#Terrible cleric man my beloved | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

childofyuggoth · 1 year

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Are you upset that you didn't get more of Abdirak? Thirsty for our beloved priest of pain?

I present to you some fluff and smut that I wrote for our follower of Loviatar.

(( AO3 link for anyone who wants it: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50565967 ))

My writing, please don't steal, I'm insecure enough about my work as it is. 😅

TW: Bondage, whipping, blood. Obviously.

----

Life had been unkind lately. No, you thought as you took another large gulp of watered-down beer from a dirty mug. Life has been absolutely terrible. Your struggling business had finally gone under, killed by some new policies that Lord stick-up-his-ass Gortash had implemented. Then the bank had repossessed your house, because you no longer had the money to make your payments. And now there was apparently a fucking army of deranged cultists about to march on the city, just to top it all off.

Which was why you found yourself trying unsuccessfully to drink your sorrows away in this filthy Lower City bar. You'd normally never set foot in a place like this, but nevertheless, you found yourself perched on a bar stool, elbows-deep in your cups and feeling very sorry for yourself. It was a waste of the last of your money, but what else could you do? You spent your days hunting for jobs, but everything was either something you weren't qualified for, or illegal. At this rate, you were half-tempted to apply at Sharess's Caress.

The rest of the patrons had largely ignored you, having their own business to conduct in ill-lit corners. Bawdy ballads rang in your ears, along with the sound of clinking money and drunken slurring. You grimaced into your mug. The alcohol had done nothing except depress you more. All that was left was to go collapse in the flophouse where'd you taken up residence and resume your fruitless job search in the morning.

You ground your teeth in frustration before tipping the last of the sour ale into your throat.

As you took a last look around the bar, a flash of snow white-hair against black caught your eye. A man at the opposite end of the bar, his hand on a glass of dark red wine. Black cloth and leather robes that looked almost clerical fell from his waist to to his ankles. His muscled chest and upper body were bare, except for ornate black pauldrons, spiked and wickedly sharp. They connected across his collarbone by a radiating pattern of twisting black wire, barbed and jagged.

All of this you took in quickly, your eyes lingering for a moment on the scars and cuts that graced his skin like little red prayers.

His face was what held you. Half of his head was shaved, but snow grey hair fell softly over the other half. He was human, from what you could tell, but there was an almost elf-likequality to his face that made it impossible to tell how old he was. His cheekbones were high and dangerously sharp above slightly sunken cheeks, with a straight grecian nose that curved slightly at the end above a generous mouth.

As if he could sense your gaze, he turned slightly to meet your look with a calm, slightly quizzical expression. His eyes were the most incredible shade of light grey. They seemed to catch and scatter the dim light of the room with a dazzling brilliance, boring into you with an intensity that rooted you to the spot. Your trapped breath fluttered in your lungs like a butterfly between caged fingers.

He extended a large hand and crooked a finger at you.

Like a fish on a hook, you jerked forward, the alcohol removing your inhibitions. You made your way down the bar and slowly sank onto the stool next to him, your heart pounding in your ears.

What in the nine hells were you doing? You didn't do things like this. Meeting strange men in bars was decidedly not your normal activity. The rational part of your brain buzzed at you distantly, but it was easy to ignore. The alcohol and, more intensely, the strange gravity of this man had a hold on you that you couldn't quite explain.

"You seem troubled." His voice was startling. It was deep, and warm. His tone made you feel protected. Safe. Before you could stop yourself, you were telling him everything. Your name. Your hopes, your fears. All of your recent tragedies rolled off of your tongue, your hands twisting in your lap, unable to tear your eyes from his. You were drowning in crystal grey hues.

He gave you his whole attention. Listening raptly, drinking in every word with an intensity bordering on manic. Nodding at all the right places, tipping his head to the side in sympathy, even smiling gently at some of your self-deprecating jokes.

It all poured out of you, every terrible event of the last year. The shop becoming your sole responsibility after the death of your parents. Your partner leaving for someone else. Losing the shop. Losing your home. The pain and the loneliness and the sorrow washing over you like a flood. Your utter despair right now.

When you finally finished, he gave you a long, searching look. "Such pain. Dear child, you have known incredible sorrow." He smiled. "I am Father Abdirak. I serve Loviatar, the Maiden of Pain."

You stiffened, fear souring your fascination. Loviatar. You weren't well-versed on religion or gods, but she did not have a good reputation. The few stories you'd heard told of a cruel, sadistic order dedicated to torture and brutality.

Abdirak frowned slightly as you pulled away, your body language going from open trust to quite the opposite in the time it took him to draw breath. You sat back, folded your arms over your chest, and crossed your legs. Internally, you tried to quell your rising panic. You'd just spilled your guts to the priest of an evil god. Made yourself vulnerable. Your instinct was to bolt, but fear held you to the sticky half-broken bar stool. And, if you were completely honest with yourself, some of your former fascination was mixed with that trepidation. There was a dark allure to him that still tugged gently at you, against your better judgment.

"Peace, dear one. I mean you no harm." The earnest way he spoke had you almost believing him, and the affectionate moniker made your cheeks flush. It had been a long time since anyone had addressed you with such care.

"But..." You bit your lip, eyeing him like an enchantingly beautiful viper. "She's the Goddess of Pain. Torture." You fumbled your words, the alcohol making it difficult for you to find the right ones. "I mean, those aren't... good things." A frustrated sigh fell from you as you uncrossed your arms and ran a hand through your hair.

Abdirak nodded assent at your first sentence. "Without pain, how do we know pleasure? And there can be release in pain. A surrender of all your sorrows at Her altar as you lose yourself in the sensations." Those carved smoky quartz eyes met yours again, sending a not-unpleasant shiver through you.

"I do not do anything without consent, nor do I push a body beyond its breaking point." A delicious smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes narrowed in pleasure. "And I am very good at what I do, dear one."

By the Gods, was this... arousing you? Your fingernails were digging into your palms, and your breath came rapidly, as if you couldn't get quite enough air. Between your legs, there was a pulse beginning, deep, slow, hot and hungry. You couldn't tell whether it was because you were attracted to Abdirak, or intrigued by the things he was suggesting, or both.

In the intervening silence as you wrestled with yourself, he finished his glass of wine and laid a few silver on the bar.

"If you want to receive my ministrations and surrender your pain to the Maiden, you are most welcome." He gave you directions to a part of the Lower City you were vaguely familiar with. Not the worst part, but definitely somewhere you would want to approach during the daytime.

You received these instructions mutely, still caught in his dark presence like a fly in silk-soft webbing.

Then he was gone, out the door into the night. You stared after him for what seemed like minutes, the sounds of the bar falling unnoticed on your ears.

You'd probably dismiss this whole notion in the morning. Obviously you were more drunk than you thought, for you to even be thinking about taking Abdirak up on his offer. To be thinking about those piercing grey eyes staring at you from inches away, muscled chest pressed tight to yours. Absolutely ridiculous to even linger on the idea of that sweet, deep caring voice telling you what a good girl you were being for him as his breath hitched in pleasure...

You shook your head firmly, standing up from the stool as if by doing so you could leave those thoughts on the cracked wooden surface, and headed back to your room.

---

Morning came, but distressingly, you still found yourself mulling over the possibility of seeking out the Priest of Loviatar. He'd left an indelible mark on your mind, a dark and jagged thing that nevertheless promised comfort at a time when you had none.

You laid there, staring at the beams of the ceiling above you. They were dusty and filled with cobwebs. A sudden ache filled your chest at the thought that this was your future. That you would wake to the sight of innumerable hostels and flophouses for the rest of your days until your money ran out, and then-

Stop. You scolded yourself. It wasn't that bad.

Still, though. It wouldn't hurt to see what exactly Abdirak was offering, would it? He'd said he didn't do anything without consent. A wry chuckle left your lips as you reflected that, honestly, job hunting was far more torturous than anything he could dream up anyway.

So you got out of bed. You felt more yourself than you had in weeks. This was something new, something that broke the monotony of misery you'd been stuck in. And as much as you hated to admit it, you were intrigued by the strange man's offer.

It was a wet, cold day. A storm was rolling up the coast, soaking everything in a freezing mist and darkening the sky so that the streets were almost as shadowed as they were at night. But you pressed on, navigating the increasingly narrow streets and alleys until you came to a dead end near the docks.

You stood in the cold and rain, your cloak drawn tightly around your shivering form, and stared at the shabby wooden door before you. A single lantern hung overhead, swinging in the storm, its dull orange glow doing little to penetrate the dark grey around you.

Did you have the wrong address? There was nothing to mark this as the home of a Priest of Loviatar. Then you looked closer. There, on the wooden beam across the top of the door. The carved image of a barbed flail, small but deep.

You hesitated, rocking on the soles of your feet, and almost turned around. But the thought of going back, of laying in your dingy rented room or pacing the streets looking for work was so abhorrent that you swallowed your fear and knocked.

There was a short wait, where the wind wailed in your ears like a thousand souls in torment and lightning lashed the sky.

Then Abdirak answered the door. Seeing him again forced your breath from your lungs like you were a blushing maiden on her first date, only the feelings stirring in you were far darker. Hungrier. Gods. That muscled bare torso and those sculpted arms had your knees going weak.

His perfect grey eyes widened a fraction, as if in surprise, then he was standing aside and waving you in with a welcoming smile. The expression was tinged with just enough sinister suggestion that you blushed and looked down at your feet as you entered. Something about a smile on that face was unholy, in a way that made you feel almost feral with need. You clenched your hands and tried to compose yourself as filthy fantasies played through your mind. Luckily, what you saw inside distracted you from that base hunger.

You weren't sure what you had been expecting in his house, but this wasn't it. The room you found yourself in was small and carefully furnished. A red carpet was laid out on the wooden floor, in front of a well-used sofa and a couple of plush armchairs. A half-finished glass of wine sat on a side table, next to a oft-thumbed leather-bound book. Candles lit the small space, shutters on the windows fastened against the rain, and a cheery fire burned steady in the hearth. Closed doors lead to the other rooms.

It felt almost... cozy. You stood there for a second, slightly bewildered, before realising that your outerwear was dripping all over the carpet.

"Ah, I'm sorry!" You pulled off the cloak, which continued to deposit rainwater on the floor, and frantically looked around for somewhere to put it, your hands out in front of you, clutching the wet fabric.

Abdirak closed the door before walking over to you. A gentle chuckle emanated from him as he laid warm, scarred hands over your own cold ones. You stood still, almost petrified, as he intertwined his fingers with yours. The slow, tender touch made you shiver, your flesh tingling where your fingers met. An intimate moment passed as he looked down at you, interlocked digits tightening around yours with careful strength. A pale hunger to match your own flickered in his eyes, his jaw tightening with an unnamed emotion as his gaze burned into you.

After a beat, he prised the cloak from your grip, making sure to caress the backs of your hands with his thumbs as you reluctantly gave up the contact. He took a few steps to lay the sopping garment on the brick in front of the fire before turning back.

"Thank you." You glanced up at him sheepishly, your words stuck in your throat. What did you say now? Anything sounded far too forward in your head. Your eyes strayed to his bare chest, muscled and marked with scars. A slow heat churned in your abdomen.

"I'm glad you came, my child." He laid a hand on your shoulder, his hand warm against your shirt. You shivered slightly at the touch, but did not stir, instead losing yourself in his gaze. Flint-grey, and just as sharp.

"I..." you swallowed. "I've never done anything like this before." Your stomach was an anxious knot. Abdirak squeezed your shoulder before letting go and beckoning you to follow him.

"Leave your concerns at the door, dear one. I will instruct you in all that you must do." He went to one of the doors, unlocked it, and gestured you through. After a moment, you obeyed, mastering the sudden quiver of fear that manifested in your stomach.

This room was far more of what you had expected from a Loviatar follower, and you slowed as you entered. Instruments of pain lined the walls, all on neat hooks and shelves. Whips, flails, maces, knives, and other sharp things for which you had no name. There was a curious structure bolted onto the back wall, a large wooden X with various straps hanging from the ends of the legs and the middle. Your eyes were drawn to it, and your cheeks flared with heat.

Your heart accelerated as Abdirak closed the door and came up behind you. He stopped a hairsbreadth behind you, close enough that you could feel his body heat and taste his scent. Leather, musk, and the faintest hint of rose. You wanted to lean back into it, to lose yourself in him, and never find yourself again. The heat between your legs flamed hotter.

"Strip to your comfort." His voice was husky in your ear, going straight to your aching core. He seemed to pause, then, as if mastering some impulse, then walked over to a rack of tools and began to busy himself.

You took a deep, shuddering breath. This was it. You could tell him thank you, but you were not interested. Or, you could see where this went.

Your hands were already slipping under your clothes as the thought passed through your head. Fuck everything. You were going to give yourself over to this, to him, in every way possible.

With that in mind, you pulled everything off before slipping out of your shoes, shivering slightly as your soles met the stone floor.

Abdirak turned back to you just as you finished tossing everything into one pile of fabric. He stopped short, stormy eyes darkening as a wicked smirk stretched across his face.

"Oh, dear one." his voice dropped to a guttural purr. His gaze raked over your naked form, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. "Such a tribute you offer to the Maiden of Pain."

"And to you." You murmured, meeting his eyes with a coy smile. A certain recklessness was coursing through your veins, fueled by the desire softly throbbing between your legs and the desperation of the past months.

The priest seemed slightly taken aback, eyebrows rising before settling down into an expression of unbridled desire that narrowed his eyes and pulled at his mouth in a delicious smirk. "Do your sins weigh heavy on you, my child?" His deep voice, so tender, so caring, contrasted and complimented perfectly with the way his knuckles whitened on the handle of the flail he held, the way he watched you with an eager violent lust. His words held a certain ritual quality to them, and you responded in kind after a beat, bowing your head.

"Yes, Father Abdirak." You spoke quietly, bowing your head and clasping your hands behind your back in a gesture of deference.

He exhaled, a deep breath that shook slightly as it left his lungs, then strode over to you. He laid a hand on your bare back, calluses rough against your skin.

"Walk." The command was deep, accompanied by a curling of his fingers into your flesh. You bit back a whimper of anticipation and let him guide you to the cross on the back wall.

He manipulated your body with deft touches, tightening restraints and adjusting the buckles with a smooth efficiency. You were facing the wall, arms and legs splayed out, your heart hammering in your chest so loudly you swore you could hear it echoing off of the stone chamber. You closed your eyes, enjoying the slight terror of not being able to see where he was or what the priest of Loviatar was doing.

Abdirak's voice sounded next to your ear in a deep growl. "You will scream for me. Let me hear it all, dear one. Beg. Plead. Whimper. If you wish for me to stop, you say 'Aboleth'." A touch caressed your back, then fingers fisted in your hair and gave it a yank that made you gasp in pain and ecstasy. "Say it."

"A-Aboleth." you half-spoke, half-moaned, the feeling going straight between your legs. This was dark, and dangerous, yet you felt somehow safe. Free to let go. Free to let him take complete control.

"Good." Lips caressed the side of your neck, placing hot, open-mouthed kisses on your skin as he relinquished his grip on your hair.

There was a few agonizing seconds of nothing but the sound of your beating heart.

Then searing stripes of pain, cruel and red-hot, carved across your back with the satisfying thwack of leather on flesh. Your body shook and your torso curved as much as it was able, ropes taut on your limbs, and a scream erupted from your opened mouth. As the pain receded, a profound sense of relaxation flooded through your veins, leaving you slumped and sobbing in your restraints.

"That's it. Surrender it all to the Goddess." Abdirak sounded delirious with delight. "Beg, child, scream for Loviatar's forgiveness!"

There was a swish, then another biting strike of the many-tailed whip. Another throat-scalding scream came from deep within you, hysterical and high-pitched, a keening noise the likes of which you had never heard from yourself before. "Please! Gods!" You were babbling as the pain faded into a dull ache, tears running down your face and dripping onto the floor. But along with that pain, there was a creeping warmth, a strange and twisted.... pleasure? You flushed, a sigh escaping your lips.

"There, yes." The priest sounded as aroused as you felt, his voice ragged and laboured. "Give in to her blessings, dear one."

"I..." you groaned, the aching heat in your back intensifying, sending jolts of pleasure that throbbed in the dripping slick of your cunt. "Fuck, I need more, please."

The growl that Abdirak responded with had you quivering. Deep. More animal than human, a dark and throbbing sound.

You didn't even tense in anticipation as you heard the hiss of leather through air, letting your muscles go limp. The pain that came as it struck your relaxed back was heavenly, pleasurable almost the instant it hit. There were no thoughts anymore, no worries or anxieties. Just bliss. Total surrender into Abdirak's care. You writhed, screamed, and shuddered as the sensation shivered through your body.

No other god had come close to giving you this kind of ecstasy. You were begging for more the moment the stinging began to fade, your pleas hoarse and alien in your own ears. The priest complied, laying skilled strikes along your back, then across your ass and the backs of your thighs, each time a novel feeling, wrenching heartrending cries of pain and delirious pleasure from deep within you.

Time fell away. There was only blissful agony, the sound of whips on flesh, and Abdirak's voice over and through all of it. Praising you, worshiping you in a tone like honeyed leather, telling you how good you were, how penitent, how beautiful.

When the strikes began to bite too deep, when you began to shy away from the whip rather than greet it with glorious moans, he stopped. Gentle hands undid the ropes that bound you to the cross. You slumped back into his embrace, boneless and euphoric. Abdirak carried you in his arms like a child, holding you close to his chest. You nuzzled at him, burying your face into his sweat-slicked pectorals, inhaling his musk. A total sense of peace pervaded you, wrapped you in a bliss you hadn't known since you were a very small child.

He laid you on something warm and soft, then sat down next to you. Your eyes still closed, you moved towards his heat, curling up against him and pressing your face into the robes against his thigh. His hands began to work something cool and slick into your back, pressing in gentle little circles and giving attention to the deeper marks that he had left.

"You did so well for me, dear one." He murmured as he worked. You opened your eyes to see him smiling down at you. He had a kind of awe on his face, an expression that softened his eyes and made him look almost vulnerable. "Such wonderful agonies. You truly are beautiful, my sweet, penitent child."

You curled closer to him in response, craving his touch. He stroked your hair with one hand, then gently lifted you into a sitting position, your back cradled against his arm. He brought a mug up to your face, pressing it to your lips. The scent of honey and chamomile filled your nostrils, and you were suddenly aware of how dry and sore your throat was.

"Small sips, child." You obeyed meekly, the sweet warm liquid soothing as it went down. He guided you through the whole mug, holding you close and occasionally wiping a stray drop from your chin with his thumb.

By the time you were done, your eyelids felt heavy, your head full of nothing but contentment. Abdirak laid you back down on the small bed, covering you with a blanket and tucking it around you with a tender attentiveness that made you melt inside all over again.

You caught his arm as he stood, and he looked down at you with surprise. You smiled sleepily up at him. "Thank you." You murmured, trying to convey your feelings as best as you could in that simple phrase.

The priest simply smiled back, then leaned down and placed a tender kiss on your forehead. "Sleep, dear one."

You obeyed.

- - -

You awoke feeling deliciously relaxed. There was a warm throbbing in your back, but otherwise you felt good. No, better than good. Great. The best you'd felt in a very long time.

After a moment of simply luxuriating in your happiness, you sat up, wincing and smiling at the slight pains that action brought. Abdirak was nowhere in sight. The bondage cross had been wiped down, and the tools he'd used on you had been put away.

You idly wondered how many others he had brought this pleasure to. Not out of jealousy, but curiosity. He was so skilled, and you felt honored to have received his attentions. Still, you wanted more. Gods, did you want more. The way he had made you feel, you could become hopelessly infatuated with him. The pain. The gentleness. All of it together.

You stood, the blanket falling with a soft thwump to the floor, and went to the door, opening it to peer into the main room of the small house.

Abdirak had fallen asleep on the couch, his head resting back on an arm of the faded piece of furniture, a book on his chest. It was opened to a particularly gruesome diagram of torture methods. You hesitated, watching the steady rise and fall of his breath. There was a slight frown on his face, and his brow was furrowed. He looked vulnerable, almost sad.

You leaned against the doorframe, lost in thought. How had he come to Loviatar, you wondered? There must have been a great amount of pain and tragedy in his life for him to turn to the Maiden of Pain. Had he been like you, a lost soul who had been taken in by a fellow follower? How many of his scars were from the worship of his Goddess, and how many were from some terrible past?

These thoughts swept through you, stirring a profound sense of tenderness for the sleeping priest. You closed the door carefully behind you, and walked up to the couch on noiseless unshod feet before kneeling beside him.

He shifted slightly, mumbling something in his dreams. A wince passed over his face, pulling his mouth into a quick expression of sorrow and terror. It made him look so much younger, and the soft, sweet feeling in your heart swelled. Tentatively, you reached forward and brushed the lick of white hair back from his brow.

The gentle touch stirred him, and he opened his eyes, blinking slowly. A smile touched his lips as he saw you.

"Dear one." He caught your hand in his, sitting up to look down at you with fondness in his eyes. "How are you feeling?" You smiled from where you knelt, and he squeezed your hand, his thumb rubbing slow circles on your palm.

"I..." You paused. How were you feeling? "I feel better than I have in a very long time. That was... incredible."

A genuine look of happiness lit up Abdirak's face, light dancing in his grey eyes like sunshine on deep water.

"It was my pleasure." A slight innuendo darkened his voice at the word, and a blush crept onto your cheeks. He paused. "If you wish, perhaps I could continue to instruct you in the Maiden's ways." The statement was tentative, as if he wasn't sure how you would respond. After all, you had very recently professed profound alarm at the very idea of Loviatar.

You furrowed your brow, speaking slowly. "I... I think I'd like that. This... isn't what I had imagined. I think I'd like to learn more."

Abdirak smiled again, the sincerity of the expression taking your breath away, and he guided you up beside him onto the couch.

"Not now, of course, you must heal first. Mustn't be greedy, my child." He chided with half a laugh in his voice.

You nodded your assent, and a comfortable silence stretched between you. Abdirak glanced over at you, his eyes raking over your naked form. He seemed to be teetering on some sort of precipice, desire and something else mixing in his gaze. He wanted you, you could tell. But something held him back.

When he made to stand, you caught his arm with a frown.

"Abdirak, I..." You met his eyes, stormy with emotion. "I want to lie with you." The words made you flush, but you continued, stumbling over your profession. "I want to give you pleasure. I want to give.... I want to give everything to you."

A low groan sounded deep inside the man's bare and scarred chest, which rose and fell with a constrained want. Everything in him was tense, his muscles clenching under his skin, a hungry, almost predatory look on his face.

"Dear child, I..." he swallowed thickly before disentangling your hand from his arm. He stood, staring down at you with balled fists. It seemed to be taking everything in him to not lunge at you. To devour you completely.

"You do not know what you ask. There are others. Better men. I will happily show you Loviatar's love, but you... you deserve much better in your bed." His jaw tightened with emotion, and he looked down, refusing to meet your gaze.

"I don't want them." You spoke softly as you stood up, closing the distance between you. His chestpiece pricked at your flesh as you pressed your body against his, stinging and drawing tiny droplets of blood from your breasts. He watched, his entire form shivering with need, as little rivulets of red trickled slowly down your naked flesh. His mouth opened in a silent moan.

"I want you." Your voice dropped to a low murmur as you leaned forward to whisper in his ear.

Another deep sound, primal and hungry, rumbled inside of him. His chest rose and fell with deep, desperate, shaky breaths. The blood on your breasts smeared against his chest as you pressed against him, slick and warm between you.

"Please." You slipped your hand inside his robe to find his cock, hard and throbbing, and began to smear the dripping precum around the head of the pulsating organ.

The priest snapped.

In one moment, his mouth was on your breasts, his hands grabbing under your thighs and pulling you off the floor to hook your feet around his back. His tongue licked eagerly at the bloody streaks on your skin, head bent as he cleaned the wounds with a insane hunger.

"Dear one." He panted, turning to push your back against the wall, grinding himself against you with a ferocious need, voice muffled in the flesh of your breasts. He raised his head to lock eyes with you, his dilated pupils darkening his eyes to a stormy sea-black. A subtle streak of red ran down his lip, but was caught by his questing tongue.

You leaned your head forward in a hungry, violent kiss, teeth knocking, tongues twisting, needful noises from both of you drowned in each other's mouths. It was slick, and hot, and good, and you wrapped yourself more tightly around him, hands grasping at his back, sliding against muscled flesh.

Abdirak broke the kiss to press his forehead against yours, eyes glazed and mouth open in a half-smile of needful lust. His hips were working constantly, thrusting forward to meet you, thin cloth soaking quickly as he rutted himself against your dripping cunt. He pushed you more firmly against the wall, freeing his hands and holding you there with the weight and pressure of his body, sweaty with animal heat. He hastily undid hidden buckles and straps on his waist, shoving the clothing onto the ground as he pressed his face into the crook of your neck, teeth nipping at your flesh.

There was a desperation in his breath, in the little voiced groans as he left bruises on your neck and collarbone, that made you wonder how long it had been. He seemed almost starved, feral for touch and sex and the hot, sweaty passionate grappling of bodies. You did everything you could to sate him, moaning and pressing every part of you to him, your fingernails digging into the skin of his back.

Now naked but for his spiked pauldrons, Abdirak stepped back, cock in hand, staring at you with a crazed intensity. You straightened up as much as you were able, your back to the wall, flushed and breathing like you'd never tasted oxygen before.

"On your knees for me." His voice was ragged and dark, but a trace of tenderness softened the words, as did the gentle hand on your shoulder, guiding you down to kneel before him. You stared up, hands on your thighs, as he gave himself a few slow pumps, closing his eyes and tilting his head upwards in ecstasy. Slick drops of precum slid down his shaft just a few inches from your face, and your mouth watered in response.

Unable to contain yourself, you leaned forward and gave him a slow, wet lick along the bottom of his flushed cock, gathering the sticky fluid into your mouth and ending with an open-mouthed kiss on the head of the quivering organ.

His hips jerked forward, eyes flying open in surprise. A wicked smile played along his face as he looked down at you, your lips in an O as you wriggled your tongue into his dripping slit.

"Greedy girl." He purred, pleased as you began to slowly take him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and flickering your tongue along the underside of his cock. The salty, slightly bitter taste of him spurred you on until you were trying to swallow as much as you could, half-choking but not caring, your hands grasping at his hips as they rocked forward. His fingers found your hair, clutching at your scalp and twining almost lovingly in your locks, pulling you further and further until you couldn't even breathe, and everything was a mess of gagging and saliva and a hard pressure at the back of your throat. You couldn't stop, ignoring your own panic at the lack of oxygen, trying to swallow more and more and more, pre-cum trickling down your throat, a subtle ringing in your ears, you were drunk on his taste, your vision starting to go black as his hips moved more and more violently-

Abdirak forced you back, yanking your hair as you mewled in protest, sticking your tongue out in desperation as he popped out of your mouth. Long strands of saliva and precum connected you and him, and you wriggled in his grasp, eager to resume your feast.

He spoke in short, clipped phrases, as he half-carried, half-dragged you to the couch, picking you up under your arms as if you weighed no more than one of his instruments of pained delight. "I want-" He sat you on the piece of furniture, your hips on the edge, and spread your thighs with hands gripping hard enough to bruise- "-to taste you-" His eyes glinted with ravenous lust as he moved between your legs- "-dear one."

Those last words were spoken a hairsbreadth from your clit, his lips just barely caressing the wet, quivering little nub of flesh. A harsh moan grated your throat, and your hips jerked in his grasp.

His mouth opened and he slid the length of his tongue along your dripping slit, ending with a flickering across that lovely bundle of nerves hat had you squirming against him, desperately trying to move closer to the heat of his breath as a lance of searing pleasure shuddered through you.

"Abdirak!" You moaned his name like a prayer as he fastened his mouth to you and began to work with his lips and tongue as if you were the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. His tongue wormed its way inside you, stroking your sticky, quivering walls with lovely writhing twisting caresses.

His hands rubbed up and down your shaking thighs with a soothing motion as he brought you to the edge and kept you there with slow licks, his eyes narrowing as he looked up at you. You whined in protest, a shivering hot bubble of pleasure threatening to burst under the careful movement of his mouth. "Please!" Your voice was a breathy, trembling, needy thing, and a smirk crinkled at the corner of his eyes at the panting desperation in your tone.

He moved his face so that his tongue and lips were focused solely on your clit, softly kissing and lapping at that little kernel of pleasure that vibrated wetly with the stimulation. You grabbed at his head, hands tangling in his soft white hair and scraping along the shaved stubble with a choked wail of need. Slowly, gently, he slipped two fingers inside you, stroking at your walls with a touch that was melting you. A fire flamed hotter inside of you with every deliberate pump and curl of his fingers as he suckled at your clit with an even pulsing of air and breath.

"Come for me." He murmured, voice soft but still commanding, like velvet wrapped steel. He flexed his digits inside you, pressing right into your g-spot with perfect force. The very tip of his tongue wetly tickled your clit as he gave it a hard, demanding suck, lips sealing around it so that no single nerve escaped the pure bliss he forced upon it.

You obeyed, falling head-first into an orgasm that built with a slow, roaring intensity and swept through you with shuddering, ecstatic force. Your body curved back, hips pressing his mouth flush to you, thighs clamped around his head as a throbbing pleasure seized your cunt and pulsed with glorious release. Again, and again, and again, thick hot waves of sticky pleasure vibrated from your core, Abdirak working you through it even as you soaked his face in your release.

As the last shiver died down, leaving a beautiful tingling resonating in your bones, he rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and staring down at you with something like reverence on his face.

"So very beautiful." He murmured. You made something approaching speech, swallowed, then tried again, your voice trembling like a leaf.

"Come here." With a herculean effort, you managed to move yourself so that you were bent over the couch, feet on the floor and hands on the back of the piece of furniture. You twisted your head around to see the priest hesitating, even though his cock was painfully erect, freely dripping precum, his scrotum high and tight against him, bulging with seed that you knew was aching to be released.

"Are you sure, dear one?" Despite his words, he moved closer behind you, hands settling to grasp your waist. You wondered why he was so reticent. It certainly wasn't from any deficiency on your part, not with the way he'd feasted on you. Not with the way he looked at you.

"Please." You tried to project every ounce of your need that burned inside you. "Abdirak, I want to give you this. I want to have you. I want to be yours."

"My child..." He murmured. "Oh, my dear, beautiful, penitent sinner." His voice sank lower with each word, until, at the last syllable, he nestled the warm head of his rock-hard cock against you, and began to push himself inside.

You tensed, pushing back against him and crying out in ecstasy. Little spasms of pleasure fluttered inside you as he worked himself in, opening your utterly sopping walls and ending with a soft thump nestled against your cervix. Your knees trembled, and he waited a moment for you to adjust before he began to move again.

You were lost the second he moved his hips. The wet, sliding, stretching motion, tearing you apart inside with every thrust, had you gasping, clenching, eyes rolling back into your skull. His hands were painfully tight on your waist now, and you could hear his panting breaths, the wet smack every time he bottomed out.

"Oh fuck!" You moaned, swirling your hips against him. "Fuck, Abdirak!" He didn't reply, but instead began to set a punishing pace, his self-control falling to pieces. He was forcing you further and further into the couch with powerful, bruising strokes that slammed against your g-spot. Low groans emanated from his chest as he chased his own end with an increasing desperation.

His thrusts were so rapid you could barely breathe, the constant sliding, grinding, pounding pleasure on every inch of your walls pulling you forcefully towards another orgasm. Your arms gave out, and your face sank into the cushions, the fabric muffling your desperate, degenerate noises of ecstasy. His hips stuttered, and you clenched as hard as you could, wanting to give him his release, but he stopped short, breathing raggedly.

"Not... without..." He rasped, then moved his hands, sliding them up your body and pulling you up against him, your back flush against his chest. With one of his hands he grasped at a breast, kneading at it with bruising force, fingers pinching your nipple with a pain that had you writhing against him, scoring your back with the jagged wires on his collarbone, biting back cries of the agony and the pleasure of it.

His other hand came down between your legs, slipping in the wet mess to begin stroking at your over-sensitized clit. You choked out a moan as he began to move his cock again, keeping you close against him as he set a desperate pace, matching his hips and hands so that the swirling of his fingers against your aching nub was sending you down a spiral of pleasure. Your walls spasmed around him, your clit shivering sweetly, nipple burning with the squeezing of his fingers. White-hot oblivion flickered just out of reach, beckoning with every savage thrust of his hips into yours.

Abdirak trembled against you, leaning down to bite your shoulder as his hips began to shake, his cock twitching deep inside. The sinking of his teeth into the meat of your muscle undid you, and you came apart with him. To be orgasming on his cock was pure bliss. You could feel the thick, hot ropes of cum splattering inside you, the waves of pleasure that had you screaming and milking every drop from him with a powerful clenching and squeezing ecstasy. Your clit spasmed and shuddered under his fingers, the thick fluid of your own release gushing and coating his hand as he coaxed every little murmur of pleasure from the organ.

Teeth-clenchingly slowly, the delicious throbbing waves of your orgasms swept through you both in concert, until all that was left were spent muscles and limbs wrapped loosely around each other, sweat and semen and release covering the pair of you.

You ended up tangled together on the couch, Abdirak still buried inside of you, the slow softening of his cock permitting a slow sticky flow of your mixed release to slide down your inner thigh. You were curled up, your back against his chest, his arms tightly wrapped around you and his face in your shoulder. A happy glow suffused you, golden and warm.

"Abdirak?" You murmured. He stirred behind you, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your neck in answer.

"Why..." You hesitated. You didn't want to kill the mood, but you had to know. "You made me come so hard. You gave me the best damn orgasms of my life." You took a breath and snuggled back into him, not caring that his chestpiece continued to scratch your back. "But you were so reluctant to let me pleasure you. To take your own release. Why?" There was a long silence where he simply held you, breathing against your neck. You almost thought he'd fallen asleep when he answered, so quiet you had to strain to hear his words, even though they were spoken inches from your ear.

"A story for another time, dear one." He hesitated, pressing another kiss to your shoulder. "Suffice it to say that I have served others, then Loviatar, for so long, that to take anything for myself..." He trailed off, his tone distant, almost sad.

You moved slightly, turning to meet his eyes. He smiled and moved a hand to cup your cheek. "Please, Abdirak." You touched your forehead to his. "Let me be here for you. I... I want to stay." You swallowed. "If you'll have me."

Clear grey eyes widened inches in front of your own in a mix of astonishment and fondness. "Dear one..." An expression passed over his face, something almost like pain. "You would stay for me?"

You smiled and bent forward to kiss him. "Yes. Until whatever end may come."

Then there was only bliss, and later, the slow peaceful dreams that come with sleep in another's arms.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #abdirak #abdirak bg3 #fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #abdirak fanfiction #smut #bg3 smut

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minti-tales · 5 months

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Vierapril 2024 - Master Post

Entries Written/Staged: 30

Total Word Count: About 4600

Top Post (As of 4/30/24): Vierapril, Day 15 - Spark (Tumblr)

Prompt List:

Day 1: Regal

Day 2: Payment

Day 3: Wish

Day 4: Danger

Day 5: Color

Day 6: Victory

Day 7: Pause

Day 8: Relinquish

Day 9: Damage

Day 10: Breath

Day 11: Longing

Day 12: Progress

Day 13: Release

Day 14: Embarrass

Day 15: Spark

Day 16: Tough

Day 17: Energy

Day 18: Stretch

Day 19: Ethereal

Day 20: Heavy

Day 21: Pure

Day 22: Showers

Day 23: Beam

Day 24: Echo

Day 25: Wave

Day 26: Style

Day 27: Set

Day 28: Pride

Day 29: Shape

Day 30: Scale

Author thoughts are below the break.

It's been another big month for me. This is the first time where I've had something for every prompt, which is great! The Signora got more than a few prompts this time around.

Recently, there was a comic from /u/PizzaCakeComic on Reddit, which was poking fun at people who write women terribly. Man goes into the doctor with his wife? girlfriend?, doctor says that the woman is suffering from "Shitty Female Character" personality. I won't go over the whole comic, but the end panel has the man given a brochure that reads "How to See Women As Actual People And Not Living Sex Dolls." Roll credits.

Minti is not the first female character I've written for. There have been others in the past: supporting characters for a D&D adventure I wrote, several D&D characters, and Sabbac (my beloved). Every time, I think I've gotten better at telling stories about people who are different from me.

The Adventure was the first time I was taught not to bury your gays. I am forever thankful for my editor for helping me with this.

My druid needed to find her courage in the face of world-ending catastrophe. My cleric was on the cusp of becoming a great leader, until the DM (and a bunch of bad rolls) took the essence of who she was away from her. I'm still upset about that.

Sabbac blossomed into this beautiful, outgoing Darkspear troll who loved people and performing on stage. Even when she became a death knight (not one of my best writing decisions), she got resurrected, and claimed her happy ending.

While I felt upset at the comic, I have to remember that I'm trying to do a good job of fleshing out my characters. The Signora, for example, is a villainous, hungry voidsent whose stories are brutal and horrific. Heimar is a counterpart to Minti, a reminder of the person the viera used to be. And Fray is always nearby, ready to take over if the need arises, but never forceful about it. I want to think she's the Gentle Reaper in my stories, like Death from Neil Gaiman's Sandman.

I'm trying to give my characters the lives they deserve. I'm trying to make them real.

Minti may have started as a "What if I make a FFXIV character with my guildmates," but she's become a whole lot more.

#final fantasy xiv #final fantasy 14 #final fantasy oc #ffxiv #minti wol #minti chocolate #final fantasy viera #rava viera #vierapril #vierapril 2024 #ffxiv viera

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grapecaseschoices · 6 months

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9 and 18 from the tav qotd for. all ur tavs?🥰 (or 3 of your choice)

9. if they had to be put in a “get along shirt” with a companion, who would it be?

Adair: I think in this point of his PT, Adair gets along with everyone. Everyone loves Adair. I feel at the start it would be Astarion, not because Adair couldn't get along with him, it's because he couldn't get along with her. Adair can get along with everyone.

Amryl: Everyone except for Wyll? And maybe Lae'zel. AND MAYBE Karlach? LMAO. Um, Amryl doesn't like none of these bitches. I think at the start MAYBE Shadowheart [but I feel they could become friends once the end part of act 2 happens; they sorta growing there I think]. It doesn't like Astarion but they're both bitches. So there is a level of understanding, at least on it's part. Astarion cant abide the goodieness, as we know. Shadowheart is it's sibling in edgelord but the issue is Amryl is a cleric of Bahamut and Shadowheart is a cleric of Shar. And Amryl says shady shit re: Sharrans that loses them their hefty points lmao.

Elkantar: At this point of his PT [which isn't far at all], Astarion. If that bitch crit fails one more time with a disarm .... Andy has had it up to here with this bitch.

Integrity: Maybe it's because it has been a while since I've done their run .... but I don't think anyone. Funnily enough. MAYBE Gale but I feel by act 2 it's over. Integrity is an asshole and you know Gale disapproves of certain lack of empathy [which is funny given some of the shit Gale says]. OH! Halsin. LMAO.I can't believe I forgot my main bear. But Integrity has a problem with druids in general [as a tiefling druid]. He also doesn't have the best opinion of the man bc he didn't see the faults in Kagha. And I do think some of Integrity's manner might grate on Halsin. But I feel by now they SHOULD be okay [but again it's been a while].

Kaeliana: It was Astarion but now they're besties. Probably too much of like dealing with like. Well, not entirely but they have similarities. But probably Karlach? They have different approaches to things, though Kae mostly respects that. LOL. Nah, she does. Karlach probably likes her well enough. They just aren't close.

Kendis: Who don't they have a shirt with? It used to be Shadowheart and Lae'zel. But respect has been garnered. I think one could say she and Shadowheart are even friendly. Then it used to be sorta Halsin, Kendis thought Halsin was self-important and Halsin thought Kendis was a brat. But she's raised a lot in his esteem, and she likes him well enough/considers him a friend. Now it's Karlach lmao. Karlach cares about Kendis, but Kendis doesn't think Karlach has a right to but in on Kendis' decisions.

Sekryd: Lae'zel at the moment in her PT. Lae'zel is the bestie, but her approach toward what happens with Vlaakith in the creche --- irritates Sekryd. The facts are THERE, sis. Accept them and move on.

18. what modern day tv show would they binge over a weekend? do they get their LI to watch with them?

a terrible question bc i don't watch tv these days.

Elkantar: Andy watches the news and Gale watches with him. LMAO. IDK what Andy would watch. He probably watches those cute silly but trivia game shows. Tara found out and ratted him to Gale, and Gale thinks it's ADORABLE. GALE DEFINITELY WATCHES. And is arguably annoying to watch with, Andy is fond of him. So.

Kendis: A K-drama. Minthara, probably no. Unless messy. Kendis doesn't really ask, tho. Just mentions it. Rolan yes. And they like different chars and argue about it.

Sekryd: I feel Sekryd would watch one of those reality TV shows, about Pawn shops or like family digging/mining [idk i used to hear them in the bg in my patient's rooms]. It started accidentally, a background thing but they got invested. As an artisan dwarf I feel they'd have thoughts. Gale definitely got corralled in, because he was making obvious 'i want to spend more time with my beloved but surely she needs some space' faces. He is full of opinions but knows when to 'shhhh'.

#i didnt do orfeo. kasar. or tessa bc well barely played them. well ive played orfeo but it was so long ago. so so long ago #meet my tavs #ty for the ask!!!#trebondialanna #i have been radiating and vibrating with a desire to talk about them im sure its obvious so ty for indulging me #ask: bg3 #grapecase answers

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noodledragon · 3 years

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11, 18, 24, 36, 43! i want to ask all of these ah!

AAA IKR this ask meme is great i love watching people go feral over this—thank you for asking!!🥺

for ref my PCs are: Veradis (water genasi bard), Sen (aasimar fighter), Maximus (half orc palalock), Rieldan (drakyn barbarian), Gaius (aasimar cleric), Exton (human fighter)

11. is the biggest flirt, or has had the most romantic stuff going on?

Oh man they’re all Terrible with their love lives —Exton is surprisingly the most flirty? People just fall for that grumpy charm. Sen is Traumatized and Riel’s relationships are a-plenty but purely carnal—//shot

18. needs the most therapy?

hhhhhhhhhhhhhhh Sen, the most willing to accept therapy too

Gaius needs it more but he would pirouette and bound away like a gangly gay bunny

24. would win a battle royale with all the others?

I SPENT TIME on this and I think it would come down to the two fighters, Ex and Sen. Sen has higher DC and aasimar bonus healing but Ex has—arrows. I’d say Exton would win 👀

36. is the most emphathetic?

MAXIMUS BELOVED—Rieldan comes second but he has bouts of bloodlust

look at this orc, he walks old ladies across the street and thanks flowers for their service when picking them (art from Alarnia :3)

43. would you most like to be friends with?

Veradis—he is my everything they are my genderfluid gem, my fantastic fish, a malewife, my gf, just a Guy and also a Menace whose fishy little feet make flip flop asmr

#thank you! ;u;#friend ask #oc ask #oc: veradis #oc: max #oc: exton #oc: sen

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stelliferia · 4 years

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So yknow my kobold arcane trickster rogue, Kitt? She has a familiar now! His name is Mugwump (after the Canadian cryptid) and he is the best familiar I could ever ask for. What a beautiful good boy.

The process for this little boi was probably the best way I’ve seen find familiar done. The DM’s an absolute legend. I keep thinking about it, and it just make me cry. Process/backstory dump under the cut. It’s a little long, be warned

I’m so sorry in advance, this became something of a writing exercise for me - if you read it, I really appreciate it, and feel free to send me a PM if you want to chat!

So in addition to the usual components for the spell (10 gp worth of charcoal, incense, and herbs, and a bronze brazier) Kitt was required to collect a few other things. As someone who casts through her mind (intelligence) she needed to find three objects that represented mastery over three parts of her mind, in order to to have a familiar that represented it.

First was what does she want. Second was what would she do to get what she wanted. And the third was what does she fear will happen if she doesn’t get what she wants.

After much deliberating (on both hers and my parts), Kitt settled on the following things. A feather, some rope, and a set of charred wooden dice.

The feather represented freedom. Freedom from the slumbering ancient red dragon she used to collect shinies, and the threat of the terrible things it is capable of if it wakes. She wants for the rest of the kobolds to be free too. To explore the world and see the wonders it has to offer, no longer bound to endless servitude, just like she is now. The feather itself came from a hawk that used to belong to a very unpleasant man who had since been drowned, freeing it - something Kitt would want for herself and the other kobolds.

The rope represented Kitt’s willingness to explore to the ends of the earth(?) to find the Great Blade that is said to be capable of slaying the dragon for good. If the Blade isn’t the answer, she intends to keep on looking. Her dragonborn companion once told her rope was the most important thing an adventurer could have. So if she’ll be travelling a lot, Kitt figures she’s going to need quite a significant amount.

The charred dice represented everything she’s come to know and love being destroyed. This expansive, scary, beautiful world that she still has so much to learn about, would be ripped away from her if something wasn’t done about the dragon. She’d never see them again - her beloved Priestess telling stories with the shimmery pictures, or her friends and weasel running about, calling her to play. And while she hasn’t known them for quite as long, the crew, no, friends she’s made, she wouldn’t want them taken from her either. They still have stories to write write, quests to complete, and she wants to help see them through to the end. The dice, before they were charred, had delicate gold lettering etched onto each of the faces, and finished with a rich mahogany varnish. They were the first shinies she had ever found, and her first exposure to the outside world. She has fond memories with these dice, of her and her friend sneaking off during rituals to admire and play with the pretty shinies, delighting in the clickity-clackity noise they’d make as they hit the ground. As she went to put them in the fire place, her eyes started welling up, watching her precious reminder of home going up in flames. She quickly wiped them away, as the dice burned and blackened beyond recognition, and she started the ritual.

Falling into a meditative trance, visions surrounded her. She’s standing on the ship deck, nothing and no one else around, except the hawk, soaring above her. She blinked, and suddenly, she was seeing through the hawk’s eyes. It flew over the various islands, some of which she had visited, some of them soon to be. The scene shifts again, and she’s standing again, but this time, its somewhere hot, ashy, and dark. She’s home again. As her eyes adjust, her heart sinks to the floor. All of her friends. Dead. Reluctantly, she looks around. And it’s not just them, but all of the crew, the people she’s met along the way, and her clan, scattered like ragdolls. Looking away from the bodies, she comes snout to snout with a familiar face. A face she spent her life fearing, and hoped never to see again, and not like this. The Great Dragon Viskelaer was awake.

Waking with a gasp, she found herself back in her quarters. Her heart was pounding, and her face was wet with tears. She curled into a ball, shaken by what she saw. There was a tug at her scarf, and when she looked, bright blue eyes looked back at her. The small mahogany creature pawed its way into Kitt’s lap, and its rope-like tail curling around as it settles in for a nap. Tentatively, the kobold reached out her claws to pet it, like she did the weasels back home. This one felt a little different though. The fur was more like soft feathers, somewhat reminiscent of the hawk. Realizing what had happened, Kitt’s cracked the tiniest grin. This weasel, Mugwump, is her precious shiny, and she was going to make sure she worked to protect it.

RIGHT SO THAT WAs BASICLALY WHAT HAPPENED for Kitt to get her familiar, and nearly everything about it I attribute to my incredible DM. I think he’s the first DM I’ve had who’s given me a world I absolutely adore, and he handles my character (monster race) so incredibly well. He’s very much all about the creative reflavouring, and I live for it. Gahh I have so much to say about this DM. They also handle Mugwump (in-game) very well, and it makes me so unbelievably happy. (i’m going to start a tag for myself for things Mugwump does/things I headcannon he does, called Mugwump Ventures)

So because of Kitt’s love of shinies, Mugwump has an inherent need for them as well. He doesn’t quite understand why though, so his natural response is to bite shinies he finds. He’s always actively seeking them out, eyes glittering whenever he sees one. He melts my heart. The forge cleric (one of my good friends in the group) had just gotten an upgrade to his armour, and didn’t know what to do with his old chain mail, so he ended up giving it to Kitt/Mugwump as a gift. Mugwump was overjoyed, and it’s his new toy now. It was so so sweet, and we are all crying.

Tangent, but everyone in the party has gifted Kitt with something at some point. I mean, makes sense, you want to appease the captain >:). The druid gave her little daisies whenever he went to get her, the carpenter made her a little boat model, and the forge cleric not only gave her the armour, but he also forged her a proper rapier to replace her pointy stick. It’s just so sweet and wholesome. The crewjust wants to keep this little Kobold child happy

Gosh, another thing, when i first thought about casting Find Familiar, I just assumed it would be a regular weasel, but when the DM began describing Mugwump’s appearance, I began squealing from joy. Every aspect of the familiar’s appearance reflects the items, and what they mean to Kitt. So the eyes were meant to be the seas they were sailing, the rope tail was... the rope, the colouring was supposed to be the dice and the charring, the feathers for freedom/the hawk, and the form (though predetermined) was home. I was legit so happy about it. I love this DM. It’s been a great time.

Anyways, long post over thanks for reading, hope you stay tuned for more wholesome content!

#dnd #find familiar #kobold #weasel #pirates campaign #mugwump ventures #stelliferiarts #stelliramblings

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itsomgitsgreenblogging · 4 years

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The Star Damned Itself: A Critical Role Fanfic

My fic for Day 2 of @essek-week I chose the prompt, Loneliness because of course I did. I don’t usually lean heavy into angst but you know, sometimes you just gotta. This one is a more character study/gen fic.

Trigger warnings: Definite dysfunctional family dynamics//gaslighting//mentions of abuse//crisis of faith

Read the collection on AO3

Maybe there hadn’t been a singular moment. Maybe there had been a thousand cracks, a thousand fissures, and a thousand dislocations. Maybe Essek had never been whole at all. Perhaps Essek Theylss was just a collection of broken shards gathered into a body he had to justify was his.

Was there a moment?

Essek sometimes struggled with that thought. Had there been a moment when everything went wrong? When he realized that he was better off alone? He could conjure a thousand memories to mind. A quiet hallway, the corner of the library where he hid from a party between the shelf and the wall, the sharp pain of a rap on his knuckles that split and bled, the twist of a pinch in the classroom. When had it been? Could it be the day he heard his father hissing to some distant aunt about his inability to listen? Was it the moment he passed his sixteenth birthday and his mother’s lip turned up in a sneer because Essek was just Essek and there was no long dead great living in his body? When he had raised a fork to his lips and realized that food had no flavor? Had it been something earlier? When?

Maybe it was this: hacking his hair off in the bathroom the day his heart was broken and swearing never to do it again.

Or this: a beacon traded hands in the darkness.

Or this:

“People don’t love broken things. Oh stop that, everything is replaceable,” his mother had sighed, with little remorse as she threw the cracked porcelain bowl at a servant. Essek had so often admired it, wondered at the beautiful flowers painted along the edge and the silver rim. She had wanted him to make it float to prove his lessons weren’t a waste of her time, and Essek had made it do so despite the fact he was too young to do it. But he had done it, and had done well and Essek could tell his mother was almost proud of him--until his sister purposefully slammed a door close and startled him. The bowl went tumbling from the air and crashed onto the floor...destroying him completely.

The bowl had been bought a long time ago, brought from the Menagerie Coast and settled in the corner to gather dust and be a relic of the den’s wealth. They had it because they could afford expensive things, not because it fit anywhere. In Essek’s eight year old imagination it took on some sort of legend. He had pestered his science tutor about those flowers, who had listed off their names with a put-out tone. Cornflowers and marigolds, larkspur and chicory. There were almost no flowers native to Rosohna anymore (the endless night had robbed them of that) but that bowl showed Essek that there was a world outside of his father’s grimaces and his mother’s disapproval, and it was a place he could go one day. It became a little song he sang in his head on those long days. On the days when his mother had no patience and his father had even less and everyone was fed up with him again and again because he wasn’t perfect yet and his mind spun the tune: cornflowers and marigolds, larkspur and chicory, Empire, Rosohna, Tal’dorei, Menagerie.

People don’t love broken things. Everything is replaceable. Hissed his mother’s voice and his father’s voice as he stared at the closing door. It overtook that childish rhyme and became something deeply engraved in his heart.

Essek wondered if that was the moment when he realized that she was talking about him.

Or this:

“Oh Luxon, holiest of lights, bless this child with eyes that can see past the marauding darkness and turn him towards the light,” the Luxon cleric said as he dabbed oil on Essek’s forehead. Essek looked at his family seated at attention in the rows, and felt his mother’s gaze digging into him. He turned and stared at the beacon...and just saw it. Incense swirled in the air--puffs of smoke caught on the strobing lights. There was just light. He couldn’t feel anything.

What were they all feeling? Essek wondered as panic slicked his insides and broke goosebumps across his skin. Why? Why couldn’t Essek see whatever they saw? Why couldn’t he feel what they felt? He had done everything right, studied the ritual down to the last detail, but he could feel nothing. He just wanted someone to tell him what he was doing wrong...someone to comfort him. Somehow the wanting made it all the worse. His tutors had told him that though the stars looked close together, they were really an unquantifiable distance apart. And in that moment he realized that was him, gazing into the light of a star, adrift in the vastness of the heavens alone. He was surrounded by people--always, always being watched, but he was so alone. No one loved a broken thing like him, not even the Luxon--but what if--what if--?

Don’t leave me alone, Essek begged the star.

The star damned itself, and gave him no answer.

______________________

As Shadowhand, he was given a certain number of perks. One of them was real estate--a home to be exact. When he received the title to his new home, he had nearly balked at the audacity of being able to live alone in a world that was defined by your den, but then became overwhelmingly excited. In fact, he clutched the deed to the land with a shaking hand hidden by a long sleeve and refused to let it go for the first two hours of having it.

When he finally came back to his family’s ancestral home to pack his most important things and to send for the rest, his mother was not impressed.

“Why would you move?” she demanded of him, as the servants helped to fill his trunks. The servants stopped at the sound of her displeasure, but with a look at Essek they continued.

“Mother, we already spoke about this,” Essek said tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I have already accepted, and have put down the money--my money to be clear, for the upkeep. I understand you are not pleased but it is already--”

“We have not spoken about this,” she said haughtily, smoothing her hands on her red dress as if she could make Essek see the reason in her position. Essek saw none.

“Did you think when we were talking about this last week, and then three days ago, and then yesterday, that this was all--what? Hypothetical?” Essek asked, his annoyance becoming obvious in spite of his best attempts. “If that isn’t the case then you have a very selective memory, Mother.”

He was being far too petty, that was exceedingly obvious. Essek was doing himself no favors, in fact, what he should have been doing was being pleasant and considerate and polite. Mother preferred that version of him, the son that did nothing but exist solely to further her every last ambition. It was too hasty, showing the self he kept private just like his mother wanted. No one liked this Essek, not that this Essek had anyone he would care enough about to care. The eagerness he felt at the idea of being alone without his family constantly breathing down his neck was intoxicating and it was making him something he was loath to admit: bold. And his mother noticed because of course she did, and her skin took on a lavender flush of fury.

“It simply doesn’t make any sense. We can take that residence and do something useful with it, give it to a branch of the family. A single man has no reason to have a whole estate for himself, it’s just wasteful. Especially considering--”

“Considering what?” Essek demanded, cutting her off. The servants at this point grabbed the trunks and escaped the room like harpies were descending on them. “Go ahead, Mother. Say it.”

“Oh don’t be dramatic, Essek. We both know you have no desire for a family of your own, don’t make me out to be the villain in this story you tell yourself,” his mother said with a roll of her eyes. Essek was furious now, his blood was boiling under his skin--something ugly and terrible was clawing at his insides attempting to escape, venom was filling up his throat like bitter bile.

“The only thing I don’t have a desire for is being bred like a prized Horizonback tortoise,” Essek hissed before throwing up his hands. “But you know what? You are right. If that’s what having a family is like I would rather be alone, so just let me go. If you ever loved me, even a little bit, you would just let me be.”

“This is not your decision to make,” she warned him. She wanted him to bend--to break. For once, Essek didn’t back down. Instead he stood tall, facing his denmother with a kind of strength he didn’t know he possessed. “The Luxon will not shine on this decision. Your place is here, I am your denmother--your Umavi, and you will respect my will.”

If the Luxon existed and it chose you as the paragon of virtue, then it is a foolish deity, Essek thought.

“I have already made my decision,” is what Essek said before walking out the door.

____________________

One of his mother’s favorite tricks was making Essek feel like he had gone absolutely crazy. When he was around her and when she was talking to him, he often had the acute sense that his mind was slowly being peeled back from its foundations like a soggy old parchment. He would say something--bring up something that had happened in the past, and she would deny it as if it had never happened in such a convincing manner that it left Essek feeling like maybe he had lost his grip on reality. She would tell him they had never argued, or she had never taken away a beloved blanket, or any number of things and Essek would almost believe her every time.

Essek was finding that living alone was better and worse in that regard. Essek didn’t have anyone else making him feel like he was slowly going mad, but instead it was now springing from his mind. His job thankfully kept him on a rather rigorous schedule, but when (if) he returned home to his empty towers time seemed to both slow to a hardening syrup and speed up beyond his control. His trances were made short and abrupt by the sound of the wind and the cold of the stone, with little else to do once he was home he often researched on his projects for hours on end without stopping. He feared the day he retired (maybe, if he was lucky and his treachery wasn’t discovered) because Essek felt he would lose track of time all together.

Not that there was retirement in sight. His new position as Shadowhand barely left him time to breathe, let alone work on the things he wanted to. But things were better. They had to be better than before. Anything was preferable than before.

“This is what I wanted,” Essek reassured himself, as he lay on the floor in his second tower on a rug that had cost enough that he felt that he was entitled to be able to lay on it. “I wanted to be alone.”

Had he? When had he wished that?

The thought stumped him. When? When had being alone become the price he had to pay for his brilliance...for his research...for living? It seemed like it had become as natural as breathing...to be alone. He was suited to loneliness like a bird was to air. After all, whenever he had to speak to someone outside of work he felt like he was slowly withering away into nothing. And yet now he couldn’t even remember the last time he had even spoken honestly with another living being outside his head where all of his conversations went according to his daydreams...and it was suddenly very alarming. The Assembly was useless for that he had found, despite his hopes otherwise, and there was no one in Rosohna he could think to enjoy.

He didn't like to admit it, but he had wanted a kinship with them... at least the mutual respect a fellow researcher deserved. But as always, it never worked out. The Cerberus Assembly was just another collection of old biased fools who worked only to absorb more power and prestige. Of course he would be happy with the research they were doing, and he was learning more. And learning was everything, the truth was the only thing, but even so...

Maybe tomorrow would be different, Essek thought. There was no reason to think so...there would be the meeting with Lythir and the Bright Queen and whatever guests were probably coming from the city of beasts, and then he would be caught up in all sorts of official nonsense. But maybe tomorrow the sting of loneliness wouldn’t be so apparent. Maybe he would be cold hearted enough not to care.

Maybe tomorrow, Essek thought, staring at his ceiling alone. Maybe tomorrow.

#critical role #critical role fanfic #Essek Week #essek thelyss

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mllemaenad · 5 years

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(Chantry Asker) I don't defend the Chantry because I think is "has to be good", but part of what Dragon Age encourages us to do is consider the difficulty faced by well-intentioned factions. The Inquisition, for example, has problems, becoming vulnerable to infiltration, and depending on how you played the game, may have done worse. It's not easy to help people, but the Chantry TRIES. Many Thedosian groups don't even do that. If not the Chantry, then to whom do the downtrodden and hopeless turn?

But Anonymous person: this is exactly what I mean. Whence comes this desire to treat the Chantry like some kind of beleaguered, underfunded kindergarten teacher?

“She’s trying, okay? She’s trying.”

Do you feel the need to defend Mass Effect’s Cerberus, too? Sometimes an evil organisation is just an evil organisation.

Why on earth do you think the Chantry is ‘trying’? Again: absolutely no one is saying that a particular revered mother (or Chantry brother or sister) may not be a good person who attempts to help people. That’s not in question. But ‘the Chantry’ is a continent-wide political organisation with massive resources and influence. It is led by a divine and by grand clerics, and on the other side by lord and lady Seekers and by knight-commanders of the templars. It has shaped the world. That’s the scale we are working on here.

No one group in history has impacted life in Thedas more than the Chantry. The influence of this church of the Maker prevails across most of the continent’s kingdoms, and the bulk of humanity pays at least lip service to its tenets. Belief in the Maker has started wars and forced those outside the Chantry to the fringes of society.

– The World of Thedas Volume I

So that’s a good start.

"The Keepers, Shaperate, Qun, Augers, Seers, and Shamen don't help. Only the Chantry.”

That’s one of the first things you said to me. And it’s so confusing because ... it reads like you really don’t grasp that these people are not in Lothering because, largely, they have been driven to the margins by Orlais and its Chantry. They can’t be there. They would die.

Just as an example – can you imagine what would happen to an augur who set up in some Chantry-dominated village? Started summoning his gods, offering guidance and assistance, suggesting spirit possession to help training young mages? The poor bastard wouldn’t live out the day. But that wouldn’t be his fault. His people aren’t the ones practising religious persecution.

How – how – does that demonstrate the virtue of the Chantry? You can’t give someone points for being the only game in town when they’ve killed all the other players.

The Chantry began and has continued to be a predominantly human organisation. Other races are seen to be further from the Maker. The elves have their false pantheon of idols. The dwarves worship themselves. The Qunari are the worst of all, actively crushing worship of the Maker and desecrating Chantry values in the name of the Qun.

– The World of Thedas Volume I

They have built the racism right into their doctrine, so that’s nice. And the religious persecution. And just ... zero self-awareness in that they hate the Qunari for converting by force when they do the same thing.

But let’s think about your "downtrodden and hopeless”, shall we?

Why is it that most of the elves in Thedas live in abject poverty, and regardless of their skills are effectively barred from bettering their lot? Oh, that’s right. Because the Chantry invaded their homeland, stole it from them, and forced them to live in slums and convert to the Chantry faith.

But you already know that something went wrong. A small elven raiding party attacked the nearby human village of Red Crossing, an act of anger that prompted the Chantry to retaliate and, with their superior numbers, conquer the Dales.

We were not enslaved as we had been before, but our worship of the ancient gods was now forbidden. We were allowed to live among the humans only as second-class citizens who worshipped their Maker, forgetting once more the scraps of lore we had maintained through the centuries.

– The City Elves

Why is it that most mages are dependant on Chantry run Circles to house, feed and clothe them? Oh, that’s right. Because the Chantry kidnaps them as children, prevents them from inheriting their family titles and property, and steals their children in turn should they have any.

Chantry law requires those with significant magical ability to join the nearest Circle and live under its supervision. While Thedosians with extremely low levels of magical talent are generally permitted to go about their lives, they are still closely watched. In most nations, practising magic and not joining a Circle is to be branded an apostate and, thus, a danger to society. Those who survive capture are turned over to the Circle to become students or prisoners, depending on the circumstances.

– The World of Thedas Volume I

So that’s ... pretty great. It sounds as though you’re suggesting – best case scenario – that the Chantry should get points for setting up a soup kitchen for the homeless, when they were the ones who burned down those people’s houses. And built an ugly mansion on the land.

But that really is a ... best case scenario. It doesn’t really fit with the reality of how the Chantry operates. I mean: the Chantry takeover in Kirkwall was a fucking disaster. Meredith had death squads. I mean – death squads. That whole situation was a dystopian nightmare.

And then there’s whatever the fuck is going on in Tantervale:

Chantry law is all but absolute in Tantervale, earning the city its dour reputation. The city guard is obsessed with enforcement. A street urchin would get a year in the dungeon for something that would get him a pat on the back in Orlais.

– World of Thedas Volume I

So ... yay for theocracy? And then there’s the clusterfuck in Jader:

The overpopulation and poor living conditions led to an outbreak of disease that nearly crippled the city, followed by famine in the poorer sections when it was quarantined.

Mother Giselle, whose prosperous chantry was in a wealthier quarter, wrote to Val Royeaux asking for assistance from the Chantry. When help was not immediately forthcoming, it is said that she addressed the clerics of her chantry. “As Andraste herself said, ‘My faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,’ then so shall faith sustain the hungry in this time of need,” Giselle told them. “As we have devoted our lives to divine contemplation, such a diet should come to us quite easily.” With that she took the unprecedented step of taking all of her chantry’s food into the poor quarters of Jader, distributing it to peasants who would otherwise have starved to death.

Shocked and shamed by what some in Val Royeaux privately referred to as an ostentatious bullying tactic, Chantry officials coordinated relief efforts. Food arrived quickly, along with instructions on how it was to be distributed: first to the Jader chantry to end the hunger strike, then to the Orlesian peasants, then to the Fereldan refugees, and finally to the elves of the alienages. Mother Giselle famously replied to the orders by saying, “If we believe that some have fallen further from the Maker’s grace than others, then those who have fallen further are in greatest need of our care. We cannot fill their souls until we have filled their bellies.” With the support of Lady Seryl of Jader, who was directing relief efforts of her own, Giselle ignored the directives and fed the poor of the city without regard for race or nationality.

Her actions saved thousands of lives in Jader and made her a beloved figure among the poor in Orlais and Ferelden alike. Those actions also destroyed her chances of any official political advancement in the Chantry, as the grand clerics did not look kindly on being shown up in such a manner.

– World of Thedas Volume II

So, five important points here:

1) Mother Giselle’s actions are ‘unprecedented’. So stepping up like that and forcing the Chantry to give aid in a time of crisis is not actually standard practice.

2) This is a clear example of a person attempting to do good and being stymied by the Chantry hierarchy.

3) The Chantry is, in case anyone forgot, really fucking racist.

4) Ending a famine also ended this woman’s political career, because the Chantry just cannot stop being The Worst.

5) While Giselle is undeniably doing some really awesome stuff here, that bit about not being able to fill people’s souls before filling their bellies indicates that even good people tend to do harm when following Chantry doctrine, because they can’t just ‘do good’. They’re also pushing conversion.

Whenever and wherever the Chantry has real power, they tend to do terrible harm. They do it on such a scale, on such a level of ‘these bloody hands may never be clean again’ awful that ... a few acts of kindness can’t easily redeem them.

To be critical of the Chantry, I don’t need to have another option. I can critique a thing without going further – especially since ‘The Chantry killed everyone else’ is ... pretty much why other people aren’t around to help. But ... it really isn’t as if no one else knows how to do good?

I mean – look at Alistair. Assuming you made him king, he shows up with ships to bring the Fereldan refugees home, and offers aid to rebel mages. He fights with Meredith about it. That aid continues into Inquisition. While the Chantry is busy tearing Kirkwall apart, Alistair is helping. Anders runs a clinic for the poor and dispossessed in the Kirkwall sewers. He’s so damn popular that a mob turns up to defend him. That’s just one man. Most people like him are locked up, so they can’t help. Imagine a thousand clinics run by spirit healers.

Or ... did ... no one listen to Merrill?

Merrill: What does your Chantry do? I mean, you keep saying how great it is. Anders and Isabela tell me to stay away from it. But what does it do? Among the Dalish, the Keepers teach the children, preserve our history, perform magic. The priestesses here just... sing.

Sebastian: The Chantry does many charitable works. It cares for widows and orphans –

Merrill: Who in the Dalish would just be part of the clan, like everyone else. I just don't get it.

...

Bethany: So, there's no Circle among the Dalish?

Merrill: Any child with the gift of magic is apprenticed to a Keeper... in another clan if there's no need in her own.

Bethany: That sounds nice.

Merrill: Magic is a gift of the Creators. Why wouldn't we use it? It just seems... wasteful for humans to lock their mages away where they can't do any good.

– Merrill Dialogue

The Dalish would regard ‘charity’ as a communal duty, and magic as a tool to help people. She’s not wildly impressed by the Chantry, which is not doing enough good of any kind for her to notice. Merrill lives in one of the poorest parts of the city. So. Maybe her way might be worth a try?

Individuals can do good. Organisations can do good. These things are not in question. But the Chantry is – and I say this again – an imperial religion. Its primary function is to serve the Orlesian empire, which is racist, power hungry and deeply religiously intolerant. Empires are bad news.

I’ve seen the examples you’ve given. They exist. Some of them are real instances of a Chantry official, or a small, local chantry, doing a Good Thing. But I have to ask ...

Can you really look at a set of scales that has ‘genocide’ on one side and ‘helped out a single mum that one time’ on the other and say “Sure, that balances”?

#dragon age #chantry critical #Anonymous

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magic-mitchell · 5 years

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Okay, since you offered, hi, I'm curious about the basic plot, characters, and context for the memes? IDK, I adore other people's campaigns.

HELLO THERE I’m glad you asked!!!

We are an all-drow party hired by the Archivists (a group of wizards, scientists, scholars and researchers) to look into a deadly magical plague that’s been sweeping the land. We’ve discovered that drow specifically are immune due to the nature of its origins, and long story short we’re on our way to commit regicide in the name of ending the plague.

The party consists of

* Theodore (@novasiri), a tiny snarky alchemist who keeps his cards very close, whose beloved homunculus of thirty years was recently obliterated, and he’s not been in a good mood because of it.

* Reloneth (@agent-underdark), a cleric, formerly a fiend warlock, doing his best to turn it all around and do some good. He dads everyone in the party (except the paladin, kind of, because, in a delightfully gay turn of events, they are dating). He recently talked to his god for the first time since learning said god was indirectly responsible for the plague and directly for the creation of the Princes of Chaos, which he regrets. Relon is still processing that the gods aren’t perfect and can have regrets.

* Rhylaonar (@leidensygdom), a paladin, and an unlikely one. He’s seen a lot of character development from being a thief stuck with a holy sword to an actual missionary of justice, and he’s dating Relon.

* Cato (@sleebyfrogs, that’s me), a warlock roped into a pact to try and get rid of a terrible curse (though the pact was just... kind of like a second curse on top of that). He and his patron have had a rollercoaster of a relationship in which he was eventually freed from service, his patron turned mortal, and they may or may not be very, very obviously crushing on each other. He recently nearly died and then got frostbite as a direct result of his own stubbornness and pride.

* Athaso (@athaso, formerly, as his player unfortunately had to drop out), a mysterious flirty rogue with a history as an assassin. Last we saw of him, he threw his evil mother out a window to her death, took Cato to bed with him and disappeared off the radar completely.

Uhhhhh oh man my memory is a disaster if any one of the above players wants to add to this post with some of the best moments and dialogue you are more than welcome and encouraged to do so

Meme context (in reference to this post):

* “Are ya sciencing/withholding information son?” - We have tons of these Relon dad memes for every occasion. Literally any time he asks a dadly question it’s a race to apply it to the template, I’ve got it saved to my desktop for easiest possible access

* “How to break ass” - I don’t remember the exact context for this but breaking ass is what Rhyl does most often and best, for the most part. I think his player needed some placeholder book titles for a 3D model assignment XD

* Tide pod diagram - Rhyl and Relon could not for the life of them roll high enough intelligence to understand how our new Stones of Farspeech worked (Rhyl has negative int and Relon is like a grandpa with technology). Someone said the stones looked like tide pods and now it’s just canon. The one with the teeth is our employer, whom we have one line to (our DM @messyjester’s poor Credence, who is a lot more handsome and lovely than our shitpost doodles will ever give him credit for) and the other is Rhyl’s nephew Velanzus, whom we have another line to. Rhyl often calls him just to check in, it’s very sweet.

* Team Rocket - we have some NPCs who lowkey have this dynamic (Cato’s sister Malcice and Jess’ Kazimir). This file is saved on my computer as theWorst.png

* Rhyl Astley - “Rhyl make a roll” “a Rhylroll, if you will. Or maybe a RickRhyl”

* “I am 225 so drinking is yes” - I have no idea where the original image comes from was but Rhyl likes to drink a little too much and he 100% would do this

* “Relon fucked a dragonborn” - early one so I’m not sure I totally remember the context but I think Relon said something that got badly miscommunicated and quickly out of hand. For the record Relon insists he has not

* “I am a dumb bitch with expensive tastes” - this one kind of speaks for itself, Cato likes finery and will complain incessantly whenever we have to camp outside/be somewhere cold/be somewhere hot/watch our budget instead of buying new clothes and rich sweet foods

* “Rhyl’s fucking himboness” - we forgot to factor in Rhyl’s paladin aura into a Frightened save and when we retrospectively remembered it brought Relon’s roll up to the required DC

* “It’s free Rhyl estate” - we went back to the guild he used to be a part of and he asked if his room was still there and if he could stay in it again and I had the perfect joke

* “Cohen has cursed me for my hubris and my neurological function is never good” - Cato’s former accomplice stabbed him in the back by walking him into the trap that got him cursed (and then directing him into a pact when he asked for help). The curse affects his memory and specifically his ability to remember instructions and anything he’s read, or draw conclusions on how to learn from his mistakes (he’ll remember the event and understand the logical next step if it’s brought to his attention, but he won’t be able to connect the two no matter the explanation). And it’s getting worse.

HKSVIGSGSKHLSJOHS that’s a hell of a lot but I love this campaign so dearly and I’ve missed it so much, thank you for asking!

#D&D #Drowsquad #Memes #RBtalks #Long post #Answers #Thank you!!!

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pamphletstoinspire · 6 years

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The Hell of Faith: ‘Dreadful Possibility’ and ‘Terrible Reality’ at Once

There is a sense of mounting intensity in the Church. Within the last ten days alone, the following has happened:

Pope Francis and Ahmad Al-Tayyeb, the Grand Imam of Al-Azhar Mosque, signed a “Document on Human Fraternity,” which says that “the diversity of religions” is “willed by God in His wisdom.”

Subsequently, many have reacted, directly or indirectly, to the serious theological questions this document raises. Included among those writing on the subject are Phil Lawler (“Not all religions are part of God’s plan”) and Bishop Athanasius Schneider (“The Gift of Filial Adoption”).

Four days after the joint statement of the Vicar of Christ and the Grand Imam, the former Prefect of the CDF, Gerhard Ludwig Cardinal Müller, published a “Manifesto of Faith” in seven different languages. This very powerful statement has been praised by Bishops (including the aforementioned Bishop Schneider), and by other clergy and laity. But it has also ruffled the feathers of another German Cardinal, the progressivist Walter Cardinal Kasper, whose inter-religious sensibilities appear to have been offended by his more doctrinaire countryman and brother cardinal. In a similitude bound to cause confusion among ecumenists, Cardinal Kasper compared Cardinal Müller to Martin Luther. Moreover, an unsurprising collection of progressivists has gathered to condemn the “Manifesto,” including the Rev. James Martin, who took to Twitter over it.

And only Tuesday, we learned of the publication of a new book by an ostensibly well informed French sociologist claiming that a full eighty percent of the clerics working in the Roman Curia are homosexual.

Difficult times.

Let us turn our attention to one section of Cardinal Müller’s “Manifesto of Faith,” wherein the eminent author considers the basic truths of the four last things. Having mentioned death, judgement, and Heaven, he goes on to state these hard truths concerning hell:

There is also the dreadful possibility that a person will remain opposed to God to the very end, and by definitely refusing His Love, “condemns himself immediately and forever” (CCC 1022). “God created us without us, but He did not want to save us without us” (CCC 1847). The eternity of the punishment of hell is a terrible reality, which — according to the testimony of Holy Scripture — attracts all who “die in the state of mortal sin” (CCC 1035). The Christian goes through the narrow gate, for “the gate is wide, and the way that leads to ruin is wide, and many are upon it” (Mt 7:13).

To keep silent about these and the other truths of the Faith and to teach people accordingly is the greatest deception against which the Catechism vigorously warns. It represents the last trial of the Church and leads man to a religious delusion, “the price of their apostasy” (CCC 675); it is the fraud of Antichrist. “He will deceive those who are lost by all means of injustice; for they have closed themselves to the love of the truth by which they should be saved” (2 Thess 2:10).

Earlier in his “Manifesto,” Cardinal Müller had written of the sad state of ignorance that exists among the faithful. Far from excusing them from their Christian obligations and giving them a free pass to Heaven, that state of ignorance is a danger to their immortal souls: “Today,” wrote His Eminence, “many Christians are no longer even aware of the basic teachings of the Faith, so there is a growing danger of missing the path to eternal life” (emphasis mine). This pastoral concern reminded me of what that great shepherd, Pope Saint Pius X, wrote in his Acerbo Nimis: “It is a common complaint, unfortunately too well founded, that there are large numbers of Christians in our own time who are entirely ignorant of those truths necessary for salvation. … And so Our Predecessor, Benedict XIV, had just cause to write: ‘We declare that a great number of those who are condemned to eternal punishment suffer that everlasting calamity because of ignorance of those mysteries of faith which must be known and believed in order to be numbered among the elect.’”

The “Manifesto” mentions salvation numerous times, and does so in a way that avoids the common errors of our day, errors like presumption, indifferentism (for he associates salvation with Christ and His “Mystical Body,” the Catholic Church), or the soft-core modernism that makes eternal life something natural to man. Evidently, as the above paragraphs on hell would indicate, His Eminence is no disciple of Hans Urs von Balthasar.

In the several paragraphs that follow, I am borrowing very heavily from a polemical piece that my beloved mentor and superior, Brother Francis, M.I.C.M., wrote many years ago. Both to shorten the text and to remove the not-presently-relevant particulars of the polemic, I am applying a very heavy editorial hand.

All the truths about hell belong to those mysteries which are not the proper object of reason. The best that we can do with hell rationally is to show that it is not absurd. The Rationalists make hell absurd to begin with, and then they try to make it empty — or to make believe that it is empty. In a book on Catholic Doctrine by the Very Rev. William Byrne, D.D., published in 1892, hell is defined as “the state or place of those condemned to eternal punishment.”

It is very hard for us to see from reason how any crime of man can ever deserve eternal punishment. “An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth” is reasonable. When a man kills another man, kill him, but why send him to eternal fire? Why send the unbaptized baby to an everlasting punishment of loss (soon to be explained) for a crime he did not personally commit?

But the hell of Faith is not a punishment for crime, but for sin; and sin adds to crime an entirely new aspect — the aspect of contempt or even hatred of God. It is because the everlasting God commanded “Thou shalt not kill” that murder becomes more than a crime — a sin.

The essence of hell consists in the loss of the Beatific Vision, a punishment common both to hell (proper) and to the Limbo of the unbaptized. The torments of hell (poena sensus) — those punishments for actual sin that are superadded to the pain of loss of heavenly beatitude (the poena damni) — belong to the accidental part of the eternal punishment. They are completely absent from Limbo. With regard to these, the same Father Byrne we have already quoted says:

“All the damned do not suffer alike. The punishment is proportioned to the malice and gravity of their sins. ‘Give unto her double according to her works.’ (Apoc. 18:6.)”

But even the guilt of original sin, by which we inherit a nature lacking the supernatural requirements (and even the supernatural desire) for the Beatific Vision, carries with it the loss of that infinite good. Naturally speaking, that good of heavenly Beatitude can neither be desired nor missed by any creature not reborn by grace.

The souls of unbaptized infants can be naturally happy. Part of their natural happiness consists in a connatural love of God, their Creator — a love and happiness not forfeited as a result of original sin. But these souls have not inherited the primordial state of grace which belonged to Adam before the fall, nor were they regenerated (born again) by the waters of Baptism.

We have, as we might say, an imperfect knowledge of hell which comes from the virtue of Faith. But, just as no man really knows darkness who has not seen the light, no man fully comprehends the doctrine of hell until he has the Beatific Vision. We cannot know hell now any more perfectly than we can know Heaven; and we know about Heaven merely because He Who came down from Heaven has deigned to reveal that truth to us.

If you ask the natural man to describe what to him would be Heaven, he can at best describe a hell, more or less comfortable. For Jesus, our Savior, revealed to us not merely the way to salvation, but the reality itself, and we have to take salvation on His entirely supernatural terms. “Now this is eternal life: That they may know thee, the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent” (John 17:3).

And now, I would like to conclude these thoughts on hell with the exact words of Brother Francis, taken from his wonderful book of meditations, The Challenge of Faith:

1. It is possible to imagine a hell that would be incompatible with a merciful, or even with a just God; but that would not be the authentic hell of Scripture, of dogma, and of Faith. 2. The essence of hell is the loss of the Beatific Vision; therefore it is the loss of something whose very reality is known only through faith. 3. Even in hell, not only the justice and wisdom of God, but also His mercy and love must be in evidence. This we cannot see now, but we will see in eternity. No one is punished in hell beyond the measure due to his sins. 4. Where sufficient awareness exists of the danger of being separated from God for all eternity, no other punishment of hell need be emphasized; but the fires and worms of hell must be preached where weakness of faith or its complete absence make light of the loss of God. 5. Without the faith, the best that our nature would desire, would amount to nothing better than a comfortable hell. This is actually most peoples’ conception of a heaven. 6. The first effects of the action of grace is to give us holy desires: hungers and thirsts for things far above this world and all that it can offer. 7. The men of holy desires, alone, understand.

For more on the subject, I point the reader to a longer piece I wrote: “There Is a Hell, and It Makes Perfect Sense.”

Let us, in gratitude, pray for Gerhard Ludwig Cardinal Müller. And let us pray for the Church Universal. The confusion and scandal of these last ten days are nothing compared to what’s coming.

But remember, “he that shall persevere to the end, he shall be saved” (Matt. 24:13).

FEB 13, 2019 Written by: BROTHER ANDRÉ MARIE

Shared by: www.pamphletstoinspire.com

#the hell of faith

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eldrxtchwonder-blog · 6 years

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July 19th

To Mama, Papa, and our beloved neighbors,

I’m sorry it’s been a few weeks since I’ve last written. I’m sorry that I can’t send more than one letter right now, too, but the contents of this letter really should have been broken up into three. I hope all pages of this letter find you safely and that nothing confuses you. I don’t know how long it will be until I have an address where you can mail me again, but rest assured I’ll tell you as soon as I have one.

I’ve reached many levels since beginning my journey as an adventurer. In the last few weeks alone I’ve become stronger than I had been in my last year of adventuring. I’m on my way to becoming a great and powerful warlock just like Papa was. I feel my bond with our Patron strengthening all the time.

After the last letter I sent to you, I stopped in a town called Novitya. I only meant to stay a few days, but I got wrapped up in something completely unexpected. The good news is that I’ve made many new friends, with whom I have been traveling these last weeks. The bad news is that I have made some terrible mistakes and I don’t know how much longer I will travel with them.

Let me start from the beginning; in Novitya I stayed in a tavern where I heard a rumor of a young man having seen the innkeeper turn into a swan and then disappearing. She’d been missing for quite some time, apparently, and the forest around the town was overgrowing at an alarming rate. I wanted to see if I could track down this innkeeper, or if there was anything else I could do to help out around the town. Suddenly, I was thrown into a party of adventurers and we were sent on a great quest together.

Long Cat was the adventurer I came to get along with the best and the quickest. He wasn’t very bright, but he had the kindest heart I’ve ever known. He would have gotten along well with the people in Brourea, I think. I wish I could have had the privilege of bringing him home with me someday.

Pesxori is a strange one, to be sure. I sense there is something very dark within her, but... she also seems kindhearted. I’m glad to call her my friend. Her company is very enjoyable and she is a powerful adventurer. She’s helped us get through many a predicament.

Damien is a wonderful man. He’s very quiet. I almost never know what he’s really thinking. But he’s been nothing but kind to me since our journey’s start. He trusts me more than he should, I fear. I also fear I may have ruined that trust for good. I can tell he’s upset with me. I deserve it, but I wish I could do something to make up for what I’ve done.

Tobi... Tobi... I don’t even know what I should write about him. We got off on entirely the wrong foot and I don’t think we’ve made a recovery. Sometimes we talk and I think that we’ll become better friends, but something always messes it up... He is such an unkind person, but he tries very hard to be kind. I think he and Damien are lovers, though, neither of them have said anything about it... Still, they are very close, and since Damien trusts him, I want to be able to trust him, too... I don’t know what to think of him. I don’t know what he thinks of me. But I do know that I have severely wronged him and that I deeply regret it. I wouldn’t be surprised if he never tries to become closer to me after this.

I’ve failed to write to you before now partially because I haven’t found the time, but also because I was afraid of this letter being intercepted. Now that the ordeal is over with, I can talk about it freely. But I didn’t know if this letter would fall into the wrong hands before then.

The cause of the overgrowth in the town was a magical item called a Vital Seed. There were four of them, actually. My newly formed party was tasked with finding these seeds, removing them, and figuring out what to do with them. We succeeded in removing the seeds, but at a terrible price. Long Cat sacrificed himself to keep the rest of the party safe as we fought a Hydra that none of us were prepared to take on.

Most of my party seemed in favor of destroying the seeds once we had all four of them, but another adventurer convinced us... convinced me, that we could do something good with the seeds instead of destroying them. Cassio was her name. She betrayed us. She taunted me with the prospect of being able to do more good in the world and convinced me to persuade the others into coming with her to the town she lived in, where her family could help us. The seeds were stolen from us and we were imprisoned. Tobi... he was almost killed. It’s by some godly miracle he survived and I can only hope and pray that it was the Great Old One blessing him for me. He almost died because of my negligence, and I can tell that Damien is angry with me for it. He should be, of course, he has every right to be. But this failure is making me reevaluate what I thought to be true about myself. I feel very selfish. I wonder if I should keep adventuring or if I should come home for a little while. I might need some time to self-reflect so that I don’t put people in danger like this again.

We escaped from our imprisonment and have destroyed the vital seeds. We’re currently in a small village taking a rest. I haven’t told the others that I’m thinking about leaving the party yet. I don’t even know for sure if it’s what I want. If I decide to come back home, I’ll let you know soon.

A few more things before I say goodbye, I did meet some more new friends on my journey. A girl named Telsha decided to join our party as a cleric, and her friend Aurellia is also with us. They had been imprisoned by Cassio’s family as well and decided to come with us when we left the city. Maz, as well, escaped with us from imprisonment, but she decided to stay behind in the undergrounds of the city with some people who were kind enough to help us retrieve the seeds and get to the place where they could be destroyed.

This all doesn’t seem like enough words to describe what we’ve been through, but I’m sure I’ll get to tell you the tale in person soon enough. Until then, know that I love you, and please send my love to the rest of our family and friends.

Your loving daughter,

Meri

#Letters from temeri

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pilferingapples · 6 years

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Another letter from Algeria! Translation and all errors therein mine; I’ve attached the original French at the end, if anyone wants to help out! comments in (parenthesis) are my own, and mostly indicate minor deviations from the text for flow. Notes are also under the cut, after the rest of the translation.

This is the Birth Announcement letter :D

21 April, 1857

It includes what it returns.* So here you are a godfather and Jeanne a godmother! We expect you (to visit) for that. And if you cannot have this year or another (soon), the ceremony will be Muslim or held by representatives.

But I hope you will come!

A first (child) after twelve years of marriage; at least eleven years, September 1847, this is a child made with reflection, and if time does add something to the affair, he must be a perfect product.

Jeanne has a cousin! And if God gives life to this little goujon (a slang term of endearment, here, like “a little minnow” or “tiny fish”) he will become a great fish, and the illustrious lineage of ours will not be extinguished in the weeds.**

Here is finally a Salic leader!*** a dynasty that takes body! --The mother & the child are doing well! One eats, the other nurses! both abundantly.

You see that the name of your godson ,Alderán, is the name of his grandfather, Andre as the name of his uncle and godfather, Petrus after the name of his father and Benoni after the name of his uncle, our late beloved brother.

I have a long letter started for you, but I am leaving it there, for fear of missing the mail and announcing the big event of the day too late.

Should we rejoice at the birth of a man? there are pros and cons. There are philosophers and nations who weep, others who laugh. As for me who finds life a sort of joke in bad taste, I almost reproach myself for having participated in this attempt against nothingness. One day, if he were not happy, would not Alderan be well advised to tell me, "Why, my father, did you give me what I did not ask you, what you did not know? worth a lot, what you knew to be mediocre or bad. "

For can not the poor child have their fill of life before being very old? ... it has happened.

We are at the head of 200 roses including 32 collectibles. We are flooding with beautiful roses Mostaganem. Were Jeanne at distances less immeasurable, within musket range, still nearer, we would crown her with wreaths****always fresh, in this season, to beat the golden diadems of fairies and princesses.

As soon as (Gabrielle) is in good health, she will answer Jeanne's beautiful long letter, for the moment she is too busy making milk to fill a little cousin of her grand niece. Impossible to hold pleasantly a feather & a baby. The pen can wait, it does not meow.***** Jeanne, moreover, loves her cousin too much, to want to disturb him in the exercise of his meals.

Farewell, my dear Andrew; another time, having more leisure I will write to you more words, painted or scribbled on paper.

It's raining however - it's cold - since November 15th we are in the northern region. Africa is a myth-- & the sun, a tale of my mother Goose.

Your affectionate brother,

Petrus Borel

Notes:

* “Ci inclus de quoi il retourne”-- this feels like A Saying, or something? But I can’t find any sign of it as such.

** literally “in the cattails”.

***This sounds like Petrus and Gabrielle’s son may be the first boy their generation of the Borels has had? That is, the first born as a Borel, that is, to any of the brothers (a Salic dynasty!)-- which if so is a heck of a roll on odds, since there were nine of them! But the next son of his generation I’ve been able to find was born in 1864, so...maybe?? ...also knowing the mortality rate on infants at the time I’ll end any suspense; this kid lives a long life, goes into clerical work, marries, and has a few kids of his own. That’s about all I know about him, but he does survive 19C childhood!

**** the direct translation here is “chapels”, but it seems to be an established slang for wreaths/ ornamentation.

***** okay I’ve been fighting the urge to coo over this whole letter, but that is the cutest way of describing a baby cry

--also I love Petrus having his mid-letter New Parent freakout because THE WORLD IS SO TERRIBLE, WHAT IF MY KID IS SAD AT ME. Aww, dude. You’ll be long dead before he has his first existential crisis!

...now I’m sad. But this is such a happy letter, and they so clearly wanted this kid a lot; it’s nice to read after Some Things.

French

Ci inclus de quoi il retourne. Te voila donc parrain et Jeanne marraine! On vous attendre pour cela. Et si vous ne nevez pas cette année ou un autre, il sera musulman ou tenu par des representants.

Mais j'espere bien que vous viendrez!

Un premier ne aprés douze ans de marriage, onze ans au moins, septembre 1847, cela peut passer un enfant fait avec refléxion, &si le temps fait quelque chose à l'affair, ce doit être un produit parfait.

Jeanne a donc un cousin! Et si Dieu prête vie à ce petit goujon il deviendra grand poisson, & illustre lignée dont nous sommes ne s'éteindra pas en quenouille.

Voici enfin un chef salique! une dynastie qui prend du corps! --La mère & le enfant se portent bien! L'une mange, l'autre tette! le tout abondamment.

Tu vois qu'il se nomme, ton filleul, Aldéran du nom de son bisaieul, André du nom de son aieul & de son oncle &parrain, Petrus du nom de son père & Bénoni du nom de son oncle, feu notre frère bien aimé.

J'ai une longue lettre commencée pour toi, mais je la laisse lá, de peur de manquer le courrier & de t'annoncer trop tard le grand événment du jour.

Doit-on se réjouir à la naissance d'un homme? il y a du pour &du contre. Il y a des philosophes & des nations, qui pleurent, d'autres qui rient. Quant à moi qui trouve la vie une sorte de polissonnerie de mauvais goût, je me fais presque un reproche d'avoir participé à cet attentat contre le néant. Un jour, s'il n'etait pas heureux, Aldéran ne serait-il pas bien avisé de me dire "pourquoi, Mons mon père, m'aviez vous donne ce que je ne vous avais pas demandé, ce que vous saviez ne pas valoir grand'chose , ce que vous saviez être médiocre ou mauvais."

Car ne se peut-il pas que le pauvre enfant ait plein le dos de la de la vie avant d'être bien vieux? ...Cela s'est vu.

Nous sommes a la tête de 200 rosiers dont 32 de collection. Nous inondons de roses magnifiques Mostaganem. Que Jeanne n'est -elle á des distances moins incommensurables, à portée de mousquet, plus prés encore, nous la couronnerions de chapels toujours frais, en cette saison, à faire bisquer les diadèmes d'or des fées &des princesses.

Aussitôt que l'accouchée sera en bonne posture, elle répondra à la belle & longue lettre de Jeanne, pour le moment elle est trop occupée à fabriquer du lait pour gonfler un peu le petit cousin de sa grande niece. Impossible de tenir agréablement une plume & un mioche. La plume peut attendre, elle ne miaule pas. Jeanne d'ailleurs aime trop déjà son cousin, pour vouloir le troubler dans l'excercice de ses repas.

Adieu, mon cher André; une autre fois, ayant plus de loisir je t'écrirai plus de paroles peintes ou griffonées sur papier.

Il pleut cependant'--il fait froid- depuis le 15 novembre nous sommes en région septentrionale. L'Afrique est un mythe-- & le soleil , un conte de ma mère l'Oie. Ton frère affectionné,

Petrus Borel

#Letters from Algeria #Four People and a Shoelace #Petrus Borel #Alderan Andre Petrus Benoni #I swear what a name

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vsplusonline · 4 years

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Final journey

New Post has been published on https://apzweb.com/final-journey/

Final journey

Praveen Sharma, 26, (name changed on request) remembers his 57-year-old father’s last wish. It was to shave off his stubble. “My father was always clean shaven,” says Sharma from a quarantine centre in Howrah where he has been with his mother and sister since April 12. “He kept running his fingers through it and whispered that it was itchy. I had promised to shave it off once he returned from the hospital.” It wasn’t to be. Sharma’s father died of COVID-19 on April 14. He doesn’t know where his father was cremated. “My uncle and cousins were called to clear off the bills and from a distance they watched a couple of men in PPE (personal protective equipment) take the plastic-wrapped body away,” he says. “I don’t even know if they bathed him and made him wear new clothes for his last journey.”

The last journey now is a terribly lonely one for families. Death in the time of COVID-19 has necessitated that people stay apart at a time of profound grief. Many are not even allowed to see off their loved ones to the crematorium or the burial site, denying them the closure they desperately need. Social distancing measures ensure funerals are hasty affairs conducted with little, if any, family presence. “The regret I will live with is how we buried him,” says a man from Srinagar who lost his father. “Everything was done in a hurried way as if we wanted to get rid of him.” That only 10 people including the cleric could convene compounded his grief.

Fear of contracting the virus has resulted in unfortunate incidents in which the bodies of COVID-19 victims, including doctors who have died in the line of duty, have been denied a resting place. Like in the recent case of Dr Simon Hercules in Chennai whose family faced hostility from locals gathered at the Kilpauk cemetery. En route to another in Anna Nagar, the ambulance with Hercules’s body was attacked, forcing his wife and children to run. “He is in some distant graveyard all alone,” Anandi Simon, his wife, told India Today TV. In a similar case, after the death of Dr John L. Sailo Ryntathiang (see box), founder of Shillong’s Bethany Hospital and beloved for his charitable work, his family struggled for 36 hours to find a cemetery willing to take his body.

Much like the Ebola epidemic in West Africa which brought about a sea of change in burial traditions there, notably putting an end to the custom of touching the corpse, the contagious nature of COVID-19 has necessitated new protocols, overturning ancient Indian funeral practices. Proof now has to be given that the death was not caused by the virus. In Kashmir, newspapers now carry obituaries with a request to convey condolences over the phone. At the Tajganj crematorium in Agra, over 120 urns are waiting to be collected by families after the lockdown, to then be taken for immersion in the holy rivers. Even bier-makers are afraid to come to work. Gautam Pawar of Antim Sanskar Sewa, an organisation that manages the last rituals at a crematorium in Mumbai, worries that if the lockdown continues, there will be shortage of shrouds, bamboo and earthen pots. “We are giving sandalwood garlands right now instead of flowers,” he says.

The usually bustling Manikarnika and Harishchandra ghats in Varanasi now wear a deserted look. When once families from eastern Uttar Pradesh, Bihar and even from Nepal, would bring the bodies of their beloved here, the lockdown has brought down the numbers from 40-50 cremations daily to 10-12. “It is because of the government order asking people to cremate bodies at a place near their residence,” says Vishwanath Chaudhari of the Dom Raja family, under whose supervision the last rites are conducted. It’s a similar situation at the Daraganj or Rasoolabad cremation ghats in Prayagraj, which have been seeing fewer outsiders, and the Swarg Dwar cremation point in Puri, Odisha, where the number of bodies arriving has come down to single digits.

With supply chains obstructed, shortages are becoming a concern for cremation grounds, too. At the Bhainsakund ghat on the river Gomti in Lucknow, contractors are running out of pyre wood, which is making people choose electric cremations. Surya Vikram Singh of the Nagar Nigam at the Bhainsakund electric crematorium says 10-12 bodies are now cremated daily, up from three to four. This has led the Nagar Nigam to activate a second electric crematorium. The nagar ayukta, Indra Mani Tripathi, has ordered a new electric connection for the facility.

In some cases, mobile internet has come in handy for funerals. In Rajasthan, Kishan Maharaj, a priest in Bikaner, used WhatsApp video calling for the first time to perform the last rites, even though the deceased, Punam Chand Mali, 30, died of a non COVID-19 illness on April 10. “It was hard,” says Maharaj. “Everything had to be explained as to a child. But I had no option. To escape the clutches of the pandemic, I will follow what Modi says.”

In breaking traditional practices, the pandemic has also, in some cases, led people to find empathy and solidarity across religious divides. In Bhopal, when Shama Namdeo, 50, passed away from tuberculosis, her family was in dire straits. Her husband, Mohan, a chaat vendor and the sole bread earner of the family, felt helpless. “We did not know how to get my mother’s cremation done,” says Akash, Shama’s son. “People were suspicious and scared for their own lives.” When relatives said they could not make it for the cremation and friends were scared to attend the last rites, even though Shama’s death was not related to COVID-19, it was their neighbour Mohammed Shahid Khan, 43, who came to their rescue. Khan along with his son Adil and a few other neighbours collected about a dozen people and raised some money to purchase basic material required for the cremation. “Many in our locality felt they should not expose themselves to the body, but we decided to go ahead, following all precautions,” says Khan. “I could not have imagined a more difficult time, that even those who are dying are not getting enough people to carry their body for the funeral. I hope God is kind and this ends soon.”

with Romita Datta, Rahul Noronha, Moazum Mohammad, and India Today Hindi Bureau

Get real-time alerts and all the news on your phone with the all-new India Today app. Download from

Source link

#News

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sfiddy · 7 years

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Popular Fic- According to Kudos

What a neat meme. I was tagged by the amazing @mariequitecontrarie, who routinely blows holes in our hearts.

Top 5:

Sanctuary

498

Chased by clerics with evil intentions, Belle flees to an isolated village. There, an outcast and abandoned Rumplestiltskin toils under terrible obligation to support his beloved son. Two lonely candles in an ocean of darkness. A Spinner!Rum AU. By far the most popular fic I’ve written in this fandom. Gorgeously and generously edited by @luthienebonyx .

Indiscretion

335

John Thornton sees Miss Hale embracing a man at night in a train station. His jealousy and confusion is a thing of wonder. Absolute shock to have this one so well-received. The North and South fandom is not messing around with their love of a brooding, scowling man.

Gold Restoration 135

Mr. Gold is a quiet shop owner and ruthless dealmaker. After getting burned on a deal he realized he can use a pen, not a sword, and has spent 16 years trying to restore his son's fortune. Just as he was giving up hope, a newcomer to the neighborhood helps him with more than his lost holdings, something he never thought he could use again: his heart. I know it’s not my most popular story, but it’s probably my favorite. I had fun making a very quick-paced, multi-layered plot with a lot of show tie-ins and hipster jokes.

Texture 143

Belle and Rumplestiltskin in the Dark Castle. Belle discovers what's under all that silk and leather. Description heavy. The one where I describe the D.

Spun 104

They rotate around each other like celestial bodies- influencing, orbiting, but never touching. Until they crash. Moments I imagine from both FairyTale Land as well as Storybrooke with eventual resolution. No drama, no battle, just fun. A series of scenes that helped me map my ideas about Rumpelstiltskin and Belle just as I was starting in a new fandom. Some chapters I’m very proud of.

Bottom 5:

Basically all my sonnets, poems, and this one amazeballs Harry Potter fic that I still wonder what made me write that painful, beautiful thing. Kudos range from 0-3 LOL.

Tagging @audreyii-fic, @rowofstars, @standbyyourmantis, @thescholarlystrumpet, @thenaughtyscandalousscorpio, @bramblebriarrose, @spottytonguedog, @luthienebonyx, @mtr-amg

Do or do not... only as you wish. :)

#meme things #top 5 fic meme #fun

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fieryfafarfanfics · 7 years

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Soothing Light

When Berkut was notified by the maids that Rinea wanted to see him, he honestly didn’t expect to see her holding a staff. “I…” Bafflement still forced his words down. Deep brown eyes blinked at the staff in her hands, then at the smiling lady, then back at the foreign object. “What is this, my love?” The staff firm and close to her beating chest, she took a deep breath. “I…” You can do this, Rinea, she convinced herself endlessly. You’re doing this for Lord Berkut, after all. “I want to… I want to try something, my lord.” Enticingly azure eyes never torn from his shocked gaze, the noble only held back a squeak that tickled her suddenly dry throat.

He didn’t reply immediately despite the many questions in his head. Again he looked at the staff, mind kicking gears at the reminders of what the steel post could do. “Are you…?” Mouth parted slightly, he threw his gaze back at his beloved. “Did you…learn magic?” Well, it wasn’t much of a surprise to begin with, anyways. Slowly she nodded. Pretty pink lips pursed tightly, she held another breath. “You see…” I can do this! “I know you have been busy, and that you’re doing your best for your people.” Bit by bit her confidence built up. “It has been a gruelling year for you, but you’ve kept your head held high with the strength and confidence you’ve shown.” To hear such compliments out of the blue, as much as it didn’t affect Berkut since he knew damn well he was all that, having it said from her caused his heart to flutter madly inside his chest. Still, his calm façade was one of an expert, so he merely raised a single eyebrow. “However,” she continued, voice as soothing and angelic as a goddess, “I know you’ve been holding so…so much from the battles over the years.” Delicate fingers tightened around the staff. The rapid beat of her heart ached at the possibilities of a war. “You may be able to hide your wounds from the emperor and soldiers, and even to the many healers in the castle.” Breathing kept tight inside her lungs, Rinea finally drew her attention towards him. “But I want—I wish that you wouldn’t hide your wounds from me, my dear.” To hear such a request, to hear such clear resolute ringing along with the charming tone of her voice, Berkut actually felt breathless on the spot. She saw him. She saw right through him no matter how badly he hid it. She saw him. Her smile slowly tickled the corners of her mouth. “Let me heal you, Berkut.” And for that – with eyes feeling faintly warm at the thought – he was beyond, eternally, wordlessly grateful. Unaware of the tornado of emotions she had caused him, Rinea took the silent moment as her chance to take a few steps backwards. “Now, if you trust me, I want you to sit on the bed and let me tend to that bruise on your right arm.” As confident as she was, hesitance then bloomed in the garden of her heart when she realized he was still standing in one place. Regret clenched her heart fast when she thought she may have spoken too much. “Um…” Lost on whether to approach him or walk out of the room in shame, Rinea just opted to freeze in the place she stood. “You do…trust me, right?” The question alone provided no hesitation. The only reason he was still quiet was that shock and awe and pure gratitude overwhelmed his chest and throat. But above all, genuine love would always, always conquer the way he felt for her. Always. “I do.” A smile slowly tickled its way into shape. A nice shade of red furiously burned his cheeks aat the sight and sound of her laugh. “Good!” Joy blooming in the beautiful noble, Rinea spun to the bed and sat on it. “Now, milord, if you please.” Right hand holding the staff, she patted an empty space on the bed. Gods, he loved her so, so much. Trying his very best to fight back the blush that threatened to explode in his face, Berkut walked towards the bed. The mattress bounced slightly at his weight, and the prince then turned to face her. He wished her smile would never, ever fade. “Um…” Blush rising fast into smooth cheeks, Rinea eyed the long sleeve around his right arm. “If… Can you…?” Words sputtered in a cute bundle of nerves, she slightly tipped her head in hopes that Berkut got the idea. Berkut actually stifled a laugh at the fact that she thought she needed permission to touch him. Still, knowing that his beloved was nervous enough as he was, he rolled his right sleeve. “There.” Air momentarily kept inside his lungs, Berkut slowly moved his right arm closer to her. The bruise near his elbow was still there, sometimes throbbing and causing more teeth gritting more times than he had hoped. However, due to his stubbornness, Berkut decided to ignore the swell in vain hopes that it would be gone anytime soon. Unfortunately, his stubbornness paid a price. Fortunately, she existed in his life. Woe tugged a frown on those pink lips. “Oh dear…” The same woe then replaced by sheer determination, Rinea carefully aimed the gem on the staff close to the bruise. Azure eyes met deep browns briefly. Though words were absent between them, Rinea could tell from his gaze that he trusted her wholeheartedly. She couldn’t bite back the silly smile before it was too late. Head shaking a few times, she directed her attention at the wound. Anxiety came piling up in a blink, but the noble knew she had trained long and hard for her not to mess up. For Lord Berkut, she reminded while her mouth started to mutter the chant. For my love, my heart, my reason of happiness. After the second heartbeat, the light from the gem started to gleam. Both noble and prince could vividly see a soothing, white light beaming straight to the bruise on his arm. His heart raced and raced, breathing robbed at the sight of such magic touching his skin. He trusted her. He could and would never, ever let anyone or anything touch his body. Anyone who dared so would only be resulted with his blade pierced right into them. But he trusted her. And because of that trust, he felt at ease. The light felt like a warm caress on a cold, breezy day. It slid across the injury, gently stroking it left and right until he could actually feel the muscles within cool and contract slowly. The magic itself was a calming sight; not once did he tear his gaze away from such a dazzling light. The more he looked at it, the more it reminded him of— “Done!” The air he didn’t know he had kept long inside his throat was huffed out as a short, tiny gasp. Eyes as wide as they could be, he drew his gaze to the angel before him. Unaware of the stupefied awe, Rinea was merely in distracted glee at her handiwork. “It…It worked!” Joy basically bloomed and burst from such a beautiful woman. “I’m—I’m so happy that it worked!” She needed to go and thank the clerics later for teaching her, she reminded herself. The staff pulled and placed by her right side, Rinea placed one hand onto her laughing lips. “I did it!” Clearly, she was excited about her very first heal, for the next thing she knew, Rinea had moved her left hand to the smooth skin of his right arm. Once her fingers brushed his skin, however, the noble then realized that she had acted without a single thought. “I-I—I mean—!” Heat swallowed the shape of her face, Rinea couldn’t dare to look at him. Neither did she dare to pull her hand away from his arm. Time moved too fast in her opinion, because the next thing she knew, a tiny gasp puffed right out of her gaping mouth to feel her body being pulled forward. Heat now had sizzled straight to the tips of her ears and boiled her dizzy brain. “B-Berkut?!” “Hmm…?” Gods, to hear that deep, sultry voice tickling so close to her ears, Rinea wondered if anyone could die from this. Thankfully, she was still alive. But breathing still felt like a chore when she felt her body being lifted and placed onto what she quickly assumed was— Berkut’s lap. She was now sitting on her lord’s lap. Gods, he really was set on killing her, apparently. Vision getting blurry and lips trembling terribly, Rinea tried to peek upwards as her left cheek brushed his neck. “My lord I—your arm!” She felt his chest rumble as he laughed softly. She felt her face burn as she stifled a squeak. “It’s fine, my love.” Chin gently nuzzling the top of her head, Berkut moved his right arm that was brushing the right side of her hips. “See?” Teeth nipping the insides of his lower lip, the prince fought back all that he could not to laugh or drown his beloved with countless kisses. Though still bewildered by the sudden change of spot and his actions, Rinea managed to cast a glance at his right arm. True to his words, the bruise was truly gone, and the sight alone was enough to perk a wide, proud smile on the noble. That smile trembled back to a meek purse, though, when she felt her body being pressed closer. “Thank you…” Arms cozy around her waist, Berkut placed one kiss to the top of her head. “In truth, I feel like a new man, already.” Obviously unsatisfied by one kiss, he traced his lips to the smooth plane of her forehead. Gods, to hear that sweet laugh, he was truly trying his best not to kiss her lips so hard until they were both breathless. Damn him for needing to breathe. “I’m so very glad to hear that!” Both hands levelled near her quivering mouth, Rinea placed one hand onto her chest while the other – oh she was quite proud to feel bold today – bravely rested onto where his heart beat. It actually amused her that his heart was screaming just as much as hers was. Berkut would never, ever dare let anyone see his most vulnerable moments. If someone did, they could only then be met with the sharp end of his sword. “I love you…” But for Rinea – only for Rinea – Berkut was more than willing to expose himself to her. She loved him for him. She accepted him for his strengths and weaknesses. And even when Berkut loathed those weaknesses, Rinea was always by his side, always accepting him with open arms and healing the parts where he tried so desperately to hide. “I love you so much…” She was truly a goddess that deserved the world. More and more laughter filled the room. Her right hand then slid upwards to his cheek, silently ushering him to look at her. Her smile was all he needed to move forward. Her voice was all he needed to fuel his spirit. Words were unneeded between them. With both pairs of eyes slowly fluttered close, Berkut leaned closer until his lips happily, hungrily met her soft, sweet taste. She was truly his empress that deserved Rigel. END

#Berkut #Rinea #Berinea #Fire Emblem #Fire Emblem Echoes #helo im back with more denial #fe au where everythng is *voice cracks* the same #except rinea learns healing magic to help berkut #fe heroes if u can hear me pls release them #let me make them happy where yall have failed #oneshot

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