SLA (greater dispel magic, harm), Spell Focus (necromancy), Spell Penetration Skills Bluff +46, Craft (alchemy, weaponsmithing) +46, Fly +36, Intimidate +43, Knowledge (arcana, planes, religion) +46, Knowledge (dungeoneering, history) +43, Perception +48, Sense Motive +48, Spellcraft +46, Stealth +35, Survival +45, Use Magic Device +46 Languages Abyssal, Common, Draconic, Infernal, Necril, telepathy 300 ft. SQ demon lord traits, master of death

Ecology Environment any land or underground (Abyss) Organization unique Treasure triple standard (Wand of Orcus, other treasure)

Special Abilities Aura of Undead Obedience (Su) Any undead creature within 120 feet that attempts to make a hostile action against Orcus must succeed a DC 36 Will save or be unable to take that action, wasting it. The save DC is Charisma based. Epic Spellcasting (Ex) Orcus gains Mythic Spell Lore as a bonus feat. Once per day, he can use one of his spell-like abilities or spells as if it was a mythic spell without spending a use of mythic power. This allows him to use a mythic spell or spell-like ability outside of his Abyssal domain, but he cannot augment that spell or spell-like ability by spending additional uses of mythic power. Master of Death (Ex) Orcus applies his Spell Focus and Greater Spell Focus (necromancy) feats to his spell-like abilities. Death effects created by Orcus, including the Wand of Orcus in his hands, ignore immunity to death effects except for those granted by creature type, or from deific or mythic sources. Poison (Ex) Sting—injury; save Fort DC 42; duration 1/round for 4 rounds; damage 1d6 Str and 1d6 Con; cure 2 consecutive saves. A creature reduced to 0 Str by Orcus’ poison cannot breathe and begins to suffocate. The save DC is Constitution based. Spells Orcus can cast spells as a 20th level cleric, and can prepare necromancy spells from the sorcerer/wizard list as if they were cleric spells. He gets access to domain slots, and can fill them with spells from any of his domains or subdomains. He can also spontaneously cast inflict spells as an evil cleric can. Summon Demons and Undead (Sp) When Orcus summons demons, he can also summon undead creatures.

[triste-guillotine]

ROTTING CHRIST “Passage to Arcturo” MLP 1991 (A milestone of ancient Hellenic Black Metal Cult ! The Old Coffin Spirit still lives on...)

1. Intro - Ach Golgotha (The Small One on the Cross) 2. The Old Coffin Spirit 3. The Forest of N'Gai 4. The Mystical Meeting (Sevlesmeth Esoth Spleh Dog) 5. Gloria de Domino Inferni 6. Inside the Eye of Algond

“Circle within circle The sacred hours come They passed to obscure deeds The final step before the meeting What I wish appears in my sleep Surpass the whole mortal life As succubus creeps in my cold room Trespass the invisible zone Archeogonic theory is fallen by reborn Those who believed the one Follow the light now Marking the way to mystical meeting”

https://rottingchristofficial.bandcamp.com/album/passage-to-arcturo

[templeofthev01d]

©️ ᐯ丨丂丨ㄥㄩ乂 - 2024

[chococolte]

Hello! May I request SAGAU childe reaction to his god letting him rest his head in their lap and saying they love him? I hope that’s alright thank you I hope you have a lovely day!

word count. 669

୨୧ — ꒰ cw. yandere, unhealthy relationships, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, religious + cult themes, sagau + cult au, gn reader. i do not condone yanderes irl.

୨୧ — ꒰ a/n. something possessed me and i wrote this in like 30 mins?? also this is barely proofread so im sorry for any mistakes TT

Childe is acutely aware of every muscle in his body.

Your hand rests on his head, gently caressing his hair. Every glide of your fingers against his skin sends a rush of euphoria down his spine, mixed with the ever growing urge to hide his face in your thighs and escape into your warmth.

He feels every minute twitch of his fingers, the rumble of his heart, the dull ache in the back of his head that presses deep against his skull the longer every word of worship stays unsaid on his tongue.

Childe has never felt so blessed before. If every death on his hands was for this short moment, he would do it how many times it takes for another second. There is no place he'd rather be than by your side— whether that is at your feet, as your shadow, or merely another in a crowd of worshipers.

He doesn't know what exactly he did to deserve this, but he would throw himself back into the abyss if it meant figuring out what it was. Anything for a repeat of this moment. Anything for it last a little longer.

Your breath is barely audible above him, but he bites his tongue anyway— stops his breath short in his throat so he can etch the sound into his mind; burn it into his memory so he can never forget. Anything to make the you in his dreams more accurate. Anything to make it so the next time he sleeps, it feels a little bit more like reality.

Sacrilegious to tarnish your image in his mind, maybe; but your fingers still coil around the curls of his hair, still hum under your breath a tune unfamiliar to him. His copper-lashes still flutter close, his mind still veiled with fog and dazed thoughts of where this moment could go next— and you're still there, letting him enjoy this short reprieve before he is torn from you again, back to another battlefield drenched in blood, to the darkness and bitter silence found in the halls of the Tsaritsa's palace.

He once lived without you, utterly lost and alone. He should be used to the ache left in the wake of your presence. But then you found him, and he can't bear the thought to be apart from you again.

Childe feels your hand still, and his eyes snap open before he can register anything else.

Did he do something wrong? Did he do something to upset you? Fears muddle his mind and dread clings to him like a cloak, burrowing into his flesh and wrapping around his lungs.

"I love you, Ajax."

Life rushes into him all at once. Like the warm morning rising onto a world covered in black and ash, an unbearable heat suffused his cheeks and spread from his chest to every inch of his body. It wrestles with gray of his world and brings it color and vibrancies.

He jumps, rising so he can catch the expression on your face. You're smiling, eyes crinkled at the corners, with so much fondness dancing within that it hurts. Childe doesn't feel deserving of it— he's only barely begun to prove himself to you.

Maybe you read the disbelief on his face, because you repeat yourself. You say it softly. Gently. You say it with so much affection and love he can barely comprehend it. His soul sings, and his heart drums, and his eyes turn glossy before he can stop them.

Only you can make him feel this way. Only you are deserving of his worship. Only you, in all of your grace— only you, in all of your perfection. Anybody else is secondary. They are inherently meaningless when compared to you. And in this moment, you shine ever brighter— you make him realize just how lucky he is to have you as a god.

"I..." Childe chokes on his words, finding it harder to keep his emotions at bay. "I love you too, Your Grace. Only you."

[ruvviks]

// wip day.

i'm working on a new project that is (for once) not connected to any of my bigger original universes, so i thought i'd share some of the writing i have for it! taglist down below, feel free to take this opportunity to share your own wips (in a separate post of course) if you have any!! the first part is a sort of introduction to the story, from the perspective of main character marshall! the second part is a snippet from a scene much further into the story, to kind of paint a picture (for both you and myself lol) of what the setting and the tone of the story is gonna be like. it's a bit different writing than what you're used to from me so please take a moment to read the warnings first!! warnings >> blood, cult, death, implied cannibalism, gore, religion, violence

God won't speak to me.

He spoke to my sister when we were eleven, her howls echoing through the backyard of our childhood home as the venom of a wasp spread quickly through her veins.

He spoke to my mother the day we buried her oldest son, the hem of her alcohol-stained dress torn where it had caught on the thorns of a blackberry bush she had blankly passed through.

He spoke to my father the day he put the barrel of a .44 in his mouth, reenacting what he had classified a sin for all the wrong reasons, his trembling finger on the trigger strong enough to rip apart the last tendon holding our family together yet not to finish the job.

I was eighteen, when I was found on the river bank near Overture, Louisiana, the sharp end of a jagged knife plunged deep within my side and my bloodied hands clutching the cross necklace of my brother, my breathing akin to the ice cold shallow water grazing at my ankles as I stared up at the star-spotted sky with glazed over eyes, blue chapped lips shaped in the final hum of a prayer.

A black abyss stared back, a strained vacuum without comfort, leaving me with a plea unheard and the metallic taste of blood in my mouth.

And God did not answer.

'Gotta dig… Just gotta dig. Gotta get 'em out of there… Gotta take 'em home…'

The physical distance between Marshall and the grave did not muffle the continuous mumbling, the shaky voice of the young priest clear as day like a whisper directly in his ear as the eerie silence looming over the church's cemetery left him with not much else to focus on. He knew he should turn around and leave, at that hour of the night— get back in his car and return to Posey in the motel, get some sleep while he still could— yet curiosity held him tight within its grasp, and each step he took pushed him closer into the wrong direction.

'Just the bones… Just the bones…'

The man was hunched over, back turned towards Marshall and partially obscured by the few last rows of gravestones stood between the two of them. His neck twitched— a sudden and unexpected movement at an angle Marshall did not hold for possible, yet it had happened entirely too fast for him to clearly see.

'Hey, is everything alright?' he called out; well against his better judgment, hairs on his forearms standing up straight as his feet carried him another few inches closer to the priest.

And the closer he got, the more he wished he had listened to himself.

If he had just turned away, he wouldn't have had to notice the unusual and unplaceable noises bubbling up from the priest's direction. He wouldn't have had to realize the priest was sat next to a coffin, yet to be lowered into an undug grave. (A curious practice, but Marshall was not one to judge— Overture'd had to endure a rather tiresome series of curiosities as of late, and an unburied corpse in the middle of bumfuck Louisiana in the midst of a yet to be explained power cut would be the least of its problems.)

'Just the bones…. Gotta dig… Gotta bring 'em home.'

'Do you need help?' Marshall persistently asked, his voice muffled by the thrumming of his own heart in his eardrums while his eyes trailed over the coffin— splintered and shattered at the lid, the glimmer of the distant church lights barely enough to reveal the outline of an axe resting on the dirt at the priest's ankles.

'Have to do it, there's no other way. Gotta dig, gotta dig, gotta dig—'

'Hey!'

Marshall should have never stayed in town.

He realized that now, as the priest's obsessive muttering came to a sudden stop forcing Marshall to hold still too— yet he had already approached too closely, and realized that no dirt had been dug in at all, and realized that the priest's hands were instead stuck inside the coffin repeatedly plunging deeper and deeper into the rotting remains of the corpse inside, once white vestment covered in blood and gore and he stared up at Marshall with a faint glow in two milky white eyes and with a wide grin exposing bloodied and shattered teeth, much akin to a predator looking at its next prey.

'Just the bones,' he repeated, the nodding of his head nearly belittling— as if to convince Marshall this was how it was supposed to be, as if to convince him the Word of God was not to be neglected and his fate as a sinner was a gift to the Divine Light and as if to convince him as long as he would not struggle it would all be over soon.

'Gotta dig.'

Marshall could not move, lamb to the slaughter as the priest rose to his feet with the axe in his hand.

'Just the bones! Gotta take 'em home.'

taglist (opt in/out)

@velocitic, @deadrlngers, @euryalex, @ordinarymaine, @gurathins;

@mojaves, @shellibisshe, @dickytwister, @mnwlk, @rindemption;

@ncytiri, @calenhads, @noirapocalypto, @florbelles, @radioactiveshitstorm;

@strafethesesinners, @fashionablyfyrdraaca, @aemondtargeryen, @radioactive-synth, @katsigian;

@estevnys, @elgaravel

[akronus-writes]

Walking on a path of shattered glass chapter 1. the eldritch rat lord

I found myself in that same place, the bottom of a dusty quarry in the desert, completely abandoned mining equipment scattered about, but no signs of life anywhere around me. I stepped forward, approaching the dark maw of a cave at the other side of the ravine, its darkness pulling me in like the grasp of an eldritch beasts tentacles. After a few seconds of thinking, I walked towards the opening, my only company a handful of rats that ran almost robotically into the cave.

as I entered the maw of the cave, I felt something surround me, it felt eldritch in nature, but more familiar than my previous cases, like meeting a long lost sibling, a long lost sibling that was ravenously hungry. I readied myself for a fight with whatever it was, drawing my blade from the ether.

and as the beast rushed towards me from the darkness, I jumped back. but instead of dodging the maws of a ravenous beast, I banged my head into the leg of my desk, waking myself from another nightmare.

as I pulled myself up from under my desk, I sighed "I should really get an actual bed, sleeping in a cat bed seems pretty detrimental to my health, even if its in cat form," I spoke to no one in particular, before sitting up in my chair and reaching for the first file on my desk, stayovers from last night. Paperwork is still pretty important for private detectives, even if I am staunchly ACAB, and deal with the supernatural exclusively.

but instead of a casefile on a poltergeist, I found myself grabbing the same brown and gold notebook as yesterday, fresh on my desk as if I hadn't tried to destroy it for the fortieth time just last night.

"what do you want!? I found you in an abandoned house months ago, screw off!" I screamed at the inanimate object.

I grabbed the Journal and threw it into my wall, blasting it with a shot of pure ether for extra measure. I walked over to the book, crouching down to pick it up when I noticed something different.

"that wasn't there a couple months ago," I muttered to myself. Picking the book up, I read the page it had landed on. it was a set of coordinates, and a rough drawing of where I my nightmares had been taking me.

"paperwork or following a magical book to were my recurring nightmares have been taking me," I weighed the two options carefully "screw it, paperwork sucks," I pocketed the book, grabbed my blade 'god-binder' from my desk, and teleported to roughly the coordinates.

In a burst of purple light I found myself at the bottom of a ravine, the blistering sun beating down on my skin like a constant barrage of punches. Around me laid heavy machinery, sand covering the tracks and tires, rocks and sand still sitting in the scoops, as if the miners had just disappeared. The only life in the quarry apart from me being the rats that ran across the sandy walkways above me.

I felt myself once again drawn to the dark maw of that cave.

Cautiously walking in, I quickly felt the stone around me restrict and tighten, forcing me to crawl on my knees. As I crawled I felt the stone press against my back, threatening to tear up both my shirt and pants, and scraping my arms against jagged rock.

Even as I entered cat form and walked through in a much smaller form, the impossibly small opening becoming more claustrophobic by the second. The only sounds left to accompany me being the sounds of claws scratching against my rocky surroundings, the chitters and soft pitter patter of the rats that joined me in this cave now deafeningly loud.

and as the last remnants of light in the cave finally died out and I entered the pitch black abyss that was the depths of this cave, the rats became louder, more of them moved, their chitters loud enough to silence the gods.

Eventually I escaped the chittering, and found myself in a large chamber, illuminated by a strange bio-luminescent vine, with strange stone carvings chiselled into the walls.

"a cult? that would make sense, but which one? the chiselling would say one of the older ones, but bio-luminescent vines for lights? that's more modern-" I mused, wondering to myself. Until I kicked a skull that laid at the edge of the opening.

"I guess that's where the miners went, makes sense I guess," I noted to myself, following a trail of increasingly older bones with my eyes, until it rounded a corner.

"maybe pre-history? some of these bones look more like they're made of dust and mouldy air," I half-heartedly joked, trying to stifle my growing fear.

rounding the corner, I found myself confronted by a horrifyingly large piled of bones, so old I'd bet single touch would render them all to dust. But most intriguingly, I saw the edges of what seemed to be a robe, made of red cloth and golden cuffs.

"that should help me figure things out," I smiled as I spoke, finally finding a lead. I leaned over and tugged on the edge of the robe, only to meet enough resistance to turn the old skeletons that made up the pile into ash, and sending me tumbling back with the edge of torn robes.

"well, this won't be useful," I sighed, throwing the cloth behind me as I stood up, not noticing that something seemed to be writhing underneath the dust.

I turned around, preparing to walk off, as I heard the dust begin to fall onto the ground, as a shadow blocked the lights from the vine behind me. "oh, I assume you are the murderer," I joked, turning around to face my would be assailant, or assailants "I guess murderers would be better, right?" I quipped, trying to ignore how my heart seems to of stopped beating at the sight of the beast.

in front of me 'stood' a towering beast made of hundreds of writhing rats, each in different stages of decomposition, their tails wrapped together, forming a towering humanoid rat like beast with a crown of borderline skeletal rats. another quippy line came to fast, but I was much more distracted with dodging its club like fist of dead rats, which smashed into the floor were I had once stood and quickly reformed.

I shot a cacophony of blasts at the beast, but every time the ether quickly spread out among a few rats, and the dent in its body quickly reformed. I dodged more blows, struggling to keep up with the inexhaustible beast.

As I dodged I began to notice something, the fresher the body of the rat I hit the more the blast seems to hurt it, and that all of the rats seemed to be tied together so that the most decomposed rat was connected to the second most, and then the third most, presumably continuing on to one that controlled the rest.

"ah, that's your trick," I chuckled to myself, realising the pure genius in the way my opponent worked. I quickly dodged another blow, but my exhaustion from the continuous dodging began to catch up with me, as the mace like fist of the beast sent me flying into the wall, breaking a few ribs with a sickening crunch. I quickly stood, noticing that my healing factor hadn't healed my injuries already.

"that's a first, which is bad," I chuckled before gasping in pain. And dodging away once more, deciding to focus more on taking this thing out, and then dealing with my broken bones. following the trail to rats that seemed to just barely pass for decomposed, I followed the trail to the back tail of the beast.

"there you are, little bastard!" I yelled victoriously as I shot a blast the tip of the beasts tail, only for the blast to do nothing but recoil the beast slightly. "w-what!? that, that was the main one, right!?" I screamed, panicked, until I noticed something, the rat was missing an eye.

I grinned, realisation dawning over me as I turned to the pile of dust that the beast had rose from, now much smaller without something hiding inside of it. I dodged another strike from the beast, dashing over to the pile of dust as I began to rake my hands through it, searching for a final rat.

I heard a guttural, chittering roar, and turned my head to see the beast charge at me, its fist barrelling towards my skull.

Time seemed to slow down in that moment, as I desperately raked my hand through the dust the beasts fist got inches, and then centimetres from my face, and then I felt it, the final rat. blasting a burst of eldritch energy into what I hoped was the rat, I shut my eyes, tensing for the impact, but it never came.

looking at my right hand, covered in dust, I saw the charred corpse of a rat in my hand. And I grinned, laughing as I walked back to the entrance of the cave, not noticing how it had somehow grown large enough for me to fit and my bones healed, or as something else wrote itself into the journal.

Teleporting home, I saw threw my blade onto my desk, and stretched, only to notice that beast standing in my office. "w-what the-!?" I recoiled confused, grabbing for my blade.

"we agree with what you mean, this is strange," what sounded like a low chittering translated into English came from the beast.

"...you could talk!?" I yelled, confused, and mildly pissed off.

"only after you defeated us, and then we woke up here," the beast replied.

"...well, do you have a name?" I questioned, trying to calm down and think.

"we are the eldritch rat lord, one of 30 we presume," it replied, glossing over its last point matter of-factly.

"one of 30!?" I screamed again, not wanting to deal with another of this beast.

"our main body, the one you destroyed in the fight, has a strange eldritch 30 in its back, we can only assume that's what it means," it replied, clearly worried for my health, at least partially.

"...I have an eldritch 0 in my back?" I responded, starting to think.

"a 0? and a 30?" it chittered, beginning to think.

"wait, I was led to you by a journal, it might help us figure this out!" I practically yelled, jumping up as I flipped to the first page of the journal.

"well, why did you not tell me that from the start?" it replied with the same excitement, quickly moving behind me to read with me.

we read in silence, deathly quiet as we read the words on the first page: these writings are of the 31 eldritch abominations which exceed even beings of the eldritch origins in their exoticness. Numbered from 0-30, they all are bound to each other as siblings, while in their current state, they may not communicate properly and their immortality is weakened while nearby. but once 0. Akronus, has defeated and 'bound' all of their siblings, they will find themself to be finally whole, empowered, and able to communicate with their siblings in the same language.

I turned to look up at the eldritch rat lord as I flipped to the next page, only to notice that it had dissapeared, but I still heard it speak.

"so, siblings, that's interesting," it spoke, intrigued.

"I agree, now where'd you go?" I asked as I looked around, confused and slightly frustrated.

"...we might of somehow ended up in the book," it responded after a few seconds of thought.

I turned to the journal again, seeing a sentient drawing of the eldritch rat lord accompanied by a description of it and its powers.

"well, I guess that makes storage slightly easier!" I quipped, starting to lighten up with my new 'sibling'.

"I guess it will, now I guess the next objective is the other 29 siblings?" it nodded along as it spoke, taking this situation quite well all things considered.

"yeah, probably," I agreed as I, pulled a book off my desk, a giant dusty tome of Arcane anomalies. this would take a bit.

story 2.

@the-thing-of-worms @good-wizard @f4y3w00d5 @gobodegoblin @monsterfucker-research-wizard

[legitalicat]

From The Book Emerges a Man (Part 1) - Miraak x Reader

AN: This is my first official request made by my spiritual twin the lovely @foxyanon ! It is also my first proper Skyrim fanfic! I was surprised to find I enjoyed writing this as much as I did. I think I may be a Miraak girl now. Also Miraak's appearance is inspired by both this fanart by buttery_roll on Instagram!

Masterlist here!

Summary: Hermaeus Mora, often regarded as a demonic trickster, has sentenced you to be responsible for Miraak for the rest of his days. You can't help but despise the former Dragon Priest. Until you realize that he's only human.

TW: Tentacles (not inherently sexual in context but still), violence, weapons, mentions of blood, tension, forced proximity trope, TENSION, talks of a cult, enemies to friends, no romance YET, Hermaeus Mora, vampires, no reader description except wears a dress

Pairings: Past Miraak x OC

Word Count: 3.3k

The First of the Dragonborns and the Last Dragonborn. You could imagine the bards singing of this legendary battle for the rest of the Era. A mythical tale centuries, maybe a few millennia, in the making.

Yet, you couldn’t do it. Staring at the former Dragon Priest before you, an arrow notched in your bow as you were prepared to release the final piercing blow, when you came to the realization. Hermaeus Mora would only use you to the end of your days. Yet, if Miraak were to live, you would be free. Having slain his dragons, Miraak was no longer a threat to Nirn.

So, you dropped the bow and turned away. You would exit the way you came with the Black Book. You were free, and free you would remain.

“No,” Hermaeus Mora said, appearing before you as the Wretched Abyss.

“I leave. He lives. You lose,” you said angrily. “I am tired of being the plaything to bastards who won’t handle their business themselves!”

“You wish for me to handle my business myself? So be it,” his voice echoed around you as though it emerged from the very air of his realm.

Tentacles emerged from the oily pool behind you and wrapped themselves around your neck. For a moment, you were ready. Sovngarde was a better fate, where you were revered and rewarded for your sacrifices to the world, than to be at Mora’s will for the rest of his days.

“You think I will kill you? No, foolish mortal. It is not your time, and it is not your fate,” Mora said to you, toying with you. “You are slated for more…divine prospects.”

“Fuck you,” you uttered as the tentacles squeezed tighter, inadvertently lifting you off the ground.

“Even fate may be changed should one so desire,” he told you, your vision going fuzzy at the edges as you struggled for air. “And since you have decided you shall change his, he is now yours. After all, you have a debt to be paid.”

He dropped you, his tentacles retreating to the ooze. You gasped for a breath when you hit your knees. The fuzziness disappeared as you stared at the ground. He couldn’t be serious.

“Miraak, the First Dragonborn, the betrayer of the Priests, the First Servant, your final task is to serve the Last Dragonborn until your last breath. You shall leave Apocrypha a mortal man once more, the clock beginning where it froze when I first brought you. This shall be your new fate.”

That was what brought you home to Skyrim, Miraak by your side. You knew it was easier than continuing to fight. You had relative freedom while forcing this betrayer of Men and Mer to help you in your duty to Nirn. It felt like justice enough.

Your first night back in Skyrim, you made your way by carriage to your home, Lakeview Manor. You had thought the first person you would bring there, aside from your housecarl Rayya that is, would be your husband. Never had you imagined you would be forced to share your home with a long unimportant Dragon Priest.

“This is where you will keep me? This…hovel?” he asked as you began to dismount the carriage. “I was a king!”

You pulled him down by his robes, and flung him into the dirt. You put your full weight on top of him, sitting with a knee on either side of his chest. You pulled Mehrune’s Dagger from its sheath on your side and held the blade to his throat.

“A king?” you snarled. “You were a tool, a puppet, to be used by Mora until your veins ran dry! And now he’s stuck you with me. Tell me, little worm, do you feel the threatening aura of this blade now? Now that you can once again die by a mortal’s hand, do you feel the fear you brought upon others?”

The fact he still insisted upon wearing the mask and robes from his days as a Dragon Priest infuriated you to no end. It kept you from seeing the fear this blade now instilled in him. You could feel it in the way his muscles tensed under you. The nikriin (coward) was so used to preying on those he could control and manipulate, he didn’t know how to play fair.

You moved your dagger from his throat and cut away at the fabric holding his golden mask in place. In anger, you threw it far from where you two were and watched it as it disappeared down the hill. And if the Divine were good, you would never see the stupid thing in your life again.

You were surprised when you turned back to face him. You had not known much of the Dragon Priests, if you were honest, at least not before you were declared Dragonborn. So, you truly had not expected the man before you.

You would be surprised if Miraak was younger than forty, at least physically. There were fine lines on from the outer corners of his eyes. His hair was darker than you had expected, black with white peppered throughout. It was fast approaching his shoulders, a few wisps resting across his face. His beard was much the same in terms of coloring, the short coarse hair following along his jawline and trailing around his lips.

What captivated you, though, were the scars and his eyes. The scars, you suppose, could’ve been expected. He had championed a rebellion against Dragons, and you were all too familiar with them at this point to think the scars, that dragged across his face from under his right eye and disappearing into the left half of his beard, had been made by anything other than the claws of dragons. His eyes were overwhelmingly stunning. A sliver of a black pupil surrounded by a bright yellow that faded into a burning orange, his eyes looked reptilian.

“I earned my kingdom, Dragonborn,” he growled.

You pushed yourself off of him, practically growling in pure frustration as you sheathed your dagger. You began to walk into the house, thinking of ways you could send him back to Oblivion, when you stopped. Your old friend Faendal had always told you your heart was too big, and as you thought about the man who had been alone for over a millennia, you could understand why. You almost felt a pity for him now, as mortal as any other man with everyone he had ever known dead.

You did not turn back to face him. You merely took in a few deep breaths, smelling the smoke from the hearth’s fire floating into the sky above and the lake all but a stone’s throw away. And it felt calming. That was why you picked this place.

“Go to the lake and take a bath, you stink of horse and sea. I will have my steward bring you a set of clothes, leave the robes. I want no other connection to the atrocities you’ve committed in my house. We stay here for a week, then I have other holdings I must tend to,” you told him before walking into the home.

Your week went by rather quickly. Thankfully, both Falkreath and Whiterun were close enough to Lakeview that you could check on them during the week. The Jarls and their stewards had no news for their holds, each citing the end of the war as better news for their jails. None of your contacts in either offered a different story. At least for now, all seemed right in your favorite corner of the world.

Until you returned to the manor and found Miraak struggling to wrestle your cow into a single place so that he could milk it. You didn’t even really understand what you were seeing as you watched this insane man. He was wearing standard tavern clothes, the only clothes for men you had in your possession, and just kept wrapping his arms around the cow in a multitude of places. You could only assume he was trying hold it one position, at least.

You looked to Rayya, who was leaning against a nearby tree with a smirk on her face. You walked over to your steward.

“What is going on??” you asked her.

“You told me you wanted him to earn his keep. The ignorant fool won’t accept the fact that he is failing,” she said, chuckling.

“So you think it better to allow him to stress out my cow?” you asked.

“I tried, my Thane. He would not listen to anyone but you,” she told you. She shook her head and walked away, no doubt to do her rounds of the property.

Sighing, you walked over to the pen that held your cow and chickens. The chickens may not have been smart, but they had at least managed to keep out of his grasp. Your poor cow, that you had named after Faendal after one too many Black-Briar Meads, was mooing indignantly as she kept trying to step out of his grasp. She was just a little too slow to accomplish it.

“What are you doing?” you asked him.

“This cow will learn it’s place. It will listen to me,” he told you, not even bothering to glance your way as he repositioned his grip once more.

“Oh my fuck are you truly that much of an idiot?” you asked him as you pulled him off the cow.

He stood straight and looked down at you. He truly was an imposing force. Without his padded robes, he was still broad shouldered. You were near certain he was a solid wall of muscle, taller than you by at least a head.

“Rayya cares for her every day, you are a stranger to her. She has no trust in you, she will not willingly give you what you have not yet earned,” you snapped at him.

His eyes, which still dazzled you, moved down to look directly at his feet. You could see Miraak’s jaw clench and release a few times over.

“I…I apologize, Dragonborn. I merely thought I should earn my keep here,” he said quietly. “I know that you more than anyone is paying a price near too high for Mora’s trickery.”

His apology was sincere. So sincere, in fact, you were rendered speechless. The last few weeks had been so intense, between the Mora’s decision, the journey back to Skyrim from Solstheim, and the duties and detours you had as was your duty to Skyrim. You had never once suspected he may, after so long, feel some inkling of regret for his actions.

“Just…my stewards, anyone I employ, really, they know what they are doing. You can trust that their instruction will be true and fair,” you muttered. You began to side step him when his arm grabbed you.

You had been travelling light since your return, trading your normal armor for a green dress that you saw that tavern woman wore. It felt freeing, to some degree, to be able to go at least just a few days without armor stiffening your movements. So, his hand touched your bare skin. Goose pimples popped up over your entire body as his heat spread over you and your blood rushed to your cheeks.

“How was your trip?” he asked you. Surprised, you turned to face him. His handsome face once again took your breath away.

“Uneventful. Thank the Divine,” you said. His eyes traveled to your chest, where an amulet to your favorite Divine rested.

“I didn’t take you for one of piety,” he commented.

“I never was but being a god sent piece to move about the board, you gain an appreciation,” you muttered.

“I shall get our things ready to ride for Solitude tomorrow,” he said. He let you go and walked into the house.

It was supposed to be a simple ride. You had made it so many times and so many ways. You had even chosen to stick to the roads this time to avoid any such event.

But pesky vampires didn’t care much for plans. They were getting more courageous, some even coming out in the broad daylight. Which is exactly what these did.

There were at least ten of them. It was one of the larger groups you had come across. And when one laid slain at your feet, another came. They were overwhelming you.

Until he saved you.

In moments that were almost too quick to comprehend, he had cut down any vampire that had touched you. There was a fire burning in his eyes as he moved his sword about. You stood there, stunned, as the blood of vampires drenched him when the last of them were dead.

He looked at you, that fire seeming to consume him. Miraak closed the distance between you, pulling your dented helm from your head to toss it aside, and took your face in his firm hands.

“Are you hurt?” he asked you. His eyes searched your face. Your armor had thankfully kept any of their attacks from reaching your flesh.

“Yes,” you whispered.

He looked like he was at a loss for words entirely. His gaze softened as he looked you over once more. And if you were crazy, which despite all the blows to the head you most definitely were not, you would have sworn he looked a little teary eyed.

“Let’s set up camp for the evening. It would be night soon, and you should rest,” he said quietly as he released you from his hold. You watched as he walked away into the nearby forest.

You looked as the sun was beginning to set over the mountains. Thankfully there was enough light left to arrange your camp. You got to work silently on building a simple lean-to with enough room to fit both of you. You had hidden it a bit past the tree line, giving you perfect view of the road without being seen from it.

Miraak returned to your side not long after you were finished making a fire with a deer he had shot down and dressed. And so you watched as he butchered it down into smaller slabs of meat. Once it was on the fire cooking, the stars already shone bright in the sky.

“You can’t milk a cow but you can field dress a deer?” you asked him. You were both sitting by the fire, and you glanced up at him.

The firelight danced across his features. It seemed to make the scars even deeper. His eyes practically glowed at any time, but seemed ethereal now.

“It is not much different than slaughtering a Dragon. More pliable, but that typically works to my favor,” he answered with a shrug.

“I have to ask. You were…I mean you were a dragon priest. The world laid at your feet, you only had to answer to the dragons. Why ruin all that, why turn on them and seal your fate in Apocrypha?” you asked him.

Until you had spoken the words, you didn’t realize how much you desired an answer. The stories from the Merethic Era were scattered at best. Most of them had been deemed so impossible that they were nothing but a legend. Even Miraak’s story had been lost, and his was truth.

“The Dragons were cruel. Simple as that,” he told you with another shrug.

“No. That was known by everyone once they arrived in Tamriel. That’s not a good enough answer. So the truth. Now,” you said firmly.

He sighed and leaned forward a bit. He adjusted the meat’s position over the fire before looking to you.

“There were barely better to us than they were the men they ruled over. We were given control, sure, but at what cost? They fed us their barely edible scraps, instructed us to build temples until our hands bled. They didn’t even allow human companions for us, only them. It is not a great wonder many were able to scatter and bury the dragons, we were used to being alone,” he told you. You leaned back a bit, resting yourself against the shelter.

“There was a woman,” he said quietly.

“Isn’t there always?” you muttered. If he heard you, he didn’t acknowledge your words.

“This woman was…she was beautiful. One of your Divines personified, if I ever cared to wager. There was no other explanation for how one as stunning as the stars could exist on Nirn,” he said. His voice was soft, heavy.

“You fell in love,” you whispered.

You had never imagined a man such as him in love. In the few stories you had managed to hear, he was not exactly the warm and fuzzy type. More akin to the dragons he once served than a rabbit. And his ferocity in the fight against the vampires earlier felt like proof of that.

But then you thought of the way he looked at you. The way he touched you, or held you. How ever since he joined your company, you hadn’t so much as even gotten a scratch. How he seemed to always be aware of the next step, ensuring that no harm came to you.

Your heart began fluttering against your chest like a thousand butterflies has been entrapped inside you. You had been so preoccupied with hating him and hating how he had been thrust upon you, you had never thought of him as anything but a monster.

“I did. But like I said, our lives were dedicated to the Dragons. We were allowed nothing more. The rest of the world…the dragons made their lives torturous, yes. I will not deny that, and I will not deny the part I played. But, at least they got to share their life with someone.”

You nodded silently.

“When Alduin found out I dared break one of their many rules, he made me watch as they tore her limb from limb. My dear Thildys, whose only crime was being the object of all my desires. And if that were not cruel enough, The World Eater marked me for eternity with his claws still dripping with her blood,” he said.

Your heart ached for him. You remembered how you felt when you found Kodlak had been killed. The betrayal from the universe felt as real as any wound you had suffered. You weren’t even in love with Kodlak and you killed the Silver Hands to avenge him and the entire Glenmoril Coven just to give him way to escape the clutches of Hircine’s Hunt.

You thought of what you would do for a person you had loved. Especially if the beings you considered gods made you watch while they tore your love apart. And you felt a burning desire within you to destroy anyone who had so much as whispered your name. You couldn’t begin to fathom what it would feel like for real.

“You rebelled in revenge,” you said.

“I did. I thought…I thought if I overpowered them I would have the power to turn back fate. They feared me, for a while, as I amassed followers and slew Dragons. And then I began to lose, the rest of the Dragon Priests circled Alduin and fought against me, turned my allies against me. Then Mora promised me that if I served him, he would give Thildys back to me. That is all I have wanted all this time,” Miraak finished his tale.

You were waiting for some lament about how Mora tricked him. That seemed to be the status quo wherever Hermaeus Mora made himself known. He would promise powerful people the world, and all they got was an earful of lies.

But yet nothing of the sort fell from his lips. He merely pulled the meat off the fire and portioned both of you out some. You noticed he handed you a larger slab. Before you could protest, he spoke.

“You have her eyes, Dragonborn.”

[thecreaturecodex]

Dream Lord, Manus

"Artorias vs Manus" © twitter user Max58Art, accessed at The Art of Video Games here

[Sponsored by Soluman Blevins. Manus is the Bonus Boss of Dark Souls, whose lore is deeply woven into the game but can only be fought in an expansion. In universe, his title is Father of the Abyss, but the Abyss in Dark Souls and the Abyss in D&D/Pathfinder are two very different things. So I struggled for a while of where to put him. As a nascent demon lord? As a Great Old One? I finally decided on Dream Lord, a category of my own invention, which at this point is made up of demigods from video games whose lore and magic systems do not intersect nicely with any form of Pathfinder canon. The Plateau of Leng seems like a reasonable place for the litany of nightmares From Software creates.]

Dream Lord, Manus CR 25 CE Outsider (extraplanar) This creature is vaguely humanoid, but its form has clearly been warped and distorted past the point of caricature. His head is small, with a leering demonic face and a set of antlers. His shoulders are enormous, and multiple sets of rib-like appendages grow from his shoulders and along his upper back, studded with luminous red eyes. His right arm is proportional and carries a staff with a scythe-like blade. His left arm is as thick as his torso, ending in a massive hairy paw with spikes on the underside of the fingers. Shaggy fur, or perhaps simply ribbons of gray-black skin, coat his thighs and a long, lashing tail.

Father of the Chasm, God of Primal Darkness, the Dark Soul CE male Dream Lord of loss, negative energy and obsession Domains Chaos, Darkness, Evil, Madness Subdomains Entropy, Insanity, Loss, Shadow Worshipers denizens of Leng, hoarders, stalkers, vampires Minions mutants, nightshades, shadows, sorrowsworn Unholy Symbol An oversized hand Favored Weapon ogre hook Obedience in complete darkness, spend one hour cutting, whipping or otherwise tearing your skin while meditating on an object or a person you once had in your life but have lost. Gain a +4 profane bonus on saving throws versus positive or negative energy. Once this choice is made, it cannot be reversed Boons 1: darkness 2/day; 2: enervation 2/day; 3: harm 2/day

Manus is a nightmarish beast of darkness, an infection that seeks to cause the horrors of Leng to overrun the Waking World. He was also once a man. The original Manus was a powerful magic user, according to his cult the first mortal to manipulate negative energy. Although his methods were cruel and his goals covetous, he was considered a great hero by his people and was buried with high honors. When his grave was robbed, however, his pendant was stolen from it. The pendant was broken, and whatever magic it contained had long seeped out of it, but Manus’ obsessive desire to reclaim his property caused his soul and memory to go wild, transforming into a creature of pure nightmare. Manus’ mausoleum is now the heart of the Chasm of the Abyss, a demiplane coterminous between Leng and the Material Plane, and it is here where the Father of the Chasm resides.

Manus wants things. His broken pendant most of all. His cultists sweep the planes searching for this relic, and whatever they find instead, they offer as tribute. Manus’ lair contains piles and piles of valuables, the riches of a dozen realities and a thousand kingdoms, and he cares for none of it except his amulet. Of course, it is the nature of his madness that if Manus ever retrieved his broken pendant, he would certainly find a new indignity to focus on and object or person to obsess over. He also collects hostages, although he rarely exchanges them and more often warps them into mutants or madmen through his very presence. Manus’ worshipers are as obsessive as he is, and his faith is attractive to stalkers, hoarders, social climbers and other people with warped and envious desires.

Combat is one of the few things that allows Manus to forget his pain and obsessions, and tends to attack first and ask questions of the corpses of his victims later. Although he is a powerful spellcaster, he usually leads with his physical attacks. He uses his channel negative energy ability to empower the Manus Catalyst, his signature hooked staff. Against multiple opponents, he tries to spread his attacks out, enjoying the suffering he causes before finishing them off with a mighty swat of his grotesquely hypertrophied hand. He usually doesn’t use his signature supernatural attack, in which he fires globes of cold and negative energy at his enemies, until reduced to below half hit points. Manus has not needed to flee a combat for thousands of years, and his arrogance and obsession is likely to lead him to fight to the death.

Manus Catalyst (minor artifact) Slot none; Aura strong necromancy; CL 21st; Weight 20 lbs. The Manus Catalyst is Manus’ signature weapon. It is a Large +1 unholy brilliant energy ogre hook that acts as a void scythe for the purposes of channeling negative energy and consuming the bodies of those it kills. The wielder can activate its brilliant energy property or dismiss it on command. A creature that holds the Manus Catalyst gains a +2 to the save DC of all spells and spell-like abilities that it uses of the necromancy school.

Manus CR 25 XP 1,640,000 CE Huge outsider (chaos, evil, extraplanar) Init +10; Senses blindsense 120 ft., darkvision 60 ft., Perception +42, see in darkness Aura lost humanity (240 ft.)

Defense AC 43, touch 23, flat-footed 37(-2 size, +6 Dex, +9 deflection, +20 natural) hp 585 (30d10+420); regeneration 20 (lawful) Fort +24, Ref +23, Will +26 DR 20/lawful and epic; Immune bleed, charm, compulsion, cold, death effects, disease, poison, sleep; Resist electricity 20; SR 36 Defensive Abilities fortification (50%), freedom of movement, negative energy affinity, shield of dreams

Offense Speed 50 ft. Melee Manus Catalyst +45/+40/+35/+30 (2d8+19/19-20 x3 plus 2d6 unholy), slam +46 (4d8+36), gore +41 (2d8+9), tail slap +41 (1d12+9) or slam +46 (4d8+36), gore +46 (2d8+18), tail slap +41 (1d12+9) Space 15 ft.; Reach 15 ft. Special Attacks awesome strike, channel negative energy (10d6, DC 34, 14/day), dark orb barrage, frenzy (30 rounds/day), oversized arm, profane channeling Spell-like Abilities CL 25th, concentration +34 Constant—freedom of movement, tongues At will—arcane sight, call spirit (DC 24), confusion (DC 23), deeper darkness, enervation, inflict critical wounds (DC 25), psychic reading, unhallow 3/day—blasphemy (DC 26), finger of death (DC 28), greater dispel magic, quickened harm (DC 27), hungry darkness, insanity (DC 26) 1/day—curse of night, divide mind, energy drain (DC 30), gate (to Plateau of Leng, Chasm of the Abyss or Material Plane only), summon (1 advanced nightcrawler, 100%, 9th level), wail of the banshee (DC 30)

Statistics Str 46, Dex 23, Con 39, Int 24, Wis 29, Cha 28 Base Atk +30; CMB +52 (+54 bull rush, overrun); CMD 77 (79 vs. bull rush, overrun) Feats Awesome Blow, Blind Fight, Charge Through, Combat Reflexes, Extra Channel, Greater Vital Strike, Improved Bull Rush, Improved Critical (ogre hook), Improved Initiative, Improved Overrun, Improved Vital Strike, Lucid Dreamer (B), Power Attack, Quicken SLA (harm), Stand Still, Vital Strike Skills Appraise +40, Climb +48, Intimidate +39, Knowledge (arcana, planes, religion) +40, Knowledge (dungeoneering, history) +37, Perception +50, Sense Motive +42, Spellcraft +40, Stealth +39, Survival +39; Racial Modifiers +8 Perception,+8 Stealth Languages Aklo, Common, Necril, Shadowtongue, tongues

Ecology Environment underground (Chasm of the Abyss) Organization unique Treasure triple standard

Special Abilities Aura of Lost Humanity (Su) Any humanoid that spends 24 hours within 240 feet of Manus must make a Fortitude save or gain the mutant template. The save DC starts at 10, then increases by +2 every day until it reaches its maximum DC, 34. If a creature is transformed in this fashion, it must make a Will save at the same DC or become chaotic evil in alignment. The save DC is Charisma based. Awesome Strike (Ex) When Manus uses makes a single attack using his Vital Strike chain of feats, he may make a combat maneuver as if using Awesome Blow if it hits with this attack. Channel Energy (Su) Manus can channel negative energy as if he were a 20th level cleric. He does not gain other cleric class abilities, such as spells or domains. Dark Orb Barrage (Su) As a standard action, Manus can fire a barrage of orbs of destructive darkness. Manus makes a single ranged touch attack against all creatures in a 60 foot cone. A creature struck takes 25d6 points of damage, half of which is cold and half is negative energy. A creature struck by a dark orb must succeed a DC 34 Fortitude save or be blinded for 1d4+1 rounds. This save DC is Charisma based. Manus can use this ability at will, but must wait 1d4 rounds between uses. Dream Lord Traits (Ex/Su) Manus is a dream lord, a powerful outsider native to the Dimension of Dreams. Dream lords gain the following abilities:

Immune to charm, compulsion, disease, poison and sleep effects

Immune to one energy type and resistance to another two energy types. Instead of being one of his resistances, Manus is immune to bleed and death effects.

A dream lord’s natural weapons, and any weapon it wields, count as chaotic and magical for the purpose of overcoming damage reduction

Occult (Ex) A dream lord gains Lucid Dreamer as a bonus feat, and can use  occult skill unlocks even if it lacks other psychic magic

Shield of Dreams (Su) A dream lord adds its Charisma modifier as a deflection bonus to its AC and CMD

Summon (Sp) Once per day, a dream lord can summon a CR 19 or lower encounter of thematically appropriate monsters.

Dream lords can grant spells to worshipers as detailed in their divine information. A worshiper can gain boons from performing an obedience to a dream lord, as per the Deific Obedience feat, but the boons granted are simple, appearing as a 2nd, 4th and 6th level spell usable as a spell-like ability twice per day.

Frenzy (Su) Manus can act as if under a haste spell for a number of rounds a day equal to his Hit Dice. Activating or ending this ability is a free action. Oversized Arm (Ex) Manus’ left arm always makes slam attacks as a primary natural weapon, even when Manus is wielding manufactured weapons. He deals twice his Strength modifier to damage with his slam attack. Manus’ slam deals bludgeoning and piercing damage. Profane Channeling (Su) Whenever Manus uses his channel negative energy, he can choose to do so as a swift action, to maximize the damage dealt (or healed), or double the area of the effect. Manus can choose only one of these enhancements at a time.