#emblazen

[risingshards]

is it so much to ask for the lesbians to be happy through all eternities

[lostintransist]

Soul Mate Tattoo AU Thoughts

Taking a quick break from school work. I actually used each guy as a reward. I can go write if I get to question this. Here are my thoughts about how each of the guys would deal with having a soul mate tattoo somewhere on their bodies when they started to pile up enemies like corded wood.

CW: mentions of self mutilation

Simon: This idiot man didn't want any ties to life beyond the miltary, and when he became a Ghost™ he wanted to be sure that no one could ever be tied to him in a way that left them with Tommy's fate. Simon burned the name from his ribs with a heated piece of metal one night on a job. The weight of the name near his heart stayed, even as the smell of charred flesh woke his teammates. John looked at him as Gaz and Soap fluttered about, taking the metal and patching up the wound. John knew. Had done something similar. The curves and lines of the name never left his mind though.

Expanded thought for Simon: HERE

Kyle: He loved his name. Emblazened across his forearm in a shimmer of gold across his dark skin he often could be found playing with the light of the sun and his name. To protect the name on his arm Kyle could always been seen wearing long, tight workout shirts or an arm guard on missions over his uniform. An extra layer of protection for the future gift of love, if he could live long enough to find it. If he wasn't wearing sleeves Kyle had gotten extremly skilled at covering the name in layers of make the look of his arm smooth and seamless.

Expanded through for Kyle: HERE

John: His name sat above his heart, the perfect place to stab between the ribs and reach the tender organ. John paid a pretty penny to his tattoo artist to cover up the name with the name of his first wife, and then his second. All that sat there now was the faded bits of ink the laser treatments hadn't blasted away. The name peaked through, dark and piercing. He would cover it again. Even if he found the person the name belonged to he wouldn't be able to keep them. John couldn't keep anything good in his life beyond his men.

Expanded through for John: HERE

Johnny: This artist would create a tattoo that gently hid the letters of the name on his thigh without covering them. He wanted to be able to trace the letters in the dark of missions and think about who the name might belong to, how they would love him. Sometimes random lovers would stare at his tattoo and know that buried among the lines somewhere had to be a name, but Johnny never shared it. He couldn't until he saw a matching name; birth name since his mother gave him an ascestors name though she recorded John in the family bible.

Expanded through for Johnny: HERE

Masterlist

[lemon-russ]

Look. I just........ you can't judge me. What were YOU doing at the devils sacrament?

Mortarion X F!Reader (Pt. 1?)

Next (technically prequel)

CW: imprisonment, dehumanization, human pet, oral sex, general debauchery

TAGS: @moodymisty

Look I dunno if you guys signed up for this but uhhh: @sleepyfan-blog @undeaddream @scriberye @lisikk

“Shhhh, there, there, pet.”

Mortarion reaches through the bars of your cage to stroke your hair. You blink away sleep from your eyes as you orient yourself in the plush prison. Master is home? You scramble out of your little bed- nothing more than a large dogs bed but layered in pillows and blankets- and eagerly press yourself to the bars.

You lean into his palm, grasping his wrist to urge his hand to your cheek and nuzzle into his massive hand.

The primarch chuckles a raspy sound out. “That's a good girl, so happy to see me…” he cooes, kneeling, with some effort and popping joints, to sit beside your prison.

“Now, were you a good pet today? Quiet? Played nicely with your toys?” He murmurs, running a calloused thumb over your lips. “I don’t want to have to make excuses again if you made noise and alerted my sons.”

You smile wide, nodding eagerly. You know better than to speak without being asked. Your master prefers you use your body over words to express your appreciation. You had been playing nice and quiet all day, drawing on your parchments and playing with the “toys” he leaves you for when he is gone for an extended time.

He smiles, the skin of his dry lips straining with cracks, unused to the expression. He withdraws his hand, and the comforting clammy cool with it. You resist clinging.

Your cage clicks open, and you temper your excitement. Mortarion is letting you out? That only ever means good things for his treasured pet. Is it bath time? Or does he want you to warm his bed? Will he finally take you out and show you off?

Your excitement must be showing on your face, because Mortarion lets out another weak chuckle before rasping out a few harsh coughs.

“There's a good pet, so eager to please. It's been a few days since you came out, hasn't it?” He says as he latches your favorite collar to your neck. A rich green, with his name emblazened in bronze. His fingers trace over your throat as he admires the band, sending shivers down your spine and rasing goosebumps on your skin.

He moves aside to let you crawl out. Your cage is large, but short. Not enough to stand in, so it is a special treat when you get to stretch your legs and spine out in your masters bedroom.

Your body protests the sudden change of position as you stretch. It feels more and more unnatural to stand like this, or even leave the safety of your plush cage. Soon you return to your hands and knees at the Primarch’s feet.

He reaches down to run a hand through your hair again, before clipping a matching leash to your neck. A tug tightens your collar, drawing a squeak of surprise from your throat.

“Are you going to be a good pet?” He asks, pulling you by the lead to the edge of the bed. He sits, pulling you forward with him.

You nod quickly, crawling across the hard metal floor to kneel between his knees.

He tugs your leash sharper. “Say it.” He rasps. His pale eyes grow heavy as he eyes you, in your proper place.

“I’ll be good.” You croak, voice thick with disuse.

He smiles again, reaching down to run a hand under your chin. He brings his face close enough that his breath tickles your cheeks.

“Good girl.”

He leans back, spreading his legs and tugging you forward again, your collar biting into the soft skin of your neck. You don’t need to be told twice, and start undoing the ties holding his loose pants up. There are still splatters of old blood and the remnants of harsh chemicals from the battlefield staining his clothes, and you assume he must have come straight to you after getting home from a fight. The idea makes you puff up a little with pride. Master came straight to you…

You tug apart the knots and look up at him for permission to continue. He answers by caressing a hand to your face, then snapping the leash with his other hand, making you yelp.

You quickly return to your task, releasing Mortarion’s half ready cock from his pants at last.

The sight of his pale flesh makes you stop and admire. Every time your master uses you, you’re still astounded by the sheer size of it. Mortarion chuckles at your wide eyed stare, brushing back hair from your flushed face.

“You like it, pet?” He croons, chest rattling with his deepening breaths.

You nod, fixated still on the rising organ. He smiles, running his hand behind your head to take a fistful of your hair. He pushes your head closer, pressing the head of his cock to your lips.

“Go on then, show me how much.” He demands softly, twitching his hips forward and parting your lips with the tip.

You happily comply, sucking what you can of him into your mouth. The salty taste hit your tongue, and the primearch’s grip on your head burrows him deeper into your throat.

His groaning is cut by a rattling cough, but when you try to stop to look up at him he pushes your head back down on his cock. His next moan is less labored, so you figure it best to keep trying to fit him in your mouth, stretching your aching jaw with his thrusts.

After what feels like an eternity focusing on relaxing your throat and jaw, a sharp snap of your leash snaps you back into the moment.

“That’s it, good girl-” he growls deeply, “swallow it little pet-” his voice hitches as he grabs your head and nearly gags you. He hooks a finger under your collar and yanks, briefly cutting off your already scarce air supply as he fills your throat.

With an airy, raspy whimper, you feel his cock start pumping down your throat. After a couple hitching bucks of his hips, he pulls you off of him by the hair, leaving you gasping and your jaw radiating with sore use.

He falls back onto the bed, wheezing and trembling, and pulls you up to him by your leash. You crawl up to him in a daze and collapse next to him, catching your breath as he tried to control his own.

Finally he lolled his head to look at you, cupping your chin to make you meet his cloudy eyes.

“Good pet.”

[thearunadragon]

I—

I just went through files of old writing to save what I liked so I could clear out some storage space, and I found this one snippet where I basically gave Eragon trauma responses from the fight against Durza because of the pain his back has caused him since, and it was, like, unexpectedly intense.

It’s very visceral and intense (and violent) for those of you who don’t like that, just a warning, but I got gut-punched so I had to share.

I would like to mention that I remember very little about writing this other than that I was eating peanuts while describing the illusion dissipating.

I apologize for the mistakes and typos. I have not edited this yet.

(START)

— Eragon picked at his meal, thick oats turning beneath his fork. He felt no hunger. The elves had left him many meals, and he had managed less and less of them. Oftentimes, Saphira would consume what he did not, but the elves had begun to catch on to his declining appetite. Such meals as the oatmeal, porridge, and toast became more frequent, as though they believed him ill. 

He supposed, grimly, that they were not far off.

But for training, Eragon did not deign to leave his tree-bound latibule, preferring to remain sheltered from the  hypocrisies and cruelty outside. The jeering faces and viciously upturned noses held no appeal for him. The whispers drifted from the canopies in the night, dancing about his tired ears. He knew the thoughts of this forest, and what he heard served only to make his heart ache further. 

Eventually, he pushed aside the bowl and glanced at his finished scrolls and papers, which had been amassed over only a few days to pile over the majority of the table. Heaving a weary sigh, he gathered them up and put them away, then tugged on his boots. The inside leather caused his socks to chafe against the sores upon his ankles and heels, and he knew they would begin to bleed. He lacked the strength to care. 

He abandoned his treehouse, trudging down the stairs with his sword bouncing dully at his hips and his eyes glazed and lightless. From there, he traversed the sylvan paths to a secluded clearing, where he knew the daylight and the elves had abandoned and he would have peace enough to train without their mockery. 

The forest fell silent as he came to a stop. Birds ceased their chirping and the baying wolves quieted their songs. Eerie solitude washed over him, sending a shiver down his troubled spine. The scar across his back prickled and pinched, but he ignored its complaints, brandishing his blade from its sheath. A slithering scrape buzzed through the chilled air, metal against metal, and his eyes sharpened, the sounds of combat replaying within his head and the visions flashing throughout his emblazened eyes. 

There was no other option. He had to train. Had to rid himself of the nightmare; of the living memory that plagued him so fully, so completely. His heart burned as though branded, and Zar'roc refracted the moonlight in a bloody glow. 

Drawing a final, preparative breath, he cleared his mind and steeled himself, drawing the scene into the reach of his fingers. His Gedwëy Ignasía itched, then pulsed in a surge of blue light. His surroundings melted away. Where once there had been royal pines, stretching their bejeweled limbs for the crown of the sky, now there were pillows of stone, columns chanting words of death and of omen. 

And, in front of him, was the face that followed his every waking breath. Crimson hair splayed across his back, silver blade flashing its wire-thin scratch in a glinting of light, and black cloak billowing behind his shoulders, was Durza. The Shade's eyes flared, maroon darkening to the hue of gore, fresh and slick against his hands. His lips split in a toothy smile. Familiar. Deadly. 

Toes grinding against the front of his boot, he sucked in a long hiss of air, and burst forward, matching the shaman's vigor. Eragon could still hear the peal of ringing metal. The clashing of blades. He could recall every rotting word and pestering laugh. But he knew the world around himself was silent in the view of others, but for the rapping of his feet against the dirt and the puffs of ragged air drawn from beaten lungs. 

For hours, the fight continued to transpire, a consistent redo. He repeated the same fight again and again, seeking to master, to obliterate, every action and move of the Shade's intent. He wanted to prove to himself, to know, that if he had only been better, if he had only been more skilled, he never would have suffered the wound to his back. 

Time and time again he hit the ground. His spine cracked against the dirt and stone. His muscles wrenched, attacking him in a feeling of fire and acid. A stench redolent of vinegar burned his nostrils, a shrieking filled his ears. Blood coated the back of his throat, threatening to make him gag, but still he was resilient, no matter how many such fits he endured. He had to do this. Had to prove to himself he might have done it. If only he had been stronger.

Eight fits passed, mocking his previous number of the day, and tears burned his eyes as he climbed to his feet, a line of fire crossing his back. And he raised his sword in quaking hands, leveling it once more, and prepared to try again. 

"Eragon, stop!" a voice ordered sharply. His head snapped upward, pupils narrowing and dilating in an undulating dizziness as he spun round to face his company. A woman of tall stature, black hair shrouding her shoulders and green eyes piercing in the blackness of the night hours, strode towards him. He met Arya's gaze with a venom he never would have dared in the past. A hardness and coldness unfamiliar within himself. "Have you taken leave of your senses?" she demanded incredulously. 

"I am training," he replied coldly. "What of it?" 

"You create scenarios you should never relive. All of this," she cried, gesturing at the pillars and sandstone and carvings and details of Tronjheim displayed in such lethal beauty around her, then at the form of the Shade, undeserving of light nor love. "This is madness. Where has your mind gone to? What possesses your thought?" 

He set his jaw, teeth locking together, and dropped his blade into its sheath. But he did not remove his hand from the hilt, knuckles white and palms raw. "I may train how I wish to." 

"No. This is unhealthy. Is Oromis aware of what you have done? Of how you pass your hours? To portray this in such vivid detail—every scratch in the walls and blow in the fight all in its place—would take hours. Hours of fixation. Of obsession. What are you doing to yourself?" 

With only a mutter of words, he extinguished the visage of the dwarven city, watching as Durza's face disintegrated and left his physical sight. He scowled. "I could have improved. Had I been more skilled, had I tried harder, I never would have been injured. It is in this fight in which I doomed us all and therefore it is in this fight that I shall train until I can take no more. And that is no one's choice but my own." 

Darkness drawing itself tightly around his aching brain, he started forward, brushing past the elf princess he had once had the faith to stake his soul upon, wanting nothing more now than to escape she and her judgement. Pain had filled his body fully now, immovable and ravenous, and he was helpless against it. His time to return to safety wore thin. 

"Eragon, you cannot do this any longer," Arya ordered. There was a pleading buried somewhere deep inside her words, a desperation, but he ignored it. He could not bear to consider it, else she would have him in her control completely. "You have put yourself through too much pain. You have been here since dusk and it is nearly twilight. I have seen you fall again and again and you insist upon tormenting yourself!" 

His expression twisted. Contorted in anger and in pain. "Whatever insipid agony I endure is what I deserve. I brought this upon myself for my mistakes during that fight. I will fix what I did that day or I will die attempting it. I will succeed or I will find relief in the void. Those are my options and I have made peace with them. My mind is not to be moved, Arya. I suggest you make peace with this now." 

Arya took another step forward. "And what will happen when your body gives out before your mind does? Will that be your peace?"

His expression twisted—something between anger and pain. But he said nothing.

His mind was made up.

And, with nothing else within him to say or to give within the limits of his strength, he turned heel and strode away, abandoning her in the dark of the forest he called a prison. 

END OF SNIPPET

I wrote this quite a few months ago, possibly even before I started posting much here on Tumblr, and I have a series of thoughts about this I don’t think I had previously.

1. This must have been SO overwhelming for Arya. She’s standing here, a hundred memories of what she endured under Durza whirling in her mind, and she sees Eragon—her ally, someone she cares up—doing something so obsessive, so self-destructive, completely centered around Durza. Someone who haunts her, and who she probably had hoped desperately he would never have to suffer because of beyond his back. That he could eventually leave behind without it following him. Only to have that hope torn away in a scene that is not only extremely dangerous for Eragon to dwell on, but in Arya’s worst nightmares to ever have to see. I welcome Ket to completely tear apart this scene from Arya’s point of view. 2. I realize that no one else will be as invested in this as I am, but it is very rare I enjoy my own writing, and this just shook me. Because Eragon’s pain is basically just driving him mad, to a point where he cannot differentiate between agony and discomfort anymore, to where pain isn’t even pain anymore, but normal. Because what else is there to feel for him? What else does he have?

3. He’s in so much pain he barely even understands it’s Arya he’s talking to. And, from my notes and from my time reading and writing Eragon, he would have felt extremely guilty about the way he spoke to her after.

I am sorry guys, and I apologize if it is cocky to rant about my own writing, but I got shook. I’m mad at myself for forgetting it, and honestly, I want to reuse something like it later.

Also someone get Eragon an ice pack, because damn.

[dwobbitfromtheshire]

A/N: Because I just had to write an editorial for Eddie as though Nancy had written it for the Hawkins Post. It's been years since I wrote one, and I might be rusty.

October 1986

Eddie Munson: Killer or Shepherd?

Editorial by Nancy Wheeler

It has been a rather heated debate in the town of Hawkins, Indiana, since the eventful spring break of March 1986 over whether lifetime resident Eddie Munson is a serial killer. While Mr. Munson had been cleared of all charges by local authorities, he has yet to be declared innocent by his fellow citizens of Hawkins.

This is a journey to discover the truth of Eddie Munson's innocence. It is the path less traveled for the people of Hawkins, but it's open for all who wish to open their minds.

Eddie, of course, is the most obvious choice. He's loud. He stands on tables while wiping his shoes on people's lunches, and he does this all while reigning judgment over everyone. His taste in music is just as loud and hard to comprehend, much like Mr. Munson himself. His beloved game, Dungeons and Dragons, is full of satanic imagery and violence. It's not hard to see why some of you have picked him to be the villain in your story. He's the kind of person your parents warned you to stay away from. So, if they don't trust him, why should you?

Except, couldn't basketball or football be considered violent? What about the devil depicted on his shirt? Couldn't the carnivorous, dangerous tiger emblazened on the player's jerseys be a symbol of evil as well? What about the feathers on the marching bands' hats? Would they be considered horns? If someone from the 17th century were to travel here, they'd look at you, your clothes, and your fancy gadgets as signs of witchcraft. They'd gather the torches and pitchforks as well. How would you defend yourself?

The truth is that Eddie Munson is a young man who wants to play his game, make his uncle proud, and give people a place to run to. The only thing that he is guilty of is selling drugs, being abrasive, and making assumptions like we all do.

So, if you want to find out the truth for yourself and, like a dear friend would say, maybe give Hellfire a try before you deny.

[arctic-hands]

Bought Pedialyte freezie pops to help me get over this latest bout of norovirus.

They are thus:

[Image Description: photo a box of Pedialyte Freezer Pops (Replaces Electrolytes) in a freezer. The box has purple, blue, pink, and orange popsicles on it. End I.D]

Note the colors/flavors

Purple (grape)

Blue (raspberry)

Pink (cherry)

Orange (orange).

Decent array, obligatory "artificial grape sucks", otherwise no notes just one question,

[Image Description: photo of a hand in front of the closed freezer, holding a green colored freezie pop emblazened with "Pedialyte" on the plastic tubing. End I.D]

WHY ARE YOU GREEN??

[joelletwo]

Companys big ol electric billboard on my commute had a Never Forget emblazenment. My company apparently had jgjdj Remembrance Fitness Challenges themed after all the ppl that died. Thats so cool dudes love that for us

[heyyallitsbeth]

It's wild that the best part of Dragon Ball is something so entirely divorced from the main story.

The History of Trunks is a fucking MASTERPIECE. The animation and storytelling, seeing the destroyed future, and that only 2 people could attempt to stand against the threats of the world, and that in the end, only 1 even made it out. Seeing Trunks kill Android 17 and 18 after watching the death of Gohan is so incredibly satisfying and leaves you feeling relieved, that now that these murderous cyborgs are gone, maybe the world can start healing again, even in the timeline of the "bad end".

And oh man. Gohan's sacrifice and death and Trunks going Super Saiyan... the best scene in the entire series. The Super Saiyan born of fear and sadness saved not only his world, but saved the world of the past, and eventually went on to save countless timeline's and multiverses. The time machine emblazened with Hope, showing that Trunks was not only the hope of the future, but everyone's hope.

It's such a somber and brutal part of dragon ball and I adore it.

and man. Seeing Future Gohan and Trunks finally be able to see eachother again in Xenoverse damn near made me cry because it was so cathartic. Gohan seeing the hero Trunks became, and Trunks seeing that he made his mentor proud.

[uruuk]

5d from the spicy meme u rb on your multi. you can't stop me

"ELROND -" SOMEHOW, THE LORD OF THE URUKS HAS NEVER QUITE FELT SO LORDLY AS WHEN HE HUMBLY BECAME THE THRONE. SPRIGS OF CHESTNUT HAIR FALLEN OVER EARS where the rest are tamed and tucked behind the point. HIS VOICE AS IT SPEAKS HIS NAME IS LOW. COARSE, BUT STEEPED IN WANT. leading, and inflected with a wave of pleasure as he finds he has little control of lithe hips winding midsection above his more sturdy form. THE METHODICAL AND LUMBERING BRUTE STRENGTH OF ORCS MEETS THE BEAUTY AND GRACE OF ELF'S SILK AND FLUID COMBAT. chin wrapped around and resting upon an angled ribcage, as the curl adorned head turned away to watch his debasement. ( something that had undoubtedly aroused him, achingly so ). for knowing now he could not truly taint him, the taboo of their union to his kind was admittedly pleasing when presented at this very surface level. ELROND IS NONE SO HATEFUL, NOR DISCRIMINATORY. not now . . . not anymore.

BLUE-GREYS FLUTTER CLOSED WITH OPEN MOUTH AS ONE OF TWO ANCHORED HANDS MOVES FROM IMMACULATE REAR MUSCULATURE, AND SWIPES ALONG THE SMALL OF HIS BACK. using the newfound leverage to tug his conquest closer, and perhaps regain his attention. lidded gaze open in a flutter of lengthy lashes, and chin lifted towards the exposed chest. PRESSING HIS HARSH CHEEK IN REVERENCE AND ALLOWING A LOSS OF HIMSELF ONCE MORE. . . . for shuddery breath escapes before he once again turns his gaze upward to peer upon him. SOMEHOW HE STILL FINDS HIMSELF OVERWHELMED, AND DOUBTS THIS WILL CHANGE WITH THE NUMBER OF TIMES THEY SHARE IN ONE ANOTHER. as he is so beautiful, and though hundreds of years may pass in the blink of an eye . . . his body lacks remembrance of such pleasure. black lined thighs spread wide and shuddering beneath sure hips, whilst sat himself upon the wide-backed chair where the two had first spoken. "elrond . . ." he speaks it again, lathing tongue over soft rose peaking hard enough to tempt his teeth to close in. a low groan escaping him as hips begin to push insistently into seeking, insistent heat -- TAKING TO NOSING HIS CHEST AS HE WORKS TO CATCH HIS BREATH.

HIS BODY, ALL OVER, BEARS THE SAME RAISED AND UNSIGHTLY APPEARANCE OF HIS FACE. CRISS-CROSSED MARKS, WOUNDS AND BLACK VEINS CAUSING A ROUGH SURFACE, MET WITH SUCH PERFECTION AS HE. soft pink blush of activity and soft sheen of elven sweat 'pon his perfect brow. "look at me." he demands finally as he leans back in his seat. his hands sliding 'round to grip hips and take control of the movements. even with his eyes singing wide and deep with pleas for affection. NOVELTY OF THE UNDOUBTEDLY SALACIOUS TRAJECTORY OF ELVEN EYES, LOST IN BEING ALL BUT IMPALED BY THE LIKES OF A URUK, HAVING WORN OFF. the soft furrow between his brows speaking wondrously loud, while fingers reach to toy with pointed ear. rolling his thumb along the curve. HIS NERVES ARE BEGINNING TO BECOME ALIGHT, EMBLAZENED WITH EACH INCIDENTAL BRUSH. urgency betraying him. "you would make me beg, for that which I have already lain claim to?" his eyes narrow softly.

@elr0nds. super secret meme.

[big-mean-trans-dyke]

Halloween Party 2024 - Crime City

One of the more ambitious rooms is aptly named 'Crime City'. Not technically a room, it's a walled green space located just outside the garden, weeks of preparation spent setting up facades of buildings until the space looks like a small city block, then taking it a step further to even fill out a couple of these facades to be real, functional spaces.

A bank, a small theater, and a little medical center are among the fully realized buildings, and there's even a dingey little alleyway to stoop into for the brave of heart. Unfortunately, not all is well in Crime City. Poor, innocent transfems may find themselves accosted, stopped at the bank for money by cuntgirls in balaclavas that don't know their place. Hostage situations in the theater are more common than anywhere else in the world, and even the hospital, providing vital breast augmentations and hormones, isn't safe from the threat of these cuntgirls.

Thank god, then, for the main attraction of this space. Clad in colorful spandex, masked, and with a flair for the dramatic, cuntgirl superheroes defend the night from the evils of unsucked cocks and full balls.

When the redhead chosen to dress as Batgirl this evening hears the familiar twang of a slutty clown demanding someone put their hands up and hand over her money, she's there in a flash. Harley Quinn doesn't even know what hit her. Before she can say a word, she's on her knees, a hand in her hair and another prying her jaw open while her innocent victim pulls her cock out. By the time justice has been served, Harley's clown makeup is smeared into a red, white, and blue wreck all over her face, she's drooling cum from all three holes, and she's laying face-down in a puddle of her own juices.

When Black Widow hears the ranting of some dumb cuntgirl from the theater, saying words like 'hostages' and 'ransom', she's equally quick to intervene, sneaking up onto a catwalk, only to drop down onto the villain from above, pinning her. There's plenty of cable lying around the place to tie her, and it doesn't take much convincing to get her former hostages in the mood to take out their frustrations on her. One by one, they rise from their seats, ignoring her pleas as they stroke their cocks hard, then take turns filling each of her holes in a gangbang that lasts most of the night, the heroic Black Widow offering her services as a fluffer whenever her prey is busy with too many cocks to handle everyone who wants her.

When a sabotaged shipment to the health center gets all the transfems worked up, thank goodness for yet another hero. Nobody's really sure whether she has a name, she hasn't had much of a chance to garble it out around the cocks that've been filling her throat since she arrived, but she has a logo of a fleshlight emblazened on the chest of her spandex suit. Or rather, she did, before it'd been torn open to show off her tits, along with a nice, big hole at the crotch. The most altruistic of our heroes, there's no hiding behind a set of villainous holes for her, she sacrifices her own body to make sure every set of balls she sees leave at least two loads lighter.

Finally, for those with rougher tastes, a little cry for help from the alley is all it takes to draw a gullible superhero eager to help into the darkness. Despite the name, they're not super, and their costumes are there just for show, so there's nothing wrong with tearing their clothes to shreds, shoving them against a dirty dumpster, and making sure these 'superheroes' never, ever forget that they're nothing more than entertainment, there not to be taken seriously, but to empty transfem cock.

[receding-tides]

20 & 30 for faye (and marie if i may ask)

you may! we're adopting her now

20. if applicable, can they drive? if they have their own, what color is their vehicle? is the inside neat and tidy, or a mess? Both of them have full drivers licenses, Faye just has a bike one at first for driving a motorbike to work/etc but gets a full license before they move to their own place, Marie has had a drivers license since she turned Driving Age but she's never actually owned a car and driving gives her really bad anxiety so she has never used it, it's more of a "if there's an emergency and we need someone who can drive" thing. Faye's bike is silver and has a 3 emblazened on the side :) Once they do have a car I don't think it's kept reasonably neat just because if you need something while in a car you don't want to have to try and hunt around for it while driving

30. do they smell like anything notable? I don't think Faye uses any strong smelling soap or deoderant or anything since strong smells kind of give him a headache so he just smells like. a squid?? I guess. Marie is the kind of person who showers every day and idk if she would use anything with a particular scent but she does smell nice

[dullahandyke]

sidenote while im being crotchety abt d20, have an image

[ID: a listing for a mug emblazened with the phrase, "Capitalism is the bad guy", which costs €17.95.]

[risingshine]

🎩 + It's an outfit that Chiasa may find different, but it is something Harmony wanted her to have. It is a creation based on Harmony's own roots tailored to Chiasa and what she stands for.

The first item: A ribbon skirt made to fit Chiasa. It is a black skirt that will reach her ankles adorned with bands of ribbons in rich hues of scarlet, gold, and orange around the lower part of the skirt. The back of the skirt has a hole that will allow her tail through.

The second article: A black denim jacket with the entire back adorned with the traditional design of the sun including the the woodpeckers outside. The woodpeckers are not only a symbol of warriors but also a sign of good medicine. The sun is painted gold over the gradient of the setting sun as its background. The woodpeckers are painted in scarlet, black, white, and orange.

[[Note: Photo above and below as references)

The last item: A gorget necklace made of copper with the design of Grandmother Spider. In the stories of ancient time, it was Grandmother Spider who was small who carried fire and taught the humans to be keepers of the sacred gift.

Chiasa was gentle with assembling the new garb - it was clear it meant alot to Harmony, and she was doing her best not to damage it. She would even shrink a bit when putting the jacket on, in order to make sure she didn't risk tearing the jacket that was so lovingly made.

There was something to being gifted an ensemble emblazened with another culture that felt like it was cemention of her divinity - or perhaps just Harmony's adoration to her. Either way, it felt somehow more than simple fabric.

"I adore it, harmony...thank you."

[mahiiimahiiii]

Wynne, dating astarion: "what a silly drawing! I do like the rat king that emblazens the door. "

Li'ia dating gale: "this is a dead language I've come across in my studies! How romantic the poetry was from that period- it is surmized that shadowfel had some influence on the writing-" 🤓☝🏽

[risingoflights]

There was every fearful smile, there was every joyful tear

There was each and every choice that leads from every there to here

There was every cosy stranger and every awkward friend

And there was every perfect night that"s left initials in the sand

There was every day that filled so full the weeks would float away

And there was all those days spent wondering what to do with all those days

There was every lie that ever saved the truth from being shamed

And every secret you could ever trust a friend to hide away

There was the fortune of discovering a new face you might adore

And the thrill of coming home to find her clothes upon the floor

And the prideful immortality of children in the home

That the storm can"t grind the mountain down, it can only shift the stones

And there was everything your mouth says that your lips don"t understand

And every shape inside your head you can"t carve with your hands

And every slice of glass revealed another slice of life

Emblazened imperfections in a perfect stream of light

It all flooded through the window like rapids made of fire

And then God rode through on sunshine and sat down cause he was tired

He was tired.

[roxyspamcake]

I've been obsessing over this picture, and I'm not even Catholic.

I'm fascinated by everything about it. The Pieta pose artwork on the vending machine, a picture of Christ and Mary at their lowest, in an attempt to make this uncaring machine a little more holy. The fact that this is not a charitable donation anymore that comes with a complimentary candle, but a monetary transaction of money for goods. "Vigil Candles." The fact that the machine has been shoved into a dim, grungy little niche in the corner of a holy place. The old podium with fake flowers and a cheap cherub statue on it, placed here in a half-hearted attempt to make the place a little less ugly. The almost-empty plastic water bottle someone forgot about, showing that this is a place people frequent, people with enough on their mind to seek out a candle to light. "VIGIL. CANDLES."

While I know, logically, people have and always will put religious iconography on far stupider things, the place bothers me. Because I know it intimately by the carpet, the decor. This is in a chapel or a church. And a vending machine, that would normally sell unhealthy sodas and junk food, in a church? Uncanny. Wrong. It should be sacrilege, but here it is, with Christ himself emblazened on the front.

Is there not a single holy man in this house of God available to give me a candle, and some words of comfort? Should I have to flatten a $5 bill on the corner of this old pulpit, so my vigil and my prayers can be held under the watchful eyes of the saints a little longer? And which saint do I pray to if the candle machine eats my change??

I couldn't make religious art this amazing even if I tried. And it's probably not even an art installation.

images that WILL go triple platinum if i have my way