#and holds her in reverence and is actually a devoted follower to her

[moeblob]

Tiny one is a deity of lightning and she just wants to run around with the mortals and have fun but having a physical body takes a toll on her. So she has these two devoted followers she can communicate with and they can let her have control of their body which is easier on her (not them).

White haired woman is very strong while black haired man is skilled in magic. So if the deity is feeling really pent up she uses his body to discharge.

[sinnabarmoth]

Worthy of Devotion (6/9)

Pairing: Sea God|Rafayel x Worshipper|Reader (fem)

Summary: Rafayel and Reader talk about why it was him that she had chosen to worship and what exactly happened to put her in his path.

Content Warnings: Adult language. Mentions of past child abuse. Attempted murder of a child.

Length: 2700

Chapters: (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (7) (8) (9)

Read on AO3

This wasn’t how you were supposed to feel. You knew that. There was a difference between loving your god and being in love with your god. You had heard many tales of other followers of other deities that had fallen in love with their god. It never worked out well. Most of them ended up dying in the end, and you knew none that actually ended up with the god they so adored.

You knew the responsible thing would have been to pull away, to put those walls up that divided you and Rafayel into your respective positions. He the god. You the follower. You reminded yourself that once the temple was repaired you would be constructing a boat to take you home. It was only a matter of time till you left this island and returned to the mainland to become a priestess. That was the goal. It was the whole reason you had spent countless hours penning the history Rafayel told you. You were going to be his priestess, maybe a high priestess. And that was all you were going to be. All you would allow yourself to want.

And you tried to be that. You tried to put up those walls. You tried to be proper and revere him just as your god and nothing more. But you couldn’t.

Every day when he came by you forgot about the future. You laughed and joked and talked as if you were old friends. At night before he would leave to return to Lemuria you would lay in bed together. He’d rest his head on your lap while you ran your hands through his soft hair. You’d say your prayer to him and fall asleep.

Some evenings he even stayed. You’d wake up with him next to you, holding you. You would feign still being asleep in those instances. Your whole body melting into his touch when you felt him stir. Because he probably thought you were still asleep he’d kiss you. Your forehead, your cheek, or if he was behind you he’d press one to the back of your neck.

The simple intimacy of it all made you want to weep.

You never spoke about any of it. How could you? If you said anything it would mean you’d have to confront everything you knew couldn’t happen. It would mean breaking your own heart.

So you slowed your work, just to have that extra day with Rafayel before having to return to the mainland. Days would go by when you didn’t do any work at all. You’d claim you were tired or needed to draw up a plan on how to repair something. Each excuse more flimsy than the last. You knew your time was running out.

Finally all there was left to fix was the roof. There was no way for you to restore it to what it was before but you could board it up to keep the elements from coming in. But that would take some time and an actual plan. You needed to figure out how to get to the roof and more importantly how to get supplies to the roof.

For a brief moment a hope swelled in your chest at the idea that it may very well be impossible. Which meant that you’d have to stay here forever. You couldn’t leave it destroyed like that. It would practically be sacrilege to return to the mainland with that giant hole in the roof. And you were not going to leave the temple in such a state.

Then your stupid conscience kicked in and reminded you that you could in fact not just leave it to further your own selfish agenda. Whether you liked it or not, you had to fix it. The temple didn’t do anything wrong. It deserved the respect and care you had been putting in for months. But you did indeed still need a plan so until you figured something out you could remain as long as you were needed.

Amidst all this work and excuses and personal crisis there was Rafayel. One evening he had informed you that a meteor shower was happening that night and sat with you on the beach to watch the stars streak across the clear night sky.

When you were child you had heard stories about how if you wished on a falling star your wish was sure to come true. As you grew you weren’t sure how much you believed in those tales. But considering that one of your childhood wishes was to meet the Sea God, you were starting to think it wasn’t all sparkle with no substance. Maybe there was some magic in it.

What would you wish for now if you knew it would come true? Your gaze flicked to Rafayel.

He caught you staring and you whipped your head back to look at the sky.

“I have a question for you that I don’t think I’ve asked before.” Rafayel said. “You said that you had traveled to this temple for your pilgrimage. That if all had gone as intended you would have come here, done your work, retrieved a pearl and left to become a priestess. Is that correct?”

“Yes. That was the plan. Still is the plan, although renovations are still slow going and I also still have no way to return to the mainland. It was always my intended goal and with your blessing and everything that we’ve recorded in the book I may even be raised to high priestess when I return.”

“What would you do if you were made high priestess?”

“Well, I’d set the records straight first. Make sure everyone knew the real history of the Sea Gods and what you desire from your followers. Next I would see followers return to this temple as they were supposed to. I could bring in so many others that would not only restore this place to its former glory but make it even better. With the influence as a high priestess I could do it.”

 He brushed a bit of sand off your face. “You really do worship me, don’t you?”

“Is it not obvious?”

“Sometimes it’s hard to remember that you’re one of my devoted followers when you’re not tossing pebbles at me or demolishing me at Jumping Shrimp. But you are a very good follower, best I’ve ever seen anyway. I’d be lucky to have you as a high priestess.”

Your heart swelled with the affection given. “Thank you.”

“My question then is, before you met me why did you want to become a priestess? Out of all the gods, why me?”

“Oh…” you hugged your arms to your sides. “It…it isn’t a very happy story I’m afraid.”

His eyebrows knit in concern. “What do you mean?”

“There are many superstitions regarding the sea, especially where I grew up. I didn’t take much heed of any of them when I was a kid. And I remember there was this one cave that could only be entered at low tide. Everyone on the island said it was cursed, haunted by the lives of those who disrespected the sea. Everyone who went into that cave never came out alive. Their bodies would be dragged back out with the pull of the tide mangled and bloody.

“I don’t remember what possessed me to go to the cave. Maybe I was trying to be brave. Maybe I was chasing a colorful fish I saw in the shallows. But I went in. It was dark and the waves were up to my waist. I got caught in some kind of riptide and it pushed me deeper and deeper into the cave. I got scared and started praying that I would make it out of there alive. Then that pull stopped and I was on land at the back of the cave. There was this bioluminescent algae that was growing along the walls, it cast everything in serene light. I stayed there until the tide went back down.

“When I left the cave someone saw me. Saw how I was covered in this glowing algae and not dead. People didn’t know how to react to my being alive despite entering the cave. My parents…” you took in a shaky breath, “My parents thought it was a bad omen. That I was cursed, that I would only bring misfortune. So they threw me into the sea. But I survived again. The priests saw my miraculous defiance of death not once but twice and saw it as a blessing. They said I had been marked with the favor of the Sea God. So they took me into the city temple.

“From that point on you were my reason for living. If not for the priests thinking me blessed I may have ended up abandoned on the streets or dead. My becoming a priestess was what they expected of me and what I strove for.”

You turned to Rafayel. There were tears in his eyes. “They threw you into the sea?” he said.

“Yes. They had sewn rocks into my pockets so I would sink and drown. I remember sinking further and further beneath the waves, unable to kick back to the surface with the added weight. The sunlight started to disappear and I couldn’t breathe. I sucked in a lungful of water, the world went dark but then I woke up on the shore. I don’t know how it happened but--”

“The pockets of your dress were ripped.” Rafayel said.

“Yes…how did you know that?” You were positive you had never told him this story before.

“So much trouble, even as a child.” he said, a disbelieving smile growing on his face.

“Raf?”

“Many years ago when I was still nothing more than a pup, I had been wandering by the land. I wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near land. Especially not the continent. But I was young and curious and I had been able to ditch my tutors. I was swimming near a cliffside when I saw a girl drop into the water. She had stone stitched into her pockets.” he touched your face, cupping your cheek. “I cut the pockets open with my dagger and swam her back to shore.”

“You saved me?”

“Seems so.”

“You do that a lot.”

“I’m supposed to. God of the Seas and all. I protect my followers.”

“Me especially?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe the priests were right. Maybe I really do have your favor.”

“You have much more than just my favor, cor meum.”

There was that word again. He had said it numerous times but you didn’t know what it meant. Any time you tried to ask he brushed it off. Said it was just a Lemurian phrase.

He was close again, his forehead pressed to yours. “We’re missing the meteor shower.” you whispered, a last ditch effort to pull you back to something resembling propriety.

“I’ve already made my wishes.” he said, his nose bumping against yours.

“What did you wish for?”

“If I tell you, it may not come true.”

“Raf…”

“Cor meum…”

Your eyes began to drift closed. I wish…I wish…

Then were was air. Rafayel was no longer pressed against you and you tipped forward, trying to chase his presence. He stood up, hands on his hips, his back to you. Shit! You messed up. You had to have. He saw, he knew. Did you pray? You were wishing, that didn’t mean you were praying. You wanted him to come back.

“Rafayel?” you felt ridiculous with how pitiful you sounded. You wanted him back. You needed to get him back before he realized. You could fix this. You just needed to--to--you didn’t know! You just wanted him to face you.

Several long seconds that stretched like lifetimes passed. The space between you might as well have been a desert, vast and dry. Not a sign of water or hope of oasis anywhere.

He finally turned and held a hand out for you. You took it and he pulled you to your feet. “I want to show you something.” he started tugging you down the beach towards the water.

You followed, your head in a daze as you tried to figure out what was going on. What was he doing?

You began to wade into the water, his hand still tightly interlaced with yours. You were up to your chest in the waves. Rafayel turned you to him and pulled your arms around his neck. The water around the pair of you began to glow. You stared down at the light wandering what was going on.

When the light cleared away you saw the shadow of a tail where his legs had been. You looked back up and the scales on his face and his torso were back. Those webbed fins over his ears and that blue flaming glow in his eyes too. His Lemurian form was much like his god form but severely smaller.

“What are you doing?”

“I said I wanted to show you something.” he grabbed your legs and hooked them around his hips. “Now hold on tight and don’t worry about breathing. You’re with me, I won’t let you drown.”

With that he dove into the water with you clinging onto him for dear life. He was right about you not needing to breathe. Water passed in and out of your lungs as if you had gills. Outside of the pinpricks of light coming off of Rafayel there was no other light where you were going. It was nothing but surrounding darkness the deeper and deeper you went.

You panicked for a moment as memories of drowning replayed in your mind. You nails dug into his back and he held you tighter. “It’s alright, I’ve got you. We’re almost there.”

Finally he stopped. It was so dark you couldn’t see anything. “Raf?” you tested out the word. It was strange to talk while water was flowing in and out your mouth. “What are we doing down here? I don’t like it.”

“Wait for it.” he rubbed your back. “Just give it a moment.”

You waited, you weren’t sure what for. Then a jet of bright orange light erupted next to you. You shrieked, clinging onto Rafayel tighter. “What--”

Another jet of light erupted, this time on your other side. It was a bright green. All around you more and more eruptions occurred in various colors. Jets of hot light and millions of bubbles lighting the dark sea in a rainbow of colors. The cold was banished as each column of heat and light cut through the darkness.

Geysers. Underwater geysers. You had heard about them but you had never seen one before.

“Wow…” a geyser of bright pink erupted next. “What is this place?”

“I call it the Kaleidoscope but the elders call it the Burning Rainbow. There are certain minerals in the geysers that cause them to light in all these different colors. This happens about once every month, I had been thinking about showing you for a while now. I thought you may like it.”

“I love it.” another column of light, this time purple, lit your faces. You turned to Rafayel, your smile wide. “And I like Kaleidoscope better than Burning Rainbow too. It sounds prettier.”

“That’s what I keep saying.” he held you a bit tighter. “I know that the temple is close to being fully repaired. So I don’t know how long we have left so I wanted to take you now…in case you aren’t around for next month.”

You were glad you were underwater so he couldn’t tell you were crying. “Rafayel,” you fought back the sob in your throat. “I want you to know in case I don’t have the strength to say it later. But these past couple of months, this time getting to know you, it has been the best time of my life. I will treasure every second I was here for the rest of my life.”

“So will I.” The geysers began to sputter and die, their eruptions dormant until next month and you were cast back into darkness. All you could make out again was the light in Rafayel’s eyes. “I will never forget you. Not a single moment. I promise, cor meum.”

“Are you ever going to tell me what that means?”

“Another day, perhaps.” he hugged you tightly, “Let’s go home now.”

[lonerphilosopher22]

The Unshaken: Who Breaks Who?

Mira and Selene didn’t come here to watch this. They came here for answers.

Selene’s best friend, a woman she had known for years, had… changed. It wasn’t sudden, but it was undeniable. She spoke differently, carried herself differently. The sharp, ambitious woman she had once known was now soft, quiet, almost reverent.

Selene had tried to understand. Tried to ask. But the answers never satisfied her. “I’m finally at peace,” her friend had said. “I’ve found my purpose.” But Selene did not believe in purpose. She believed in control. And this—this surrender—was something she could not comprehend.

So she came here—to the source. To see for herself.

And Mira? Mira came because she found the whole thing ridiculous. She wasn’t here for answers. She was here to prove them wrong.

And now, here they sat, across from the Master himself, across from the kneeling woman at his feet -Elira - The one who had gone the deepest.

Mira: “So this is your life?”

Elira kneels beside her Master, still, poised, waiting.

Elira: “Yes.”

Selene: “No choices? No decisions?”

Elira: “No burdens. No uncertainty.”

Mira: “You act like it’s some kind of relief.”

Elira: “It is.”

Mira: “You don’t think for yourself?”

Elira: “I think of him.”

Mira: “So what does that make you, then? A pet?”

Elira does not frown. She does not flinch. She smiles.

Elira: “If he wishes it.”

Mira: “You sound proud of that.”

Elira: “I am.”

Selene: “Even if he told you to act like a dog?”

Elira turns to her Master. A silent question. His hand lifts—just a slight motion.

She lowers onto her hands and knees, back arched, her movements elegant, controlled. And then—

She barks.

Soft. Refined. Without hesitation

Mira’s fingers twitch. Selene’s breath tightens.

Because there is no shame in her act. Only grace. Only devotion. Only surrender so deep it is almost frightening.

The Master strokes her head, slow, deliberate.

Master: "Good girl."

Elira tilts her head into his touch, breathing steady, utterly at peace.

And Mira suddenly feels sick, because she expected to laugh—but she cannot.

Selene: "Would you take pain for him?"

Elira: "With gratitude."

Mira: "Prove it."

Elira turns to her Master again, eyes lifting. He waits for a moment, considering, then gestures with two fingers.

She crawls to Mira. Effortless. Graceful. Every movement speaks of training, of devotion, of absolute discipline.

She stops at Mira’s feet. Kneeling. Waiting.

Master: "Slap her."

Mira stills. Something in her gut twists.But she lifts a hand, and when it connects with Elira’s cheek, the sharp sound cuts through the silence.

Elira does not flinch. She does not blink. She does not break. Instead—she lifts Mira’s hand, brings it to her lips, and presses a soft, reverent kiss to her palm.

Elira: "Thank you."

Mira pulls her hand back as if burned. Her heartbeat is too fast, her breath uneven.

Elira turns, crawls back to her Master, poised, untouched, serene.

And then—his hand lifts her chin.

Selene and Mira see her fully now. See the purity of it. The truth of it.

Mira: “You—You actually wanted that?”

Elira: "I wanted to please him."

Selene: “Even pain?”

Elira: “Especially pain.”

Elira speaks again. And this time, her words are softer, deeper, cutting into something neither of them knew they had.

Elira:

Do you want to resist the air when you breathe it?

Do you fight the pull of sleep when you are tired?

Do you argue with gravity every time your feet touch the ground?

Do you think a dancer feels lost because she follows the music?

Do you think the stars regret shining for the night that holds them?

I was never lost. I was only waiting for the right hands to guide me home.

You think submission is about being conquered. It isn’t. It is about returning home.

Silence.

Mira’s throat is dry. Selene’s heart pounds. And they both realize—

They did not break her.

She has broken them.

Broken them without force. Without anger. Without resistance.

Broken them with silence, where they expected screams.

With acceptance, where they demanded shame.

With tranquility, where they tried to create chaos.

With worship, where they only saw degradation.

With gratitude, where pain should have left wounds.

She has broken them, because they do not understand her. And yet, they cannot look away.

She has broken them, because they thought submission was weakness. But what they see before them is strength deeper than their own.

She has broken them, because they do not know what to do with this truth. They do not know what to do with her.

Because Elira is not fighting. She has already surrendered.

And somehow—somehow—she has won.

[bestworstcase]

in light of the v9 lore confirming the unreliable nature of jinn’s narration (light was not the “elder” brother), together with the glaring falsehood in the narration implying that salem lied when she truthfully “blamed the end of the world on the gods”

i’m not hedging anymore. we cannot trust jinn’s account of what salem told people during her rebellion, full stop.

“If she were to turn humanity against Light and Darkness, she could rid herself of their curse—or at the very least, she could make them suffer. Salem traveled from one kingdom to another, telling tales of how she stole immortality from the gods, inviting any swordsman to cut her down, and demonstrated her powers. With the kings and queens in awe, she pulled them deeper into her scheme; she painted them pictures of a time when they would no longer have to watch their loved ones wither and die, when they could claim the powers of their creators for themselves, and in turn, perfect their own design. All they needed to do was destroy their old masters.”

jinn describes this campaign as if salem deceived everyone, maliciously tricked them into serving as pawns in her hatred of the gods—but

when she’s beaten, salem stands up and vows to “tell the world of this massacre”—she’s enraged and horrified on behalf of the slain. she’s horrified when the god of darkness tells her he killed everyone. her reactions do not support the implication that these people meant nothing to her.

there is a strong ideological continuity between “overthrow our old masters, claim the powers of our creators for ourselves, and perfect our own design” and “we could be the gods of this world […] create the paradise the old gods could not.” this continuity suggests that salem actually believes in this cause, enough to hold onto it for millions of years.

so, did salem really claim to have ‘stolen’ immortality from the gods… or did she tell her allies that she became immortal through submersion in the fountain of life? that the gods can bring people back from the dead, and simply choose not to because they care only about enforcing their will? did she “pull them deeper into her scheme” or did she talk openly of what she had learned about the cruelty and fallibility of the gods? did she deceptively trick people into following her with fantasies of immortality or did she just pull back the curtain to reveal that the permanent ending of death only existed by arbitrary divine fiat that self-evidently can be changed?

just as jinn’s narration framed salem implicitly vowing to revere darkness above light if he helped her as salem deceiving and manipulating him by “making no mention of his elder” (<- why would she? this bargain was between her and darkness), this account of what salem did to foment rebellion against the gods aligns closely enough with the truth (salem did gain divine power, eternal death is an arbitrary rule, and the gods are fallible) that what it really comes down to is whether we trust jinn’s description of salem’s intentions.

did salem lie, or did she tell the truth in defiance of how the god of light thinks the world should be? did she deceive people, or did she reveal the brothers’ deceptions?

the god of light—and therefore ozpin and therefore jinn—see salem as a puppet-master making the whole world dance to her tune. “who has led you down this path?” he asks. she’s his scapegoat. but salem knelt before thrones and invited people to slit her throat to prove that she was telling the truth, and she isn’t the one who leads the army into light’s domain; she walks among them, not in front. in a story told with such robust symbolic language, that kind of storytelling choice matters.

she may have started the rebellion, but it became bigger than her; i don’t think salem even saw herself as their leader, necessarily. otherwise why not lead the way?

jinn’s narration—ozpin’s side of the story—devotes so much effort toward creating the impression that salem is a duplicitous, manipulative liar (like ozma), and then… salem hates being lied to. salem yells and throws tables when people lie to her. the cruelest thing salem can think of to say to oscar when she decides to hurt him is “the lies come out of you so easily; likeminded souls, indeed.” the opening lines of the show amount to salem saying that ozpin’s legends and fairytales aren’t true, that he’s obscured the “forgotten past.” both of her songs rage against ozma’s deceit—maidens and kingdoms wrapped up in a lie, and these children you mislead, and the more you try the more you’ll just breed hate and lies/truth will rise revealed by mirrored eyes. salem as a character is consistently associated with the truth and her hatred of deception is one of her most pronounced traits.

the lost fable is unreliably narrated—we now know this for a fact, because jinn describes the god of light as the elder brother and that is not true. there are many noticeable discrepancies between the narration and what’s actually shown. “stories aren’t reality” and “truth is hard to come by” are overtly-stated themes. and the lost fable answers the question “what is ozpin hiding from us?” and is thus presented strictly through his eyes.

in the fairytale anthology, ozpin helpfully informs the reader that stories like ‘the girl in the tower’ and ‘the infinite man’ are propaganda, not the truth.

so…

do we really believe this repeated claim that every word out of salem’s mouth is a manipulative lie? words we’re not even allowed to hear for ourselves? when the characters telling us that salem lied are ozpin and a bound spirit recounting ozpin’s side of the story? in the unreliable narrators show?

is the word gullible written on the ceiling?

[moomary]

okok listen bodyguard wriothesley au (tw: suggestive but not explicit, f!reader and gendered terms, dumbification, babying, i was in a weird mood when i wrote this, bla bla) kinda short and was gonna add smut but lowkey i just dont feel like it. could make a part 2 with actual writing if you guys enjoy this concept

he’s your bodyguard and you are the lil princess :3

and you are SUCH a brat

in everyday affairs you act all confident and diplomatic, when really your little brain is just so empty !! you love to order him around this way and that, and no matter what he will comply with a, “yes, my lady” or “of course, princess” because he respects you—reveres you, even—and it is his job to obey your whims.

unless, of course, those very whims should jeopardize or go against your safety. he has the power to overrule your silliness should it come to that, but hardly ever does he use it; only when real danger poses a threat will he truly speak his mind. otherwise, he stands and listens to your nonsense with a straight face, not only because he has to but also because he does find it amusing.

he finds it amusing that during the day, here you are, the silly little girl that you are, commanding him about with a wave of your finger as if he is not the one in your bed every night. as if he does not coddle and baby you and turn you to the puttiest of putty, your brain all mushy and your hands grabby and your lips pouty and oh, sweet baby, what a silly thing you are.

do you not understand? do you not get it? it isn’t you giving orders, not even when you’re pretending. you are really just the princess, and he your strong, capable bodyguard who holds your life in his scarred hands. oh, yes, of course he is devoted to you, to protecting you no matter what—but you really don’t know what’s best for you at all, do you? yes, he practically worships you, and he will follow your silly and pointless orders because he adores you; because he likes to give you that fleeting feeling of being in charge, knowing that later he is going to remind you of your place in the quiet intimacy of the nighttime where it is only the two of you and no one else. he will let you have your fun during the day—he doesn’t particularly like anyone else’s eyes on him, nor does he think it advantageous or gentlemanly to boast his authority—but you must not forget that no matter how much you pretend otherwise before the prying eyes of the public, he is the one giving the real orders and calling the real shots.

and you are his baby, his princess, his recipient of absolute devotion. yes, he holds the real authority, but he would gladly get down on his knees and give his life for you any day. it’s in his job description.

but his poor baby gets so upset at the idea of him ever doing such a thing, perhaps even going so far as to throw a fit or try to argue with him that it will be going against his lady’s command to ever, ever leave her for any reason. ever.

in the daylight, he will simply hum, nod, or give a curt and dismissive response. but alone, he will coo and hold your face and say with such sweet, honeyed conviction, “sweetheart, you don’t get a say in such matters” as he is caging you to your little princess bed while you’re in your cute little nightgown with the cute frilly trim and your cute frilly socks. “try not to think about it, okay? you don’t need to think about it.” because really, wriothesley is much more than capable enough to protect you from harm without having to sacrifice himself in the process. so don’t even worry your pretty little head about such things.

[eatmangoesnekkid]

One unspoken virus that plagues female bodies due to growing up and being conditioned in a western colonial capitalist patriarchy is the lack of reverence, respect, and honoring we have for our teachers and inspirations/muses. Growing up in a world created out of the male mind and male philosophy, we are groomed to be less collaborative and more competitive and "takers," taking resources from the feminine, without acknowledging our sources, whether it's another woman/femme's work or resources of the earth. We have adapted to being sneaky and slick.

Everything is recorded. We do not get away with anything. The desire "to take" from other women is a 'bottom-feeder' scarcity consciousness. When a woman or womb owner holds this type of consciousness in her system, she births babies who become adults who do not feel like they are good enough and they further the unconscious scarcity imprint into future generations. When you take words I have written like "friendships can be deeply romantic" but do not credit me as the source of your newfound wisdom and simply shift words around, it is still recorded and felt by those with intuitive gifts. I am devoted to letting those whom I love know how much I adore them. Within the last 10 years, there has not a single close friend I’ve had who hasn't received a message of me sharing my love of them at some point. This is the lived experience the quote was birthed from. In the last 30 days, I have sent voice notes to a woman I follow on instagram who writes beautiful things about heterosexual relating and bridging the gap between women and men. I'm not a heterosexual woman, but I love reading her work. She expands my own consciousness of love so I reached out to her just to let her know how much her work inspired my own flow of love in a pure way and thanked her. Reverence for another human can be so activating for the psyche and requires extreme vulnerability, which is one reason it is so hard for most people to honor other people without feeling less than. We have forgotten that we are all Gods, that’s why. 🪶🙏🏿🕊️ Years ago, a couple from Atlanta came to visit me and my lover in Europe. When they arrived, I was the only one at home and when my lover came home from work, I met her at the door as usual—which was really no big deal to us. Ha, I will never forget when we turned around and saw the sheer shock on their faces from witnessing how we greeted each other after being a part for "only 7 hours" —one of them said. They were shocked that we had that so much reverence for the presence of the other. But to me, reverence is human. It is love. It is the nectarous flow of one’s inherent wellspring of vulnerability. Recently I spoke to a past mentor of mine from 2008 who is 22 years older than me, a mentor who I have expanded beyond in consciousness and lived experiences. I find traits of a good mentor to be one who can help evolve students beyond their own capacity and limitations, maybe begin to actually to revere the student’s growing beyond the mentor’s capacity overtime. This is what our relationship is like now. She is genuinely happy for everything I am and everything have become. In all these years, I have felt nothing but sheer love and appreciation from her at different stages of my journey. I told her how much I loved her for who she divinely is. I showered her with compliments and sent her a cashapp for no reason at all. I did not reach out to her to talk about myself. I only spoke about her --her beauty, sass, heart, worth, and value. Women who can not acknowledge the gifts and beauty of other women and only want “to take...” will always be poor in a myriad of ways. Heart-centered womanhood. Women can turn this world around when we begin to get deeply honest about what is living in our bodies and truly become women again and understand the level of power within it. Please consider revering/honoring those women who help to move you forward into new ways of being that will expand into limitless possibilities. Not become envious them, not steal their work but truly hold reverence and love and even cheer them on. Doing so helps to create more and more connection and love stories and less separation, fear and violence in our world. Everything is connected to everything, you see. The aim is to get better at loving and sweetness than we were conditioned to be at extracting and taking. When we do, a secret garden of vitality blooms abundantly, like the generous nectar that Spring and Summer summons from human bodies. Because beautiful people impact us in beautiful ways when we allow. Never forget that. --India Ame'ye

[mistressandry]

🔪 WIP Wednesday 🎣

@aldisobey very fairly tagged me after I made her make DELIGHTFUL art but now I must share.... creations I am not exactly confident in. But this is good!! This is a good push!!

I've been working on this for about a month! Hiding from it for about 2 weeks!

Honestly I just figured if fanfic is by it's very nature self-indulgent, why not go all in and just use it for introspection and therapy? 🙈 So I've writteeeeeenn 5k words on Ellie and Emmrich's relationships with death. + dwarf shit, because you know I can not resist!!

The ever lovely @bharv got first dibs on my mess of a WIP and gave such good notes!! Which I will act on!!!!!!! ... Eventually!!!! Here is an exert of 456 words that had limited "needs fixing things":

He watched her gutting a fish. Provisions were tight at the Veil Jumper camp and “every little bit of sustenance helped”, he was told. Compelling as the argument had been, Emmrich had still chosen not to partake and instead opted to work on his notes at a safe distance.

Rook had been excited reeling her fish in, but was clearly upset as she gripped it against the cold, hard rock. He watched its beautiful red scales glitter in the sunlight as it flailed against her hold. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry!” she told the fish, while she fetched her knife. Emmrich was well practiced and looked away just in time.

A calm seemed to wash over Rook after the killing. She removed the hook from the fish’s mouth and picked it up to examine her prize.

“Now that… is a big fish!” Rook celebrated, beaming with pride. Emmrich noted a train of scales where Rook must have swiped her brow. The fish continued to twitch, muscles still unaware they had expired.

Brutality out of the way, now came the part he actually liked. Filleting was just another type of autopsy with purpose. A clean cut was a show of reverence, and only possible by a devoted understanding of the recipient's anatomy. He watched as Rook cut along the fish’s spine towards its tail, biting her lip as she focused, only snagging on a bone once.

It reminded Emmrich of when he used to watch his father as a boy. Butchery was not a respected line of work in Nevarra, though the demand for it persisted. It was many years later that he truly came to appreciate his father’s choice of profession. It was work that others wouldn’t do, but it was work. It was a means to provide for their family, and his father was a great man for that. Though he was often spared from helping with exsanguination, everything that followed after the loss of life had fascinated him. His father would point out the arteries, bones and various muscle groups, and Emmrich would wonder at the miracle of life.

For some reason, Rook had taken out the fish’s heart and held it daintily in her palm., it was still beating. It was quite.. Curious. After a moment of examination, she tossed it into the water and sectioned the rest of the fish’s leftovers into small pouches.

Rook must have noticed his confusion as she was overcome with a need to explain herself. “It’s not weird! It's for crab traps.”

“How very utilitarian.” Mildly impressed and curiosity somewhat sated, he returned to his notes while Rook flung another cast with her rod. He supposed this was one way to help support their comrades while killing time.

------------------------

AAAAND SCENE!

... It's winter and I miss fishing and I don't like killing fish, but it is... amazing seeing how they work. Always gotta be grateful though!! Whisper thank you to their still beating hearts Be super normal and just use everything you can + help their habitats!

I think I'm writing Emmrich too closed off. IDK does his perspective of this feel out of character? Grand scheme of things, it's not the worst thing I could do... but happy for insights!!

I'M NOT SURE WHAT THE WRITING STATUS IS FOR PEOPLE RIGHT NOW BUT UHM, UH,

@bharv bb girl if you've got anything to share, and the pressure does not make you overheat, please do!!!!

@black-rose4 Do you have anything cooking??

@hot-elf hbu??

I hope these tags are welcome 🥹

[balanceoflightanddark]

I feel like most think Chromatic Dragons are evil because they worship Tiamat instead of Bahumat, Tiamat is a goddess of Chaos which most people generally associate with acts of evil but chaos generally isn't evil it just is. While Bahumat the metallic god of Order is generally seen as good there are times when too much Order is stifling

Well to start, if I were to write Tiamat or Bahamut for whatever reason, I'd wouldn't try to stray too far from their moralities. I mean it's right there in their titles: Tiamat, Queen of the Evil Dragons and Bahamut, King of the Good Dragons. It's practically written in their DNA and concept. So trying to portray Tiamat as some woobie or Bahamut as being secretly evil would defeat the entire purpose of the characters.

I wouldn't even say that Tiamat is a Goddess of Chaos in a traditional sense. Chaos usually means the potential for change and the hope for a better future. Tiamat on the other hand seems to lean more to the "evil" in "chaotic evil". As in she's fully willing to commit to atrocities in order to further her goals. And indulge in her own whims and impulses instead of tearing down an oppressive order. Hell, for a Goddess of Chaos, she keeps a tight leash on her servants and has very problems with dominating them when they get too uppity. Aren't the Blue Dragons (Lawful Evil) amongst her most dedicated followers?

As a whole, I don't think Tiamat represents Chaos as a force for change. But rather as a force for shortsighted impulses and domination. She's the one who would dominate and use her domination as an excuse to indulge in her vices. Think a dragon version of a Skeksis and you get the drill.

Conversely, Bahamut is a bit closer to the "good" in "lawful good". His sphere of influence centers around justice, doing good deeds, and promoting acts of charity. He's not even focused on establishing some kind of societal order or regime since he rarely gets involved with mortals on a societal level. Usually, Bahamut only acts to right some kind of wrong or bring justice (which tends to be against his sister and her followers). In that way, he's more of a knight-errant than a king.

If Tiamat represents domination and living out one's impulses for the self, Bahamut focuses on helping others and holding the self to a higher standard. In that regard, the "lawful" is less societal and more living to a code of honor or strong morality. And their relationship is less "chaos vs order" and more "depravity vs nobility".

So with all this in mind, how would I handle Chromatics as a whole if it's less a societal standard and more a moral standard? Well to start, I sincerely doubt the Chromatics have too much love for Tiamat. Again, she keeps a tight leash on them and expects things like accepting consorts from them or reaping whatever portion of their hoards they have collected. And I did read that some Chromatics will try to keep portions of their hoard secret to keep out of Tiamat's hands. From this, I believe that their devotion to Tiamat is less out of reverence and loyalty and more wanting to stay on her good side. Thus, the idea of leaving her has to be a thought a lot of the Chromatics have.

Thing is, Tiamat is freakishly powerful and I doubt she'd want any of her children to get any ideas of rebelling. Even if somehow a Chromatic could break away from Tiamat and survive, they were still raised with the toxic mindset that their "mother" instilled in them. So it would be a pretty painful changing process if all they know how to be are vicious monsters. Add to that how many mortals rightfully think Chromatics are violent monsters, and you have a stacked deck.

Again, I do believe it is possible. It just won't be easy. If I were to write this sort of story, I would possibly have a young Chromatic who strikes out on their own from their parents who instilled that toxic mindset. Old enough to be self-sufficient, but young enough to still be mentally vulnerable and a bit awkward in terms of actually being vile. Basically enough of a threat to gain adventurers' notice, but not enough of a threat to have a massive bounty on their heads. From then, you could either see them begin to question themselves on what they're doing wrong. Not sure how Bahamut might see such a dragon though. On the one hand, forgiveness and mercy are part of his sphere. On the other, I did read that he was also pretty merciless when it comes to Chromatics (I mean, he's been in conflict with Tiamat and her brood for so long that it's hard to blame him). So it could go either way.

That's how I'd write the dynamic between Tiamat and Bahamut along with the Chromatics. Let me know what you guys think or if I'm missing something.

[immoralimmortals]

A Song With Ten Names

Chapter 51: Take Me to Church (3)

Chapter 1 ☆ Next chapter ☆ AO3 ☆ Featured song playlist

Chapter Summary: Hidan now worships at the altar of devotion. If you light the candles and begin to pray, what should you place as the offering?

Author's Note:

A short but hopefully delicious chapter for you all. I do, perhaps, have some Christmas ideas in mind, but we shall see if anything is managed prior to the holiday irl. I hope you enjoy!

The song for this chapter is Take Me to Church by Hozier. Please note this chapter is especially NSFW and contains sexual situations.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

If I'm a pagan of the good times

My lover's the sunlight

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It’s been a long time since one of these dreams of hers were so notable.

The traveler, stranger, performer began this journey alone on the beach— this pearly, frothing hunger that laps closer and closer. She began this journey alone, and so every presence that has arrived since is so important.

For once, there’s an object— a couple, actually. A blanket set upon the sand, a pattern that doesn’t quite match the sheets she had as a child but contains an inherent air about it that tells her that’s what it should be. Then she is on them, sitting patiently, waiting. A hand with a dusty turquoise ring reaches into the basket that pins the cloth down from flying away with the wind; it emerges with something. Whatever it is, it makes her happy.

She feels the weight of others huddling around her, these different rings for different people in the corners of her eyes. They reach forward for the object the first man brought forth and partake of it, pass it along. Whatever it is, it makes them all the more adoring. She is swathed in safety and love. Their laughter bubbles like it’s particles in the atmosphere.

It is a very strange dream, but a good one. The security these figures bring make her forget— forget as the tide laps forward...and forward... The tip of her toe is just over the edge of the blanket, and the froth of the ocean reaches to touch it. Suddenly, her heart feels ice cold.

The woman awakes with a start, a couple of jolting sensations washing over her at once. The most jarring is a low hissing sound from the entrance of the living room. She lifts her head, seeing a head of hair the same color as the moon then pink eyes that shine bright in the dark. The noise ends and he pulls down the finger from his lips; he has been shushing her to be quiet. A confused blink from the disciple prompts Hidan to roll his eyes and gesture to the side. Oh. Right.

Deidara is still asleep.

So the Jashinist pulls his flat palms in a circling motion, rotating them and backing away so as to urge her to follow, but without waking her guard up.

Perplexed but trusting, the woman exhales the last bit of dreams from her mind and raises herself; it is then that it is clear that the cold she felt in her sleep was literal. Silver beads fall from her chest and into her lap, and the symbol of Jashin stares back at her. Hidan had thrown it at her from around the corner, so as to avoid alerting Deidara to his presence. Reverently, she picks it up and looks to the person she’s supposed to be tiptoeing around. Is it really that big of a deal? What’s the problem if Deidara knows she’s talking to Hidan?

The woman decides not to test the priest on this matter tonight, slipping away with an artist none the wiser.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

To keep the goddess on my side

She demands a sacrifice

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Hidan isn’t as patient as Kakuzu is. Not by a long shot. But he has to hold on until they’re in privacy, just the two of them. He goes so far as to pick her up to walk up the stairs, concentrating energy into his feet much like how one does to walk on water. Silence. No creaking wood to get someone up and interrupting them. Her nightgown dangles past his hold, white and just a little bit see-through. It is Jashin’s greatest temptation.

Just wait, not even a minute more.

He sets her down, back against the wall of his bedroom, and he pulls the door...so...slowly so it won’t crackle as it shuts. And then...he turns. Hidan hasn’t prepared for bed; had no intention to. She gets to watch as he shrugs off his cloak and lets it fall to the floor. He lets her look at him, but more so...he’s getting a good, long look at her, too.

“Finally,” he mutters.

A hand with a rusty orange ring approaches, taking her arm by the wrist and raising it beside her head, pinning it to the wall. He savors it, the wide-eyed gaze he gets back as hooded lids half cover his magenta irises. He’s not going to be able to get a view like this for a long moment here, after all, and how wonderfully does his pendant dangle between their palms. Having had his fill, the man finds the way to fit his lips around hers.

Then he’s insatiable.

It’s hungry and quick, these ins and outs he’s making. The intended long kisses shorten one after the other, start to become nibbling and sucking and journey from her mouth to anywhere his lips can go. He tilts her chin up by nudging it with his nose, verging towards her neck. The woman gasps in his ear, and that tells him he’s doing the right thing.

“H-Hidan…!”  Where did this come from? And that noise the girl makes reminds him of where her tongue is, and she suddenly finds him going in to taste.

All the while, his free hand has begun to slide down and grab her other one. He raises it, presses it against her breast, watches it shape so maliably with his force behind her soft touch.

“You’re beautiful,” he pulls back to tell her again, in case she’s forgotten. Jashin as his witness, she never will. “So fucking gorgeous, angel...” The woman’s pulse races, tingling sensations arise as the pressure of her own palm begins...to go...down. He savors the shiver through her whole body once he passes over the pelvis, and then with one finger of his separating one of hers from clenching into the palm, he guides it between another set of lips underneath her nightgown.

There’s an immediate shift of her hips and more weight put upon him, towards him. Her accompanying gasp is sharp, and he smirks.

“That good?” Dumb and mute, the quivering woman nods into his shoulder. “Good.”

And as he uses her own self to rub that sweet spot...he begins to melt himself. Melting, for Hidan, means to communicate. At first it’s just further pillowtalk, asking again if it feels good. But it starts to become clear that its shifting less into seducing her and more into...well...really asking.

“Do you like this?”

“It’s good, right...?”

“I’m good, right...?"

It’s a dizzying prospect, but she still manages to find concern even amid him flushing his body against hers. She nods again, hardly feeling her legs, and she feels him smile against her neck.

“I knew it. I knew I was good for you.”

As if he had doubts.

It isn’t long before she becomes weak in the knees. He presses her against that wall tighter, leans all of himself in. “Let go, baby,” he whispers. “I gotcha.”

And she does. Somehow, the limpness elevates it to new heights— the helplessness, the relaxation of her muscles moving entirely on instinct...the way he’s taking care of her. Something made Hidan feel he had to prove himself tonight, and so he is.

One final gasp, higher than the others...and he feels her pulse against his hand begin to fade into something more steady. The pant of her breath fades into his chest, the twitching of her raised, trapped hand ceasing. He rubs with his own finger nice and slow a few more times over the wet cloth to make sure she’s all finished...and then he's done. Hidan's hand falls onto her hip, and somehow he holds her even closer.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “You’re such a good girl.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Drain the whole sea, get something shiny

Something meaty for the main course

That's a fine looking high horse

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Hidan?” she says. There’s a long silence...but she knows he hears her. He’s wrapped around her like a snake coils prey, having gone straight from holding her to falling onto the bed, her still in his arms. This close, she can tell that Hidan doesn’t even shift. Maybe he’s asleep...

Just as she closes her eyes again, she gets her answer. She doesn’t even have to ask. Hidan has something on his mind and he’s getting right to it, as best as he can.

“Angel…” he murmurs overtop of her. She feels the hands looped around her begin to finger into her undone locks of hair. He breathes her name into her chest. “Takara…” He isn’t...happy. Her chin attempts to tilt up to see him, but it’s hard to in this position. Ironically enough, she had started the night over a blanket and ended it with a man blanketing over her. She glances the top of his head and the bridge of his nose as he lays his cheek between her breasts, cuddles in just a little. “Baby…” he says again. Just by the sound of his voice, she can tell he’s serious as death.

“If you could have anything in the world...what would it be?”

She’s taken aback, both by the weight of the question and the fact that Hidan is bringing it up. Why would he? Maybe he’s worried he doesn’t give her enough; it’s been a while since that day at the inn, after all. She got caught up in the goings-on of the other members since. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, and she reaches down to return the favor he’s giving, combing into his now messy hair. But instead of relaxing, he stiffens up even more.

“Stop.”

And despite how it makes her ache...she does.

“If there was anything,” he repeats, painfully slow and under his breath. “Anything at all...what would you want?”

“I want...for you to be happy.”

“Angel.”

And he begins to rise up, lifting himself by the palms to look over her. An answer like that isn’t going to satisfy him. There’s a slight curl of his brow as he waits for his girl to stop playing coy.

“Anything,” he whispers, almost as low as when he says his prayers. “I mean it.”

So if it isn’t her time that he wants, nor his happiness...what is it all about? What is she supposed to say? Maybe it’s just the truth. It takes so long to get to because she can hardly believe it. After all this time...after everything she's gone through...

“...I can’t think of anything that’d make life better right now,” she tells him, but the reaction he gives to that good news is a grimace and a flinch. He’s supposed to court her...and to do that he needs to give her SOMETHING…!

“Hidan?”

He tsks, lowering himself back on top of her.

“...I’ll think about it,” she promises.

“You do that.”

“Hidan?”

“What?”

She reaches down, once again weaving fingers towards his scalp. It catches him by surprise, and a hum rumbles into her ribs. The way he begins to ease too eases her heavy heart.

“I love you," she reminds him, lest he ever forget.

…

Hidan huffs.

“I know you do, angel.”

Because it doesn’t solve his problem, not at all. The way she loves him just makes it worse. Jashin’s ultimate task for him, indeed, giving him someone so easy to please and therefore impossible to satisfy. He closes his eyes as the sun begins to rise. Unable to fall back asleep, the performer stares at the window. The snow falling through the hills and branches...the scent of pine emanating from the cold…

It’s about the time of year people asked her what she wanted most, at least when she resided in another time and place. She didn’t expect to be alive another winter to see it. If she’s so sensitive to her feelings as to dream of Kakuzu’s sweet gestures and how everyone's gotten so nice, she mustn't dare close her eyes now. A dream about this would tear her apart. So she watches the snowflakes collect on the sill, taller and taller to smother them in until Hidan will wake up. Silver beads roll in her fingertips, and she waits.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

What you got in the stable?

We've a lot of starving faithful

That looks tasty, that looks plenty

This is hungry work

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[docholligay]

Ep 5: Ben and Misty

Hello! This is about up to Episode 5 of Yellowjackets, and ONLY episode 5 of Yellowjackets. I have not seen beyond the fifth episode, at all, and know NOTHING about this show. Please do not spoil it for me.  Things that are spoilery in nature, for me, include: saying things like  “Just wait!!” confirming or denying anything I put forward, outside information about the cast interviews or creator statements, leading questions like “Do you think “blank moment” means anything?” etc. Remember  that Y’ALL HAVE SEEN THE SHOW AND I HAVE NOT. This informs the way you  talk about things relating to the show. Just be really careful is all  I’m asking. Also: If there is LITERALLY any stance I  could take on this show or character that would make you upset, please  just fucking block the tag

If you WOULD like to discuss the show and my takes on it, the Discord is right here! I don’t go there, so it’s a great place to get every emotion out.

Please thank @sailorsunspot and @moonlight-frittata for backing this odd way of doing a liveblog, and remember my tip jar is always open

Poor Ben here is trapped as an authority figure. Travis could overpower him, fuck, the girls could overpower him, he relies on Misty, and yet he still has the vestiges of authority because we are only now beginning to see that the old world no longer holds sway. 

The quasi-religious tone when Misty walks into his room to touch him was a really amazing thing, and it’s true, though, that for Misty, this is on the level of a miracle. A man she finds handsome needs her, she spends all her time in his light, she goes toward him with the reverence of a saint. And he rejects her. He tells her not to fucking touch him. We even see a cross on the wall as she leaves the room. 

So if even someone she has done so much for, someone she has devoted herself toward, cannot love her, they have to pay. Now, the question I have for myself is: Do I think Misty actually wants to kill him, or do I think that it’s more a price she is willing to pay in order to get him close to her again, to need her? I think it might be number two, but I also think establishing that she is willing to kill someone to get what she needs is a very important thing we need to know about Misty. 

Him losing his leg works on multiple levels here, of course it’s a device to get him close to Misty for the express purposes of ‘oh my god holy shit fuckin Misty,’ but also, it’s a symbol, a visual reminder of the fact that his power and authority is quite literally crippled here. We are seeing him slowly lose control of the situation, even as the girls are continuing to follow him, even as Travis still listens, there’s this absolute edge of losing control in the air. 

And he senses this, and this is why he reacts to Misty’s stange confession of love by calling himself into her protection with his own, while clinging to this fractured and lost authority as a gate between he and Misty. How long will that gate hold? What can he cling to then, and how far might he go to keep from getting killed by Misty in the pain of her rejection? 

Because make no mistake, all of this is about Misty and her feeling of rejection, and in the way they continue to push in this story that I love, the rejected nerd is not sitting in the corner crying, we are not meant to identify with her, we are meant to see that she instead decides that those who reject her should be punished. 

Which is why it is so terrifying when she sees Nat call her a poodle haired frreak at the end of the episode. She thought the threat of being blackmailed would make them appreciate her, need her. But instead, this.

[lunawish]

few3h has the better edelgard imho because it shoes even without byleth she can still have meaningful relationships with people. she isn't keeping people in the same arms length distance as she was in houses. in houses, the game's narrative depicts it as without byleth, she's completely and utterly isolated with only hubert at her side.

i honestly do honest to god (i gotta say honest as many times as i can lmao) am of the belief that monica von ochs is so, so, so important to her character. monica in hopes is constantly thinking about edelgard and her heart — it's not just her goals (which hubert will want to fulfill at any cost necessary) that monica's concerned about but how she doesn't actually want that much bloodshed. it's about her taking care of herself and taking breaks. she and hubert look after different aspects of edelgard : and ironically, both can prove ... suffocating at times.

without monica in houses, byleth becomes that "heart" for her. byleth is the only person she could connect and confide in wholly and even then, she does so cautiously. monica devotes herself to edelgard wholeheartedly. it doesn't matter what path edelgard chooses, monica will follow. byleth can end up choosing a path so oppositional from edelgard's that it ultimately result in her dying.

not to mention, in hopes , pretty much regardless of routes, she will try to rescue her allies — and she will do her best to keep them alive. ladislava and randolph dies in crimson flower, and whilst randolph can only be kept alive thru a very specific situation in hopes, there's still something to be said about how we can keep both those generals alive in scarlet blaze.

it's not shez who's the one that makes the huge impact in her character, it's monica. monica sees her, the real edelgard. the edelgard who likes sweets, who likes bergamot tea, who likes nature, etc etc but somehow still regards her with the reverence of an emperor. it doesn't really compute in her mind how monica can hold both realities.

anyways, tangent aside ... i just think monica is so incredibly important to her and i just think about how in houses, she probably looked at the "monica" they rescued and hoped for a miracle that it was the monica she knew and that they weren't too late. but she knew they were when "monica" spoke, when monica called her 'edel' because the real monica would never.

saving monica in hopes prompts her to remove TWSITD from her allies and claim adrestia as her own. she unshackled herself from Thales, who was posing as her uncle in public. in contrast, when we learn that monica isn't actually monica but kronya in houses, we see edelgard erring more on the side of caution with TWSITD. she begrudgingly allies with them, utilize their horrific magic that she too, was a victim of. but she has to because there's no such thing as a miracle. saving monica was her taking action to make a miracle happen.

[heart-full-of-lust]

“Quid Pro Quo”

David:

He approached her like she was an altar and he was a man seeking salvation.

Sarah lay spread across the bed, already naked and flushed with anticipation, but David took his time getting to where she needed him most. His hands traced lazy patterns up her calves, over her knees, along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs - everywhere except the place that was already aching for his attention.

"Please," she whispered, her hips shifting restlessly.

"Shh," he murmured against her hip bone, pressing soft kisses there. "We have all night. Let me worship you properly."

And worship was exactly what this was. The way he looked at her pussy like it was art, like it was something sacred that deserved his complete devotion. His breath ghosted over her swollen lips, making her shiver, but he didn't touch. Not yet.

"You're already so wet for me," he observed, his voice thick with reverence. "So perfect."

Sarah's hands fisted in the sheets as he continued his slow exploration, kissing everywhere around her cunt without actually touching it. Her clit was throbbing, her entrance clenching around nothing, desperate for contact.

When his tongue finally made contact - just the lightest brush against her outer lips - she gasped like she'd been electrocuted.

"That's it," he breathed against her. "Let me hear you."

He started slow. Impossibly, torturously slow. Long, flat strokes of his tongue from her entrance to just below her clit, avoiding the bundle of nerves that was screaming for attention. Each pass made her wetter, made her hips buck up seeking more pressure, but he kept the same maddening pace.

"David, please-"

"Please what, baby?" He pulled back just enough to speak, his breath cooling the wetness he'd spread. "Tell me what you need."

"More," she panted. "Touch my clit, please."

"Like this?" His tongue flicked once, barely a whisper of contact.

"More!"

He chuckled against her, the vibration sending sparks through her core. "So demanding. But I like you desperate."

This time when his tongue found her clit, he stayed. Soft, rhythmic circles that made her back arch off the bed. Not enough pressure to push her over the edge, but enough to build that familiar coil of tension in her belly.

"Fuck, you taste incredible," he groaned, and she could feel how much he meant it in the way his hands gripped her thighs, in the desperate way he pressed his face deeper between her legs.

He was getting lost in it, she realized. Lost in the taste of her, the way her cunt responded to his mouth. His technique became less calculated, more instinctive, like he was following some primal need to devour her completely.

When the first orgasm hit, it caught them both by surprise. One moment she was climbing steadily toward release, the next she was crying out his name as waves of pleasure crashed over her. Her thighs clamped around his head, her pussy pulsing against his tongue, but he didn't stop.

"Too sensitive," she gasped, trying to pull away.

But his hands held her firmly in place. "Not done with you yet," he mumbled against her oversensitive flesh. "Not even close."

He gentled his touch, switching to soft kisses and barely-there licks until the hypersensitivity faded. Then he began building her up again, this time even slower, even more deliberately.

"This is what heaven tastes like," he said between long strokes of his tongue. "Could do this for hours. Could live between your legs."

And he proved it. For what felt like eternity, he worked her with single-minded devotion. Sometimes fast and intense, his tongue dancing over her clit until she was screaming. Sometimes slow and deep, his tongue fucking into her entrance while his nose rubbed against her swollen nub.

He learned every spot that made her gasp, every pressure that made her thighs shake. When she came the second time, he was ready for it, holding her steady as she rode his face through the intensity. The third time, he worked two fingers inside her, curling them to hit that perfect spot while his mouth stayed focused on her clit.

"Can't," she sobbed after the fourth orgasm, her whole body trembling. "Can't take anymore."

But her body betrayed her words, her hips still rolling against his mouth, still seeking the friction he provided so perfectly.

"One more," he coaxed, his voice muffled against her. "Give me one more, baby. You taste so fucking good when you cum."

This time he used everything - his tongue, his lips, his fingers, even the gentle scrape of his teeth. He built her up slowly, patiently, watching her face as she climbed toward what would surely destroy her.

When she finally shattered, it was with a broken scream that echoed off the walls. Her entire body convulsed, her pussy clenching so hard around his fingers that he groaned in sympathy. Wave after wave crashed over her until she was boneless, wrung out, completely spent.

Only then did he finally pull away, his face slick with her arousal, his eyes dark with satisfied hunger.

"Beautiful," he whispered, pressing gentle kisses to her trembling thighs. "So fucking beautiful when you let go for me."

Sarah could barely form words, could barely think beyond the aftershocks still pulsing through her core. But as she lay there recovering, watching him clean his face with something that looked like reluctance, she realized something.

He really could do this for hours. Would do this for hours, if she let him. The way he looked at her pussy wasn't just desire - it was genuine worship, the kind of devotion that made her feel like a goddess.

Sarah:

Sarah had watched David worship her body like a religion, and now it was her turn to return the favor. She knelt beside him on the bed, her eyes drinking in the sight of his naked form - all hard muscle and desperate need.

His cock stood proud and thick, already leaking precum that made her mouth water with anticipation. But she didn't touch. Not yet. First, she wanted to savor this moment, this power she held over him.

"Please," he breathed, his hips shifting restlessly under her gaze.

"Patience," she murmured, echoing his earlier words. "Let me worship you properly."

She started with her hands, tracing patterns over his chest, down his abs, everywhere except where he needed her most. When her fingers finally ghosted over his inner thighs, he sucked in a sharp breath.

"Sarah-"

"Shh. You took your time with me. Now it's my turn."

Her lips followed the path her hands had traced, pressing soft kisses to his collarbone, his chest, the sharp lines of his hipbones. When she finally settled between his legs, his cock was practically throbbing with need, a bead of precum sliding down the shaft.

"Look at you," she whispered, her breath ghosting over his sensitive skin. "So hard for me. So perfect."

The first touch of her tongue was feather-light - just a kitten lick to the head that made him groan and fist his hands in the sheets. She lapped up the salty-sweet precum, humming in appreciation at the taste.

"Fuck, baby," he gasped as she began painting long, slow strokes up the underside of his shaft. "Your mouth…"

She smiled against him, loving the way his thighs trembled under her hands, the way his breathing became ragged with just these gentle touches. This was worship in its purest form - taking time to appreciate every inch of him, to memorize the way he tasted and felt against her tongue.

When she finally wrapped her lips around the head, he nearly came off the bed. The sound he made was raw, desperate, and it sent heat shooting straight to her core.

"That's it," she murmured around him, taking him deeper. "Let me hear you."

She worked him slowly, methodically, learning what made him curse and what made him whimper. The way his hips bucked when she swirled her tongue around the sensitive head. The broken moan he let out when she took him deep enough to feel him hit the back of her throat.

"God, Sarah, your mouth is incredible," he panted, one hand coming up to tangle gently in her hair. Not pushing, just holding, grounding himself as she slowly drove him out of his mind.

She pulled off with a wet pop, her lips swollen and slick. "I love how you taste," she confessed, pumping him slowly with her hand. "Love how hard you get for me."

Before he could respond, she was taking him deep again, this time adding the suction that made his back arch off the bed. She could feel him getting close, could taste the increasing saltiness on her tongue, but she wasn't ready for this to end.

Every time he approached the edge, she'd slow down, switch to gentle kisses along his shaft, or focus her attention on his balls until he calmed down. The frustrated whimpers he made were music to her ears.

"Please," he begged after the third time she'd denied him. "Sarah, please, I need-"

"What do you need?" she asked innocently, her tongue tracing lazy patterns on his inner thigh.

"Need to cum. Need your mouth. Please, baby, I'm dying here."

She smiled, loving the desperation in his voice, the way she'd reduced this strong, confident man to begging. "Since you asked so nicely…"

This time when she took him in her mouth, it was with single-minded purpose. Deep, fast strokes that had him cursing and gasping her name. She used everything - her tongue, her lips, the gentle scrape of her teeth on the sensitive underside.

"Fuck, I'm gonna-" he warned, his grip tightening in her hair.

Instead of pulling away, she took him deeper, humming around his length as she felt the first pulse of his orgasm. His cum hit the back of her throat in hot spurts as he cried out her name, his whole body shaking with the intensity of his release.

She swallowed every drop, continuing to work him gently through the aftershocks until he was gasping and oversensitive. Only then did she finally pull away, pressing soft kisses to his still-twitching cock.

"Beautiful," she whispered, echoing his earlier words as she watched him struggle to catch his breath. "So beautiful when you let go for me."

David looked down at her with something approaching awe, his chest still heaving. "Where did you learn to do that?"

Sarah crawled up his body, settling against his side with a satisfied smile. "I'm a very devoted student. And you're an excellent teacher."

As they lay there recovering, she realized something that made her core clench with renewed arousal. The way he'd fallen apart under her mouth, the complete trust he'd shown in letting her control his pleasure - it was just as intoxicating as his worship of her had been.

And judging by the way his cock was already starting to stir again against her thigh, they were both eager for the next lesson.

[homedecor-shop-online]

Sacred Art: How Spiritual Paintings Bring Peace, Beauty & Divine Energy to Your Home

India is a land of spirituality where people strongly believe in their religious and spiritual values. With a rich mythological history, Indian artists have long used their colours and designs to beautifully depict our mythology. Whether it is the divine love between Radha and Krishna, the serenity of Lord Buddha, or the inseparable bond of Lord Shiva and Parvati, spiritual paintings hold a deep emotional and cultural significance.

At Satguru’s, an extraordinary collection of Indian spiritual paintings awaits those who wish to embrace this divine connection. These paintings are not just décor pieces but a medium to bring peace, positivity, and spiritual energy into your living space. Even if you are not deeply spiritual, the vibrant colours and artistic portrayal of gods and divine beings can elevate your home’s aesthetic appeal while filling it with a calm aura.

Spiritual Paintings: A Gateway to Serenity

Paintings have always been a powerful form of artistic expression, capturing emotions, ideas, and experiences on canvas. Over time, this form of art has evolved into various styles, and today, we see breathtaking spiritual art paintings that beautifully combine traditional patterns and contemporary designs.

Satguru’s offers an extensive range of spiritual paintings, including:

Radha-Krishna Paintings: A modern spiritual art made by anartist Sonal AB, has in her own way, envisioned the love of Radha towards her beloved, Krishna. The painting captures a moment where Radha is imagining Krishna playing the flute for her from the shadows even though he is actually far away.

Shop Now - Roop Chandan by Sonal A B

Ganesha Paintings – Ganesha Painting brings blessings and removes obstacles from one’s life path. This Ganesha Madhubani painting features a beautiful and intricate depiction of the Hindu deity Ganesha. Hand-painted with the traditional Madhubani style, this painting is not only a stunning piece of art but also a representation of cultural heritage and spirituality.

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Each of these spiritual art paintings tells a unique story, resonating with those who seek divine energy in their surroundings. Whether placed in your living room, bedroom, or meditation corner, they create an atmosphere of devotion and serenity.

Spiritual Frames: Enhancing Sacred Spaces

If you’re seeking high-quality, eye-catching spiritual frames to adorn your home or office, look no further than Satguru's. The store offers a stunning collection of spiritual frames from top brands in India, featuring intricate artwork of deities such as Laxmi Ganesh, Radha Krishna, and many more.

Ashtadhatu Ganesh Laxmi & Saraswati In Wooden Frame  – An elegant and intricately designed frame featuring the revered deities Laxmi and Ganesh, perfect for enhancing the spiritual ambiance of any space.

Radha Krishna Divine Love Wall Piece – A vibrant depiction of the divine couple Radha-Krishna, accompanied by peacocks, capturing the essence of devotion and love.

These frames serve as exquisite centrepieces for any space, blending tradition with artistic excellence.

Spiritual Statues: Embodying Tranquillity & Wisdom

Buddha statues are more than just decorative objects; they hold profound spiritual significance for those who follow Buddhism or appreciate its teachings. At Satguru’s, you can explore a wide variety of intricately designed and crafted spiritual statues that exude peace, serenity, and mindfulness.

Among the exquisite statues available, Abhaya Mudra Buddha Statue stands out as a symbol of meditation and inner peace. This statue is perfect for creating a calming atmosphere in your home or office. Additionally, the collection includes:

Gautam Buddha Idols are available in various sizes, one can easily purchase it online.

Handcrafted Indian Art Statues, each reflecting the mastery of skilled artisans.

Shop Now - Mini Buddha In Abhaya Mudra

Made from resin, this statue ensures durability while maintaining their intricate craftsmanship. Many believe that placing a Buddha statue at home invites good fortune, positive energy, and spiritual enlightenment.

Spiritual Wall Art: Elevating Your Daily Life

No religious ceremony in India begins without invoking Lord Ganesha, the remover of obstacles and harbinger of new beginnings. However, his presence shouldn’t be limited to poojas and rituals alone. Starting each day with the blessings of Ganesha through spiritual wall art can fill your home with prosperity and positivity.

Satguru’s presents a remarkable range of spiritual wall décor pieces that instantly elevate the ambiance of your living space. The Feather Ganesha Wall Piece is particularly popular, radiating divine energy and artistic excellence. These artworks not only serve as religious symbols but also as aesthetic additions that enhance the beauty of any interior.

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Why Choose Satguru’s for Spiritual Art?

Satguru’s is a trusted destination for spiritual paintings, statues, and wall décor, offering authentic craftsmanship, a diverse collection of traditional and modern spiritual art, thoughtfully curated pieces for spiritual seekers, and a seamless online shopping experience for effortless accessibility.

Whether you are looking for spiritual paintings, frames, or statues, Satguru’s provides an extraordinary collection that blends art with devotion. Bring home the essence of Indian spirituality and allow these masterpieces to transform your space into a sanctuary of peace, beauty, and divine energy.

Explore the collection today and embrace the sacred artistry that speaks to your soul.

[sniper-childe]

Some notes of a chili role swap au that I will never write

AKA 1.3k+ words worth of headcanons ft. Archon Childe and Harbinger Zhongli :D

Rex Mare / Celestial Vanguard / Flawless Lily

Has served Celestia for six thousand years. And like his devotion to the Tsaritsa, this Childe has a seemingly unbreakable bond with Celestia.

As the Archon of Justice, he is their judge, jury, and executioner. He upholds the Heavenly Principles more than any of the other archons.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have his own morals and sense of justice. He firmly believes that the most certain thing about our world is we know nothing—that we are all just fools—and that only by continually seeking knowledge and truth are we virtuous. This means he likes learning new stuff and mastering it. Kinda like how og Childe is with weapons but with basically everything.

This is the main value of the Land of Justice and it is the foundation of the many Schools of Thought. This is also why Snezhnaya’s best scholars are called the Fatui :D

However, the god is not as flawless as his people think. He refuses to see what Celestia truly is because of his faith. [insert here the complexities of letting go of your devotion that ultimately boils down to fear. Fear of retaliation to a rebellion, fear of a stripped identity without your faith, fear of the loneliness when you learn your god never existed in the first place and she is merely a collection of ideologies that you hold so closely to exonerate yourself of your blind eyes and bloody hands]

If you read the second story in my Ajax: Champion of Dreams series, you might realize I have some kind of religious trauma HAHAHAHAHDJGKG (living in an Asian country that is widely Catholic and Christian will do that to ya ;)) this is why I need the Fontaine Arc to be Anti-Church. I’ve mentioned this before but damn it. I NEED. Or at least touch the complexities of faith (and losing it) as mentioned above. You know? Of course, I don’t want it to be heavy-handed and Honkai handled this stuff well so I just— aaaaaa

Appearance: kinda like Taishakuten from Onmyoji but replace the lotus for the lily of the valley that actually chimes. They are the Damning Bells you hear before an execution.

Why lily of the valley? It’s the national flower of Serbia :D

Also, I know “cleansing bells” are more of an eastern thing but Catholics have bells too right? Bells are known to purify one’s soul or place of worship. If criminals think the god’s bells are damning, his followers revere them as their salvation. The cleansing of lilies in water—washing them of their impure thoughts and deeds. They are what gives them clarity so that they may hold court without bias.

To subvert the modern dystopia setting trope, Childe likes to come down from the White Palace to the valley and chill with the common people to ensure fairness among his subjects. This has made his country and its people endeared to him and he has become protective of them.

On one of his excursions, he meets a man from Liyue.

Fifth of the Seven Stars / Harbinger of Misery / Last of His Kind

五 (wǔ, the number 5) sounds like 呜 (wū) which is an onomatopoeia for crying. So number 5 in Chinese Numerology is considered unlucky.

Also yes, while the Tsaritsa needs Eleven Harbingers, Ningguang (the Geo Archon in this AU) only needs seven. She calls them the Qixing or the Seven Stars.

He is still a half-dragon, half-qilin but is far younger than og Zhongli.

About three thousand years ago, he slipped into a crack. He stayed in the Abyss for what seemed like 3 months but actually, millennia had passed in Teyvat.

In this world, Guizhong was the first Geo Archon but during the Cataclysm, she passed and Ningguang took the mantle.

Her death was not because of the Cataclysm though but because of her nature as an emphatic god—she didn’t approve of razing civilizations. She defied Celestia and paid the price. This is what sets Liyue’s vendetta against Celestia.

Appearance: He looks like White Asura. He wears a lot of white. A lot happened while he was gone and when he returned, it was tragedy after tragedy. And as a qilin-dragon and adeptus, he has a duty to Liyue and its people, so he’s immediately put to work. He hasn’t had the proper time to breathe and grieve. So he’s in an eternal state of mourning.

I actually have tried writing Zhongli, an immortal god who remembers everything, who is actively grieving (and it’s the hardest thing, let me tell you). I’ve imagined him trying to prolong his grief. I think he’d be the type of person to box it away because he has all the time in the world. Why should he have to face something that’s making him sad now? I think every stage of grief for immortals would take centuries.

So I think he actively supported Ningguang’s cause to not let himself breathe and grieve, not just to uphold the oldest contract. Because does he really deserve it when he wasn’t there to protect his family?

Anyways,,

A younger Morax was brazen and callous was canon, right? So I guess this is also what this Zhongli is. And he fell into the Abyss before the Golden Age of the Guili Assembly. So I think he’s more of an isolationist here like how other adepti are. He probably acts a lot like Xiao but has more bite and bark.

He was sent to Snezhnaya to steal the Hydro Archon’s gnosis. There he meets a man, picking lilies by a stream that leads to the sea. And he makes the first friend he’s ever had in… too long.

PS. Here is a picture of White Asura LOL. Listen His and Taishakuten's story feels like a chili role swap au. Go look them up, you won't regret it.

Some worldbuilding stuff that nobody probably will care about because it doesn’t have anything to do with chili BUT this is here so that you can imagine what would be their first meeting like, what would be their first impressions of each other, how would they act around each other, etc. (I actually have my own imagined scene at the bottom hajasdhh)

Snezhnaya is mountainous that is good for fortress-like cities. From the tallest mountain, water falls from the White Palace (even at such a high altitude, the Hydro Archon keeps the water flowing) down to a river that leads to the sea. This river cuts through the valley that the mountains surround.

The forts and castles in the mountain region are home to the nobles. While the valley is for the farmhands and common folk.

The class system is such that philosophers are considered the nobility. Social mobility is possible through the Imperial Exams. If you’re good enough to bullshit through essay questions that test your ethical, logical, and legal knowledge, then you can have a piece of land and a title :D

Ever since the Cataclysm, and the death of Guizhong, the diplomatic relationship between Liyue and the other nations has been strenuous. Maritime trading has become less ideal but there is a small port in Snezhnaya (Morepesok) that connects the country to the others.

Liyue’s main trade has become highly regulated. Export has become more expensive and has become a symbol of status among the rich and powerful outside the nation. Handwoven silk now sells at a minimum of 10 million mora!

Liyue has the best relationship with Mondstadt. The in-land trade between these two nations is the “only way in” to Liyue so to speak.

Liyue was the Land of Commerce so when it closed off itself from the rest of the world, there was an economic collapse. Self-sustaining cities have survived this but there have been less fortunate ones.

I mostly focused on class and symbols of status and wealth because I imagine that in their first meeting… Childe looks like a fisherman. And from an outsider, that must mean he’s illiterate, right????? Imagine the insult to everything sacred to Snezhnaya when Liyue’s diplomat actually thought that the Archon of Justice and Court Trials doesn’t even know how to read or write. Imagine Zhongli actually having so much money that he’ll splurge it on the poor fisherman he’s somehow befriended. IMAGINE!

[ethergreywater]

Fashion Muse| Sculptor Alberto Giacometti: Shallow Not Stupid.

Text by Makoto. Li

Art probably accounts for half of a designer's inspiration pool, with paintings being the most important, and the 3D thinking of sculptures actually accounts for part of the index. The Swiss sculptor Alberto Giacometti has a strong connection with fashion, having worked with fashion designer Elsa Schiaparelli and with fashion designers whose work has been a great source of inspiration.

In 1957, the writer Jean Genet depicted the sculptor Alberto's studio as a 'milky swamp, boiling with rubbish, like a real ditch'. The sculptor's floor, face, hair and clothes were coated in plaster, and every corner was covered in confetti and chunks of paint. Yet here, too, 'the power of fermentation is magical as if by magic, art grows out of rubbish'.

Alberto Giacometti's life story is a long one: born in 1901 in remote Borgonovo, Switzerland, he inherited his family's artistic genes as a painter from an early age - his father, Giovanni Giacometti, was an Impressionist painter who supported his son's interest in art from an early age and encouraged Alberto to come to his studio. His father, Giovanni Giacometti, was an Impressionist who supported his son's interest in art from an early age and encouraged Alberto to come to his studio to paint; his godfather, Cuno Amiet, was an icon of the Fauvists and was a well-known figure in the art world, from his family to his parents' close friends. He learned to paint from an early age.

Alberto was not yet ten years old when he could draw pencil sketches for his revered godfather Amiet, and by the age of twelve or thirteen, he had already gotten the hang of oil painting and made his first sculpture for his brother Diego. But he did not follow his father's instructions for the rest of his life, even in his final painting style - Alberto aspired to (or instead had a substantial impact on) cubism and surrealism, moving towards the avant-garde.

At an early age, Alberto travelled with his father to Italy, where he visited the paintings and artworks of the Renaissance and saw many masterpieces that had a ripple effect on Alberto's mind, most notably the frescoes of the Giotto and the ancient Egyptian civilisation in the National Archaeological Museum in Florence. These were the things he wanted to see, which urged Alberto to absorb new knowledge from them, choosing to return to Paris to immerse himself in the art world. After attending the Geneva Academy of Fine Arts, Alberto moved to Paris in 1922 to study under the famous sculptor Auguste Rodin and his assistant Antoine Bourdelle.

While in Paris, Alberto met the artists Joan Miró, Pablo Picasso and Max Ernst, and the philosophers Jean Paul-Sartre and André Breton. Soon, under the influence of his many friends, Alberto was recognised as a leader in surrealist sculpture and wrote and painted for the magazine Le Surrealisme au Service de la Revolution. Since then, Alberto stopped modelling from life and devoted himself to fantastic fantasy, declaring in 1933 that 'when conscious of the sculptures, they were already in the most perfect state in my mind'.

「Walking Man I」（1961）

From 1935 to 1940, Alberto departed from the Surrealist style and was drawn to Cubism and Primitive Art in his own artistic and literary Paris, where he slowly changed the shape of his work. He began to use bronze for his sculptures, which became thinner and more slender. His distinctive style is evident in 'Walking Man I' (1961), one of his most famous works of art. The sculpture's height contrasts with the extraordinarily slim figure in the life-size work, and the elongated figure with dimples and wrinkles gives the figure a highly sculptural feel. However, the work's excessive thinness and isolation inspired many critics to question Alberto's work, which was unusually lonely after the outbreak of the Second World War.

「Woman With Her Throat Cut 」(1932)

「Hands Holding the Void」

In fact, from 1930-1940, Alberto's work revolved around the themes of 'sex and death'. "Woman With Her Throat Cut' (1932) is an image of rape and murder, with Alberto's more everyday concerns; 'Hands Holding the Void' and 'Imaginary Object' (1934-5), two works known for their 'contradictions', are about the relationship between appearance and touch. One of the recollections that share Alberto's feelings about touching and being touched.

The 1930s were a period of maturity for Alberto Giacometti. He was influenced by the 'Freudian effect', a strong sense of sexuality, obsessive-compulsive disorder and psychological trauma in his work. There are also hints of inspiration from Alberto's circle of friends, as he was close to Man Ray, Joan Miró, André Masson and André Breton, a group of artists who sang about the Surrealist movement.

Alberto's brushstrokes of Georges Bataille.

「Suspended Ball」

As they interacted with each other, Alberto increasingly thought about how to intertwine figures and objects in an illusory space while creating a dreamlike yet realistic visual imagination. For example, when André Breton actively invited Alberto to join the school, he published his 'Suspended Ball' sculpture in 1930, which most critics agree is a classic example of his surrealist work, inspired by the central thinking of Georges Bataille.

Upon his return to Paris in 1945, Alberto's vision led him to escape the miniature. One day, walking out of a cinema on Boulevard Montparnasse, he experienced 'a radical transformation of reality'. At that moment, his vision of the world was dominated by photography (even though 'reality is bipolar apart from the assumed objectivity of cinema'). He felt that this was the first time he had been in this world and was so frightened that he touched pain in his head as he looked around him as if everything around him was isolated from him. Afterwards, he tries to communicate with the outside world and enters a familiar tavern. At that moment, he found that time was frozen, that the waiters appeared in front of him as statues, and that everything had become still.

Elsa Schiaparelli, an iconic figure in the fashion world, has been associated with the surreal genre, and there have been many exchanges between the two. For example, Schiaparelli has a collection of Alberto's sculptures. Alberto has created custom-made gold-plated cameo buttons for the designer, which were shown in an exhibition of buttons at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs in Paris. Art itself has no end; it evolves through time and culture, and Alberto's sculptures are becoming too. Influenced by the Second World War and abstract art, his bronze sculptures are deliberately mottled and even uneven in appearance, like layers of plastered clay, and increasingly large in size and complexity of scale and technique. For example, Woman of Venice II (1956) is about four feet tall, but Tall Woman II is nine feet tall, and the textures of his figures have become increasingly rough and blurred. It is left to the viewer's interpretation.

In the 2015 Christie's New York spring sale, Alberto's Pointing Man fetched $140 million, beating his record of $100 million set in 2010 for The Walking Man. Alberto's bronze sculptures have brought a particular emotion to fashion designers but have also infected fellow artists. For example, the American artist John Baldessari held art and fashion conversation at the Fondazione Prada in Milan in 2010, combining Alberto's tall, slender and frail bronze sculptures with ornate evening wear accessories, reflecting social consciousness through exaggerated proportions.

The Italian leather workshop Guidi directly admits that the brand's mottled, vintage look is somewhat influenced by Alberto's rugged approach. The same leather goods brand Piquadro, which premiered its co-branded mini-collection at Milan Autumn/Winter 2013 Men's Fashion Week, has woven a magnificent image for the brand's clutch bags, half inspired by Alberto's sculptural concept, which was also displayed in bronze.

Rick Owens 2011 SS.

Vika Gazinskaya, a Russian designer, has also confessed that her eponymous label's womenswear muse is not only inspired by architectural influences such as Rem Koolhaas but also by Alberto Giacometti. He is part of the pocket list. For Rick Owens Spring/Summer 2011, the designer was fascinated by Alberto's three-dimensional sculptural aesthetic, which he turned into the garment's structure.

For the Ann Demeulemeester Spring/Summer 2016 collection, designer Sebastien Meunier directly named Alberto's sculptural silhouette as an inspiration, using leather cuts to extend the imagery of the human body's slender lines and then creating an elegant, feminine look through the tulle and body-hugging silhouettes.

For Chanel Spring/Summer 2017 Haute Couture, Alberto Giacometti's sculpture 'Spoon Woman' (1926) was the primary source of inspiration. Inspired by the African 'Dan culture', in which the vessel is the equivalent of a woman's womb, the sculpture looks like a giant spoon from afar but abstractly depicts the curves of a woman.

In fact, the influence of the spoon-shaped silhouette can be seen in many of Lagerfeld's previous couture pieces. Skirts were belted high and tight to accentuate the curve of the hips, while some robes were considerably off the body. For the most part, the torso and shoulders have been fitted or somewhat constricted; the tweed jacket, in particular, mimics the square line of Alberto's bust, a classic feminine style with a delicate feminine beauty interspersed with Power.

To borrow a phrase from the critic David Sylvester: 'When I encounter a woman in Alberto's work, one second she is as distant as the person on the other side of the street, and the next she seems to be there', is how he perceives Alberto's work. For Mako, many of Alberto's works have a specific meaning, and the human figures come to life, sinking their legs deep into the ground to capture the wildest edges of life. It seems that fashion's ability to draw on art is one of its most beautiful aspects; it is also the hardcore part of fashion that can shock those who really know and not be washed away by trends.

[feanorianethicsdepartment]

So obviously the entire Feanorian Host as a whole is a bit intense about the cause, but I feel like there’s different levels of devotion between their individual followers.

So my question to you is, from least to most intense, which Feanorions followers are the most cult-like and why?

the cultishness absolutely varies by region! i'm being a little facetious when i call them an out-and-out cult, but fëanorian minion culture certainly has... tendencies. the isolationism, the way loyalty to the group supersedes absolutely everything, what they do to those who 'betray the cause,' not to mention how absolutely psyched they get at the opportunity to do murder. still, the precise way that manifests, as well as how intense they are about, does change a lot depending on where you are in east beleriand. surprisingly it doesn't track that much with how tolerant of outsiders each subdivision is, which is most evidenced by:

the gap: maglor and his cronies are easily the most xenophobic part of the host, which is both a cause and a consequence of them having probably the least regular contact with non-fëanorians out of all the armies of east beleriand. paradoxically, this gives them very little incentive to go full cultist; much of the deliberately off-putting stuff the rest of the host does is partially to distinguish them from the outgroup, which isn't something you need to do when everyone you deal with is either part of the gang or an obvious enemy. they still do the elaborate facial deformations, they still have a bit of a Thing about fire, but the thing that's holding them together is much less utter devotion to the cause and much more the organic friendships and kinship bonds between riders

there's a few other reasons why the folk of the gap are relatively less culty. the gap is sparsely populated to begin with, and most of its population is at least semi-nomadic; it's a lot harder to cultivate that kind of obsession when everyone's off doing their own thing most of the time. while the gap doesn't have the highest headcount of mithrim sindar - as stated above, its population is tiny even by east beleriand's low standards - it has more mithrim sindar as a proportion of the population than anywhere else in east beleriand, and the culture of the gap has this big mithrim sindarin focus on community and clan to counteract the noldorin tendency to sacrifice everything for grand ideals. the general lack of new recruits from outside the host only serves to intensify all of this; the riders of the gap fight together because of the spiderweb of social and personal obligations that link them all together, not necessarily because of the cause (though that is still a factor, i want to be clear.) this fairly isolated society held together by individual and familial bonds stands in stark contrast to:

himlad: the thing about celegorm and curufin's people is that they're up against the fuzzy border between east and west beleriand, between maedhros' definitely-not-a-kingdom and the finarfinians' section of fingolfin's defensive line. as such, they're more or less constantly in contact with the outside world, coordinating troop movements, sharing information and resources, recruiting from the same sindarin populations. there's still a clear delineation between the fëanorians and the fingolfinians, partially because there's a lot of mountains between their major centres and partially because this lot actually do have an other to define themselves against and thus a reason to emphasise their own identity, but there's a lot of chatter and petty squabbling and philosophical discussion and a steady regular connection to the outside world counteracting the worst of the cultishness. unlike pretty much any other part of the host, the himlad minions never really lose the sense that they belong to a greater community of elves

which explains what they do in nargothrond. i don't believe that literally every single one of their followers abandoned celegorm and curufin, but i'd buy it was a lot of them, maybe even most of them. it helps that it's specifically the finarfinians their lords are betraying, the people they've - perhaps not fought side by side with, but who definitely always had their backs. even without that, though, the very existence of that relationship means they're used to working with people from outside the host, getting to know them, empathising with them, which is a pretty hefty counterbalance to the specific the-whole-world's-out-to-get-us undercurrent of internal propaganda. by no means was it an instant switch, or an easy one; after finrod got ousted there was a ton of interhost politicking and debate and the occasional brawl as everyone tried to figure out what to do. but the fact that the question was even open says a lot, i think. that probably wouldn't have been the case even in:

thargelion: caranthir’s domain is the most heavily populated part of east beleriand, and the settlement at lake helevorn is the closest thing it has to a city. a significant portion of that population aren’t fëanorians by even the loosest definition; they’re dwarven traders or miscellaneous humans or sindar far enough from the front line of the siege they can just keep on with their lives the way they always have. the fëanorians (and here, more than anywhere else, that’s a fuzzy category; this is the easiest part of the host to join, and the easiest to leave) are mixed in with all these groups, negotiating supplies, managing tribal levies, patrolling the roads, state stuff. out of all the subdivisions of the host, the thargelion minions are the hardest to distinguish from outsiders.

to keep their ingroup coherent, then, they actively mark themselves out. the minions in thargelion are probably the loudest about their collective identity and the cause and the joy of bathing in your enemies’ blood and all that. they have weird midnight rituals and purpose-built meeting halls and elaborate coded language, and while being overly tyrannical about it would be bad for business there’s definitely a sense that they form a tightly knit core which looks after its own above all else. that image is somewhat complicated by the aforementioned blurry edges of the thargelion host - is the sindarin bureaucrat who’s never touched a weapon in her life but plays a vital role in the military administration a fëanorian? is the noldorin freeholder who pays very little attention to the day-to-day minutia of the war but keeps his sword sharp for the hour it is needed? - but the alliance of old soldiers at its heart is a clear and palpable thing, especially when you can feel its eyes. when their hackles aren’t up the minions are perfectly happy to mingle socially with the other peoples of thargelion, though, which sets them apart from:

himring: on the frontlines of the siege of angband, with all the nightmares of the north pressing directly on their spirits, maedhros’ followers stoke the flames of their devotion high. the warriors of the cold fortress are less showy about their fervor than their counterparts in thargelion or even himlad, but the ardour underlying it is markedly more intense; they don’t have much in the way of over-the-top rituals, but they have vast amounts of ironclad unspoken rules they follow unwaveringly. they’re polite to outsiders, sometimes even welcoming, but you never forget that you are, in fact, an outsider, and that himring and its satellite forts form an internal world others can never quite see. even to other fëanorians, they come across as aloof

their fervour also tends to manifest as a deep personal loyalty that borders on reverence towards maedhros himself. all the brothers command respect, of course, they’re all magnetic personalities who draw people in and bind them together, but maedhros’ minions are on a whole other level. they mythologise him, tell stories of his deeds like he personally holds the line against morgoth, treasure the slightest contact with him, hold being called to his direct service as the highest honour of all. most of the new recruits to the himring host are brought in by the vast pull of maedhros’ reputation, from all across beleriand and even from the north. but no matter where they came from, they all understand that they will fight and live and die together beneath the banner of their lord. which is a bit weird, even by fëanorian standards, but they’re nowhere near as bad as:

ossiriand: amrod and amras’ henchelves are considered by the rest of the host to be notably psychotic, which is saying a lot. the minions of ossiriand are utterly terrifying, absolutely fanatical about the cause, the most bloodthirsty murder cult in east beleriand. you’d think the green-elves they share their territory with would act as a calming influence, but in practice the two groups mostly avoid each other, because the green-elves naturally prefer to stay away from these nutbags. you’d think being away from the front lines would lessen the need to solidify their identity through cult nonsense, but in practice it gives them the free time to go full gonzo. most of the horrible rumours you hear about the fëanorians in the rest of beleriand are either specific quirks of the ossiriand minions, or most egregrious in the ossiriand minions. they have an orc pit

or so they’d have you believe. the fëanorians in ossiriand effectively serve as the host’s intelligence division, scouts and spies and saboteurs. a lot of their work is clandestine by its very nature, and they tend to be pretty secretive about what they actually do. half the things you hear about them are probably disinformation, lies they’re deliberately spreading to make themselves sound scarier. hopefully, at least. as anyone who’s chatted with an ossiriand minion knows, they are both eagerly awaiting the fulfilment of the oath, and already preparing for what will come after

(this paradigm does break down after the siege is broken and the union of maedhros fails and the dregs of the armies of east beleriand wind up stuck in the same ever-shrinking territory. still, i think the origins of the survivors are... interesting. the people of the gap were almost completely wiped out in the bragollach, the people of himlad mostly jumped ship with celebrimbor, even the people of thargelion took heavy losses in the nirnaeth. but the people of himring stood firm around their lord, and the people of ossiriand were never really frontline fighters in the first place. minions from the more cultish parts of the host tend to survive longer, and in greater numbers. i feel this could have... consequences)