#burned alive tw

[smilesrobotlover]

Jago realizes that he put himself in a bad situation. Tetra begins to rebel with the boys and Leon and Veran is pissed about it. The guy that was supposed to keep a close eye on her lost her. Jago thinks Veran is hot and tries to flirt with her, and she’s rightfully annoyed with him and he realizes that she’s kind of a terrifying and he’s lowkey regretting getting involved with her.

Transcript:

Jago: don’t worry, pretty one, I’ll find your daughter and that treacherous knight~

Veran: … oh? Well… how kind of you… let me deal with he who failed me first.

[she lits the poor guy on fire and he’s screaming.]

Veran: now then, I know you won’t fail me then

[brokendreamscreation]

Just tries to spray the angry dragon with a water bottle. "No. Bad. Stop it."

[ m!a Wrath of the Fallen ]

The greyface is quickly baked in Hellfire, jaws snapping them up before they’re even finished burning alive. Bones crunch before swallowing the flaming body whole.

[theladyeowyn]

You shall live to see these days renewed. And no more despair.

requested by @the-mawp

[moodyvoid]

Touya’s been slumming it on the streets for a while now. Pick pocketing here and there, even mugging and robbery in desperate times.

He’s eyeing a couple walking down the alleyway, deciding they look like good enough targets.

You and your sort-of-ex-boyfriend have finally gotten together to grab lunch after some time separated. You consider maybe giving him another chance, after all, he really didn’t mean to steal $200 from your bank account to spend on Onlyfans.

You pause in the alleyway as another figure approaches you. Before he can even finish his sentence, “Hand over your wallet—” your boyfriend pushes you forward, you falling to the ground in front of the attacker.

Touya pauses watching the absolute pansy of a man high-tail it out of the alleyway, you sitting on the ground also watching him scramble back out to the street.

Did he piss himself?

You slowly turn your gaze to the pierced man. He looks down at you, pity on his face as he holds out his hand to you.

You take his hand, standing up. “I don’t have much.” you begin.

“Nah, forget it.” Touya replies.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what do you need the money for?” you ask.

He hesitates for a moment.

Why would you care?

“Food.” Touya says.

You pause, looking down at the bag that carried your now definitely ex-boyfriend’s leftovers. You hand it over to him.

“Here. It’s soba.” you say.

Touya takes the bag, looking it over. “Thanks…”

You nod and turn to exit the alleyway.

“What’s your name?” Touya asks.

You turn back, “Y/n… yours?”

Touya pauses for a moment, he’s been going by the name Dabi for a few months now, but for some reason when he opened his mouth— “Touya.”

You give a soft smile, “Enjoy your soba, Touya.”

Touya nods in response and watches you as you leave the alleyway.

Why did he tell you his real name? Why did it sound so sweet when you said it?

“Y/n…” he repeats, your name tasting just as sweet on his tongue.

“Y/n?!” A man calls out, Touya seeing the ex-boyfriend poking his head into the alleyway. Touya’s eyes narrow and he walks towards the man, his hand igniting in blue flame.

Names are so special.

The man screams in agony as the smell of burned flesh fills the air, blue flames eating him alive.

He doesn’t deserve to say your name anymore.

[awesomecoolfandomart]

draw gorillaz plzzzz

[aibazuos]

They’re burning all the witches even if you aren’t one

[nomsfaultau]

I recently got a comment about the use of the term Bird Pope within my charity one-shot Worth far more than your weight in gold, specifically about the world building implied there considering [Kristin] and [Philza] are notably very inhuman bird monsters (Ravengences). Specifically, the question was if there was Bird Catholicism and Bird Jesus died on the Bird Cross of Lorraine. (I think it would have to be a more complex shape given the extra wing limbs! Or perhaps an Orthodox Cross to pin the tail too?)

Anyway, let's examine the text between [Kristin] and [Philza] and the translator's note:

[Kristin's] expression changed utterly to one of delight, kneeling to affectionately bump her forehead against [Philza's]. “Praise be to the gods, I thought I was going to have to [bird divorce] you,” [Kristin] said with a relieved sigh, nuzzling into the crook of his neck.  (*While Bird Divorce is not forbidden, it is strongly discouraged by the Bird Pope.)

To explore Weight in Gold's species’ religious stance, I examined what terms they use:

Techno uses Gods (capital, plural). Ravengences refer to the seven winds (non capital, plural), gods (non capital, plural), and the Bird Pope (Capital, singular (*according to the translator)). Given Catholicism really emphasizes the singular God bit, I deduce Catholicism did not come from Piglins and Ravengences. Thus I am sadly assuming Worth in gold!Jesus was neither bird nor pig (which is good since pork is not kosher!).

As for humans, they are not worshiping Prime (as in, a god named Prime). Church Prime is the first church in the area. Akin to the format of First [Denomination] Church of [Town]. They worship the Catholic God, and centuries ago were very heavy into evangelizing. Has to be a very long time ago since Ravengences are mostly considered legends in the current time period, and aren’t particularly assumed to be sapient beings. So for the Ravengences it’s more of a legacy of cultural exchange than anything that’s happened of late.

Techno makes a lot of snide comments about the human church, and mentions not doing his sacrifices. But he does bite his tongue because the Church holds a LOT of power in human settlements. From this I gather Piglins on the whole are not Catholic, though as minorities have to navigate the sociopolitical power of the religion they don’t practice. Specifically, I note the way Techno uses the term Gods (capital, plural) which feels to me like a linguistic quirk picked up after the emphasis Catholics put on a capital G God, but in strict defiance of Catholicism by making it plural to reflect Piglins’ own pantheon before the humans started evangelizing. Along the line of 'Nyeh! Our Gods are just as important as yours!' Since we don’t see anyone trying to convert Techno, I reckon it’s something lots of wars were fought about way back when, humans eventually giving up (and probably writing Piglins off as demons in the process). Piglins rejected churches, partially rooted in the fact a central part is in money and donating it, and 1. Piglins do NOT give their gold away except in very intricate and personal situations and 2. Piglins think money is stupid. Using gold for fancy banners and clothing and murals (which Catholicism is very fond of) also didn’t fly with the Piglins. So a major part of human worship involves the (perceived!) frivolous use of gold, which is a big rift between human and Piglin culture.

Ravengences however do have a culture around donating gold, so it wasn’t as much as a massive conflict with human doctrine. In fact it helped facilitate the transfers in a way they liked. I imagine early evangelism with them was a desperate attempt to stop temple raids and was shockingly successful all things considered. To Ravengences, Catholic God is yet another god, added into the pantheon for flavor. I imagine they refer to God as god, since as tricky as crossing that language barrier is that particulars of capitalizing god names probably didn’t make it across. (Ravengences are seen only capitalizing names and the term Ravengence). Ravengences didn’t really agree with the whole abandoning their original gods things (what? You want me to STOP worshiping the seven winds? AND NEVER BE ABLE TO SAFELY FLY AGAIN? Are you MAD?!) and tended to eat conversionists who insisted on that point a little too firmly. The humans likely decided to shrug and declare that the Ravengence gods were really just saints if you think about it, so it’s probably okay please stop eating us now. And as the cultures lost contact, likely a lot of changes piled up in the centuries to follow. Ravengences probably lost the Catholic God (because of said lack of capital differentiation, and the lack of a name is tricky to keep track of when you have a lot of gods). But, positions like Bird Pope, which have lots of practical use regarding the distribution of donation gold so that families can have children, are likely vital to Ravengence society, and so remained, albeit looking very different to human popes. And the Bird Pope hates divorces, because Ravengences tend to want to take all of the gold for their new family, and the ex spouses probably tend to kill each other over it. Since, again, Ravengences are fond of the death penalty.

Alternatively: notably [bird divorce] [bird husband/wife] are within the translator's personal choices to explain concepts to a human audience, the mention of Bird Pope being within a translator's addendum. Even to the extent that within [Kristin’s] dialogue [bird divorce] is lower case, but the translator uses uppercase, further cementing the linguistic differences between Humans and Ravengences. So Bird Pope (capitalized) is how a human explains Ravengence culture to other humans, and may not reflect the capitalization Ravengences use (as they tend towards none) or even really the actual Ravengence cultural role being described. So all of what I just world builded could also be scratched out and explained with 'human translator trying to simplify for a human audience'. but one of those answers is a lot more fun!

[saintsylstein]

Ash and Bone

Chapter 1.

Just gonna preface - this is my first time writing (anything, really). Also this shit is gonna be gruesome - please read cw. I'm a med student, I'm studying the body, it's gonna get visceral to say the least.

Behold! My first attempt at a first person POV reader insert kinda thing. Warhammer 40k themed ofc. Working title/character/plot but TLDR: A non astartes in a brutal world built for astartes (or at least power armor). Plot with astartes smut? Hopefully. Later tho.

CW: I'm just gonna be straight with yall the mc is burnt alive in this chapter - they live tho. Descriptions of being burnt alive (executions), body horror and bodily harm, mentions of death/dying/wanting to die (ok we get it), psychological distress, cussing/profanity, first person POV

Lmk if I missed anything and please let me know your thoughts :3

The oil is thick.

I can feel it pooling in the hollows of my collarbones. It rolls down my arms in lazy, clinging streams, sinking into the open wounds on my wrists where the chains have rubbed me raw. It fills every line of my skin, seeps under my nails, drips off my eyelashes, slips down the back of my neck.

It smells...

No. It fucking reeks.

I breathe through my nose, slow... Even. Trying not to choke on the fumes.

Failing.

Dry, itchy rasps turn into sputtering half-profanities as the grease gets into my eye.

This isn’t the good, purified promethium they use for noble burnings. This is industrial sludge. Leftover fuel. Something not even meant for engines, let alone executions.

A small, practiced smile crawls across my face. No overt thoughts, just adrenals on overdrive. Autonomics causing anticipatory muscle twitches. Stress hormones were firing in habituated pulses. Sweat starting to bead on my forehead.

I shouldn’t be surprised. They weren’t about to waste holy fire on someone like me.

I shift slightly, and the chains groan in response. How many hours have I been in this position?... Has it been days? No. The human body can't survive more than 3 days without water. The fact pops up almost instantaneously in my mind. Real helpful...I think to myself as I let myself chuckle and recall the other old warnings my field instructors gave me, at this point, many lives ago. Ahhhhh shit. I shouldn't have done that... memories flood in uncontrolled. Faces and voices fill my head until they are all I can think of. Singing? No - screaming.

Fuck. My head lols forward and I preemptively squeeze my eyelids shut with vice-like force. No crying. Absolutely no crying. A grimace in the form of a smile stretches across my face. Thank god my hair covers my face right now.... warmth radiates from my eyes as tears well up. Fuck. Why did I think reminiscing was the right idea? Think about anything, anything else. Anything. I force myself to compartmentalize, cursing at my weakness in the face of imminent death. What do I feel physically? Oh yeah, pain.

My shoulders are locked behind me, arms aching from how tight they’re bound. Rust scrapes against my raw skin. Not a problem. I’ve had worse.

But the oil feels wrong.

Warm. Wet. Soaking through my clothes, turning my body into something heavy, slick, unclean... The back of my mind itches at the sensation. A doctor’s instinct, maybe—something about the viscosity, the absorption, the way it clings...

This will burn slow.

I exhale.

Right. So that’s how today’s going.

I glance up. The crowd watches me without watching me. Hollow-eyed. Silent.

Nobody meets my gaze.

That tracks.

Executions in the Imperium aren’t about justice or remorse. They’re about removal. Scraping away the unwanted parts. Cutting the rot out of the meat.

In this case, to these folks, I am the rot.

Somewhere in the crowd, I bet there’s a few people who knew me. Not personally—nobody knows anyone personally, not really—but enough to recognize me. Maybe they saw me stitching up wounded conscripts in the back of some trench. Maybe they heard whispers about a rogue medic who could patch things up without asking questions.

And now, they’ll watch me burn.

Or they won’t. Maybe they’ll look away. Maybe they’ll wait for the smell to hit before they let it feel real.

Or maybe—they’ll do what I would do.

Watch.

Not because they care. Just because it’s happening.

The oil drips from my fingertips, splattering onto the saturated wooden platform below. The smell is putrid, thick enough to choke on. I resist the urge to lick my lips, knowing I’ll just taste metal, chemicals, rot.

Finally, someone steps forward.

The preacher.

Haughty, black robe-wrapped, candle-smoked, with a face like damp stone. The kind of man who could watch a billion people die and still wake up the next morning with a clear conscience and an empty head.

"..S...e...z..on." he drawls out... a phonetically unknown phrase. I barely register that he's started his unceremonious sermon, let alone make out what hes saying. The crowds eyes land on me in unison.

Huh. Was that my name?

They could've at least mentioned my title of "Doctor" but... That’s fair. I don’t think they strip you of your titles officially when they execute you. Just socially. Like it doesn’t matter anymore. Like I don’t matter anymore.

"You stand condemned by His most holy Inquisition, guilty of crimes against the Imperium and the Emperor Himself."

The Inquisition.

Now there’s a fun story.

I take in the sight of the guards behind him, plated armor, black-visored helmets, the red 'I' of the Inquisition gleaming at their chests. They’re standing still. Too still. The kind of stillness that comes from training—that perfect, controlled, don’t-let-the-heretic-see-you-shake posture.

Hey that’s almost a compliment.

Not every day you get executed by people with real authority. They usually leave that to the local lawkeepers, the ragged, underpaid Arbites who’ll burn a woman for stealing rations if it means avoiding paperwork.

But no. Not me.

My death was scheduled. A proper, orderly erasure.

Which means someone in power hated me.

Or feared me.

Or both.

"For blasphemy, for the use of forbidden knowledge, for the corruption of your own flesh, and for the heresies known and unknown, you are sentenced to burn."

Oh, so we’re going with all of the above.

I don’t flinch. I don’t speak.

There’s nothing left to say.

I already tried explaining.

I already tried to make them understand.

Turns out, people don’t like it when you dissect the Emperor’s miracles.

Turns out, they really don’t like it when you prove they’re just flesh and bad luck.

I shift again, letting my head tilt back slightly, just enough to loosen the stiffness in my neck. My muscles ache from the beatings earlier. That part wasn’t necessary, but I think the guards had fun with it anyway.

My ribs throb where the boots landed hardest.

Doesn’t matter. I’ve stitched worse.

The preacher raises a torch.

The flame is small. A flicker in the dark. It dances against the blackened sky, against the spires of the cathedral, against the smoke curling up from the hundreds of candles burning behind him.

"May your soul burn before your flesh."

He doesn’t wait for a response.

Because this isn’t a conversation.

It’s a statement.

The torch drops from his hand.

I watch it fall.

It turns end over end in the air, the orange glow blurring as it moves, sinking down, down, down—

A soft whump.

A hiss.

The first lick of heat, spreading.

And then—

fire.

The torch hits the oil.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then—heat.

It’s fast. Too fast.

It ignites in a breath, a flash, a roar of wet heat. It moves up my body like a living thing, like a beast, like a thousand teeth sinking into my skin all at once. The oil makes it spread in shuddering waves, each new section of my body catching half a breath behind the last.

I expect the pain.

I know pain.

I’ve felt scalpels in my own flesh, blades pulled out of my ribs. I’ve stitched my own wounds with shaking hands, with rusted needles, with things that should never have been inside me.

But this—

This is not pain.

This is obliteration.

I open my mouth to curse, to spit, to defy-

And the flames crawl inside.

The flames dig their way into my skin, and something in me breaks.

I arch against the chains, inhuman, twisting, writhing. My back snaps inward, muscles clenching, spasming. My jaw locks—too tight, too tight—but it doesn’t matter, because the scream is already tearing its way out of my throat.

Raw.

Wet.

Shredded.

It hurts wrong.

It doesn’t feel like knives, or fists, or anything with an edge. It feels like I’m being peeled apart from the inside out, my flesh turning to boiling glue, my nerves screaming in crackling waves.

The heat pushes into my chest, deeper, into my stomach, my ribs. It moves like liquid, too fast, too much, and I can feel the oil inside my clothes catching now, sticking, feeding the flames that crawl under my skin, between my bones.

My eyes are open, but I can’t see.

My lashes have burned away.

My vision blurs and bubbles, and then—

I hear it.

Something inside me pops.

There’s wetness on my cheek, and for a second I think tears—

No.

No, no, no, no—

My eye.

The heat burst my eye.

I feel it running down my face. A thick, scalding mess of fluid and liquefied viscera.

I scream again.

The sound hurts. My throat is gone, my lungs are cooking, shriveling, turning to blackened sacks of meat.

My ribs—cracking, splitting open. The marrow inside boiling, bubbling, bursting.

The flames lick up my throat now. I smell burning hair, burning leather, burning me.

I am still alive.

Still feeling it.

Still screaming.

The crowd is silent.

The chains bite into my wrists as I thrash, heave, fight, my body desperate to get away, to survive, even though there is nowhere to go.

But the fire doesn’t care.

It eats.

And I keep screaming.

I am not dying fast enough.

My hands—my fingers are curling inward.

The tendons have contracted from the heat. My body is shutting down, pulling in on itself, locked in a twisted, grotesque shape.

I am burning alive in my own body.

I feel my liver rupture, the fluids inside me hissing to steam.

I smell my own skin cooking, the scent thick, greasy, sickening.

I am still here.

I shouldn’t be.

The fire is in my ears now, my scalp, the corners of my mouth. My lips have burned away. My face is splitting apart. I am screaming but I have no mouth.

The agony rises higher, higher, higher—

I need it to end.

I need it to end.

I try to inhale, try to fill my lungs with enough fire to kill me, to finish it, to end me faster, but my throat collapses in on itself. The tissue is sloughing away, my body’s last desperate attempt to keep me alive.

I don’t want to be alive.

I want it over.

The flames creep into my skull.

Something inside my head begins to boil.

The pressure builds—

Rising—

And then—

Pop.

Something bursts.

A flood of black.

Silence.

Nothing.

Not peace.

Not darkness.

Not even thought.

Just—

Gone.

But then.

A breath.

A gasp.

Air slams into my lungs, too sudden, too much, and I lurch upward, gagging, heaving, choking.

Something presses against my face. Soft. Wet. Cold.

I inhale again—rotten.

Something in my stomach rebels.

I know that smell.

I know where I am.

Not fire.

Not the pyre.

Somewhere else.

Somewhere worse.

I blink, trying to clear the black haze from my vision, trying to see, and then—

I see it.

The face beside mine.

Slack-jawed. Tongue protruding, swollen from the stasis of the venous blood.

The flesh peeling, curling, exposed teeth gleaming under half-burned skin.

I know where I am.

I am in a pit of corpses.

I choke down a sob, roll onto my side, and—softness. My hands sink into something that gives beneath me, something once-alive, something ruined.

I lurch upward, shoving, clawing my way out of the mass of the dead, pushing against limp arms, shattered ribs, empty skulls.

I feel wrong.

My skin is still raw, shredded.

But I am alive.

Why am I alive?

My body remembers the fire.

I remember the fire.

But I am here.

Alive.

I should not be.

And then—

A voice.

Not my own.

Not human.

Cold. Crawling. Inside my skull.

"Find it."

I freeze.

"Save it."

My breath shudders.

"Burn for it."

I scream.

It’s not loud. It’s hoarse, ruined, a sound that barely escapes my wrecked throat.

I thrash, shove a limp body aside, claw my way upward, upward, away, out, out, out.

The pit is deep.

Too deep.

Too full.

My fingers slip, nails scraping against wet bones, against muscle, against things that should not be touched.

I climb anyway.

It takes forever.

When my hand finally finds the edge, I drag myself free—

And collapse onto wet dirt, shaking, retching, covered in the stink of death and the memory of burning.

Above me, the sky is black and endless.

Somewhere, the Inquisitor sleeps, sure that I am dead.

Somewhere, the preacher whispers prayers, believing I am in the Emperor’s hands.

Somewhere, the hunters have not yet started chasing me.

But soon, they will.

Because I did not stay dead.

And no one knows why.

[new-revenant]

Although I love the community interaction and the fun, I don’t think I can accept any more DPxDC prompts for the time being. It’s been getting harder and harder to come with meaningful responses to them. And I know I could probably just post them as is, but providing commentary and adding onto them is my favorite part of receiving them. I’m just a bit burnt out I guess haha. My asks will still be open, and you send me DP related stuff and requests, but I ask y’all to not send anymore prompts for a while, at least until I feel better. I’ll be adding that info to my pinned post(glad I have that now lol). I still got like…around 10? Maybe more DPxDC prompts in my ask box that I haven’t answered yet, and it’s definitely eating me up inside as well. Idk, just. Idk

[echoesoftheeldritch]

Pretty hard to keep your wits about you while your skin is melting off, isn't it?

But God, it's so beautiful!

The searing white flame? The utter and total destruction? Nothing will be the same after this.

Maybe telling us a story will help you appreciate it?

Echoes of the Eldritch is a Magnus Archives fan podcast that takes place in one of the worlds that the fears got sent to. It follows a new archival crew in a new archive, as they learn to live in their newly frightening world.

We are currently in pre-production and are still looking for people to join the team! Experience isn't required, we would simply love to have you!

We are currently still looking for these people:

- script/plot writers (application deadline 15. November)

- statement writers

- audio editers

- artists

- voice actors (for a few remaining parts)

Interested? Find out more right on this blog, or by joining us on discord, where you can also apply to be part of the team!

We're looking forward to seeing you!

Now, burn this sight into your mind. Because soon enough it's just gonna be ashes and you'll want to remember what was taken from you.

[crownsandbishops]

hey narinder,

What happened to x-.. elon after lamb overthrown you?

[pinkyberet]

TW// Melting/Burning 🔥🔥🔥🔥

Burning Alive

[tree-forg]

Talking with a friend led to a meme

[indeliblepromise]

꒰১ ⭒:▹ — @xheartpages / Domi asked: “ You have to challenge yourself, and keep learning new things. ” ( domi @ mikhail )

↳ -: ˚ʚ ( A HOME FOR THE HEART. ) ɞ˚ :-

‧₊˚ ⋅ ꒰১ ᯓ ☆ㅤ˗ˏˋㅤ𝑶𝒉, 𝑴𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒆 𝑫𝒐𝒎𝒊 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏'𝒕 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔. At such a young age did he have to learn to SURVIVE and persevere through horrors that no other child his age could imagine existed. From the treatment from his mother ( no, that was the DEVIL'S fault ) to the awful laboratory experiments to the neglect from the Comté, it was a miracle he was even alive in that moment with Mademoiselle Dominique.

˚ʚ ☾ ɞ˚ㅤ˗ˏˋㅤㅤ❛ㅤI knowㅤ—ㅤyour GRANDFATHER doesn't exactly look out for me.ㅤ❜

˚ʚ ☾ ɞ˚ㅤ˗ˏˋㅤㅤPerhaps such a comment was unnecessaryㅤ—ㅤbut there was a bitter truth in those words. For so long, the Comté had managed to hide the fact that he quite literally had a part of the BLUE MOON within his grasps simply by locking him away from the rest of the estate and only giving him enough to survive. Even after that secret had been exposed, that sort of approach only CONTINUED. That little mishap at the amusement park probably didn't warrant any better care in his eyes.

˚ʚ ☾ ɞ˚ㅤ˗ˏˋㅤㅤ❛ㅤWellㅤ—ㅤwhat can YOU teach me then, Mademoiselle Domi ? You're far kinder than he is and definitely smarter too.ㅤ❜

[scholarofgloom]

[hussyknee]

I just saw a mother screaming watching her daughter being burned alive inside a school Israel bombed today.

I can't imagine human beings that won't be haunted and tormented by these images until they die. White people are like a separate species to me at this point.