#Penance Peak

[stargazerlillian]

This. Is. EPIC!!🙌🙌🙌

GO WATCH PENANCE PEAK BY @blucolorpencil

[oltammefru]

I think Penance is just slamming things with her fucking purse in her attacks in her skin? Amazing. Her S1 in particular involves her just spinning her purse around.

She also seems to make a >< face for a fraction of a second during her S1 animation.

She also downs an entire drink each during her in base "tap on her" animation. Surely this won't cause any issues at all.

[saccharinesatoru]

i've got so much school stuff to do but how tf come i only wanna write fics rn 💀💀💀 i get the best creative inspiration and motivation when i have other shit to do 😮‍💨😩😔✊

[gladiatorcunt]

- A ROTTEN TREE BEARS ROTTEN FRUIT | I.

god loves you, but not enough to save you

cw: kinktober prompt (whipping/flogging), blasphemy, inaccurate religious practices, lyrical sadomasochism (more so sadism on his part), erotic religious imagery and references, this dynamic is so weird, implied (as in in my mind) bi reader and charlie, plus sized reader, reader’s chest referred to as ‘breasts’ & ‘tits’ and their crotch referred to as a ‘hole’ but they do have a seperate one other than their ass, pregnancy fantasy, vomit mention, don’t know shit about the show fuck you ryan, blood kink, interchangeable ‘charlie’ & ‘mayhew’ based on pov

do not translate, repost, or feed this work to ai |

kinktober 2024

“Shh, let me clean you up, Father.” You smile, so softly, he could snap your neck if he squeezed hard enough.

You run your nails over his back, trimmed to an appropriate length. Father Mayhew sighs the way Adam might’ve when Eve’s walls clenched around him, God never being more important than this bliss. You’re so devoted, so devout in your worship but he’s beginning to think that you cry out to a different God than he does. If you even believe in an invisible one anymore when you have a savior in the flesh.

“Thank you, dear. That’d be great.” The pulls are pulled from his lips like rotund wooden beads, as if he has no choice but to endure the stretch as they exit his body one by one.

You shuffle off the bed and kneel behind him, stroking your fingertips down his back like he’s a marble statue you just can’t help but reach out and touch. The opposite of Delilah cutting Samson’s hair, you only want to imbue him with your pure love from the inside out. Spooning milk and honey over the tender welts.

His eyelids crinkle as you kiss the nape of his neck, blotting your lips with rouge. There is no inch of his back left without, and when you arrive at the bigger gashes you lavish the cut with your tongue. Drinking his life away and cleaning him up like a good little whore, servicing the man becomes the only thing of importance to you. You dip the tip of your tongue in the recess of the deeper wounds, and caress his tensing abs from behind when he grits his teeth and traps a curse behind them. You only kitten lick him, but often he wishes you would get real dirty with it, caressing your tongue over his muscles in broad and messy swipes.

His scars from previous lashings glint in the low light of the candles surrounding you. You give them their just desserts of course, grateful pecks of attention and acknowledgement. Soothing his pain, that is the only excuse you have to encroach on the verge of breaking your vows. Father Mayhew gives you a purpose and stops your bleating with a heavy hand if you forget your place. Stern hand to raw and stinging flesh.

Sometimes there is no pillow when you kneel behind him.

The next step is that you turn around and face the wall after picking up the cattail whip off the bed and returning it to its rightful owner. You’ve already discarded your habit, no tunic, coif, or veil left on your person. They’re folded neatly beside you, only your rosary nestled in the embrace of your heaving breasts. Your peaks harden in the stuffy humid air, all the oxygen in the world confined to this small room.

He saddles up behind you, his sweaty chest so close to the flesh and contours of your back. Father Charlie breathes you in, taking whiffs of your debauched scent in between silent prayers. He never allows himself to be as forward as you are, his thread of control over his desire has not snapped yet. There are boundaries he can push, but lines he can never cross.

“Good lamb, God recognizes your penance and forgives your soul.” He whispers, dragging the strips of leather down your back until goosebumps rise to the surface.

When you least expect it, he strikes. You muffle a shout into the wall and Father Charlie’s cock jumps under his towel. Briefly he imagines slamming into your tempting body dry, with no preparation, making you sure you feel as much pain as possible. The way you’d wince with every step around the church, the begging in your puppy dog eyes when you’d take communion. How he could hold it above your head like a bone in the shape of a fractured cross, dangling just out of reach of your gorgeous mouth.

The devil gives him dreams of fucking your throat until you’re vomiting and hoarse.

Every droplet of bed peeking out from the cracks of your skin to say hello nourishes him. He shushes you when you’re unable to hold back your sounds, cooing when he notices you humping the air after the fifteenth hit. You just can’t help yourself, nerdy by nature and nurture.

You start soaking the pillow beneath you, imagining what he must look like. A man and his broad hulking body curling around you as he hurts you. Your hole suddenly feels so empty, you have a night of riding your pillow ahead of you, you just want to be good for him in all the ways you’re supposed to be.

As you let a demon of sex control your body, he spies a flash of a white lacy thong nestled between your plump ass cheeks. He knows that if you had also worn a towel, he would’ve hooked his fingers under the fabric and pulled it off. You don’t get to hide any part of yourself from your Father. And he knows he will have to give himself another lashing for those thoughts alone. Even the secret wedding he plans as he strokes his angry red cock, always edging himself, he’s afraid of what would happen if he lets go. How loud the iron gates would be when they creak open. Like the way he wants to spread your ass open and toy with the hidden puckered hole.

His words are in his actions, reopening your old wounds and bringing the warm leather across your back one last time, he hopes your blood soaks through the material. Staining it, the way you have already stained his heart. Father Charlie grins despite himself when you slump against the wall, sliding his bible-roughened hands over your love handles and sticks his pecs to your shoulders.

“You did lovely, today. The Lord thanks you, and I’m so proud of you, you know that?” His thick fingers brush along the bottoms of your tits, never going higher.

He wants to slap them, wrap the beads of your rosary around them until the flesh bulges, painting your nipples in a mix of both of your blood. Marking your souls irreversibly. Marriage of the spirit, a ritualistic wedding in the eyes of the beholder. You shiver like a mouse in front of a snake, and beads of precum fall from his cockhead.

Did Saint Teresa have these feelings when she had the vision of an angel piercing her heart with their golden spear? Did Saint Sebastian when he was pierced by those arrows under the order of the Emperor? Did David when he wrenched Goliath’s head back by his hair and bested him into humiliation? Did it compare to the covenant he formed with Jonathan?

He kisses your glittering scars in thanks and washes your blood away with his lips and tongue too. But unlike any other day in which you’ve done this, he stands up with a grunt and pulls you up with him. Father Mayhew falls backwards onto his bed and so you follow dutifully, and because the hold he has on your wrist is strong to the point of bruising. You lay your head over his heart and pant into his skin as he teases your plush thigh, tracing crosses into the chubby expanse of skin.

“No one has ever seen God; but if we love one another, God lives in us and his love is made complete in us.” He cajoles, walking on that burning tightrope with you.

He wonders if your cunt would be just as chubby, if you’ve ever thought about humping the organ bench, riper than the forbidden fruit, and he mentally catalogs an extra long session of repentance. To be fresh and clean again. Father Charlie will go through his sermons with his lighthearted tone and charming personality, desperate to hide that he’s thinking of plunging his tongue in your asshole. Sipping and slurping up your musk like it’s the only holy water he needs to live. Or entice you into eating his ass, you would love being able to serve him properly, no doubt.

To nourish you with his fragments, his vertebrae and viscera. The body and the blood. The teeth and the testicles.

He’ll sit in quiet contemplation in front of the pulpit, pouring wine over your body in his mind. Following the red trail with his tongue as it trickles down the valley of your chest and dips in and out the folds of your belly. He’ll leisurely open his mouth on a silent moan at the top of your mound, the hairs like yellowing blades of glades against his philtrum, in a perfect paradise there’d be blood there too. His own personal, pervertedly literal, red sea.

You’d look so beautiful, swollen and fat with a child growing in your womb. A shame that can never happen, but a blessing that no heretic of a man could snatch you up and take you away from him. Your flock is here, and the heavy crook of his staff is all you need to guide you back home when you go astray. Trapped in his thighs, molded by his hands, punctured into line with his cock.

[sorryiwasasleep]

This could be PEAK

And in a tangent of semi-headcanons that I will be immediately searching for a fic about:

In another world this was absolutely 100% Eska and Desna, who are in fact the best of friends and definitely their ‘season 1’ villain would then be Unalaq, constantly and insanely jealous of the better connection his children possess to the spirit world than he can ever hope to gain, working to sow seeds of discontent and bitterness into the twin who doesn’t have the bending abilities. This is assuming one of them does NOT do what Korra does and firebend at like 6 and instead their story starts on their 16th birthday with the sages and that reveal turns Unalaq against them. OR if they DID get revealed early, then their experience in the ‘chapter 1’ episode could be similar to that of Adora in the first episode of She Ra: the Princess of Power. They have been influenced and manipulated by Unalaq their entire lives for his goals, believing in their truth, and then something happens that makes them AWARE of it all being lies or otherwise inherently fucked up (maybe they overhear him saying some murderous or hateful shit about one or both, maybe it’s through an event that introduces them to the people who will eventually become THEIR Team Avatar) that leads to Eska and Desna fleeing the Northern Water Tribe to unlearn his abusive shit.

could be a legendary redemption arc if it was done right.

[abbonation]

Red and Dripping

Kinktober prompt: Waxplay

Sub!Logan Howlett x Reader Smut 18+ 2.2k words

You want to introduce Logan to something new, he eagerly agrees.

Warnings and contents: Waxplay, dry humping, penis in vagina sex, creampie, mention of safewords, slight D/S dynamics (nothing harsh)

A/N: HII!! Yes everyone, I have joined the Wolverine love train, and I fear I'm never getting off, but I'm not mad about it. Anyway, college has been beating my ass with a pipe so this will likely be my only contribution to Kinktober this year 😔so plz forgive me and accept this heinous piece of work as penance.

As always, this piece is written with a chubby, reader who has a vagina in mind but other than that there is little to no physical description.

Love you guys, talk soon! XO

Red and Dripping

"So, Lo, have you ever heard of wax play?" you asked, as you and Logan sat down on your bed to watch TV in your room after training for the day.

"Nope, never heard of it." Logan replied, a while absently flipping through channels on the TV.

"Well, Cosmo says it's when you use hot candle wax on your partner's body and it feels really good. It’s  supposed to feel like a little sting at first but then the sting turns to pleasure." You explained to your boyfriend, trying to sound convincing.

"What, during sex?” You nod to affirm. “You want me to drip wax on you while we fuck?" Logan questioned, raising his eyebrow in that way of his.

"Well, actually, I was thinking I could do it to you." You suggested.

"Why me? I don't want my balls burnt." Logan said defensively.

"It won't burn you, baby. That's the whole point of it." You explained, adding with a laugh, "plus I'm not putting it on your balls, that is, if you're good, anyway."

"If you burn my balls, I'm never having sex with you again." Logan warned you.

"I actually already bought the candles for it, something told me you wouldn't be opposed to a little pain," You tell him with a smile. “If you wanted to give it a try now.”

“I’m gonna trust you on this one, princess,” He replied gruffly.

You walked over to your dresser and got out the three red paraffin candles you had purchased from a little truck stop slash sex shop outside of the city and a lighter. You return to the bed where Logan was still sitting, leaned against the headboard, and perch yourself on his thighs, straddling him. You put the candles on the bedside table and lit the first one. While you wait for it to melt a bit you turn to your Wolverine, his nostrils slightly flared and pupils dilated. "Baby," he moved his large warm hands over your hips and lower back, dipping his head forward to lick and kiss the junction of your throat and shoulder.

"Remember the rule, Logan?" You pull his head back, looking into his eyes, needing to know he wants this.

He nods, hands beginning to roam to your belly, you can feel him hardening under you.

You began by dripping a little bit of the warm wax onto the inside of your wrist to see how hot it was. It was definitely hot enough to make you jump but it felt good on your skin, a quick burn fizzling into a warm tingle.

"Let me try a little bit." Logan said while extending his arm towards you.

You do the same amount onto the inside of his wrist and he flinches a bit letting out a little moan in the process. "Mm- again," he whispered as he closed his eyes.

You poured more wax onto his wrist and he let out a louder moan and bucked his hips up, his cock brushing against your core through his sweatpants. His breathing increased and he sat up to take his shirt off before scooting to fully lay under you.

"You like it?" You ask him, focusing on how his cheeks and chest are already starting to flush for you.

"Yeah, honey it’s nice," he says, a little whiny as he looks up at you with hooded eyes. You took that as your cue to start.

You hold the candle a few inches over his left nipple, tilting it just slightly to pour just a little bit of the wax onto the peak.

He keened, "F-fuck, oh my god, that's good" His hands gripping the meat of your hips tightly, starting to slowly drag you back and forth against himself. Your underwear provides delicious friction against your clit.

"Oh god that's so good," he moans, eyes rolling back as he arches up, so you hold the candle higher and let more of the red wax drip off the candle down onto the upper part of his stomach. You do the same to the other nipple and litter more spatters on his toned chest, getting close to the base of his throat. He keeps moving his hips underneath you, now moving his feet up for more leverage.

You can feel yourself leaking into your panties now, the added slick lubricating the way you slide against the hard line of his cock, it's catching on your clit and you whimper, starting to lose the composure you had- but he isn't finished yet, still groaning beneath you, and you want more.

You pour another line of wax down his stomach, and then a second one right next to it. "Nggh, yeah sweetheart," You're so close now, the building pressure is nearly suffocating, just a few more thrusts against him and you'll be gone. But Logan is nearly there, you're sure of it, and you need him to come before you do. You want to see it. So you quickly set the candle down on the table, you don't want it to go out just yet. You run your hands over his pecs, feeling the heated skin firm under your fingertips. You rub your thumbs over his nipples and he huffs a groan.

"Please baby, please touch me," he begs.

You pull away from his cock, you don't want to push him over the edge too soon, can tell he wants to keep going. "It's okay, Logan, you're doing so well for me. We're gonna make you feel so good, I promise, just trust me," you murmur, taking his hands in yours, lacing your fingers together and holding them on either side of his head against the pillow. He nods, and swallows, you can feel him loosely humping up against you, begging for some friction on his dick.

You move your mouth down to suck at one nipple, dripping spit onto it, licking the hardened wax off his skin and scraping your teeth so gently against the hardened bud, you move to the other and do the same. He's panting under you, "Baby, please, please touch my cock, I need it," he nearly cries. You love when he begs, he's such a strong man, so composed and nonchalant, but he lets you do whatever you want to him, exterior cracking into a man who's so eager to please, desperate to receive. You give in, sliding down his body, dragging your clothed cunt over his hard dick before moving lower.

"What do you need, sweet boy?" You ask, nosing along his treasure trail, sucking at the pudge under his navel, placing kisses on the wax as you make your way to his pubic hair, teasing him as you pull down his sweatpants.

He can barely speak, "Touch me, suck my cock, anything, fuck, anything," he breathes. There's a wet patch on the front of his sweatpants, whether it's from you or him you're not sure, but you kiss it anyway. "Shit-" his cock twitches against your lips through the material. You pull the waistband down to let it spring free, he sways at the cool air, slapping against his belly, you cup his sac and bring them out too, all exposed now. His tip is an angry red, mimicking the wax, and a fat glob of precum bubbles out of the head, swollen with girth at how turned on he is. You lean forward and lick from the bottom of his balls up the vein to cup the tip of him with your tongue. "Ohh jesus," His hands move to cover his face now.

You lick back down to his balls, kissing them, suckling lightly at the skin, he tastes like salt and smells intoxicatingly of Logan, you suck one into your mouth and he moans. You pull away with a pop, "I'm gonna put more wax on you now, okay baby?"

"Yes, yes please do it," he answers, moving his hands to tangle in your hair, pulling slightly, you love it when he loses it like this. You move up to grab the candle, making sure it's still melty before carefully dripping it on his inner thigh, the reaction it pulls from him is immediate. "Fuck-" He growls, pushing his hips off the bed and gripping your hair and shoulders harder.

"What's the safeword, Logan?" You ask him, even though he doesn't really need to use it, but you want him to know he has control.

"Red, I'll say red if I need to stop." He answers, eyes still closed, panting and covered in a sheen of sweat. His cock is pulsing regularly now, balls drawing up tight against him.

"That's so good Wolvie, I'm so proud of you, look at how pretty you are for me" you praise, he whimpers at your words. You move the candle to pour some wax onto his other thigh, you make a little pool in the dip of where his hip joins to the top of his thigh.

You spit into your free hand, finally taking pity on him. You begin messily stroking his cock, and pour a drip of wax right above his pubes on his lower belly, making him writhe in pleasure filled pain. You can tell he's close, cock dribbling clear precum steadily into your hand and his stomach, you rub the tip of your finger against his hole, just to see what he'll do. He whines, "I want to come, I'm so close." His voice cracks like he's about to cry.

"You want me to fuck you?" You ask, knowing the answer.

"No- please just- please I-" he stutters, cut off by his own moaning as you rub the underside of his cock, right under his head. He's close, so close.

"Do you want to come?" You ask, "Tell me what you want, Logan, use your words."

"I wanna come, I need it, please let me come, I'll do anything," He begs.

"You wanna come in my pussy or my mouth? Or all over my tits?" You ask, squeezing your legs together for some friction.

He looks down at you, “Fuck, in your pussy, please, I can't wait– need to be inside you."

"Okay Logan, you've done so good, made me feel so good." You praise, climbing back over to be on top of him, sliding off your absurdly wet underwear down before pulling your tank top off over your head. He cups your tits, pulling your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, lightly twisting how you like.

You straddle his wide hips and grip the base of him to guide it inside, slowly lowering yourself down over the head, an obscene gooey sound happens as he breaches your untouched cunt, and you fold, the arm holding you up nearly collapsing as you slide down the rest of his incredible width. "Ah, holy fuck," Logan groans as he moves his hands to your hips, gripping you tightly as he bottoms out, cock nestled deep inside you.

"Ghh, Logan, so good, such a fat cock," you huff out as he pulses inside of you, balls pressed tightly against your perineum. He's panting and moaning under you, hips thrusting up slightly to get some friction, to move. You start grinding down on him, rubbing your clit into his pubic hair. "I'm not gonna last, princess," he moans, "I-I'm too close."

"I know, Lo, you can come whenever you want." You say as you lean back and brace your hands on his thighs, lifting up before sliding back down and starting to ride him as quickly as you can. -plap, plap, plap- His length stabs into your front wall, sharp bursts of euphoria blinding you, catapulting you towards orgasm.

"Fuck, baby, yes, fuck yes," he grunts, and takes over by holding your hips in place to fuck up into you. "Oh god," you cry, "Shit, I'm gonna come," you sob. "Let go Logan, please I need your cum all inside," you keen.

His eyes go blank, then roll back as his whole body tenses, his claws slice the space between his knuckles and sink deep into the mattress while his cock is swelling up and pulsing wildly within you as he comes with a yell, hot liquid flooding your cunt in harsh waves. His orgasm triggers yours, sending you spiraling over the edge blindly as you gush and pulse and flutter around his drooling cock. You absolutely collapse on top of him, his arms coming to wrap around you. There are no words as he turns you both to your sides, his cock still sheathed inside.

After a few moments of silence, and catching your breath you break the tension, "So how was that?" you ask, a little too cocky.

Logan smiles down at you, breathing a laugh, "It was pretty good, I guess."

You roll your eyes and giggle, "Just pretty good, huh?" You question.

Logan's smile grows, "It was amazing, you know me too well."

"It was, wasn't it?" You answer, looking back into his eyes.

You both burst out laughing, leaning forward and pressing your lips together. "I love you so much," Logan whispers after breaking the kiss.

"I love you too," you whisper back, resting your forehead against his. 

A few minutes passed before you felt Logan's cock twitch inside you, causing you to clench around him. "Ready to go again?" you asked your boyfriend.

"As long as it involves this pussy, I'm ready to go." Logan replied with a smile.

[justwinginglife]

I have had this on my mind for a while now. Fem reader was a cruel villain in her previous life and was reincarnated to the Kn8 universe and met Soshiro and well... In love :3

Go crazy my friend.

Forgive me, this could've been a whole ass series, and I was too lazy to make it one LOL. Also I changed up the prompt slightly so that reader has always been in the KN8 universe, just reincarnating through the years.

Of All The Ways To Die

You were dying and they’d cursed you.

The audacity.

For the crime of being a witch, you’d been bound, gagged, and condemned to be burned alive. As the flames devoured your flesh, as the heat ravaged your body, as the smoke filled your lungs, you thought you glimpsed the gates of Hell in your last moments. They were flung open wide for you, and the tortured souls of your past were waiting to claim you, impatient for your penance. If that wasn’t nightmare enough, the Hoshinas had the audacity to send you to your damnation with a final parting gift- they placed a curse on you. 

In this life and the next, in heaven and in hell, in purgatory and in limbo, in the span of every universe that could ever or would ever exist, your soul was cursed to an eternity bound to their clan. There was no world in which you could run or hide, there was only their infinite retribution. 

It was a cruel punishment to be shackled to the souls of your murderers, to have every life you could ever live ended at their hands, but you didn’t intend to go quietly. You intended to make this curse as torturous for them as it was for you. If they were going to sabotage you at every turn, you’d just have to make your death worth it. If they were the protectors of peace, you were the bringer of chaos. And you planned to make such a mess of this world that even a Hoshina couldn’t put it back together. 

If they were the heroes of this never ending saga, you were the perfect villain.

“I’ll see you on the other side of eternity.” 

Your malicious grin was the last thing they saw before the flames enveloped you. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You kept your promise in every life.

Even with no memories of your previous reincarnations, even with no knowledge of this everlasting curse, you left mayhem and madness in your wake. It was almost as though you couldn’t help yourself, as though evil were your second nature. 

And when another Hoshina arrived at your door, when they claimed yet another one of your lives, you found some satisfaction in your death, knowing you’d caused so much devastation as to warrant their intervention. 

As you succumbed to your fate, letting the darkness take hold of you once again, you wondered what trouble you could get up to in the next life. 

You found your answer in the form of the black market. 

In this technologically advanced age you’d now found yourself in, there was no room for witchcraft, for medieval villainy, there was simply give and take. And you took everything.

Before you knew it, you were the ruler over the black market. Every deal that was made, every secret that was whispered, every resource that was extracted, everything was yours to use as you pleased. In the span of a decade, you’d amassed an enormous empire. 

And Soshiro had no idea.

In every life you’d ever lived, one Hoshina or another would always find you at your most heinous, at the peak of your degeneracy. And then your life would end. 

But in this life, as though Fate had grown tired of this game, as though eternity was much too infinite for their liking, you grew up right next door to the Hoshinas. And Soshiro became your best friend.

For a while, his good influence was enough to corral most of your immorality on most days, but no one could help your greed or your ambition or your cunning. 

When he ran off to join the Defense Force, your competing ambitions pulled the two of you apart. You weren’t as pure as he was, you wouldn’t dare waste your energy on such a ridiculous profession; it was a noble one but still ridiculous in your eyes. Meanwhile he couldn’t think of anything better. Though his endless optimism should’ve infuriated you, it only made you love him more. He saw the world for how cruel it was and still chose to hope for better. And some part of you couldn’t help but wonder if he could see the same in you. But the allure of the underworld held more appeal than your one sided love and before you knew it, you were too focused on your schemes to spend time nursing your pining heart. 

When you did meet up with him on the occasion you were both free, he’d always tell you to do something with your life. He’d tell you to join him. He knew how strong you were, how smart you were, how driven you were. But he didn’t know that you’d already used those gifts to force every business and every back alley, every port and every parlor, into submission. Japan was a puppet and you were its master.

But every villain had their weakness, and it became harder and harder to ignore that he was yours. Looking back, you’d always had a soft spot for him. 

When you were kids, someone made fun of Soshiro’s hair and you shaved half their head off in return. 

When you were teens, he caught some teenager stealing from an old lady and when he ran after them to retrieve her purse, like the kind-hearted boy that he was, they punched him in the face. Before he could react, you broke their arm, like the cruel-hearted girl that you were. 

And it didn’t matter how old or young your opponent was- you were undaunted and unwavering in your punishments. Once, a teacher had failed Soshiro due to a personal grudge they’d held against his father, and you took a sledgehammer to their car. When the teacher threatened to involve the authorities, you simply smiled at him and dared him to call the cops, saying that the second you saw a siren, you’d release photos of his infidelity to the entire country of Japan. 

Even now, with all the power that you wielded, you’d use your influence to anonymously send supplies to the Third Division, to send food, to send weapons, to send armor. If you couldn’t be by his side, you could at least support him from afar. He didn’t have to know, he just had to stay safe.

When he messaged you, wanting to meet up again, you felt this was the perfect opportunity to make sure he’d been getting your gifts. You treated him to dinner at your favorite restaurant.

“How’s my favorite little entrepreneur?” He scooped you up in a hug. 

You slightly winced, remembering the lie you’d told him about opening up your own shop to get him to stop trying to convince you to join the Defense Force. You comforted yourself with the thought that, technically, you owned lots of shops. If lots of shops meant the entirety of Japan. You bet you could even buy the JAKDF if you ever felt the desire to. It was a tempting thought now that you were faced with one of their most promising soldiers, and if buying the JAKDF meant more time with him, you’d have to look into it. You’d forgotten how much you missed him. How soft you got when he was around. 

“I’m better now that you’re here.” You sighed into his shoulder.

He laughed. “Buttering me up, huh? Don’t tell me it’s cuz you’re tryna convince me to change jobs again.”

You pouted. “And what if I was?”

He ruffled your hair. “Then you’d have a hell of a time with it, because you know I’m not leaving the Defense Force.”

You crossed your arms and sulked. “You mean the shitty Defense Force that’s making you fight with nothing more than sticks and stones?”

He leaned forward, “Actually, we got this huge shipment the other day of brand new equipment. The very latest in Izumo tech. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that,” He tucked a hair behind your ear, “Would you?”

How was it that you owned thousands of casinos and still couldn’t manage a poker face to save your life?

He laughed, letting you off the hook for now. “Shall we order dinner?”

You grumbled to yourself about him being a tease and then buried your face in the menu. He smiled to himself on his side of the table. 

When you had a couple more drinks in you, he pushed the subject again. “So. It seems you got my text the other day.”

You took another sip from your cup. “Which text? You text me a lot.”

He grinned. “Touche. The one about my suit overheating.”

You raised an eyebrow, unsure where he was going with this. “Yeah, I read that. What of it?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Oh nothing. I’m just assuming that’s why I got a new suit delivered to me the very same day, one that can withstand my combat power for longer periods of time.”

You choked on your drink. “Well that’s convenient, good for you.”

He laughed. “Cmon. How long are we going to keep doing this?”

You cleared your throat. “Doing what?”

He poked your nose. “Pretending like you’re not the one sending me these things.”

You laughed awkwardly. “I’m not so rich that I can get my hands on the latest Izumo tech, Soshiro. You overestimate me.”

“Mmhm. Sure. Okay. Well, if you ever find out who is leaving me all these gifts, thank them for me, yeah?” He finished his food and got up to leave, “And give them a big kiss for me, would you?” He smirked as he walked out the door. 

What?

What did he just say?

Bastard.

“Soshiro! You asshole, you can’t just leave me hanging like that!” You dumped a couple large bills on the table, not even caring that you’d just tipped more than the meal was worth, and you ran after him.

He was laughing to himself down the street when you finally caught up to him. “So I guess business is doing good then?”

You glared at him. “And so maybe it is. What, I’m not allowed to send my best friend presents?”

He smirked. “Ah, so you admit you’re my secret admirer.” He bent down to whisper in your ear, “Or do you just want that kiss that badly?”

Before you could answer (you’re not even sure what you would’ve answered), he pulls you against him and presses his lips to yours. 

After completely devouring all your oxygen, he pulls away and murmurs, “Thanks. For everything.”

You’re so breathless you think you might choke on your own lungs.

When he takes your hand and whispers in your ear, “Now it’s my turn to treat you,” and then leads you to a ballroom that he’d completely bought out just so he could slow dance with you, you think you might cough up the heart that’s beating so rapidly in your chest. 

But of all the ways to die, you’ve decided this is the best way to go- in Soshiro’s arms.

[iamthecomet]

-strides in, fresh from the shower-

I had RainDrop thoughts while washing my hair and I must share them.

I need you to imagine Rain in, like, a very flouncy, bordering on ridiculous, but he's making it work kind of outfit, basically all dolled up and looking fierce, and then Dew dressed as well... Dew.

He's not all dressed up or trying to look a certain way, he's got a hoodie on and his comfortable sneakers, and some skinny jeans with holes in the knees, very low effort.

Now I need you to imagine Rain, in that outfit, absolutely wrecking Dew in some random bathroom, like, hauled up against the wall, having to hold onto the back of his neck and shoulders because his feet are off the ground and he's a little scared he's going to fall even though Rain is gripping him VERY tightly.

Dew can't really think about anything other than the fact that Rain looks so pretty and about how someone could walk in...

And meanwhile Rain is just thinking about how he's going to destroy Dew from the inside out for wearing that outfit, because something about seeing him dressed that way does something to him and he's not sure why.

So they're both mutually thinking about how the other looks good/cute, but the styles are completely different.

I dunno, I originally just thought about Rain in a femme traditional goth look plowing the ever-loving shit out of Dew and it just sort of stuck there.

Something, something, goths and their normie/skaterboy partners I guess.

Bonus thought; Dew unable to walk straight coming home from the bar and everyone assuming he's drunk enough to be stumbling around until someone finally asks what happened, because he makes a pained noise at some point, and he just crouches down for a minute and points at Rain, who then has to give Dew a piggyback ride out of penance for his crime.

Also one of the other ghouls razzing Dew like, "Oh, so you're on top for once now, huh?" or something like that.

-drying hair-

god GOD you're so right about them. God lamp you always bring me the BEST THINGS. I love how this feels like, inititally, that it should go the other way. That Dew should be losing his shit about Rain all dolled up--but no. NO. AND fuck does it make so much more sense for it to be Rain who's fucked up over Dew in normal clothes. Salivating over the little peaks of Dew's skin he gets from the holes in his jeans like he's a victorian era man. Watching every move Dew makes with a predatory stare, he knows what he's going to do as soon as Dew gets up and says he has to piss. Knows he'll follow him to the bathroom, crowd him against the wall before Dew has a chance to realize what's happening. He'll bite the tension from Dew's lips, whisper that it's fine. Tell him that if someone walks in that's their problem. But Rain has to have him, right now he can't take one more second of Dew's teasing. And Dew's weak the knees from all of it anyway. Just from Rain. He's so fucking pretty. So delicate. So demanding. And Dew can't do anything but bare his soft parts for Rain's tongue, and teeth, and cock. And yeah, if he limps a little, so what. It was worth it. And he doesn't get piggy back rides often--so that's a pretty sweet added bonus.

[imclimbingthestairsoforthanc]

Love and Loss - Maedhros x Reader

Even after all those years, you could feel your lover's cold words biting into you like shards of ice. Despite his cruelty, losing him hurt. Sharper still was losing part of yourself.

The frigid air of Angband cruelly caressed Maehdros’ body as he hung, limp and numb, from the mountainside of Thangorodrim. He craned his head at the golden light that peaked above the horizon. It was so strange - it was a light eerily familiar with Laurelin.

He had met you there - under the golden tree of Valinor. The pink blush of your dress matched the Yuletide decorations and complimented your buoyant smile. It was one that he had soon begun to detest. 

He’d refrained from burning the ships at Losgar for the sake of you and his dear friend Fingon, through whom he had met you, but that wasn’t something he had ever cared to admit. No, he feared what his father might do to him in wrath were he to admit it. But that wasn’t to say that the indignation that his father felt to quite literally everyone of the Eldar save a precious few wasn’t a growth in the caverns of his own mind. The friendship that blossomed between the two of you had long been neglected and cast away. 

It could have been a trick of Morgoth’s. It was not out of character for the fallen Vala to torment Maedhros with impersonations of loved one’s and visions of the peaceful life he led before leaving home. Teasing him with memories and voices and phantom touches was something Morgoth seemed to take pleasure in, and though Maedhros had - wrongly - begun to harbor ill will towards you for a short while, Morgoth didn’t seem to mind taking full advantage of your memory from time to time. 

“Friends? A lover?” Morgoth would say as Maedhros reached out his free hand to take yours and kiss it under Laurelin’s light like he did that day upon your first meeting, only to prod his fingers at nothing but the biting cold air of Angband, “It would seem they have forsaken you, even in memory.”             

It was not, in fact, a picture of the light of the tree. Emerging over the horizon was a fiery orb hung in the sky, beautiful and terrible and, quite frankly, frightening. Maedhros had never seen anything like it. If it was an illusion, it was most certainly not one made of memory. 

Metal flickered in the blazing light, and when a rich, clear sound echoed off the mountainside, Maedhros recognized the gleaming gold to be the gold of the trumpets of Fingolfin.

He couldn’t really say he felt any bitterness or contempt as he watched the blue banners arise over the hills in the West. There was no resentment or hatred rising up in his throat like bile. After countless days (years? decades?) hung on the mountainside, Maedhros couldn’t really feel anything but desperation. 

Years of enmity were lost on his mind as he cried out to his kin marching over the hills. His voice was strong; his cries echoed on the rocks and down into the valley. He made no notion to stop, no matter how hoarse his throat would be or how cruel and fierce his lashings of penance.

Harsher still was the response of Fingolfin’s host - or rather, the absence of a response. 

______________________________________________________________________________

Turgon was the first to spot the great bird hurrying toward Hithlum bearing his brother and his cousin. He cried out in astonishment, and a hundred more gasps followed his own. Surprise soon turned to horror. 

Blood poured out of Maedhros, but from where could not be seen lest he was unswaddled. His face was contorted in anguish, and he clutched onto Fingon like a vice.

Despite the years of disregard he displayed for your relationship and the resulting contempt you festered for him, you almost pitied him. Almost.

You didn’t move as Fingon dismounted the great bird, only stared at the shrunken body of someone once loved and once loathed. Nothing stirred in your gut at the sight of him like it should have. There was no fierce rage blistering your insides as you watched Fingon carry Maedhros across the concrete in Hithlum like years of friendship had not been tossed to the wind - as Maedhros, unworthy as he was, re-entered your life, at least for the moment in thought. There was no real pity enveloping your now-still heart as you watched the black-haired archer haul his dear friend - your friend - to the healing rooms. 

You wished you hadn’t looked.

Amidst the blood and dirt that caked his skin you saw Maedhros’ once gleaming eyes wild and frantic. You adored when those eyes were warm and kind and you loathed him when they were cold and piercing, but something entirely gut-wrenching crept under your skin as you saw Maedhros Fëanorion in utter agony and panic. 

You shrugged, then turned away and made your way to your chambers. He’d lost too much blood - if he made it to the morrow he’d not remember you, or the tears that he surely would have seen pooled up in your eyes upon his return. 

______________________________________________________________________________

It seemed that even though Maedhros wouldn’t remember the day’s events, he was determined to make sure everyone else would. His cries of anguish were indescribable; his screams unlike any you had ever heard before, even crossing the Grinding Ice. You had tossed and turned for well over half the night, and you were about to visit the healers, well, the ones that weren’t occupied with Maedhros, if there were any, for some sleep inducing herbs when a knock sounded at your door.

“Are you awake?” came the voice of Aredhel. You did not bother to cover yourself before you answered. She wore a grave look on her face - one she had not worn since Elenwë had passed. Her eyes were tired and her brow was taught. Her lips were puckered slightly and set in a straight line. Her voice was quiet.

“He is calling for you.”

The screaming stopped for a moment as the words settled. Out of an old habit that had not quite died, you nearly reached for your slippers and robe. You stopped yourself and let out a sharp breath.

“Will you not come?”

Aredhel had been alienated from the sons of Fëanor, just like you had. She knew what it felt like to be separated from friends, from family, but it was unlikely that she knew the weight of her request.

You scoffed, “No.”

“Nesa, plea-”

“Tell Findekano to color his hair,” you said sarcastically, “and find a gown that flatters him. I doubt any of mine will fit. The patient is tired. He will take the ba-”

“Nesa!” Aredhel said, new vigor in her tone, “Please.”

Another scream rang out. Aredhel’s eyes glossed over and she elongated a blink. She was exasperated, however much she tried to conceal it for selflessness’ sake, and desperate. 

You sighed, “Let me get dressed.” 

You couldn’t tell if the sound of your boots against the marble floor had become significantly louder than you last remembered it or if you were subconsciously stomping your way to the halls of healing to drown out Maedhros’ cries. In his defense, he had admittedly gotten quieter; it could have been because his pain was lessening, it could have been because his throat was hoarse. Your steps weren’t deliberately quick, but the irritation that was held behind each one made it seem like you were eager to be somewhere. You stopped abruptly a few feet away from the door. You heard him let out a guttural groan before inhaling sharply.

You took a long, deep breath before opening the door. 

“Thank Eru you're here,” you heard Fingon say, “He won’t stop begging for you. It was getting worse and worse, albeit his condition has improved.” 

You grimaced. The smell of blood and desperation filled the air. Maids and aides were rushing in and out of the room, still unable to keep up with the clean water and dressing despite the improvement. How bad was it? 

Your feet, once trampling under you down the hall, now felt heavy and slow as you made your way to the chair by the bed. Your robes would have to be thrown away - you were sure whatever liquid that was in the floor and soaking into them was not clean water. It was a shame. You liked these robes - long and golden and royal blue. They made you look taller. 

His eyes had no tears in them - perhaps he’d cried himself dry - as he looked at you. His face was twisted and beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. Your eyes trailed to his neck and to his chest, where numerous smaller bandages were fastened. When your eyes fell lower, you found yourself horrified. 

His right hand was gone. 

That had been where all the blood was coming from, you concluded. You watched with widened eyes as one of the healers wrapped the bleeding nub tightly with another clean cloth. The blood, though still pouring out profusely, seemed to be letting up a bit. 

You met his eyes again. They were as blue as ever, and even Morgoth himself couldn’t douse the fire inside them, but they were glistening and frightened and desperate. They widened as he saw you again.

“No!” he shouted, “Leave me alone!”

You furrowed your eyebrows. Fingon and Aredhel both said he called for you, and for what?  So he could send you away? What a waste of your time! You took a step closer, despite his protests. 

“I told you to leave!”

You said nothing.

“But my lord,” said a healer gently, “You called for them - said it was someone that loved you.” 

He looked to the healer and made a near snarl, “Do not patronize me!” He turned to you. “You are the worst enemy I have ever had!”

Ah.

You reluctantly made your way to the chair next to the bed as the aid tried to reason with him, to no avail. He lashed out at you with his left hand. You stopped him firmly with your right. 

“Maedhros,” you said, and for a moment he looked at you and seemed a child again, unmarred and burdened not with the grief of the East, “I am not Morgoth, and you are not in Angband. You are in Hithlum. You are safe.”

 He seemed, for a moment, at comfort, and though his turmoil did not leave him, he despaired no longer.

You sat with him in silence for a long while, but it was not a comfortable silence. He tried to make conversation with you, perhaps to distract himself, or perhaps because in his delirious state, he thought you wanted to be there.

You suppressed a scoff. To watch him bleed? After all he’d done to you, though, maybe he thought you’d like it. 

Time dragged on. For a while, the healers insisted you stay until he was asleep. As the night grew older and your thoughts wandered to memory, you found yourself staying not at the healers’ request, but at your own free will.

Maedhros had done terrible things, yes - though he wasn’t as active as his father in Alqualonde and he didn’t burn the ships, he had pledged himself to you. He had made a promise under pain and longsuffering - one that he had broken. But how much pain, and how much longsuffering before he was vindicated? Before his transgressions annulled? Were they reconciled when he was taken, or when his hand came off? You couldn’t help but pity him.

It was a pain you knew too well. 

Crossing the Helcaraxe had been hard on everyone, and losing your left hand didn’t make it any easier. Losing it was painful and healing hurt more, but nothing was as detrimental as what came next. At first, you had been the ‘funny aunt’ to Idril who could use puppets on her arm, and a beacon of hope and a picture of determination to a young Aredhel, but as time went on, you found themselves looking at you with poorly hidden pity, eyes clouded over like storm clouds amongst stars at a masquerade ball. 

But it was not pity that Maedhros really needed - no. It was redemption. 

His disregard for those he claimed to love was prominent, proved at his departure and highlighted by his actions. But his father had gone mad and his grandfather was killed. He was in a tight spot. Was he truly evil at heart? It seemed cruel to expect him to compromise, what with part of him already compromised. But how else was he to be redeemed? Was he to fast? Or to cut off his hair like Fingon had his hand?  Was he to kneel on your doorstep for one hundred days, begging for vindication? For your forgiveness?

You could give him that - forgiveness. It was far-fetched, or so you thought, to bargain for unearned forgiveness when he had a bucketload of consequences that were to come with his actions - a lack of your love and tender care that he once had being one of them.

Your mother would chide you. Forgiveness was to be given freely. Only Mandos himself and only by leave of Mawë could mercilessness be wrought, and whether or not a person was deserving of it was not for any of the Eldar to decide, not even the greatest. It was something you struggled with as a child - after all, anyone could hurt you, but that didn’t matter as long as they couldn’t hold a grudge to rival your own, right?

Maedhros stirred. You let go of his hand - when had you reached for it? - as if it burned and stood abruptly. Dawn was upon you. His body was broken. You knew the emotional turmoil he would soon undergo, and you doubted he would make it. He could reckon his fortune for forgiveness with the Decider himself. 

______________________________________________________________________________

You slept throughout the next day, though no rest came to you. Memories and subtle convictions plagued your mind. At last, late in the afternoon, you decided to have a bite to eat and get some fresh air. 

Thirty pairs of eyes followed your form, breaths held and shoulders tense as you made your way to the kitchens of Hithlum. You had not toyed with the prospect of being bombarded with questions about the state of the Noldorin prince, but, you supposed, it was for the better. You knew little about his condition as of today, and you wished you knew less than you did. 

Despite the beauty of the day, a cloud of tension stalked Hithlum eerily. The gardens were almost too quiet. If you hadn’t any fear of being caught, you would have talked to the spotted swan orchids potted near the bench. 

You sat in silence for a moment and rued leaving your room, beginning to doze off after you had decided to rouse and go about. You jumped when the bench shifted underneath you.

“I don’t suppose you're the worst enemy I’ve ever had.”

You sighed and looked down at the bowl in your hands, elbows resting on your knees. “That isn’t what you said last night,” you said, “Or all those years ago, for that matter.”

Maedhros fell silent for a moment. “I know.”

It seemed as if the both of you had a bubble around one another, and the proximity forced them to squish and mold against one another. It was only a matter of time before one of them would pop, leaving you vulnerable and Maedhros even more so.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a long, awkward while.

You said nothing.

“Melda, please-”

“Do not call me that.”

He let out a broken sigh and hid his face away from you. Not that you were looking. His mouth contorted into a grimace, and tears pricked his eyes.

“Woe is me!” He said suddenly and quietly, but his voice grew louder, “Woe is me! And woe is the day I left you on those white shores! Now I am at a loss - of a love and of a limb. My departure was the greatest of my misdeeds. I shall rue it, and of all my fell deeds, leaving you behind shall be accounted as the worst.”

You couldn’t help but feel a little smug at his admittance. 

“I see that hanging by your wrist for thirty years has not quipped that tongue of yours.”

“No,” he replied, “And I fear nothing ever shall. But for the will of my tongue, I’d have all that I have ever wanted by now - all that I have wished for while hanging from that precipice. How now shall I go on?”

“Do not be a fool,” you said, rather harshly, but years of biting winds and boots filled with snow will make a person harsh, “What is done is done. There is no use lamenting what once was, for by lament alone it shall not come again to be.”

“If you would hear my lament,” he said, “Then maybe you would forgive me.”

You straightened your posture. “You have not asked my forgiveness - and do not do so yet! You have a great deal to learn before you can be reconciled, if I see fit.”

He raised his eyebrows, “If you see fit? I beg your pardon, but was I false to hope that you might hear my plea? Did you lose your mercy and compassion on your journey?”

“I lost many things.”

Maedhros squared his shoulders towards you. His eyes trailed down your frame, and then widened. His breath hitched, and a tense silence befell you both.

“I am sorry,” he said after a while. His voice was timid and shy. Even in begging your forgiveness, the Fearnorian pride that tainted his blood did not cower; his words were ever confident, ever secure in their purpose. Upon looking at your left arm, which his right now mimicked, his boldness left him.

“Hush. You are bold to ask forgiveness of your misdeeds towards me, but you did not cut off my hand.”

He said nothing. For a moment. Your posture straightened. His, though you were now vulnerable to him, slouched. 

“Then forgiveness I do not ask of you,” Maedhros said, “only one thing, if your kindness would go so far: council. I do not know what to do next - how I am to relearn all that I have known.”

“It is a long process, even for the greatest of the Eldar - even for one filled with the light of Valinor,” you replied, “It will end, but it feels like it never will.”

“What does it feel like?”

White shores flashed across your eyes. You could feel your mother’s disappointed gaze burning into your back. Green lights came into your peripheral, and for a moment you could feel Turgon’s embrace and Idril’s excited shivering. Your mouth twitched into a fleeting smile. Then there was a crack, and a splash, and a woman’s scream and a man’s desperate pleas to the gods - whichever ones were listening, Manwë or Ulmo or Melkor himself. You gripped the bench with your right hands. Your heart beat increased and a weight fell upon your arm like heavy stones. A thousand tiny needles pricked your skin. You began to feel stiff and lifeless. This time, there were no harp-calloused hands hauling you to the dry, and the weight on your wrist only got heavier. Your eyes flew open.

“Cold,” you said quietly, and shuddered, “As if the chill was drawn from all the waters and the ground and the winds of Eä and even the cold of the souls of the wicked, and then sewn onto my bones.”

You slowly reached with your right hand towards what used to be your left.

“And sometimes, I feel stiff - like my hand has been covered in tar and I cannot move it,” you continued, “And sometimes, there is nothing.” 

Maedhros did not dare meet your eyes.

“They will look at you with such pity that maybe their gazes will regrow it, but they will not. Until they know your power, your will, your resolve, until deep down they fear you, they will whisper to one another how unfortunate you are to have suffered such a loss. Your arm will heal, but until you have surpassed resolution and have become fortitude incarnate, you will not again be well.” 

Maedhros didn’t respond at first. He sat for a good long while, unsure of whether you were talking about your hand or something entirely different. Your gaze was directed towards the morning glories climbing up the Western stairs, but your eyes were somewhere far off from the gardens of Hithlum. 

“How do you bear it, then,” he said, “Until it does heal?”

“There isn’t anything for it,” you replied, “Except to bear it. In Valinor, maybe, you would heal in time tenfold. Though, from what I heard, providence in Valinor is not an option.”

“No, it is not. But I have told you already, it is my greatest regret. And you have said it yourself: what is done is done.” His eyes were filled with determination, but void of all hope. 

The sun began to set, and the two of you sat together late into the night. Memories floated about your mind of your life before your departure - before his departure, and sooner or later your mind drifted to your memories with him. Some were good memories, but most were not. His departure - his oath - replayed over and over in your mind. 

“Why did you do it?” you said, “Why did you leave?”

He was quiet for a moment, and you couldn’t tell if he was hesitant or thoughtful.

“I would have left all the same, I suppose,” he said, finally, “or been forced out, anyways. A man will be worthy of his father’s name or be tainted by it  - after the attack at Alqualonde, I do not know which would have been worse.”

You seemed unsatisfied with his answer, but what he told you was the truth - and he knew of nothing else that would satisfy you, not even a lie. 

“I would have loved you all the same,” you said.

He let out a sharp breath, “Would you have?”

You cast your gaze down. “I have endured bitter cold and hardships across the Grinding Ice. What is time to the Eldar? But it is my greatest loss. I loved you even then.”

He stood, abruptly, and knelt in front of you, clasping your right hand with his left. “You knew what I had done then. Can you not love me now?”

You retracted your hand, “You think too highly of yourself. My love for you is trapped under the ice; miles now lie between memories.”

“You held it in your left hand, then,” he reached again for you and found your wrist. “I have given my right in atonement. Is that not enough? Shall I give my left? I gladly will.”

“Don’t be stupid,” you said, “By your right hand you were fell and your deeds were wicked, but by your left you may yet be forgiven. Convince me.”

“What will it take?”

“What will you give?”

“I have told you already,” said Maedhros, “if that is not enough, then I will give you everything.”

You searched his blue eyes for a lie or a fault, but you found none. Your resolve nearly broke when his eyes roamed across your face, searching desperately for your reaction. Would it break him - for you to tell him to get lost? No. He had endured so much, and he did not break you when he was separated from you the first time. You imagined vividly enough to make yourself believe that he would break, and soon had yourself convinced that it was mercy that led you to give him his chance.

“Sit up. Hold me for a while like you did long ago,” you said, “Let me think, and perhaps my terms will not be too great.”

It was not mercy. Forgiveness was difficult, even more so if one’s wounds had gone untreated for too long; but perhaps it would come a little easier if you found solace from your afflictions in the careful embrace of your guilt-ridden afflicter. Your heart stopped at his touch, and though you knew it wasn’t forgiveness, something welled up in your heart that made you wish that things were not as they were, or at the very least, that they could go back to the way things had been.

“As you wish.”

[korroshiame]

Babel spoilers

… I just finished Babel and I… wow. I feel so many emotions. This is peak Arknights. All the lore, all the foreshadowing, paid off in this event.

All I can offer is a eulogy to one of the most pure and kind characters I have ever read in fiction.

“Do you wish to rewrite the ending?” - Theresa.

What do you call a love that remembers and forgives your own murderers? What do you call a love that understands the pain of betrayal you committed, yet chose to forgive the one who betrayed her love and trust?

Agape. A love most selfless. A love so pure, so unconditional.

Babel is truly a most tragic story. Theresa, caught between two civilizations.

A civilization that suffered untold millennia of oppression and cruelty, and wished to reflect their pain upon the Ancients who inhabited their homeland.

A civilization so mighty, yet hid and fled from something even worse. Buying time and willing condemn an entire planet for their own safety, a plan that might not even work.

It was this terror that convinced the Doctor to go along with their plan, and that’s what Theresa understood in her last moments.

When Theresa’s fate was sealed, it was the cumulative destinies of entire civilizations that led to that moment, something the Doctor and Theresis could understand. The Sarkaz will attain dominion once more upon Terra, and in turn, the first civilization will live upon the dust and ashes of the ancients and the Teekaz.

Theresa was so selfless, even up to her last moments. Even when she was dying, she felt deep shame and regret for not being able to be with Amiya, to burden her with the weight of the crown, and by extension, Terra itself, upon her head.

…

You arrived to witness your own handiwork, and you felt remorse. Yet, time had marched forward, with no repentance great enough to take back what you did.

No matter what you did, no matter what you couldn’t do, she was condemned the moment you agreed.

And then she left you one last cruel, yet merciful gift upon you.

The blissful calm of ignorance.

She washed away the memories, scratched away the etches of the first civilization’s past upon you.

It was merciful, for you were no longer burdened by your past, your cruel obligations that led to this tragedy. You could begin a life anew, with your bloodstained past no longer weighing upon you.

It was cruel, because you could no longer remember your sins, only that you’re paying a penance for sins long forgotten. Most importantly…

You forgot her.

For your happiness, for your future, she made you forget your traitorous act, so that you can live on in her stead. To see a future you shattered before her very eyes.

It was merciful, because how could you face anyone with what you did to them? Amiya, Frostnova, Ace, Patriot, Alina…

How could you face the infected you met throughout your journeys? Knowing you’re responsible for centuries of suffering? Every tragedy, every untold story? Could you ever face them ever again, or will you hide your face with shame and remorse? This is what Theresa understood.

She understood, because she loved you.

She loved you, and trusted you with Amiya.

She trusted you to rewrite this bitter tragedy with Amiya.

For Theresa’s dream, write a better ending within the present, for the future denied to her.

[autisticrosewilson]

Fic idea where Bruce gets dosed with a new strain of fear toxin post ADitF and sees Catherine and Willis.

How do you look a mother in the eye after bastardizing the memory of her son?

What claim to fatherhood does he have after ruining Jason's chances at everything Willis died to give him?

What else is there to do when you have everything you failed to do thrown back in your face? When those you have replaced look you in the eye and demand penance?

There aren't words strong enough. There is no room for apologies here, because you know that they will not forgive you. That is not the point of this.

These ghosts are angry Bruce, their son is a bloody mangled thing on the cold concrete and you are stained with his blood. Wasn't it you who gave him the cape? You who first called him that cursed name? You who put him in harms way?

Catherine reaches out a boney, shaking hand and points to that god forsaken case. This is how you've chosen to remember my baby?

You are starkly, dreadfully aware of the inscription on that plaque. Suddenly that veneer of distance is cracking, too much pressure applied to fragile glass, causing hairline fractures on the surface.

Face your guilt, they tell him, a life for a life.

You try to tell them that you loved him too, that you didn't mean for this to happen but your words die in your throat.

Jason looks so much like Willis. He made the same face of disgusted accusation at the crooks they interviewed sometimes, when they'd done something particularly heinous but wouldn't own up to it. It gut punches him, lands with a force greater than any physical blow.

Face your guilt, they tell him, a life for a life.

He throws a shaking punch that misses by a mile. How could that happen? He's Batman, he doesn't miss, he doesn't falter or hesitate.

His heavy gauntlets collide with glass. The case cracks and the whispers spur him on. He repeats the motion with more purpose this time, reaches his hands through the hole to pry the glass apart.

A life for a life.

There's a noise, a voice maybe, from behind him but Bruce can't hear it over the sounds of wrathful mourning in his head.

Strong hands wrap around his wrist, the knuckles are bruised and the fingers are bent from too many years being broken and healed and broken again.

Willis guides the glass to Bruce's face, his hands tightly closed around a large piece that gets closer and closer to his mouth. His jaw is slack and he doesn't even think to move it. He deserves this. This is the way to forgiveness. Jason is waiting for him, he thinks he can hear his boys voice, watery and lost, calling out for Bruce.

There's blood in his mouth, burning pain in his lips and tongue but nowhere near as painful as the bloody, gaping hole in his chest where his heart has been ripped out and buried.

Hands, tangible and alive, wrench him backwards and the illusion breaks.

"Bruce!" It's Dick's voice, Dick's arms around his forearms pinning his wrists at his sides.

There's blood and glass pooling at his feet and when he looks up he can see Alfred's contained horror and Tim peaking around the corner.

No Catherine or Willis. No Jason.

"Have we found the antidote yet?" His voice is too raw to be Batman's gruffness but Bruce Wayne would not brush off the blood in his mouth so easily.

Alfred's mouth twists to form a disproving grimace but his response is curt and neutral. "Just about. Although I feel it best you wait in the observation holding until we're finished." It's not optional, despite the phrasing.

Bruce allows himself to be shut in the glass box and tries to ignore the way his hands are still shaking.

[makuta-kotok]

Y’all think Toxic Yaoi Narilamb is peak?

Nah bro.

CHAOTIC PARTNERS IN CRIME AGAINST THE IN-LAWS NARILAMB IS WHERE IT’S AT

Imagine the twisted irony of discovering the one person you NEVER wanted your brother to meet is not only his accomplice on your downfall, but HIS SIGNIFICANT OTHER.

Imagine seeing him be subservient to the point of being a disciple to your worst enemy.

Imagining watching him walk down the aisle and exchange vows with the person whose species you eradicated.

Imagine watching this usurper dote and spoil your brother with affection and gifts while you and the rest of your siblings toil away in field and quarry as penance for your sins.

Imagine ALL of this, and the fact that their marriage is actually healthy and romantic.

A bond between equals. A bond of true devotion on both sides.

A bond forged through a shared hatred of you.

[birchbow]

Do you have a favorite piece of clown scripture that you’ve written?

Hmmmmm this is such a fun question uh let's see. In context, I want to say it'll be the Verses of Penance! Both because they're the title drop (hot) and also because I deeply enjoyed doing a fuller version in the AU interlude of It Rang Like Scriptured Verse.

“If your kin gets you sinning, cut them away, no true fucking family can they be. If the noise from your flap be blasphemous, carve it from you and stitch shut your filthy mouth, motherfucker. If your flesh leads to sin scourge it clean, washed in blood; cut away rot, and leave only what’s holy. Repentance by mouth never saved a soul; spill blood and flesh in price of forgiveness.”

The fact that the verse Kurloz call-and-responses with Gamzee all the way back in chapter one includes 1. reference to ritual silencing as a response to your own guilt, 2. an exhortation to kill even your own blood color if they lead you to sin, and 3. the title drop,,,,, peak. It's foreshadowing except it's not because that's not how foreshadowing works lol. It's,,, an easter egg?

Taken out of context, it's actually probably this verse from the book of Hot Shit!

“When my feet touch soil again I’ll make my way to you.  Take me as you like, heart of my heart; throw me down and fuck me under night sky and the Messiahs will only hear me sing praise out louder.  I’m hollow as a thunderstruck tree for you, sister.  I need you like starving needs food, like rage needs mercy, like sin needs forgiveness, like pain needs pleasure.”

I think that turned out kind of lovely, and the dichotomies in the last line are basically all the axes that this fic runs off of haha. The combination of poetic, violent, ridiculous, and horny? Peak PoF. :D

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Penance

Summary: Disobedience requires atonement in Otto's eyes. Warnings: Religious guilt/shame, power imbalance, age gap, smut. Word count: ~1400

Dedicating this to my fellow old man fucker @exitpursuedbyavulcan // Huge thank you to @em-writes-stuff-sometimes for her encouragement and reading through my draft // Beautiful moodboard by @xionthelostpuppet

She kneels before the Seven Pointed Star, the cold hard flagstones are unforgiving against her skin, and her joints cramp in protest. She has lost all sense of the passing of time, it feels like she’s held this position for an age. Each time the slick of her arousal between her thighs cools it is quickly replaced by the heat of renewed wetness, doing little to aid in her judgment of how long they have been at this. The ache in her cunt is unrelenting, tears of desperation prickle the corners of her eyes.

“Otto, please.” She whines. “I said I was sorry.”

The older man’s blue eyes roam slowly up and down her naked form as he regards her carefully. “And I said you must earn your forgiveness. What part of that is troubling you, pet?”

She attempts to stifle the wail of anguish she longs to let out, a whimper passing her lips instead.

It was never supposed to have happened. A simple serving girl and the Hand of the King, it was scandalous, improper. Yet she had given in all the same. There was no denying that she found Otto attractive, and perhaps that’s what had done it; her lingering gazes as she’d walked the length of the dining hall, her fingers brushing against his as he’d taken the cup from her. 

He had remained seated at the table one evening, after everyone else had retired. It had all happened so fast, one moment she was leaning across to refill his wine, the next he had her against the wooden surface, hips pistoning between her legs as the jug toppled over, spilling its ruby red contents onto the floor.

“You will pray to the Mother for forgiveness.” He had whispered as he’d pulled out of her.

The next day a paige had delivered moon tea to her, along with a wax sealed note instructing her to meet Otto in his chambers later that evening.

From that point onward she had spent every evening in Otto’s chambers, wetting his cock and warming his bed.

That was where he’d left her this morning, denied release and with her cunny dripping with his spend. She was under strict instructions not to touch herself in his absence - he’d know.

He seemed to take great pleasure in delaying her peak and, while she was usually all too eager to indulge him, today she throbbed as he left her wanting with no idea of when he’d return. She had tried her best to obey his command, but as the minutes had ticked by into hours her resolve had crumbled.

She had rucked her shift above her hips, sighing in relief as her fingers began to circle her pearl. Eyelids fluttering closed, her soft sighs of pleasure elevated to wanton moans as she pushed herself closer to the edge.

The clearing of a throat had caused her eyes to snap back open. She froze, her heart feeling like it had stopped as Otto stood before her, his gaze dark and disapproving.

“Are you stupid? Or just disobedient?” He asks coolly. It sent a shiver through her. She was in trouble.

Before she had a chance to respond he had ordered her to remove her nightgown and kneel before the Seven Pointed Star. She’d known better than to argue, though he had never raised his voice or hand to her in anger, she wouldn’t dare to disobey him a second time. Otto didn’t deal in anger, he dealt in consequences.

That is how she finds herself now, nipples pebbled in the coolness of the air, and Otto looming over her, a cat toying with a helpless mouse. He has been listening to her desperate apologies in heavy silence, continuing to deny her any form of relief without ever having to utter a word.

He hasn’t shed his outerwear since he returned. He leans down, a leather riding gloved hand brushing between her legs. She shivers at the smoothness of it as two fingers glide between her folds and pull away glistening in the dimmed light.

“This does not look to be indicative of your remorse.” He muses, arching an eyebrow as he inspects his digits closely.

He presses them to her lips and she opens her mouth instinctively, allowing him to press forward as she sucks her essence from the material. He withdraws them with a quiet hum of approval.

“Are you truly ready to repent for your impure behaviour, pet? To atone for your wilful disobedience?”

“Y-yes.” She stammers. She’d agree to anything right now, if only to put an end to this torment.

He circles her, coming to a stop once he’s behind her.

“On your hands and knees.” He orders softly.

She repositions herself, biting back a sigh of relief as she is finally allowed to move. Her weight being more evenly distributed is a welcome respite to her sore knees. She trembles with anticipation as she hears the rustling of clothing behind her. She is sure that in her lust induced haze she must be imagining it, until she feels him kneel behind her.

“You remember who to pray to, don’t you, pet?” Otto inquires. “Or has you behaving like a common strumpet knocked loose all reverence of The Seven from your pretty little head?”

“I remember.” She whispers, feeling her cheeks heat up with shame.

“Good girl.” He says lowly. “Now keep your eyes on The Star and say your prayers.”

She lets out a choked moan as she feels him push inside of her, all thoughts leaving her head the moment his gloved hands grab her hips and he begins to thrust inside of her.

“I shall stop if you are incapable of doing as you’re told.” He grits out, his pace not faltering despite his words.

She mewls piteously, before she is able to speak. “I-I pray to the Father…to ask that his judgment of my indiscretions be merciful.”

The Seven Pointed Star blurs as her vision tears up, the head of Otto’s hardened length bullies at the spongy spot deep inside of her.

“I p-pray to the Mother…m-may she be merciful to me for my sins.”

Otto’s breathing is ragged, his grip on her ironclad as he continues to drive into her.

“I pray…to the W-Warrior for the courage to resist my lustful urges.”

Eliciting a needy cry of pleasure, she can feel herself fluttering ceaselessly, and she still has four more prayers to go. She has no idea how she will last.

“Keep going.” Otto urges, the gravelly edge to his voice suggests that he is struggling every bit as much as she is.

“I ask th-that the Smith protects me from my…from my impure thoughts.”

Otto’s leather clad hand wraps around her throat, pulling her back flush against him as he continues to fuck her. The sensation of his clothing against her bare skin is enough for her to know that he has only freed his cock, yet another humiliating imbalance in their power dynamic, but one that causes her to clench involuntarily around him.

“I pray…gods…I pray to the Maiden for forgiveness for tarnishing my virtue.”

She hears Otto chuckle darkly, the hand not holding her neck snakes around her body to tweak sharply at one of her nipples.

“Oh!” She yelps at the sudden jolt, before continuing. “M-may the Crone provide the wisdom to rise above my baser urges.”

Her climax is painfully close, her body is wound so tightly she fears she may snap, and from the way that Otto’s pace falters she can sense he is getting closer too. Her final prayer is almost strangled sounding.

“I-I pray that the Stranger absolves me of my sins…so that I may depart this life as a woman of piety…oh!”

She peaks as Otto delivers a particularly forceful thrust, her body going rigid as she wails in ecstasy before falling lax against him. He fucks her through her release, before pulling her tight to him and spilling inside of her with a groan. The brush of his beard against her heated flesh borders on being overstimulating.

He pulls out of her, standing to readjust his clothing as he stares down at her prone form. “There is nothing pious about that wet little cunt, you shameless harlot.” 

He strides from the room, leaving her laying there, a satisfied smile spread across her face as she stares lazily up at the Seven Pointed Star. She knows that he is right, and if she is a sinner it is because Otto Hightower has made her one.

[talonabraxas]

Shiva-Linga 'Cosmic Fire' by Talon Abraxas

Shiva Purana is related to Shaivism. This Purana has 6 sections and 24000 verses. In this Purana, a comprehensive description of Lord Shiva’s various forms, incarnations, Jyotirlingas, devotees, and devotion has been said. In the Shiv Purana, a detailed description of the welfare, mystery, glory, and worship of Lord Mahadev of the gods has been described in detail.

In the Shiva Purana, apart from the glory and devotion of Lord Shiva, the method of worship, many enlightening narratives and instructive stories have been beautifully described and the grandest personality of Lord Shiva has been glorified. Lord Shiva who is Swayambhu, an Eternal, Supreme Being, Universal Consciousness, and the basis of cosmic existence.

In almost all the Puranas, Lord Shiva has been described as an idol of sacrifice, penance, love, and compassion. Lord Shiva is easily pleased and is the one who gives desired results. But in the Shiva Purana, a special description has been given about the life character of Lord Shiva, his lifestyle, marriage, and the origin of his sons. There are 6 sections in this Purana, which are as follows.

1) Vidyeshwara Samhita 2) Rudra Samhita 3) Kotirudra Samhita 4) Kailas Samhita 5) Air Code 6) Uma Samhita

12 Jyotirlingas in Shiva Purana:- In the Kotirudra Samhita of Shiva Purana, 12 Jyotirlingas of Lord Shiva have been described in detail. This very ancient 12 Jyotirlinga form of Shivling is the abode of Lord Shiva. The worship of 12 Jyotirlingas has a special significance in Sanatan Dharma. Following are the names of these 12 Jyotirlingas.

1) Somnath Jyotirlinga Located in the Saurashtra region of Gujarat, this Jyotirlinga is considered to be the oldest and the first Jyotirlinga of the earth. According to Shiva Purana, Somnath Jyotirlinga has been established by Chandradev himself.

2) Mallikarjuna Jyotirlinga This Jyotirlinga is situated on the banks of river Krishna in the state of Andhra Pradesh, India on a mountain named Srisailam.

3) Mahakaleshwar Jyotirlinga This Jyotirlinga is located in Ujjain city of Madhya Pradesh. This is the only Jyotirlinga facing south. The Bhasmari of Mahakaleshwar Jyotirlinga is famous all over the world.

4) Omkareshwar Jyotirlinga Omkareshwar Jyotirlinga is located in the Malwa region near Indore in Madhya Pradesh. The shape of Om is formed here due to the mountain and river flowing around this Jyotirlinga.

5) Kedarnath Jyotirlinga This Jyotirlinga is located in the Rudraprayag district of Uttarakhand state on the Kedar peak of the Himalayas.

6) Bhimashankar Jyotirling This Jyotirlinga is situated on a mountain called Sahyadri near Pune in Maharashtra.

7) Kashi Vishwanath Jyotirling This Jyotirlinga is located in Varanasi, Uttar Pradesh. This Jyotirlinga is also known as Vishweshwar.

8 ) Trimbakeshwar Jyotirlinga This Jyotirlinga is located in the Nashik district of Maharashtra state. This is a mountain named Brahmagiri near the Jyotirlinga. The Godavari river originates from the Brahmagiri mountain.

9) Vaidyanath Jyotirlinga This Jyotirlinga is located near Santhal Pargana of Jharkhand state. This Vaidyanath Dham of Lord Shiva has been called Chitabhoomi.

10) Nageshwar Jyotirling This Jyotirlinga is located in the Dwarka region of Gujarat.

11) Rameshwaram Jyotirlinga This Jyotirlinga is located in Rameswaram, Tamil Nadu. This Jyotirlinga was made by Lord Shri Ram himself with his own hands.

12) Ghrishneshwar Temple Jyotirlinga This Jyotirlinga is located near Daulatabad in Maharashtra. This is the last Jyotirlinga among the 12 Jyotirlingas of Lord Shiva.

Significance of Shiva Purana:- Shiva Purana has great importance for the devotee of Shiva. In the Shiva Purana, the elemental interpretation, mystery, glory, and worship of the benevolent form of Lord ‘Shiva’ of Parabrahm Parmeshwar have been described. Reading the Shiva Purana and listening to it with devotion is the best form of worship. According to Shiva Purana, a man reaches the highest position after attaining Shiva devotion, he attains Shivapada. By listening to this Purana selflessly and reverently, one becomes free from all sins and enjoys great and excellent pleasures in this life, and finally attains Shivaloka.

[15-lizards]

I just CAN'T stop thinking about the Harrenhal black goat like omg???? Is that a fucking SATANIC REFERENCE? *Mr Crocker tick* George your FOOL we deserved so much more satanic symbolism and references like wdym the faith of the 7 is some kind of medieval Catholicism without all the HELL, DEVIL, DEMONS propaganda EVERYWHERE? We have like one or two references to the lord of seven hells like HELLOOOOO, why aren't people pissing their pants at the mere thought of him? Why aren't there tales of him inhabiting the deep dark woods? Harrenhal deserves to have tales of hell gates underneath it! Why aren't there stories of women worshiping and having sex with him in moonless nights and producing atrocious demons? GEORGE WHEN I CATCH YOU

I’m sorry but George lowk fumbled the ball by not upping the pseudo catholic horror during the peak of Catholic horror movies. We could’ve had septons having so much divine madness they get taken over by the spirit of the father. Penance wounds appearing miraculously on the backs of the guilt ridden.

Prayers that everything with R’hollor will be revealed to be peak religious existential horror. Yes this metaphysical force exists. No it doesn’t hear your prayers. No it doesn’t care about you. Yes it gives you life but no you don’t get an afterlife. All you get is this miserable existence. Jon having an existential crisis when he wakes up this will happen I will speak it into being