#altar monumental

[sheltiechicago]

Monterrey, Mexico

People visit an art installation named Altar Monumental, created for the annual Day of the Dead festivities in an attempt to set a Guinness World Record for the largest altar of the dead in history

Photograph: Daniel Becerril/Reuters

[emaadsidiki]

The Thought by Giulio Monteverde

[wgm-beautiful-world]

Altare della Patria - Monumento a Vittorio Emanuele II - ROMA

[blueiscoool]

Roman Funerary Altar Found in Italy

Buried in a rocky riverbed in northern Italy sat a forgotten ancient artifact. The artifact certainly wasn’t intended to be forgotten. It was too big and ostentatious for that. But the waterway and the passing centuries had prevailed over the ancient stone.

Not anymore.

Ervino Silvestri spotted the ancient artifact in the gravel of the Torre river in San Vito al Torre and alerted officials, the Superintendency of Archaeology, Fine Arts and Landscape of Friuli Venezia Giulia said in a Feb. 22 news release.

Archaeologists excavated the riverbank and unearthed a massive block of carved limestone. They identified it as an ancient Roman funeral monument.

The monument weighed about 13,000 pounds, archaeologists said. One corner of the rectangular monument was chipped, but the rest was generally intact.

One end had a carved figure of Erotes holding a torch and poppy flower, symbols of eternal sleep or death, officials said. A photo shows the figure inside a carved frame.

Erotes was a figure of ancient Roman mythology comparable to Cupid or Eros, according to Britannica. Although generally the god of love, Eros could represent different symbols in different contexts.

Archaeologists also found an inscription on the ancient Roman monument but did not provide a translation.

The decoration style indicated the monument was from the high imperial era. Archaeologists did not give a specific date range, but, according to National Geographic, ancient Rome’s imperial era lasted from 27 B.C. to 476 A.D., peaking in 117 A.D.

The stone monument was so heavy that an excavator was needed to move it, officials said. Photos show this process. The artifact was placed in a temporary shelter for cleaning and further study.

Excavations of the gravel riverbed also uncovered a stone urn, a limestone carving of a man’s face, other limestone artifacts, bricks and tile pieces, archaeologists said. Photos shared by officials in a Feb. 22 Facebook post show some of these finds.

San Vito al Torre is about 300 miles northwest of Rome and near the Italy-Slovenia border.

By Aspen Pflughoeft.

[shayollo]

exploring

insta - shayollo

[flo-85]

Monument of the Skull Throne

I finished this piece of terrain a long time ago, and with the release of the new Khorne faction army books, I saw a fitting reason to finally post this work.

Like my other terrain pieces, I created this one with a 3D pen. In the game I use it as a skull altar.

[phoenixiancrystallist]

Forspoken Photo Dump 218: Junoon; The Harvest Lands, Part 4

[muntitled]

Virginity Files: Enha Edition

▪︎ Summary: how Hyung Line would respond to finding out you're a virgin

▪︎ Cw: Established Relationship, nsfw, virginity kink, Heeseung's part is a little unethical, +18, Minors dni

Heeseung | 희승

Abstinence had never really been a major factor in Heeseung's philosophy. In fact, he believed quite the opposite. Always choosing to forgo self control, in favour of being passionate, hedonistic and sometimes even borderline lecherous in your relationship.

Discussions of sex would plague you early on in your relationship because sexual gratification is something Heeseung refuses to compromise on- and you look too fucking gorgeous in nothing but a simple bathrobe for him to be expected to have pure thoughts.

He kisses up the side of your neck first, with his arms encircling your waist from behind like ivy creeping along the sides of an archaic mansion. You tilt your neck, welcoming his kisses as you rub the rest of your lotion along your forearms, the smell of cocoa butter having dire effects on Heeseung's restraint.

"I could fucking eat you alive," he whispers drunkenly in your ear, causing the sharpest of gasps to leave your throat when you feel his hardened length push up against your ass.

'It's happening' you think idly to yourself as Heeseung's hands crawl up your front until they're dipping into the opening of the robe.

When his fingers make contact with your breasts you freeze and Heeseung groans as he dips his head between your neck and shoulder.

He squeezes and tweaks your nipple, his cock growing impossibly harder when he feels your nipples turn to hardened peaks.

"Fuck-" he whispers before dragging you down onto the bed. Your body is limp and unresponsive when Heeseung hovers over you, your back pressed against the comforter as he inspects the expanse of your body with his large domineering hands.

You should've known what you were getting into with a guy like Heeseung.

He lives, eats and breathes sex.

How could you ever be so dumb?

"I need to touch you," he whispers, undoing the belt of your robe.

"You'll be good for me?" He asks- but his movements stop when your hand on his, stops all movements.

"I haven't had sex yet-"

Heeseung only blinks once before flashing you that dazzling smile. "Well obviously we haven't had sex yet- that's what I'm trying to correct."

"Ever. Heeseung." You release a shaky breath. "I mean ever."

It only takes a maximum of 15 infuriating seconds before Heeseung continues to slowly undo the knot of your belt as he says, "Would it be unethical if I said I'm more hard now than I've ever been?”

Jay | 제이

The idea of sex comes pretty early on in the relationship because it's all Jay could ever think about in your presence. Sex had never been anything monumental in his previous relationships- it had always been exceedingly casual, like a mutual business transaction with both parties guaranteed to step away from the venture wholly satisfied.

But here Jay is, on his knees in front of you like a martyr at the altar.

The blazer he had worn is discarded somewhere around him but all that plagues his mind is evil, diabolical thoughts of you. He looks completely wrecked as he kisses up the sides of your legs, his dress shirt half unbuttoned with his sleeves rolled up to his forearms. At the start of the evening he had looked dapper, not a single hair out of place and not a single wrinkle on the prada shirt. Ready to meet your patent.

But for you… here, he's a mess.

"What has gotten i-into you?"

You dig your hands into his hair, urging him to stand up but all he does is groan and nuzzle his face further between your thighs.

"You know how beautiful you looked tonight?” he breathes, lifting the fabric to reach more skin, “It was torture having to save face for your parents but secretly wanting to eat you out the whole the night-"

Jay punctuates his mind numbing confession by lifting the ends of your dress and ducking underneath. He hooks his fingers into the sides of your lace underwear and he pulls-

"Jay, stop-"

"Why?" His voice cracks under the weight of his own desire, and he peaks up from under your dress to look up at you with pleading eyes. "Baby, just let me taste you." Your heart shatters. "I know we haven't done anything, and that's fair- maybe you don't trust me yet- I don't know-" as Jay speaks all you can do is shake your head, "But I'm fucking attracted to my girlfriend- I need to be inside of you, I need to taste you and fuck you and hold you-"

"I'm a virgin."

Jay's rambling dissolves into complete and utter silence and you're left to watch as he sits back on his haunches, completely mystified.

"What?"

"That's why we haven't done anything- I-"

Your words of embarrassment completely dissolve in your throat once Jay ducks under the skirts of your dress once more, sending your heart into complete overdrive.

"Tonight's the night then,"

Is all he says with the mission of eating you out with absolute ardour.

Jake | 제이크

Being in a relationship with a boy made of literal prince tendencies meant there were a lot of lecherous acts that you had to coax out of him. When you and Jake first shared your first kiss under New Year's fireworks he had tenderly placed his hand on your cheek as if your skin was forged of porcelain and he muttered, "Is this okay?” Those three words haunted your relationship to the point that you feared your boyfriend saw you as less of a girlfriend, and more a fragile, precious thing he coveted.

These thoughts spin in your head as Jake rubs circles on your inner thigh through the duration of your Friday-night movie.

You couldn't focus on Toy Story 2 because Jake's large hand and its glorious callouses left nothing but goosebumps in their wake, and you're completely and utterly brimming with energy when you pause the movie to gain his attention.

"Can we kiss?" You ask.

You're not sure why you ask but this running theme of always seeking for consent I'd a habit that is difficult to shake off.

"Fuck, if I wasn't thinking about it for the passed hour," he replies before scooping you into his arms. "Get over here."

You're straddling his hips and his mouth crashes against yours, eliciting an unsteady moan from the confines of your throat.

Jake is such an eager kisser. Always eager to please.

Always eager to do good for you. It's like he was purposely trying to kiss away every other guy you may have come into contact with.

If only he knew how embarrassingly small that list really is.

"Woah- Bunny, what're you doing?" Jake's hands are still on the soft sides of your hips when you grind down against his length. You're both fully clothed but the intention of your actions is very much clear. He curls his arms around you as if urging you to stop, but his steadily hardening cock gives him away.

"F-Fuck," he curses under his breath finally relenting and choosing to lean back against the couch as you grinded down against him. He watches you with hooded eyes. "This is how you're feeling tonight, yeah?"

Your bottom lip clamps between your teeth, "Yeah..." and it completely erupts a wave of arousal in the pits of Jake's stomach.

"You want Jake to take care of you?" It's the way in which he says it, like every word had to be meticulously asked in order for you to understand the severity of the situation. It made you feel silly, and juvenile and so incredibly blissful.

"P-please," you whine, locking your arms behind the back of his neck as you grind down harder against the bulge in his pants. "I'm ready."

"What- like ready, ready." Instead of admiring how cute your boyfriend is, all you're able to do is bury your face in the crook of his neck.

"I'll take good care of you." He says eventually, with his large hand rubbing soft circles into your back. "Jake'll take good care of you..."

You need him to make you feel good and that alone has him soaring along the silver lined clouds.

Sunghoon | 성훈

Unlike the rest of Sunghoon's meticulously planned life, falling helplessly in love with you- and then your body- had been something to hit him quite unsuspectingly.

You stormed into his life, and shook up every aspect of his fully functional brain, making him question just how good of an idea it was to invite you to live with him. Seeing as you two were quickly becoming a serious ensemble, Sunghoon knew the time to solidify the relationship was quickly approaching, still, it caught him wholly by surprise when you admitted your inexperience under the soft glow of his overhead light. Wine intermixed with saliva lay on both your lips due to the sweet, drunken kisses you've exchanged on the couch. Sunghoon didn't mean to get handsy. He rarely does.

In fact, Sunghoon prides himself on his restraint when it comes to you. Seeing you, however, in this space, amongst his things, as if you were a part of his property... he lowered the wine glass onto the coffee table to swoop you into his arms.

"D-Did you hear what I said?" You felt embarrassed to have to admit to being a virgin but somehow you felt that consent was needed. Perhaps he may not be completely comfortable being made subject to the daunting task of being someone's 'first'.

"W-We don't have to do this?" You try to whisper. You try to push him away by his chest but his teeth sink into the crook of your neck drawing a heightened gasp out of the confines of your throat.

"We should get you ready first," he whispers instead, knocking all the air out of your lungs in one fell swoop. His hands glide down over your silk pyjamas until he's cupping your sex- the most private, most vulnerable parts of you. "We'll go slow." Sunghoon said with his nose still buried in your neck as he snuck his hand down your pants. You were a gasping mess, so unused to the feeling of it being someone else's hand on that particular spot.

"Just relax, Baby,"

"Sunghoon-"

"Right here," he whispered, drinking in your gasps like they were the finishing remains of crimson red wine. "I'm right here,"

[emaadsidiki]

Victor Emmanuel II Monument 🐴🏛️🚩

[tomicscomics]

08/16/2024

Our deacon shared this anecdote last week at Mass. It's a little different each time I hear it, but the moral is always the same.

___

JOKE-OGRAPHY:

1. This cartoon is based on a widespread but often mutated anecdote. There are lots of versions, so I'm not sure what the original story is (share it in the comments if you know), but the two versions I heard recently go thuswise:

(1) An atheist goes up to a Christian and says, "If I believed what you say you believe about Judgment Day and the fate of those who reject Christ, I would crawl across the world on broken glass, begging every single person to repent."

(2) A Catholic and a Protestant walk together, but as they pass a Catholic church, the Catholic bows and makes the Sign of the Cross, as a sign of respect for the Eucharist inside. His Protestant friend says, "If I believed what you say you believe about the Real Presence of Jesus in the Eucharist, I would crawl to that altar on my hands and knees."

(Breakdown) In every version of the story I've heard, there are two characters: a faithful person and an accuser of some kind. The faithful is usually doing some small gesture of their faith, which the accuser sees as insufficient for the level of belief the faithful claims to have. I want to clarify that no one expects for evangelists to walk on broken glass forever to preach to everyone in the entire world, or for Catholics to crawl up and worship at every tabernacle they pass on a drive. We're human, so we need to find ways to manifest worship or evangelism while also going about our normal healthy lives with each other. Sometimes those ways are imperfect and small, and that's okay, as long as we're really trying. The accuser's point is hyperbolic, but nonetheless poignant.

(Moral) No matter which version of the story you hear, I think the question it poses remains the same: "Is our faith more than just talk?" It's easy to say we believe in God, but what does that belief do? It's a monumental claim, isn't it? Maybe the MOST monumental claim you could make. It seems like it should have a monumental impact on EVERYTHING we do, but instead, life just kind of moves along. How can we dare to claim that we actually believe? What does believing even mean, if it doesn't manifest itself in more than our words? Big questions from such a small story.

2. Our deacon recited the Eucharist-version of this story last week at Mass, and it made me want to illustrate it. I'm sorry this cartoon isn't gut-bustingly hilarious. Here, let me make it up to you with a fun joke. Knock knock.

[therealcocoshady]

POV : You’re Marshall Mathers’s girlfriend and he worships you

Author’s Note : Hi guys ✨. I feel like it’s been a while since I last published something on here. Enjoy this little blurb I wrote. It’s kind of random but I think it’s kind of cute still 💕.

Marshall Mathers doesn’t really enjoy being treated like a king wherever he goes. He knows people give him special treatment out of respect, because he is a huge fucking superstar, but he doesn’t really care for it. He’s just a normal dude at heart, you know ? He likes it when things are kept simple. He’s not a huge fan of the deference, of people practically bowing and curtsying to him because he is Eminem. It’s weird.

But when it comes to you ? People better treat you like the absolute monarch that you are. This man will not accept anything less for the woman he loves. You are his sun. His days start and end with you. You are a deity he worships day and night and people better put some respect on his lady’s name.

He is not giving you the princess treatment. No. This would be good enough for any peasant. If he could, this man would build altars and monuments for you. You are his religion. Your birthday and the anniversary of your first date are holidays he refuse to work on. Doesn’t matter if he’s offered hundreds of thousands of dollars for a ten minutes performance, he simply refuses to be away from you on those days. And if you so much as utter an « I need you », this man will drop absolutely everything. He’s done it in the past and he absolutely has no regrets about flying for five hours on a day off from tour to be able to surprise you at work after you mentioned it was « so hard being away » from him. He is usually mindful about climate change but for you, this man will turn into Taylor « taking my jet for a ten minutes flight » Swift. He literally doesn’t care about the world burning as long as there is a smile on your face. Marshall is not a big spender but for you, he doesn’t care about numbers. His goddess deserves the very best and, thank God for that merch money, he is able to give it to you. He’s not a diva but he demands the very best for you. He couldn’t care less about the water brought to him in his dressing room before a performance. But he makes sure it’s your favorite brand. Same for snacks. If he has to fly someone to another country to get something for you, he absolutely will. In his mind, it’s the least he can do for the woman who blesses him with her presence. He is almost offended when someone fails to greet you properly and he absolutely is when someone straight up disrespects you. If he could, he would fight duels in your honor. Somehow, you managed to turn this stoic individual in the utmost gentleman. When he’s by your side, you will never be caught walking on the wrong side of the pavement, having to hold your own bags. He’d rather die than have that. But you’ll never be caught. Because he protects you like you’re the most precious treasure there is. He’s never caught in your presence, because he doesn’t want to have you plagued by the media and harassed by fans and, yet, he manages to show you off. In private, he doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he’s head over heels with you. Your name is on his lips constantly, and the way he talks about you shows just how devoted he is. At first, people close to him got a little worried. Who were you ? What were your intentions ? It seemed like you were out of nowhere. Walked into Marshall’s life one day and, from then on, he was addicted. They had every reason to be suspicious. And then, they met you. And they understood. They got to witness the genuineness of your interactions, how your eyes mirrored Marshall’s devotion, the way he leaned into your touch so naturally and just how you seemed to heal the parts of him that had been left raw. For the first time in forever, they saw him at peace. Not merely content. Happy. They expected to hate you, because what kind of high maintenance brat has the most stoic man they ever knew act like a puppy ? Only, they couldn’t. It wasn’t quite clear how things worked out between you and Marshall and, in hindsight, it was none of their business. But they couldn’t hate you when it was clear as day that « Em » as most call him, had finally found a safe space. So you won them over as well, and they gave you the princess treatment.

[eldritch-spouse]

Sometimes greedy gambits do work out.

Your typical greedy fiend may wax about their insatiable desire for the material, how satisfaction is the death of their nature and never shall they cease stretching their fingers towards the next shining trophy-

But they know limits.

They have that little bit of normalcy that tells them when it's time to drop something, even if it leaves a taste like curdled milk in their mouths.

Not Xiko.

Xiko grabbed onto something and he did not let go.

Not even when death came knocking at his door.

This celebrity of the Greed Ring was known for being the biggest, most successful human/monster trafficker of Hell itself. Xiko, a mere mid-ranker, yet clever and crafty enough to dethrone nearly everyone in his field of vile work.

Wanted humans and monsters worth owning? In mint condition? With some really rare traits? Leave it to him and his boys, you won't be disappointed.

With great skill and talent comes great danger, but Xiko didn't cower when he started to gain many an enemy, when he could no longer count them, when he spent most of his time hunting them down rather than hunting the poor souls he's supposed to sell. With each visit, he'd return home with a few trophies to remember his victory.

Things were going well.

His empire of fifth kept growing, enough so that it garnered the attention of the very Lord Rinx, a client Xiko both reveres and dreads, due to his extravagant tastes. Why, he ever earned himself a juicy deal with this strange, extremely popular establishment on the surface that constantly bulk-orders humans. The Clergy's Eye or something of the sort, he knows the Icons had been there before.

How impressive is that? Enough for prideful folk to eye him wantonly.

Xiko had the opportunity to grow in rank, to sit at Rinx's table and negotiate starting a little jewelry store in the heart of Greed to keep up appearances and branch out. What luxuries.

Unfortunately, all highs lead to lows.

His health starts deteriorating inexplicably. Xiko begins being unable to move properly without chronic bursts of pain debilitating him from doing much of anything other than lie and wait for the wave of torment to pass. He has no idea where it's coming from. The pain is so great he gets blinded and passes out in some episodes.

The best doctors he can find tell Xiko he developed something terminal. Not quite a cancer, similar, something only demonoids can exhibit.

But what did the name of it matter? His own monumental riches wouldn't save him from certain doom.

One might think Xiko would do some soul searching with the time he had left, as laughable as that sounds for a being as rotten as him.

Not even close.

You don't get this far without being stubborn.

Things can't end as they are. Xiko can't die, he has so much to do and so much to oversee, it's simply not an option. He can't.

In the midst of despair and hopeless solution-seeking, Xiko finds a possible answer to his impossible conundrum inscripted in his most favored trophy, a timeless chalice.

Between its jewels and lovely finishes, the instructions for a ritual sat written in one of the oldest tongues in Hell. Having a historian for a friend sure comes in handy, doesn't it?

Said acquaintance is there to witness it when Xiko grows mad enough to try it, at the hands of demons who perpetuate these ancient practices.

A mummification-like ritual.

Except, to avoid death, Xiko must remove the two organs which the soul is most connected to, the brain and heart.

He knew what he was getting into when he laid on that altar.

He knew that he would suffer physical trauma beyond anything he could ever have experienced in life. He knew he would come out of it looking like a completely different being. That he would no longer be a demon.

And he was ready.

He was ready when they started chanting.

He was ready when his jaw was stretched to absurd proportions.

He was ready when his chest was torn open.

When he danced in that barrier between life and death, looking down at himself while his figure withered and contorted.

Those memories are... Scratchy, to say the least.

Xiko recalls screaming at the top of his exposed lungs and feeling his skin rip from several sides all at once, as if rejecting him. He remembers when his skull was crushed and how he could hear it for a moment. He knows he twisted and shriveled like a bug on that marble.

And that he woke up.

Wrapped like a present.

Dead yet amongst the living.

To continue his work. To remain forever at the top.

So what if he was emaciated now? If he'd never get rid of the massive scar where his figure was torn open, if his eyes now reside inside his bizarre gaping maw and his arms are elongated? Xiko had made it.

And while death was unavoidable, it was not the end.

In fact, it was the beginning of something a lot more amusing for Xiko.

He found his new appearance frightened his competition. Rumors of him being an undead diety spread. No longer featuring a core name or even something as simple as a sigil, Xiko was freed of even more weaknesses.

He made no effort to hide what he had become the next time he was present at Greed's Conqueror's Spoils festival. His mangled, infernal undead form on the spotlight.

Some of them were smart enough to understand what he had turned into, knew to stop pursuing him. For when you take something from a mummy, it cannot rest until it retrieves its possession.

Others came to find that out eventually.

Perhaps the person Xiko feels most sorry for is, not one of his enemies, but you.

You poor thing, still trying to escape him, still trying to lockpick your cages and manipulate his men, trying to make it out at all costs.

You never think twice when you set foot outside his territory.

Unaware that he'll always instinctively know where to find his "stolen" possession.

[lipstickchainsaw]

Arcane season 2 has touched on religious themes considerably more than season 1 did. This has expressed itself primarily in Viktor's prophet narrative (no, he is not a god, he is being guided by one), but we also see it in a lot of Janna worship showing up in Zaun, especially among the most impoverished.

And her most prominent depiction is in the stage Jinx sets for her fight with Vi. This seems relevant, so let's dig into that for a moment.

The stage Jinx has set is deep underground, in the ruins of what seems to have once been a grand temple (with an altar, but we'll get to that), which Jinx has repurposed as a monument to the tragedies of her own life, but I don't think this is portrayed as a desecration of this temple. Rather, I think it's a set-up for where we're going.

Over the course of their fight, Vi and Jinx destroy the pillar showing their childhood, which could be read as the definitive destruction of their sisterhood, but, given how things end, I think it's more likely the destruction of the specific dynamic: Vi can no longer be the protector, and Jinx does not need to be protected.

The conclusion of that fight has Jinx held down on the altar, which seemed to be very much on purpose, because she wants to die, and her decision to do it like this is important. She wanted to go out in a grand, important way. Like a ritual sacrifice on the altar to a god, with a grand ceremony in the form of the paint bombs to mark the occasion.

But the world won't let Jinx die, forces her to live, in this case in the form of Isha bodily getting in the way of the people trying to kill her, which doesn't strip this religious ritual from its meaning, but it changes it from a sacrifice to... something else.

At the end of season 1, Vi and her sister had to make a choice between Jinx and Powder, but they got neither. This isn't the Jinx that they thought they were choosing, and it isn't the Powder that wants to die, either. So if this is not a death, perhaps it is a rebirth, but as what?

Anyway, all of that sells the significance of the religious imagery, but it doesn't explain why Janna, specifically.

Fittingly, Jinx introduces us to who Janna is as a deity, and equally fittingly, she presents this as a non-believer:

"Don't you remember the old Janna bedtime stories Vander used to tell us? Miners trapped underground. Air running thin! But then some wispy wind woman wafts to their rescue. Wild the kind of crap people get up to when you choke them out."

Janna is fresh air to those about to choke. Life to those about to die. It is a second wind when poison threatens to end you. Jinx, at this point, probably thinks of this as a hallucination by people who were just rescued and interpreted the source of the fresh air as something it wasn't (after all, she's well familiar with what a person's brain can come up with when put under significant strain).

But the Strike Team was threatening to choke the Undercity, with the Gray being an expression of Caitlyn's grief forced upon the citizens of Zaun, and Jinx' ritual sacrifice gets interrupted by Isha (and Sevika) rescuing her, all culminating in them blowing up a seal depicting Janna that was holding back a massive gust of fresh air that turned the poison against those using it.

So with this being a rebirth for Jinx, I think it points out in a certain direction.

For one thing, while she has been associated with smoke (see also: Powder), the way her tattoos show that smoke is very much a depiction of it being stirred by wind. For another, it involves her both rescuing and being rescued, becoming both Vi and Powder. She reflexively protects Isha, and finds in that a reason, perhaps, to live.

But this has only delayed matters, not solved the problem, with Caitlyn's grief now wielding the military might of Noxus (noxious) to choke the Zaun once more, and it once again needs its fresh air to survive.

So perhaps Jinx can find a renewed purpose. Can find meaning in a life where she protects and supports people. Can become Zaun's hero, instead of simply Piltover's villain.

And perhaps Janna finally has a herald to fight for the city under her banner.

[imnothulk]

The Odinson-Banner Ceremony.

(I wanted to begin by apologizing, I'm sorry it took me so long to write this. @thir-0dinson )

It was a beautiful day in Iceland, it wasn't too cold, thanks to the invisible dome Tony fabricated, The northern lights were bright and colourful. The gold decorations accentuated with purple flowers (thanks too Iyla) made it quite a sight to see.

Bruce was nervous, but excited. His best men, Pietro, Peter and of course Tony, stood behind him. Thor's best woman Valkyrie and groomspeople Fenrir and Darcy stood on the other side of the altar. Everyone was still waiting on (the other) groom to appear.

The crowd was big, they really went all out on the invitations. He could see his kids in the first few rows. He could see his friends and family, everyone gathered for the special occasion.

Suddenly the crowd quietened, the piano started playing the wonderful wedding melody. Bruce turned to see his beautiful fiance at the end of the isle, his sister Hela by his side and walking him down the isle as they approach him.

When Thor stood before him, Loki began to speak.

"We are gathered here today to witness the sacred union of Bruce and my brother Thor. We stand here to honor and celebrate the love shared between these two people, as they come together to start their new life with a solemn vow, surrounded by their closest family and friends."

Pietro stepped forward and handed each groom their respective ring.

"Now as we begin, please face each other and declare your vows, Brother you may go first"

Thor smiled and began to speak

"Bruce.

I am- very old, i have seen galaxies rise and fall and thousands of empires play their course. I have seen the most beautiful of collapsing stars and gods and temples and buildings that would blow a mortals mind. I have seen the beauty of the edges of space.

And yet, none of that compares to what i see when i look into your eyes. They are like a thousand stars, as large and comforting as my fathers castle and yet as small amd comfortable as being in your arms.

I thought the day you said yes to marrying me would be the happiest day of my life. I was wrong. It dosent even hold a candle to this day, this day that we will be joined together forever. I may outlive you, but i will ensure your memory outlives time. I will ensure i leave a monument to our love for future species to find and think "Oh. Those men were in love. Those men loved each other with a love that survived the ruins of galaxies.

I wish nothing more than for you to be my eternity."

Bruce was crying by the end of it, Loki wiped a tear from his cheek and cleared his throat "Wow okay, Bruce you may declare your vow"

He took a deep breath before speaking.

"Thor,

When I was young I always dreamed of one day finding someone and falling in love, it was one of my greatest dreams. Then the gamma thing happened, and I thought that dream was no more.

That was until you came into my life once more, not only as a friend and work collegue but as more.

You changed my life and showed me how to love again and for that I owe you everything, you make me happy like no one has before, I'm smitten for you.

I spend hours everyday researching and learning and studying different areas of science, lately it's mostly astrology. I've seen countless pictures of stars and suns and countless wonders, but none of it compares to the beauty I see when I gaze at you.

I am the luckiest man alive, and I will continue to be as long as I have you."

Thor smiled brightly and wiped the tears from his eyes. Loki gave the pair a second before continuing.

"Beautiful vows, wonderful. Now, Brother you shall take your ring and place it on his finger as you repeat after me, 'I Thor Odinson, take thee Bruce to be my husband' ".

Thor places the gold ring on Bruce's finger uttering the words "I Thor Odinson, take thee Bruce to be my husband".

"Now you Bruce, take your ring and place it in his finger and repeat the words "I Robert Bruce Banner, take thee Thor to be my husband".

Bruce holds Thor's hand and places the ring on his finger "I Robert Bruce Banner, take thee Thor to be my husband".

Loki smiles at both of them "Now by the powers vested in me by myself, I now declare you both husband and husband, you may kiss the groom"

Bruce moves forward, kissing Thor sweetly. The room erupts in cheers for the newly married couple.

It was truly a day to be remembered.

//Everyone @theironcan @official-pietro-maximoff @reallyreallyspiderman @iyla-difransisco @bisexualswordlady @fenrir-lokison @yeahimdarcy @agent-maria-hill @agent-maria-hill-ofshield-blog @blackwidow-nat-official2 @buckybarnesoffical @clintbarton-thearrowguy @capt-carter-mostly-official @capn-america @deadpool-wade-wilson @daredevil-isnt-catholic-or-blind @friday-the-ai @harleykeener69 @hawkeye-jr @i-am-not-a-toaster @iyla-difransisco @king-ofwakanda @kamala-msmarvel-khan @littlemsbumblebee @midtown-news-official @mysister-isstillaposer @midtown-news-official @natasha-rogersbarnes @nothawkeyeofficial @okoye-general-official @official-buckybarnes @officialscottlang @reallyreallyspiderman @stephenstrange-md-phd @starlordofficial @spidey-official @that-punk-from-brooklyn @therealbuckybarnes @unofficial-non-poser @vpotts-official @virginia-pepper-potts01 @moongirlwidow @midtown-news-official @definitelynot-peterp4rker @mini-green-goblin @goddessof-death @loki-laufeychild

[levans44]

leave me with nothing when I come down

pairing: steve rogers x fatal touch!reader

summary: The Almighty Captain America, laid to waste by your bare hands and pussy.

Now wouldn’t that make for a nice headline.

warnings: 18+ SMUT, just pure filth, some angst, FWB, hate fucking, heavy choking, breath play, sub steve rogers, subtle fdom, reader has fatal touch meaning she can't make bare skin contact with anyone without killing them

word count: 1.8k

a/n: I... don't even have words for this one, really. just that steve rogers with a choking kink and submissive streak would heal me.

"Second time this week.”

“Shut up. Take that shit off.”

A 2 a.m. text is all it takes. 

He’s at your door, helmet in hand, hair wild from the ride—straight off the tarmac, still carrying the scent of Marrakesh on his skin.

There's no small talk, no kissing, no preamble.  

It’s not like he needs it anyway, the strain of him evident against the kevlar—a monument raised in devotion. 

Because out there, beyond the sanctum of your studio apartment, he’s a god of war—sharp lines, discipline incarnate. Issuing orders like edicts and delivering punishing blows in the name of combat training. 

But in here? He’s just a man. 

Yours.

His uniform sloughs off like old skin—discarded offerings marking a trail to the altar of your living room. The shield leans haphazardly against the doorframe, forgotten.

There’s a dumb, boyish grin on his face when you corner him against your threadbare couch, climbing over him and settling roughly in his lap. And when your bare thighs slide up next to his own, caging him beneath your heat, his lashes flutter involuntarily—because the first touch is always an adjustment, no matter how many times he’s been here. 

Like a live wire pressed to his skin, ripping through his veins and setting every nerve ablaze. 

All the white-hot brilliance of a collapsing star; tiny supernovas erupting under his skin, leaving behind a constellation of heat marking your divine path. 

You narrow your eyes at him, nostrils flaring, yet your dainty fingers still tremble when they rise up to his chest.

The locus of your power—where your touch is most potent—laid flat over the flushed skin covering his heart. The thrum of his pulse flutters against your palm, reassuring.

Still beating.

The first time you'd touched him, you’d been so cautious—fingertips barely grazing his skin, sending sparks across the top of his knuckles. Yanked your hand back just as quickly, wide-eyed and breathless as if you expected him to crumble to the ground in front of you.  

Instead, he’d caught your quivering hand in his, grip warm and unyielding.

It’s alright. 

Guided it under his shirt, pressing your palm flat against his chest, just left of where the five-point insignia's etched into his skin. He'd kept your hand there for a long while, letting you feel the warmth of human flesh, the steady rise and fall of a moving ribcage besides your own—maybe for the first time.

Met your gaze as if to say:

See? Still beating.

Disbelief and trepidation in your eyes when you stared back, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But when it didn’t—when he didn’t—you’d gone straight for his lips instead.  

“Where’d you go, Rogers?”

Your distant warning calls him back, punctuated by a soft tsk as your hips tease slow circles over his lap. One hand braced on his shoulder for leverage, his stomach glistening with your arousal. 

There’s something chiding in the furrow of your brows, the purse of your lips—like you’re disappointed that he’s managed to remain in one piece. Like setting him alight was the only absolution.

He blinks, still drowning in the feeling of your skin against his, the overwhelming burn reduced to a steady buzzing as his eyes focus back on you. 

But it’s too late—you’ve found other ways to keep his mind tethered.

Your arm slides behind your back, finding the head of his cock, swollen red and throbbing in time with his heartbeat. As soon as your fingers graze the tip, his breath hitches, abs clenching like he’d taken a blow to the gut. His hands shoot up to grip your hips, palms searing at the contact. 

An appeased grin touches your lips as you stroke him once, twice, then sink down in a single, fluid motion, the heat of your body enveloping him whole. 

“Oh, fffu—“ 

His mouth falls open, a half-formed hymn forming on his tongue, the rest swallowed by the ruthless pace you set.

Both hands anchored to his chest as you lift back up, until just the head of his cock is enveloped by the tight, wet ring of your entrance. You swivel your hips in a slow, teasing circle, testing his restraint before sinking all the way back down. Then you'd start over from the top, the weight of your thrusts heavy and relentless—eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back as if you’re basking in the first downpour after a lifelong drought. 

He tracks your every movement, eyes lazy and half-lidded, head lolled against the back of the couch. The thick column of his neck bares itself to you, his jugular pulsing a steady offering.

And being the merciful god you are, you take it.

Four dainty fingers curl around his throat, your thumb pressing just enough to feel his breath catch, his pulse thundering under your grip. Searing heat shoots up his neck, sharp static rippling across the flesh.

And as his vision grows hazy around the edges, you begin to glow at its center. Your silhouette illuminated by a blinding radiance as you bask in his pain—the ache, the burn, all laid bare for you.

“That’s it, show me.”

His voice breaks out gravelly and thick, nearly unrecognizable with you pressing down on his vocal cords. His hands grow restless, quick to worship the curve of your hips, your stomach, before sliding up under your shirt. Calloused fingertips find your nipples, pebbled and straining against the flimsy cotton, and pinch hard enough to elicit a choked gasp. He smiles as you glare and press harder against his neck, betrayed by the way you clench around him when he repeats the gesture. 

The only man who can withstand your touch without succumbing to its power. His super-soldier healing ability absorbing your raw, unbridled energy, strong enough to send anyone else into a permanent coma with just a moment’s touch. 

And there’s a thought in there somewhere, deep in the corner of his sex-fuddled, oxygen-deprived brain, about something Sam once told him. How some people grow so accustomed to pain that they seek it out—caught in a relentless cycle of self-destruction and sabotage, never having known a life without it. 

Sound familiar, Steve?

And maybe the fact that this was what he was thinking about, in the midst of being fucked into oblivion, was a good example as any to prove Sam’s point. But he shoves that thought aside too, tossing it onto the ever-growing pile, stacked miles high. 

Like all the others, it’ll have to wait. When you’re not grinding your hips and arching into his touch, so warm and tight and perfectly fitted around him.

So he pushes you harder, meeting your thrusts and pinching your nipples sore until you’re struggling to keep your eyes open. Draws you to the edge, just like he knows how, that line where control and reason blur into nothing but raw sensation. 

His Adam’s apple bobs under your palm when he swallows thickly, smiling: 

“You’re gonna cum, aren't you?”

You let out a sharp breath, eyes squeezed shut, whispering as if you’re pleading for forgiveness. 

“Shut up. Shut up.” Your prayers grow louder still.

“God, just fucking—”

He meets your glare with a steady gaze, the subtext in his eyes clear as day:

Do it. Try me.

You slow the relentless rotation of your hips, brows furrowing as you lift your other hand. It hovers for a moment, uncertain, before draping over the one already pressed to his neck. 

The added pressure’s enough to actually render him starved for air, back arching as his breathing grows shallow. Pressure builds up in his ears, the blood rushing to his head and muffling the world around him, leaving him with only the thrum of his own pulse and the filthy slaps coming from between his legs, wet and frenzied as you pick up your pace.  

Your brows are knitted together, a bead of sweat rolling down the curve of your temple. Knees rubbed raw against the scratchy upholstery as you roll your hips over and over, hands still fixed over his throat. With no room to swallow, spit starts to pool in his mouth, the same time your rhythm falters, a familiar pattern of spasms signaling your end. 

He’s right there with you, teetering on the brink—whatever breaths he can muster getting shorter, faster. It leaves him lightheaded and reeling, the serum working overtime to absorb the onslaught of your energy. 

And if the thought of his healing ability stretching out so thin, enough that you could actually choke him to death, only makes his dick swell inside you, then… fuck it. He likes the noises you make anyway, eyes rolling back every time it finds that tender spot deep within you. 

The Almighty Captain America, laid to waste by your bare hands and pussy.

Now wouldn’t that make for a nice headline.

He drops one hand to find your clit with deft precision, desperate to see you tip over the edge before his lungs give out. Rubs tight, small circles, just above where his dick’s plunging into your heat, until you're twitching violently against him, collapsing forward with a sharp, fractured cry. 

Your hands release around his throat, flying up to grip his hair instead, and the sudden rush of oxygen precipitates his own release as he bucks up into you, a strangled groan ripped from his abused throat.

He finds solace in the crook of your neck, the cradle of something divine, as light bursts behind his eyes. He comes in thick, pulsing ropes, his body collapsing under the weight of the sensation, trembling as he’s made undone by your touch. 

He blinks away black dots from his vision in the comedown, ears still ringing as you shuffle off his lap. You raise a soft tissue in his direction, smiling at his defeated form—legs spread and chest heaving—and grant him a few more breaths before he lifts himself off the couch.

“Same time next week?”

"Fuck off, Rogers.”

With a tired huff, you snatch up his uniform off your floor, shoving it against his chest. He smiles, letting his hand brush against yours, savoring that electric surge one last time. 

His shield feels feather-light when he slings it across his back, giving you one last look before you slam the door in his face. He doesn’t miss the blush that bloomed across your cheeks, just seconds before you averted your eyes, mirroring the one on his own face. 

Because the truth is, he needs this just as much as you do. Maybe more.

Someone to break the parts of him that never healed quite right, snapping them clean so he can piece them back together. 

As he stares at the faded mahogany of your apartment door, that familiar high begins to settle in—a fleeting but vivid taste of what it felt like before the serum, when cuts stayed open and bruises remained tender for weeks. 

And as the long-lost weight of exhaustion starts to seep into his bones, making his eyelids grow heavy, he rejoices. 

He’s treading on nothing but air when he bounds down the stairs of your building, giddy with anticipation for a night of deep, unbroken sleep. 

He’ll dream of you until the next time he’s back.

[mysterycitrus]

so the body is a haunted house, right? ur haunted by past pain, ur experiences and regrets, the people you’ve known and lost. ur a living structure inhabited by countless others, and that kind of grief never stops. on a biological scale, we know that trauma rewrites dna and brain matter. we see how monumental loss affects the human mind through generations, how it shapes the way we think. u can track that down family lines to the present. even unseen, u r carrying the ghosts of everyone who came before.

the central thesis of persephone is how grief can be the proponent of so much change, both good and bad. part of that is bruce’s visible, living state of mourning in the manor, in the mantle of batman, in the pearls and the portrait. he is literally haunted by the alley, by the gunshot, by the darkness. but robin is haunted by mary grayson, by dick as a child and as a teenager and an adult, by jason in the dirt, by tim and steph and damian, and on and on it goes. how do u conceptualise that kind of loss?

both jason and dick’s grief is faceless. dick’s parents are remembered in colour and name, through dick’s embodiment of joy. they are transient. they are worn by children who do not know their names. they are honoured in that way, something that jason, despite not knowing robin’s origin, is conscious of —

in persephone, i knew jason would have an altar of some kind. his grief is action, but it’s also his heavy anchor to gotham. he could leave, but he doesn’t. he despises bruce for the same reason they’re similar. originally, it was a memorial to the people at his funeral, but that changed to commemorating the life he had before his death, and the people he left behind. he lies to himself and says the elephant represents robin as a whole, but it doesn’t. it obviously doesn’t.

it is a literal symbol of jason’s inability to fully abandon his life before. the body is being haunted, after all. we get to see his perspective in wolf-king, his anger at his disconnection, his isolation from others, his paranoid, neurotic interactions with dick. he has changed so completely that he cannot trust anyones intentions. he’s hurt people, and he doesn’t regret it. he thinks people see him as something he was, versus something he is. it’s dehumanising and hard. like he is memorialising something lost at the altar, so to is everyone else when they look at him. his presence in their lives is a haunting.

when a seventeen year old dick grayson sees the elephant there, he assumes he’s died and that jason is honouring him. how can jason explain that it’s to represent a past that jason himself can’t return to? after all, the only way out is through.

and then, at the end, he is given a gift — dick leaves behind a bird on the altar. not a robin, but something meant for jason the person, not the body in the box. he is remembered for what he was. and that connection to what he was is horrifying. the idea that someone recognises that grief and honours him hurts. after all, a heart is a heavy burden.